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erodasfishtacos · 3 years

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~ MLB Curious Gazes ~

prompt: four different situations where people have run into or hung out with MLB!H - told from their perspective.

word: 6k +

warnings: language, mentions of sexual content

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The Doctor’s Office

Aubrey couldn’t believe her eyes as she sat in her uncomfortable, too small chair in the empty waiting room at the OBGYN office in the early hours of the morning.

She was sitting alone with her baby boy sitting in his carrier on the floor - it was his nine month checkup and it was taking forever to be seen.

The woman was sitting, scrolling on her phone when out of her peripheral she saw an extremely - like extremely handsome man step into the area with a carrier.

Aubrey was a married woman but holy shit this guy was hot- without even trying is the thing.

He had on a New York Yankees Nike hoodie and a pair of Nike athletic shorts with some calf length Blake Nike socks and trainers.

In the carrier was a fresh little baby, couldn’t be older than three months who was bundled up with a sunflower headband on.

The man was multitasking with a curly haired toddler on his other hip as he finds a seat a little bit down from Aubrey on the opposite side.

His wife was standing up at the check-in and of course it made sense that she was absolutely beautiful as well even though Aubrey could relate to how tired she looked.

The woman still had a small bit of her pregnancy bump left signifying that the baby was indeed very very new to the world.

She keeps glancing over at the man, he looks so familiar but she would remember if she had even met someone that handsome.

Then the context clues hit her, his hoodie, his toddler son was also in a little Yankees hoodie that matched his fathers and Aubrey googled quickly.

Her eyes flitted throughout the recent articles.

Styles’ Alleged $65 Million Dollar Bonus

Hot Head Harry Styles - how he managed to start three bench clearing brawls in one game!

Breaking Records and Bats - Styles manages to break his own record in the same season followed by breaking a bat in celebration

Holy shit.

She could help but watch them - this was much more interesting than reading a magazine.

Aubrey didn’t follow baseball but Harry had turned celebrity status and was this well known cocky dickhead to the media - women and men loved and drooled over him for his looks and his skills.

Right now, he sat down with his two babies - the boy looked exactly like Harry, it was quite unbelievable from the curly locks to mossy green eyes that was copy and paste.

Harry was currently tucking an applesauce pouch between his lips and guiding the boy's small hands to hold it for himself.

“Good job, ,” He murmurs in the dead quiet waiting room as he tucks him further into the crook of his arm.

Harry looks up to his wife who joins them, she is a bit in awe when Aubrey sees him palm a bit at her bloated belly and whisper, “Y’look gorgeous today, mama.”

Aubrey couldn’t help but frown, she wished her husband did that.

YN sits down, leaning her head on his shoulder - Aubrey didn’t know her but she seems tired - of course she was a new mother.

The silence is broken when a nurse comes out and with an apologetic face says, “I’m sorry, we are running really behind today. It might be another thirty minutes,” before shutting the door again.

Harry kisses his wife’s forehead before wrapping his unoccupied arm around her shoulder, a flashing gold band on his ring finger.

Aubrey zones off for a little when her son wakes up, rocking the carrier a few times before he settles again.

She’s brought back to the couple when she hears a sniffle comes from Harry’s wife and his face turned towards hers, hand rubbing her shoulder reassuringly.

“Mama, she’s so healthy. There’s nothin’ to worry about, did a perfect job growing her in y’belly. I know these check-ups make you anxious but nothin’ is gonna be wrong,” He soothes, a near whisper because of how quiet the room is and he didn’t want to disrupt.

“I just don’t know if she’s been getting enough milk, it’s so hard to tell,” YN replies sadly, like she’s disappointed in herself.

“Y’kidding me? She’s our chunkiest baby - look at those little rolls. She’s on y’tits more than any of the boys including me,” He jokes softly, obviously trying to make her feel better.

It seems to work a little bit because she lets out a light giggle with a roll of her eyes, “No one is on them more than you.”

Harry shrugs unashamed before replying seriously, “Everything will be okay. She’s perfect and healthy.”

The curly haired little boy gets a bit squirmy with the wait after he finished his pouch, asking to be set down which his father does.

Harry is watching him carefully, his nervous but still adventurous little two and a half year old, as he toddles around the waiting room.

When he spots Aubrey and her carrier, he wanders over looking up her with wide curious eyes, he points at her son and squeaks, “Baby?”

Ever the diligent father, Harry is up and next to his son, Aubrey is a bit starstruck if she’s honest when he talks to her.

“M’sorry, he’s a curious little one,” Harry smiles at her, going to pick Ezra back up to guide him away from bothering her.

Aubrey waves her hand though, lifting the visor to show the sleeping baby, “Yeah, he’s a baby. That’s Dominic.”

The boy gazes at the baby before lisping, “Bry!”

Aubrey isn’t sure what he means but his father clarifies, “You’re right, Dominic is a baby just like your little sister Briar.”

“Okay,” Ezra shrugs and goes back to his mom to inform him of what he just discovered before crawling up and cuddling into her chest.

Harry nods, “Thanks for indulging him.”

“No pro-problem,” She stutters like an idiot and Harry smiles a bit like he knows but doesn’t say anything else before going back to his family.

A few minutes later when a high-pitched cry resounds through the room, Harry is carefully cradling his daughter who Aubrey notes looks nothing like him but like her mother even though her features were still so little.

“Shush, darlin’,” Harry coos with a soft drawl, leaning in to kiss at the newborn’s button nose.

Briar roots at her father’s chest, smacking her plump lips, and squeaking in frustration when she doesn’t find a nipple. It makes Harry chuckle before he glances at his wife and his smile falters a bit, “Sweetheart, did y’bring a bottle?”

Aubrey watches his wife shake her head, she is facing away from her so she can’t see her expression but gauging Harry’s it seems that she may be upset, “No, I completely forgot. I didn’t bring my nursing blanket either - I’m going to have to go the bathroom. M’being such a bad mom.”

The observer feels a pang in her chest, she can definitely relate to not always feeling like she is a good mother because of little mistakes she makes like forgetting diapers, buying the wrong formula, forgetting to bring a pacifier.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice is firm, “Y’not going to talk like that when s’the farthest thing from the truth. S’okay, we have four babies, we’re both goin’ t’forget things sometimes, okay? Here, let me help you.”

Aubrey wishes she had a husband who was as empowering, supportive of his wife.

He hands the whimpering baby over to his wife, he’s then tugging off his hoodie. Aubrey tries but fails to divert her eyes when his shirt rides up revealing a glimpse of his taut abdomen and a light dusting of hair leading into his shorts, obscene tattoos covering his hipbones .

Harry maneuvers the hoodie over his wife’s shoulder, helping her tug down her loose shirt and nursing bra, and guiding his newborn to his wife’s breast until she latches and starts suckling hungrily.

“There y’go mama,” He whispers encouragingly before tugging Ezra back onto his lap to rock him a bit as he’s getting whiny - ready for a nap soon and not liking being in an unfamiliar place for too long.

Aubrey is buckling Dominic into his carseat when she spots the other family exiting the office.

Harry’s wife looks much more relaxed, a smile on her face, and her arm tucked around her husband’s narrow hip, they’re parked close to each other, and Aubrey climbs into her small sedan - blasting the aircon.

She watches the parents strapp their kids into a massive, tinted and brand new cadillac escalade that was no doubt over a hundred thousand dollar car but who could expect them to be driving around a mid-level minivan?

After the kids are secured and they close the doors, Harry presses his wife up against it with his arm resting over her shoulder against the window. He is whispering to her, their mouths close before he ducks down to connect their lips.

His hand comes back to her deflating baby bump like he did in the doctor’s office, hand massaging the skin with adoration that was visible even to Aubrey as she sat in her car watching them.

Later on in the week, as she sits on her couch, a video pops up on her timeline. It’s a sports report she was about to skip until the name caught her attention.

The sports reporter stated, “Harry Styles was fined an alleged sixty thousand dollars at last night’s game after getting into a verbal altercation when the second base man purposely tripped him.”

It flashes to the man she just saw in the doctor’s office in a form-fitting Yankee’s blue and white striped uniform with a helmet on as he ran at an impressive speed from first to second, stumbling when the baseman put out his foot.

Harry recovers quickly enough to touch the base to be considered safe.

After that though, he’s pushing himself up and brushing off the dirt, then he’s charging towards the man who fucked up the play.

He has no fear as he gets in the man’s face, veins on his neck standing out as he shouts. They don’t play the audio but you could tell Harry was cussing this man up and down.

It flashed back to the reporter speaking to another, “Nearly every team in the league reports that Styles is an absolute nightmare to play against from his skill to his downright arrogant and cocky attitude. He’s not someone I’d find myself wanting to hang around.”

“I agree with you there, Tucker. He has a right to be proud with all of his broken records and achievements but being a bit humble would do this man so good. I feel sorry for his wife and kids. He probably just spends all day bragging about himself.”

Aubrey clicks off the video, if only everyone in the world just saw the Harry Styles she saw just a few days ago - well they’d all change their minds on what kind of person he is. Especially what kind of husband and father.

The Charity Event

It was a charity event at Madison Square Garden in Time Square.

It was for all Major League Baseball teams who had qualified for the playoffs and of course, The New York Yankees were there.

There were tables filling the whole stadium, extravagant in white linen tablecloths, multiple bars, and it was black tie dress code.

It was a private event and it was not open to the public but after the dinner there would be awards given out and that would be broadcasted.

Nicole was there with her husband, Trent, the left outfielder with an average batting score. He wasn’t the most popular on the team by far - well everyone got outshined by Styles.

She couldn’t help but be a little bitter that Harry had gotten a $60 million dollar bonus (the biggest bonus ever gifted but also the Yankees were not taking any chances at losing their star and their ultimate money-maker). Trent got a measly bonus of $100,000 which was nothing in baseball terms.

The wives and girlfriends of the Yankees players did not like YN one bit. It really wasn’t fair because she was always lovely, kind, and friendly. It didn’t matter because they were all spurred on by jealousy of what she had.

Nicole couldn’t help by gaze at Harry as they sat at the same circle table towards the podium where the awards would be presented after dinner. He was in a sharp all black suit with a small team logo pin of the lapel.

She couldn’t deny how stunning YN looked in an absolutely stunning dress. It was a one-shoulder with sparkling black stripes against a tan background, it fit like a glove and accentuated her stunning legs with a high slit. ***

It blew Nicole’s basic black Gucci dress out of the water which made her even more infuriated at the woman. She knew she was being irrational and if she hated her so much, why couldn’t see stop staring at the couple?

Nicole could get away with it by looking past them at other tables but to be quite honest, the two were much too wrapped up in each other to be aware of any of their surroundings or people watching them.

Trent was off bullshitting with all the other players while the Styles’ sat at the table and Harry waited for people to approach him - like the cocky asshole that he was. He would give them a minute of his time before becoming visibly bored and returning his attention back to his wife.

As the appetizers arrived, Trent finally sat down with a grunt, giving his wife literally no attention as he dug into the salad like a slob.

Across the table, Harry looked down at his plate, picked out all the tomatoes and stabbed them with his fork. He then brought his hand over to his wife who giggled and let him feed her the three little tomatoes for his salad.

“Don’t like tomatoes, Styles?” Henry, third-baseman, jokes as he watches him feed his wife without any shame.

“I love ‘em, m’missus just really like the little grape ones,” Harry shrugs casually - like that didn’t just sound like the most whipped thing that he could say.

Trent probably couldn’t even guess Nicole’s favorite color - let alone know something so minuscule like YN like the little tomatoes that come on house salads.

Throughout the whole dinner, it was quite disgusting how infatuated these two were with each other - Harry had at least one hand on her body at one time - her thigh, shoulder, even cupping her neck in a way that was almost too intimate for the setting.

At one point, Harry notices that YN is a bit quiet - sipping on her glass of water and he pulls back from the conversation, murmuring, “Y’alright, mama?”

Nicole bites her lip hard at the cute pet name, feeling even more dislike towards YN - why couldn’t she have had someone like Harry?

“D’you think the babies are okay? Ezra’s been so anxious lately,” YN replies quietly, there were no phones allowed at the event and had to be left at home or at the door.

Harry kisses her temple, “Y’know Ezzie is good with m’mum, doesn’t get as anxious as he used to at sleepovers. Y’know East and Cash are probably on a sugar high.”

YN nods, agreeing and Harry jumps right back into the conversation but she notices that he keeps looking over at his wife to check on her.

Trent accidentally knocks her elbow hard and just grunts out a bland, “Sorry.”

The topic changed to traveling for games. Ellie, another wife of a player who was nice to YN were chatting about how stressful it is.

“I know, loading all three boys up is rough when we do decide to travel to games with H,” YN says to Ellie, a small smile on her face.

“Ugh, I know. Lily and Parker are the worst flyers! They usually end up throwing up or not being able to nap at all,” Ellie groans about her two little ones she has back at home.

YN let’s out a laugh that just irked Nicole to not end.

“It's going to be even harder when we have more kids,” YN laments like she’s bothered.

“Oh? More kids?” Ellie squeaks with excitement, clapping her hands together.

Nicole reaches a breaking point, jumping into the chat,“Really? More kids? Don’t you think you should focus on the ones you have? Or do you think because your husband makes an unfair amount of money, you can just have as many as you want? Hire nannies and act like you take care of them?”

Before YN frowns, about to respond when Harry interjects with a booming, displeased voice, “First off, why don’t y’mind your own fuckin’ business. My wife and I can ‘ave any many kids as we want, last time I checked.”

He continues with tense posture, all of his previous calmness disappears, “Second off, don’t take it out on my wife tha’ your husband got a shit bonus, we all know tha’ why y’pissy. And don’t act like y’dont have a nanny for your one kid while we don’t nor ever will have one.”

Nicole sneers, “You’re a cocky bastard.”

Harry smiles in faux charm, “Of course I am, dear. I’ve got a fucking beautiful wife, three healthy babies, the most records broken in history, and the fattest bank account in this room.”

“Alright, alright,” Trent interrupts and it doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t defend his wife. Instead he shoots Harry an apologetic look for his wife’s behaviors.

Harry just scoffs at the couple, rudely rolling his eyes, and tugging his wife in for a kiss that’s a bit too intense but he can’t help himself, smiles against her lips when his wife pinches his thigh playfully.

He says (not quietly at all), “All these women are jealous of you, hm? S’cause you’re so beautiful and such a fuckin’ catch.”

Nicole feel a sharp pang in her chest at the indirect comment - fucking asshole.

Deep down, Nicole is unfavorably realizing that somehow YN has it all - a loving husband, who is seemingly head over heels four her, three well-behaved children, and everything she could ever want - sitting on Harry’s $600 million dollar net worth, on top of being gorgeous.

She didn’t have that. Trent and her were on the rocks constantly, has definitely cheated on her, their kid is a literal nightmare, and they’re both so reckless with money they have no savings.

It made her jealous to see Harry whispering in YN ear to make her giggle- lips brushing her ear, his hand splayed across her bumcheek while they waited for drinks at the bar, she even hears them murmur ‘I love yous’ at least twice.

Then the lights dim, spotlight on a podium in the front of the room, an older man in a crisp navy suit taking the stage.

“It is an honor for me to announce ‘Player of the Year.’ The decision by the board of Major League Baseball wasn’t a hard one. The statistics and records broke continuously by the man has led us to only one option.”

Everyone watches all the other players in room deflate a bit because they realize the award is going to Harry yet again.

“He is again breaking a record tonight, he is the first player to earn this achievement four years in a row. The duality of this man when it comes to pitching a curveball or hitting a homer is truly remarkable.”

It makes all the players even more irritated than they already are when they look over at Harry who’s sitting back, manspreading, hand on the back of his wife’s neck gently, and a cocky, unbothered grin.

Like this award wasn’t the biggest accomplishment he could earn.

One of the players from an opposing team at a different table mutters to one of his teammates, “Fucking arrogant asshole. The only thing this award does is feed his gigantic ego.”

“Such a douchebag,” The other agrees, jealousy tinges his voice.

“I’ve most likely made it obvious who the the recipient is this year. The New York Yankees pitcher with the most strikeouts to date and top-scoring hitter - Mr. Harry Styles!”

The crowd erupts in applause, whistles, and a standing ovation because despite his unsavory demeanor - no one could deny he was a legend.

Before he gets up, Nicole watches as he cups his wife’s cheek - locking her lips in a kiss before she has to give him a playful shove when he tries to slip some tongue.

When Harry gets up to the stage, he shakes the hand of the announcer and takes the award from him, setting it on the podium.

“Fourth year in a row has a nice ring to it,” Harry gives the crowd a dazzling white smile that have his dimples digging into his cheek.

The crowd whistles and coos.

Nicole notices YN getting teary-eyed as she watches her husband accept the award.

“I want t’thank a few people tonight. I want t’thank m’wife and the mama of my babies - YN. She’s supported me from when I was in college with no other career path but baseball, unsure of if I’d fail or not, she stuck through it.”

She can sense everyone’s eyes dart over to YN who is still staring up at her husband - who is giving her a gleaming smile right back.

“We’ve been through some really hard obstacles in our first years as a couple but she’s the reason for all this - the fact that she always believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

The audience is respectful, quiet as he publicly tells a story of his deep love for his wife.

“I want t’thank m’three babies. Easton, Cash, and Ezra. They inspire me to be a better better man and a good role model - even though I think y’all agree they won’t be if they watch too much how I play when I’m out in the field.”

The crowd erupts in laughter at Harry poking fun at his own antics that he’s most famous for. He goes on to thank the team, coaches, Nike, everyone on the professional side of career.

When he’s done, everyone stands back up to congratulate him, patting him on the back as he returns to his seat.

Nicole watches as Harry sits back down, chuckling as he swipes a tear off his wife’s cheek, “Why y’crying, mama?”

“I’m just so proud of you. Everything you do for me and our babies. The best husband, best daddy. My heart is just full,” She murmurs, clearly not meant for others to hear but Nicole was eavesdropping.

Harry’s eyes darken with something Nicole can’t identify but does notice his hand creeping a bit further up her thigh.

He leans into whisper something into her ear before she sees his lightly nip at her lobe before pulling back to join into the conversation.

After the lights come back up, Trent abandons her to go shoot the shit with other guys.

When she trails off to the bathroom, down a long hallway from the main area - she hears a rustling from behind a door labeled with a plaque that says ‘executive meeting room’.

Nicole pauses confused, all these offices and other rooms were strictly off limits during events obviously. She was confused to hear someone in a room that was not supposed to be in use.

Then she realizes it’s not just someone - it’s two people.

“S’good, sweetheart. Give it t’me so good.”

And she knows right then and there all she needs to know about who’s in that conference room and what they were doing.

“Be quiet, you’re being too loud,” YN scolds back, the walls were clearly thin because she could hear the exchange.

“Make y’cunt not feel like heaven then,” He remarks back, his voice slower and more soft than it would be in front of people.

God, Trent and her haven’t slept together in ages - let alone has spontaneous hookups or dirty talk like that ever.

When they all end up back at the table before the closing speech for the night, Nicole spots a nicely sized mark under Harry’s jaw that he’s wearing with pride.

YN had her lipstick wiped off and was much more clingy as the night rolled on which Harry seemed to thrive on.

As she and Trent are on their way home, Nicole speaks into their silence, “I don’t think our relationship is working.”

Not after she saw love and happiness at that event table tonight - she wanted that kind of love not settling for some cheating asshole.

The Little League Game

It was a cool autumn evening, it was an important game - if you could call it that for the little league team that Kayla had her son on.

The goal was to determine which team would move onto the playoffs, even though most of this was all in good fun because it was for eight-year-olds and it wasn’t serious.

Kayla couldn’t lie and say that she didn’t spend some of the time curiously gazing at the New York Yankees player who would come to watch his son play.

He wasn’t at every game due to his schedule but it seemed like he came to whatever ones he could with his wife and other three kids.

They had taken the bench on the bleachers right below her so she had an up close and personal view of the family when they’ve never sat this close before.

As the kids warmed up, Harry had his youngest son who looked to be about four sit next to him, squished between his dad and mom happily.

Their middle son was next to his mom on the other side, looking to be about six, and he was wriggling impatiently in his seat - eager to join the other kids in the jungle gym.

The baby girl who looked about a year and a half old didn’t look anything like her brothers - it was obvious that she was a spitting image of her mother (who was stunning).

She was curled up in her mom’s lap, asleep with her face squished against her mother’s chest - a pacifier suckling fiercely between her puffy lips.

“Mama, please,” The curly haired boy begs with greedy puppy dog eyes as he keeps glancing back to look at the other kids.

“You stay right where daddy and I can see you, yes?” YN murmurs, brushing back his unruly curls that where getting long, “And what are our rules?”

“Stay where you can see, don’t talk to strangers, and be nice to others,” He recites perfectly, Kayla was a bit blown away by his manners.

She watches baseball. It was hard to believe their children were so mild mannered when their father was the exact opposite - at least on the field.

Harry was rustling in the diaper bag for something as his son looked at him with wide, concerned eyes, “My baby, daddy.”

“I know, Ezzie. M’lookin’ f’your baby,” His father replies softly, the polar extreme of his normal brash, crude language that had a nasty tone like he couldn’t bother giving people the time of day.

“Daddy, please,” The youngest whines, his little hand grasping at his father’s tattooed wrist as he gets to his knees to help his dad look.

“Left inner pocket,” YN murmurs offhandedly as she makes sure Cash gets to the playground safely with his friends.

“Say ‘thanks mama’,” Harry coos to his son as he manages to tug out the baby doll and hand it to the awaiting little boy.

“Thanks mama,” He replies instantly with a gapped smile as he nuzzles right back into his father’s side as if he can’t get close enough.

“How are you feeling, Ezra?” His mother leans over to ask, keeping the baby close to her chest.

“M’happy, mama,” Ezra replies simply before starting to babble to himself as he plays with the babydoll.

Kayla watches Harry and YN swap a fond look at their son but she couldn’t help but wonder why they asked him that? He seemed fine so why did they feel the need to do that?

The game is going okay, Harry stands up to cheer and whistle when Easton hits a two-base hit but YN smacks his thigh and motions to their sleeping baby.

He looks at her sheepishly before sitting back down, kissing her cheek in apology, and peeking down into the fleece blanket to watch his daughter sleep for a moment.

Then it seems like Easton starts to lose momentum after he pitches two home-runs, his face pinched in disappointment as the other team scores but Harry is attempting to keep him motivated with encouraging shouts.

Easton struggles from then on, he strikes out for his final three turns, doesn’t catch two pop-ups, and his pitches start to get a little shaky. It’s obvious in his facial expression he’s getting upset because he’s breathing heavier like he’s trying not to cry.

Kayla feels a sense of dread for the little boy, his father who’s the best baseball player in modern day history is watching his son not do well during an important game.

Because of what she knows of him from his temper and attitude on the field - she worries that he’s one of those father’s who will hound their kid for doing poorly.

“Oh, c’mon East,” Harry murmurs softly when his son stumbles over a ground ball before another kid picks it up and throws it in - their son smacking his glove down against the ground in frustration.

“He’s getting himself worked up,” YN notes as she watches her oldest kick his cleats in the dirt with a quivering bottom lip.

“I know,” Harry replies to his wife, “Wish he wouldn’t, he’s gettin’ upset out there, I can tell.”

“Sad?” Ezra squeaks, clambering onto his father’s lap and stating, “Hold me, daddy.”

Harry obliges easily, gathering up his small son before his attention is directed back onto the game - it was down to the last few minutes and unfortunately Easton pitched a ball that resulted in a home run for the other team.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, running a hand through his messy locks before he’s setting Ezra back down on the bleachers, “I’m going to go talk to him. Do you want to meet back home?”

YN nods, leaning down to tuck the baby into the double stroller before buckling Ezra in as well, “I’m going to go get Cash and head out. Why don’t you take him out for some ice cream? I love you.”

“I love you too, mama,” He replies, kissing her softly before kissing both of his kids foreheads and stepping down the bleachers - ignoring all the adults who are staring at him with a starstruck expression as he heads to the dugout.

It cleared out fast, nobody sticking around after the loss that ended with them not continuing on to the championship, and Easton was sat on the bench - he was stoic and there was a hard, angry expression on his face that reminded Kayla of what she saw Harry look like when he played.

As she gathers up her son and makes sure he’s got all of his equipment, Kayla stands and chats to a few of the moms before she’s heading to her car - which happened to be parked next to a sleek Masserati crossover, who would let their muddy kid go in there? Rich people, she guesses.***

Kayla pops the trunk to her van with her key as they get closer, she notices that Harry also has his up and Easton is sitting on the tailgate with his eyes looking down at the pavement. She tries not to appear as nosey or eavesdropping as she tucks her items into the back.

“Sweetheart, s’okay. Y’did so so good tonight,” Harry assures his pouty son, he squats down to start to untie his son’s nike cleats but continues to make eye contact with him.

“No, I didn’t, Daddy!” Easton whines, tears finally starting to bubble over the surface as he begins to sob with a shuddering chest, “I gave up home runs and then I missed ground balls!”

“Whoa, bubby,” Harry simpers after he tugs off the shoes and throws them carelessly into the back before standing up, “Y’did amazing, are you kiddin’? You did three innings of strikeouts, hit two of y’own homeruns. Y’played like a professional, way better than daddy.”

Kayla’s heart aches a bit when she sees Harry sit down next to him before hugging him harshly into his side, thumbing at the tears that are running down his son’s sweaty cheeks with soft reassurances.

“Daddy, are you mad I didn’t win?” Easton asks shakily, keeping his head buried into his father’s side and his small hand clutching into the fabric of his hoodie.

Harry chuckles lowly, “Daddy would never be mad at you f’anythin’, definitely not a baseball game. Remember what mama and I said? If at any point y’want to stop playin’, just let us know and we can find something else, yeah? Just like how Ezzie does art classes.”

Easton seems to calm down after a few moments of Harry rocking him and reassuring him of what an amazing son he is.

As Kayla drove away that night, her perspective on the all-star baseball player definitely changed. It was refreshing to see someone to not hold their child to an unreasonable expectation just like she thought Harry would.

The Campfire

Austin was the shortstop on the baseball team, he’d brought along his girlfriend, Chelsea, to the frat party to celebrate another win.

Everyone was in whispers that Harry was bringing his new girlfriend but nobody knew who she actually was because it was just a rumor.

It was surprising because Harry wasn’t a relationship kind-of man. He wasn’t into hookups much - always said he needed to focus on baseball.

Many of his teammates were envious of how many girls were constantly coming up to Harry at parties to flirt and try to get a dance in but he had always rejected them.

Harry had never showed interest in any of these girls at the parties, never seen him disappear upstairs with one or really entertain a conversation over a beer like they’d expect.

Chelsea pokes his shoulder and nods towards the entrance when Harry walks in with his arm around YN’s shoulder.

Most were in a little shock because they seemed like such an unlikely couple - YN had written some scathing articles about him and it was no secret he hadn’t been a fan of her.

“Holy shit, Harry’s dating YN?” Chelsea whispers to Austin as the group of party-goers cheer and whistle at the allstars appearance.

“Guess so,” Austin replies with a shrug, tugging Chelsea into the kitchen for a drink.

Later on that night, there’s a bonfire on one side of the backyard and a volleyball net on the other where a group was gathering to play.

Austin and Chelsea are on the opposing team of Harry and YN - she can’t help but watch them with curiosity because of what a surprise it is that they’re dating.

Even Austin has been watching because Harry’s acting in a way that he’s never seen throughout his time on the team with him.

Harry is just all over YN which was confusing how he went from not being remotely interested in the college girls to being a lovestruck puppy.

When she throws the ball up to serve, Harry reaches over and pinches her bum which makes her squeak and accidentally drop the ball which has him cackling as she glares at him.

As they change positions, he crowds up behind her, and massages her hips, leaning down to murmuring something in her ear.

She blushes wildly before smacking him off which has him laughing hard and kissing the back of her head before taking his position.

After Harry jumps and spikes the ball hard, earning them the winning point, YN turns around and wraps her arms around him to hug him tightly.

Harry wraps his arms around her shoulders, returning the hug before pulling back to kiss her lips in a soft peck.

Chelsea elbows Austin, “Who’s that and what did they do with Harry?”

Austin shakes his head, “I really don’t fucking know.”

The group migrates over to the fire as they might become cooler and the stars are high up in the sky, the fire flickering orange and yellow crackles of sparks.

Harry plops into a chair, pulling YN right onto his lap, and she wriggles until she’s comfortable. Chelsea notices him tap her thigh as if telling her to cut it out, too much motion right on his crotch.

Jake, one of his teammates, says in a teasing tone, “YN, I’m surprised to see you around these parts . I clearly remember a strongly worded article about how stupid frat parties are.”

YN takes it in stride, smiling as she replies, “And this party just proves my point.”

The group laughs easily, they enjoy YN’s sharp wit and comebacks as they get to know her. Austin can’t help but to notice how quiet Harry is.

Normally, he’s the life of the party, loud and making his presence known to everyone but not tonight. He has his chin propped on her shoulder and she’s cuddled back into his chest.

Austin can’t make out what Harry is saying but he’s constantly whispering in her ear and accentuating each time with a squeeze to her thighs.

“Are you guys official?” One of the teammates asked bluntly, a few beers deep by this point in the night.

Harry replies instantly, a possessive squeeze, “She’s mine and off the market, s’don’t even think about it.”

“Well I don’t think it matters because she’s turned down the whole baseball team by this point. I think everyone tried to ask her out at least once,” Steve jokes as the others agree.

“Tha’s m’girl,” Harry murmurs to her before teasing his friends,“Who’d want to go out with any you? You’re all dickheads.”

Everyone continues to joke around, it’s nearing midnight and that’s right about when Harry gets in his prime - like the party just started.

But not tonight.

YN’s eyes start to flutter shut as everyone banters and drinks around the fire, obviously not used to these late night parties.

“I better get this one t’bed,” Harry states after a few minutes, thumbing at YN’s cheekbone as she tries to stay awake.

“I’m okay,” She mumbles weakly, head still heavy against his shoulder.

“You’re coming back though, right?” Kyle asks expectantly, brows furrowed.

Harry shakes his head, “Nah, m’in for the night when she is.”

All the players look at him with a bit of a dumbfounded look, Steve shooting out, “Who knew you’d be so pussy whipped, Styles?”

Chelsea’s eyebrows raise at the crude comment, waiting with bated breath as Harry’s jaw clenches as it seems like he’s biting his tongue.

“Goodnight,” Harry says in a tone Austin has never heard before - agitated and almost…offended.

When Austin and Chelsea are sneaking up to his room for a late night hook-up, she overhears Harry and YN in his bedroom.

At first, she thinks they’re in an actual argument but as she listens to them - it’s not the kind of arguement she thought it was.

“You’re always the little spoon,” YN groans from behind the closed door.

Harry squawks, affronted before huffing back at her, “S’my favorite, please spoon me, darling?”

“You’re so fucking spoiled,” YN giggles as Chelsea assumes they move into a position where Harry’s the little spoon.

“Mm, I like feelin’ y’tits against my back, s’nice,” Harry hums with a boyish tone.

Chelsea doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until Austin drags her from her stupor.

All she knew was that Harry Styles really really fancied that school reporter.

-=-=-=-=-=-

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halinski · 3 years

Note

I just wanted to say that I love that you ran the acesterek week! I think there are just so many challenges going on right now that it's a bit oversaturated perhaps? Plus there are just fewer ace folk around comparatively, but I'm glad I got to participate! I saw you like buddie and Sterek, so I'd love a ficlet based on 'Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious' by The Amazing Devil for either of them? Ace content for bonus points? Thank you again! :) Have a great day!

This is not proofread or beta-d or anything bc I was too nervous to ask anyone rip

And I was in such a groove, writing the scenario the song had me imagine that I didn't focus on including ace talk but you know I headcanon both on as ace!!

Hope you like it 💖

"You’re lying on some coats," comes the spectacular conclusion after the door opens.

The foreign bedroom is dark, illuminated only by the light spilling in from the hallway and what little comfort he'd had from the street light visible through the window. Stiles had hoped he would go unnoticed in the mess of clothes but of course his hopes had immediately been shattered. It was par of the course. He was hiding in the coat room on a stranger's bed, after all. Not the desirable teenage life everyone dreamed of.

"Yep," he replies, making sure to add the twisting trill of sarcasm to his tone because, "I know."

The dark shadow doesn't move further into the room, nor think about closing the door to protect them from the thumping clamor of the party downstairs. Exactly what he'd been trying to escape, so Stiles groans and waves a hand.

"You're letting the party in."

A moment later, the door falls shut and Stiles sighs in relief, succumbing to his recovery in the dark. He just needs to summon enough energy to be able to make it back through the house and get home without crashing straight into a stop sign. Conveniently that also gave him enough time to sober up. Although he played with risks and sped straight past rules, he would never do anything stupid with alcohol. Not after all he'd seen it could do through his dad... Professionally, as well as personally.

A shadow falls over him and dread bolts through him like lightning. He gasps, jumping up and--

"AAAAAahh oh my fucking God, Derek! You can't just-" let's himself fall back down, nearly brining himself on the headboard. "Warn a guy, Jesus christ. You can't just sneak up on people like that."

He's still trying to catch his breath from the shock while Derek has the audacity to just stand there silently like he's actually some kind of axe murderer in the dark. His aesthetic would fit that career path well enough.

Stiles groans, pressing his palms against his eyes, trying to bury, bury, calm, save his energy. This was the last thing he needed. And from the really attractive Derek Hale, at that. Mysterious, quiet, superstar golden boy who showed up to ace everything he set his hands on at school and then disappearing. He only really hung out with Erica and Boyd, who are also aloof and distanced and just as hot and untouchable.

Derek finally speaks, only to parrot his entrance phrase. "You're lying on the coats."

"My life just flashed before my eyes, you ass. God."

Another short silence.

"How did you know it was me?" Derek sounds a lot smaller than his presence in the school halls.

Stiles stops short.

"I- uh, I'm very observant if you didn't know. A+ observer over here, even without the gift of much vision right now. There's your voice and the tall, the-the hair up, leather jacket or whatever and i- I mean I'm quick, you know? I know everyone. I could- i could recognize both Lydia and Jackson by scent alone. It's not just you, I mean-who doesn't know you. Jackson wishes he were you." Stiles laughs nervously." I swear I'm not weird, okay? I'm not a creeper like Matt, trust me... Fuck, how can you trust me when you don't even know who I am? I... "

Stiles trails off. Derek doesn't know who he is. He could make his escape before this situation got even more awkward and branded him as a social outcast forever. Sitting up quickly, he gages his escape route. He could totally make it, there was only a slight fog left in his head.

"Actually, I'm just-" He gestures past Derek.

"Stiles."

"What?"

"You're Stiles," Derek repeats, lightly like he hasn't just butchered Stiles whole future social life in Beacon Hills. He'll have to leave the state. Maybe go straight to England. Or better yet, Australia, where he could get devoured by an alligator ten times his size.

And Derek is just amused.

"Okay. Fine, whatever, it's me. You win. What are you even doing here? Party's downstairs." Stiles is trying to sound irritated, he really is but all he can really think of is that /Derek knows he is/. Derek can recognize him in the dark. Derek hasn't laughed at and left him to sulk alone in the coat room. Derek is...

... sitting down next to him?

Stiles blinks.

"Well, I was going to grab Erica and Boyd's jacket so we could get out of here," Derek starts slowly, voice as soft and careful as his movement onto the bed. Is this what Derek is like when he's not running across the court, basketball secure and flink, steel in his hand, voice booming through the gym?

As fast as his heart is racing and cheeks burning from the butterflies that decided to ambush him, he's feeling a lot more comfortable and settled now than he did 5 minutes ago. The commotion downstairs and outside has blurred into background noise, he streetlight not breaking hard against the dark of the night but painting the world in a soft gray... Stiles suddenly felt ready to take on the world.

Snorting, he turns to meet Derek's eyes, a calm blend of dark ash. "But now you've decided to humor the nerd hiding in the coat pile out of pity?"

It's a defense mechanism, putting the worst life could do out there into words so it couldn't take him by surprise. Stiles was desperately hoping he would be proven wrong.

"But you seem to be enjoying this party just as much as I am."

Stiles averts his gaze for a moment, sticking his hands under his thighs so they would stop moving. He couldn't scare Derek off now.

"Oh, you don't enjoy watching everyone you sit in class with strip and grind on each other?" Stiles asks and brusts out laughing at Derek's grimace.

"Well, feel free to join me here in this super cool, improvised Batcave. I mean, misery loves company, right?"

"Something like that." There's that amused one again, and as Stiles looks over again, this time it's Derek who ducks his head bashfully, giving Stiles the last bit of courage to embrace this wholeheartedly. He pulls his phone up from his side, and untangles one of the earbuds for Derek.

"I was watching cat videos before you so rudely interrupted but I could be pursuaded to consider other options if you have any interesting suggestions," he explains as he pops in the other earbud and settled into a comfortable position next to Derek, careful not to get too close. He knows he can be a little too touchy feely for some people and Derek seems like a no touchy kind of guy.

But the teen surprises him when he leans in enough to brush Stiles' shoulder as he imparts his attention to the cracked phone screen.

"I dressed my cat as Batman for Halloween, once," Derek so casually informs him and Stiles nearly chokes.

"You did not!"

Derek nods with a grin. "He wouldn't let me come near him for a week after that."

"I need to see those photos before we proceed to do anything else. It is a prerequisite. I don't make the rules but that is a thing I cannot live without seeing." Maybe Stiles should really dial it down a bit but any coherent thoughts flew straight out the window as he watched Derek immediately pull up his photo gallery and thumb to a cat picture folder titled 'Salem' to show him the whole photo shoot, because that's when he knew he was already in head over heels.

#Eternalsterek #Sterek #Prompt #Jaskie #Ask #Derek hale #Stiles stilinski #High school au #Lyric prompt #Song fic #Hs!Sterek #Ace!sterek #Nerd!stiles #Popular!derek #Jock!derek #I wrote this

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rainydaydream-gal18 · 3 years

Text

(TFATWS) Bucky x Reader: Protective- Part 1

(Author’s Note: I watched TFATWS and loved it. So here we are).

The tension had finally fizzled out an hour or so into the trip- at least for a little while.

Your consulting criminal, Zemo, made himself comfortable as soon as he set foot on the jet. He was leaning back in his seat across from you, looking very pleased as he read a book and took an occasional sip from his champagne glass. His contented demeanor had visibly affected both of your friends, Sam and Bucky, causing their irritation with him to skyrocket earlier. But after some of the confrontations concerning Bucky’s inherited notebook from Steve, Sam’s music, and Zemo’s observations of you, things had finally calmed down.

He was a crafty one. He knew how to push buttons, knew exactly what to say to trigger each individual’s weak points. Things had begun to escalate especially when Zemo turned his attention to you. His piercing gaze had you frozen in place as he made inquiries. While he didn’t ask anything outwardly uncomfortable, the probing questions about your life were starting to make you uneasy.

The other two males didn’t take too kindly to Zemo’s attempts at conversation with you. Bucky stared out the window with his jaw clenched. At one point, Sam let out an exasperated sigh, causing the criminal to halt mid-sentence. He leaned over to raise his brow at you diagonally across the aisle of the jet. “_________, is he bothering you?”

You didn’t have to speak: the look on your face said it all, and Sam shifted in his seat again to look over at Zemo. “Alright, that’s enough.” His tone was firm and leaving no room to question.

Directly across the aisle from you to your right, Bucky’s shoulders relaxed when Zemo followed Sam’s command. The jet had fallen silent except for the muffled whirring sounds of its mechanics.

You pretended to skim through a magazine that you’d found laying on a tray. With one hour down and twelve more to go on the flight, you felt the need to unwind a bit. Everything had happened so fast from the moment you agreed to go with your friends to Berlin to see Zemo. After Thanos’ horrible plan came to an end, things heated up when John Walker went public as “the new Captain America.” He’d even offered you a place working with him since you were part of Team Cap back in the day. You declined, of course, and found yourself even more determined to help Sam and Bucky.

You were happy for Steve. You were. It was still hard to have him gone. For years, ever since the Avengers broke apart over the Sokovia Accords and Bucky’s framing, you’d followed Steve. Even before then, when it was discovered that Hydra had been infiltrating SHIELD, you’d left the broken agency to join him as he continued his fight against threats to the world

You hadn’t imagined that you and the others would be left to keep fighting without him.

“You in the market for a new grill?”

You were drawn from your deep thought to a set of dark blue eyes that looked from you to the magazine page that you hadn’t turned in at least ten minutes. You chuckled and closed the magazine, playing along. “Yes, I figured with all this extra time, I’d do a little shopping.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up in a brief show of amusement. You rose from the seat to go to his side, kneeling down beside his chair.

“Why does he even have this?” You lowered your voice as you glanced at the eccentric baron, setting the magazine back down onto the tray. “You’d think there would be more European fashion magazines or something.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered to the man in question before leaning in to speak in an equally quiet tone. “I have to admit. We lucked out with him. Not only does he have a lead, but he’s got private transportation so we can stay under the radar.”

“I think we made the the right choice going to him,” you replied.

“We can only hope,” he muttered. “Seriously though, what were you thinking about when you zoned out?”

“Oh.” You averted your gaze, playing with the hem of your jacket. You didn’t want to delve into your train of thought. It was plain as day that Bucky and Sam were both dealing with Steve’s departure in their own ways, and you didn’t want to add to it or open up any healing wounds. So, you settled on being vague. “Just...everything.”

He seemed to know what you meant anyway. The silence that followed made guilt gnaw in your chest, but before you could say anything, Bucky spoke.

“Hey,” he nudged you with his shoulder, making you meet his gaze again. His eyes had softened significantly and forehead smoothed in absence of the lines caused by furrowed brows. It was a nice change from the scowl he had since the mission started. “Sorry we dragged you into this.”

You dismissed the apology with a casual wave of your hand. “You guys didn’t drag me into anything. I was along for the ride from the beginning.”

A comfortable silence fell between you then. He returned to gazing out the window while you stood up and headed back to your seat, sinking into it and letting your head tip forward. You figured that a cat nap was in order since you hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. All that business with an internationally-known criminal breaking out of prison had you on edge. With nothing but the sounds of occasional page-turning from Zemo’s book and Sam tapping his foot lightly to the beat of music he listened to on his phone with earbuds, sweet sleep claimed you in no time.

You were pulled from your dreamless slumber by voices, but your body wasn’t ready to respond just yet. The first thing you noticed was that you were leaning against something on your right side, your face resting on a soft material that held the scent of leather and cologne. Bucky’s scent. It must’ve been his jacket balled up to serve as a pillow. In fact, it was his voice rumbling closest to you.

“Stop looking at her like that.”

“Apologies, James, but I don’t know what you mean.” Zemo’s accented voice was quieter, but there was a sprinkle of amusement in his tone.

“You’re doing it right now.”

“Bucky, come on,” Sam interjected. “We managed to make it a few hours without killing the guy. Don’t let him get to you now.”

Zemo’s tone took on a new intensity, as if he was gripped by fascination. “You seem very protective of __________. The way you move around her is intriguing, as if prepared to defend her at a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t engage,” Sam warned in a low voice.

By now, you were almost fully awake. Despite the potentially awkward situation that Zemo was creating with the analysis of your friend, you figured it would be best to intervene. You shifted, blinking your eyes open.

“What’s going on?” you muttered, voice still a little rough from sleep. “It better be good because I haven’t slept that well in a while.” You lifted your head from Bucky’s jacket, eyes darting up to see him staring out the window again. “Sorry,” you muttered, brushing a bit of drool from his jacket before handing it back to him. He stole a glance in your direction again, not seeming to mind.

“No big deal. You needed the sleep.”

Bucky didn’t say another word, so you turned to Sam for answers. He shrugged with the shake of his head. “Zemo’s being... well, Zemo.”

You nodded in understanding, as if that simple phrase was all the explanation you needed. Zemo caught your gaze, the corners of his lips turning up a smile.

“As I mentioned before, we will have to go undercover to meet with Selby in Madripoor. I was merely thinking of disguises for you and Sam.”

He seemed like was telling the truth, but you didn’t doubt that he relished the added bonus of getting under Bucky’s skin in the process. While Bucky had been protective of you and those who chose to put themselves on the line to prove his innocence when it came to the UN bombing, you hadn’t expected him to be quite that defensive in this situation. As flattering as it was in some ways, it made you worry. Zemo knew what buttons to push. Would he eventually push a button to make things go his way? To forward some plan of his?

You got up to stretch and use the refresher. You took your time since there were still several hours left in the flight. Zemo had informed the group that upon landing, there would be limited window to get into costume and go over your characters before heading to Selby’s club.

- - - - - - -

“Only an American would assume that a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp,” Zemo complained. You stole a glance at your friend who gave his outfit another displeased look. “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.” He handed his phone over so Sam could get a look at his character’s picture.

“He even has a bad nickname. He does look like me, though.”

“And who am I supposed to be?” you asked, pulling the jacket over your form tighter. You wore a dark blue dress that went to your knees. The material was soft and had a subtle glimmer in the light, and the outfit was complete with a pair of black heels that clacked on the pavement with each step, a shiny silver bracelet, and the black jacket that you were glad to have in the chilly air. The group was walking to the halfway point of the bridge to be picked up.

“You will be my date,” Zemo replied casually.

You gave him an incredulous look. “Really? I’m just the date?”

He released a sigh before launching into explanation. “You don’t exactly resemble any crime bosses. Besides, it’s not uncommon for dates to come and go in this town. No one will be asking who you are. No one will expect what’s coming to them if we need to fight. You may have the greatest advantage out of all of us.”

As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point.

“Just remember to remain at my side at all times,” Zemo continued. “Make it look convincing that we are together.”

You refused to meet his amused look. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

A black car idled just ahead, and Zemo once more reiterated how important it was to stay in character. He told the group about High Town and Low Town, though you were a little distracted by the city lights reflecting off the water.

You squeezed into the backseat between Bucky and Sam. The ride was tense with only the sound of your breaths in the small space. Bucky stared straight ahead through the windshield even as motorcycles surrounded the car and escorted it the rest of the way. The car dropped you all off near the club, and Zemo held out his hand to help you out of the vehicle. He put an arm around your waist at a respectful level, but Bucky took one look and halted.

“Okay, this isn’t going to work,” Bucky snapped. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

Sincerity was written all over Zemo’s features as he responded. “I assure you, it will.” Suddenly, his eyes flickered with realization, though you glanced between the two men in confusion. “I know you don’t trust me, James, and I understand your discomfort. However, you are playing the part of the Winter Soldier. It is best if she remains inconspicuous as my date.”

“Wait, that’s what this is about?” Sam asked in disbelief. “Who ________ pretends to date?” Your eyes fell to the pavement. The situation was already unpleasant. The last thing you wanted was to bring confusing feelings into the mix while in the middle of an important mission.

Bucky began to protest. “No, I-”

“Relax,” Sam said, holding up his hands to show he meant no offense. “________, you can stay by me. Smiling Tiger can have a date, right?” He looked to Zemo for confirmation.

“Excellent idea.” He nodded in approval. “Just remember to stay in character. All of you.”

(Link to Part 2)

#the falcon and the winter soldier #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #tfatws #tfatws bucky #tfatws bucky x reader #mcu bucky x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes imagine #the falcon and the winter soldier reader insert #bucky fanfic #bucky

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Note

Hey babe <3 Here's a soulmate concept for you: soulmates share a braincell and all of the same kinks. (It's us. This is a callout post for us)

Soooo this is going undercut from the get go... I wasn’t sure how I was going to write this but once I started I kinda fell in love with it. It’s also late so I’m not sure how effective proof reading was....

Geraskier modern AU - Soulmates but kinky? 1.4k.

Warning: 18+, no actual sex but this is very horny...., mentions of sex toys, masturbation, handcuffs... and more? Seriously... 18+ Only.

Now with a sequel by @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde

Part Three now up

Also on AO3

Geralt was having a shit day, shit week really. Ciri had been sent home from school the day before for fighting with one her classmates, despite the fact that she had been defending herself from a bully. Work at the fire station had been especially draining too, non-stop calls all week. He was irrationally angry at the world, not helped by the burning itch under his skin. He’d been unbelievably frustrated all week and no matter how much he jerked off in the shower, he just couldn’t get rid of that ache at his core. His dreams this week had been pure filth, dreams of bursting through a window into a burning building to rescue the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, gorgeous cornflower blue eyes that haunted him even during his waking hours.

Dandelion’s eyes.

He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. His infatuation with the OnlyFans star was getting out of hand. He’d discovered Dandelion just over a year ago, his dating life was non-existent and he had been getting unbearably horny. He’d stumbled upon Dandelion on a desperate bid to sate his growing urges. It had worked for a few months, but lately it had only been getting worse again. Every Monday evening he’d spend in frustrated torment, dreaming of Dandelion in lingerie, or watching him as he brought himself to the edge of an orgasm before letting out a pitiful whine as he gripped the base of his cock before he could come. This week he’d been plagued with the thought of Dandelion going about his day with a plug up his arse so that, by the time he was ready to record his video, he could get straight to fucking himself on his favourite bright pink vibrator.

The thought of the lube sliding down Dandelion’s thick thighs as he pulled out the plug had been enough to send Geralt over the edge as he bit down on his hand, come painting the bathroom tiles white before being washed away.

The weirdest part about Geralt’s fantasies was that no matter what he thought, or dreamt during the week, Dandelion’s videos would match when they were released on Wednesday. So Geralt was taking bets on either a role-play where Dandelion needed rescuing or the butt plug, he was secretly hoping butt plug, the fireman rescue scenario would be too close to home. He was already struggling to put distance between his life and Dandelion’s online one. He sighed and pulled out his phone to check the time. The video wouldn’t be released for another couple of hours at least, which was fine. He wouldn’t be able to watch it until Ciri was safely tucked up in bed, the unenviable life of a single parent. First he needed to finish the grocery shopping, pick up Ciri from school, cook dinner, help Ciri with her homework and then maybe watch some TV with her before he could bundle her upstairs to bed. It felt like an awful lot of work for his day off.

He groaned again, thinking about Dandelion in public had been a mistake, and one he’d made countless times before. If he were the superstitious type, he might have said that Dandelion was his soulmate. There were all sorts of papers and articles that suggested that soulmates existed, that your soulmate was one that understood you on a level that no one else did, that you in some way were telepathically linked. On one hand it would explain how a random OnlyFans porn star knew exactly what Geralt had been dreaming of all week despite the fact he never mentioned it in his comments, on the other hand it was bullshit.

Utter bullshit.

He grumbled under his breath and went in search of the snack aisle. He’d been craving white chocolate covered pretzels all day and Ciri had finished his supply off without telling him. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the other man standing by his favourite snacks until it was too late. He crashed into him, putting his arms around the other man to stop him from falling.

And suddenly bright cornflower blue eyes were staring up at him.

“Fuck!”

Geralt stared back into the eyes of Dandelion… the man he’d been infatuated with for months.

“Umm… hi?” Dandelion gave a little wave, biting his lip and running his hand through his soft brunet hair. Geralt swallowed as Dandelion released his lip, a move he’d done thousands of times in his videos.

“Sorry,” Geralt grumbled. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”

Dandelion laughed, a beautiful musical laugh that was even more captivating in person. “Oh darling, I never think straight. I’m Jaskier, by the way.”

Dandelion, no Jaskier, extended his hand and Geralt took it, surprised by his firm grip.

“Geralt.”

“White chocolate covered pretzel?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head and passing Geralt a box.

Geralt blinked and took the box without thinking. “Thanks.”

Geralt’s thoughts were going a hundred miles an hour and yet he could only manage single syllable words whilst Jaskier smiled at him, brighter than the fucking sun. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was so smitten.

Shit.

Jaskier just laughed again, his hand gripping Geralt’s arm. “Forgive me for being bold, but you sir, are fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt licked his lips, barely resisting the urge to push the brunet up against the shelves and kiss him senseless, but he knew he needed to tell Jaskier the truth before anything else was said. “You’re Dandelion.”

Jaskier blushed very prettily and scratched the back of his neck. “Ah. Yes. Hello.”

“Sorry, I thought you should know,” Geralt frowned, he hadn’t meant to make Jaskier uncomfortable. “I umm… I like your videos.”

Fuck, why had he said that?

Jaskier laughed, the sounding easing the tension in Geralt’s shoulders, and winked. “Oh so do I, they’re a pleasure to make.”

Geralt smiled at the joke. “What’s the video this week?”

“That would be telling. What would you like it to be, Geralt?” Geralt name fell from his lips like fucking prayer.

Geralt’s mouth went dry as he thought about his fantasies from Monday night, and the dreams of rescuing Dandelion that had he rutting against his bedsheets in his sleep. “Had a couple of ideas.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well how about you give me your number, and we can discuss this somewhere more… private?”

Geralt nodded and they exchanged numbers. Geralt felt like he’d stepped into a fever dream, why Jaskier hadn’t been put off when he’d admitted he was a fan, he had no idea, but he wasn’t complaining. They’d only just met but Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that Jaskier was going to change his life. He felt lighter already, the day seemed brighter. He was just saying goodbye to Jaskier when the man shuffled awkwardly, letting out a soft moan, his face flushing deep crimson.

“Jaskier?”

“Fuck, sorry. I umm, I’m filming a bonus video later tonight. Once I’ve posted Monday’s. It needed a little prep work,” Jaskier admitted with a sheepish smile. “If you catch my drift.”

Geralt blinked at Jaskier. “The fuck?” He muttered mostly to himself. “You didn’t happen to record a role-play on Monday did you?”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

“It’s gonna sound stupid.”

“Tell me.”

Geralt took a deep breath and then closed his eyes, not wanting to see Jaskier’s face when he admitted it. “Been dreaming about it. Your videos always seem to align with my dreams, or umm… thoughts when I’m alone.”

“Like… soulmates?” Jaskier’s hand was on his cheek, the contact burning his skin and he felt a swell of arousal, heat prickling his skin.

“Never believed in that,” Geralt admitted, opening his eyes to find Jaskier gazing back at him with wide hopeful eyes that made Geralt feel strangely warm inside. “Starting to wonder though.”

Jaskier leaned in, brushing his lips against Geralt’s cheek. “Call me, Geralt, who knows maybe I’ll even make a video specially for you? Or…” Jaskier smirked, winking in a way that should have been illegal “you could always join me. There’s some things I’ve been dying to film that simply require a partner.”

“I’ll bring the handcuffs,” Geralt murmured so that only Jaskier could hear.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh we are going to get along splendidly, Geralt.”

Geralt chuckled as Jaskier sauntered away down the aisle, filling his basket with Geralt’s favourite foods. “Soulmates,” he scoffed.

Maybe it wasn’t bullshit after all.

#the witcher #geraskier #modern au #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #nsft #mind the rating #it gets spicy #wolfie's witcher writing #geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde

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xhisokas-harleyx · 3 years

Note

okay but imagine hisoka and fem!reader going for an undercover mission, in a ball (well this gives me an excuse for hisoka in a suit with his hair down looking kinda normal yk aaaaa) and he and reader are waltzing across the ballroom, with the mutual pining, the flirting back and forth, constantly one upping each other without making it too crudely sexual while maintaining eye contact no matter what (bonus points if reader doesnt get flustered outwardly) <333

I’m sorry this took so long! Vacation and a few other things happened. I took a little creative liberty with this one I think... Hope you enjoy! 😊

Part 2 is out, link at the bottom :)

I’m getting to the other requests soon!

Song Inspiration: Fire on Fire; Sam Smith

Word Count: 2700

Hisoka x Fem Reader: Fire x Fire

You sigh as you look up at the clock that acts as a guardian for the entry hall you are sitting in. As of now, you’ve been waiting for Hisoka to enter the room for about 45 minutes. You have finished your hair, your makeup, and dressed accordingly, which took a decent amount of time- however, your male counterpart for the evening is still not ready.

“Hisoka… how much longer?!” You call to the upstairs bathroom, and you sigh melodramatically. You’d have thought he was ditching you if it wasn’t in fact a mission that HE himself had invited you to. “We’re going to be late, and that will attract attention!” You groan.

“Speaking of attracting attention…” A smooth, low voice coos from behind you, and you jolt up from your seat on the bottom of the stairs and wheel around. “…You call that undercover?” He says, as his tongue flashes across his bottom lip, a sinful gaze in his golden irises.

~Because I, for one, can’t keep my eyes off of you.~ He refrains from saying that last part.

There Hisoka stands, with a raised eyebrow, admiring you with a smirk as he plays with one of his cufflinks. His pink hair is down, covering his eyes only slightly, but not enough that you can’t see the hungry look in his golden irises. He doesn’t have any makeup on, and he is wearing a clean white suit with a tie and napkin that matches the color of your dress.

Quickly, you close your mouth, fighting to regain your composure and not allow him to see your reaction to his appearance. This mission was going to be hard enough without him distracting you throughout…

Little do you know, Hisoka is currently appraising your appearance as he strolls slowly down the stairs. Your sleek (f/c) dress hugs your curves perfectly, covered in sequins that catch the light of the chandelier at random intervals. Both of your outfits are a bit flamboyant- but honestly, could you expect any less from this efficient duo?

“It’s all about catching them off guard, hiding in plain sight.” You say to him, tipping your chin upward and placing a hand confidently on your hip. “The more attention we attract, the better chance we have of fooling those around us and identifying our target early.” You smirk as you meet his witty remark with your own explanation.

Hisoka lets out a small chuckle before he opens the door for you. “You know as well as I that that logic makes no sense.” He points out with a coy smile.

“Sounds good though, doesn’t it?” You retort, walking past him without so much as a glance.

“As does everything that comes from your lips.” He says it in a deep and yearning tone that catches you by surprise, even for Hisoka.

You fight the urge to tense up- this party hasn’t even begun yet, and Hisoka is already trying to get under your skin as you’d suspected he might. Luckily, you know exactly how to bat him off.

“Hurry up.” You order, completely ignoring him; it was phase one of your plan. Much to your chagrin, this pursuit only excites Hisoka, his eyes twinkling as he watches you get into the limo that will take you to the party.

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

On your way to the ball, Hisoka watches you silently as you look out the window, the stars flying by as you speed to the event. You don’t even notice, until you feel that familiar bloodlust rising from his direction.

“You’re going to have to control- that – if we are going to stay undercover. We don’t know how many Nen users are going to be here.” You say nonchalantly, looking to him.

In the low light, Hisoka doesn’t speak at first, almost as if you’ve caught him looking when you weren’t supposed to. He notices how well your makeup is done- and how much care you have taken in styling your hair tonight. He loves those golden earrings you are wearing and makes a note to steal them from you later.

You notice his silence. “Hey, Hisok-“

“We are almost there, madam.” The driver tells you, interrupting your snapping to bring the pink haired man’s attention back to you… even though it hasn’t left you he saw you sitting on those stairs.

You thank the man, and you take this opportunity to affix your knife under your dress, rolling the long fabric up to your thigh and strapping it around your leg. You know exactly what this will do to Hisoka; and yet, you do it anyway, deciding to fight fire with fire.

Hisoka’s eyes widen under his bangs, and he stifles a soft moan. He does his best to look away, knowing that, despite this game you two play… he must control himself around you. Because, somewhere deep inside, he is amazed that you even agreed to come with him tonight, and he doesn’t want to scare you off.

Luckily, you are very determined to stay unabashed.

Still, his bloodlust peaks at the sight, and you use this as an opportunity to order him again.

“Nen off. Now.” You demand, dropping your skirt back to its normal position and flashing him a side glance as the limo stops.

“Oh, is that an order?” He questions, kicking an eyebrow and biting the inside of his lip, fully expecting to trip you up. He just can’t help himself. He can’t resist the urge to play this game with you, and is so impressed with the fact that you willingly (and expertly) play it too.

“Absolutely.” You reply without missing a beat. His eyes focus on you, unsure how to take your hot and cold attitude, and your apparent disinterest in his flirtation. Still, he obeys, and clears his throat, exiting the limo and moving to your side to open the door for you.

You get out gracefully, refusing the hand he is holding out to you, which both infuriates and encourages him.

“The target is an older Nen user with blue hair. Rich guy. Tons of ladies. Right?” You whisper to Hisoka, trying to confirm the details so you can begin to scout for your victim. “Conjurer?”

Hisoka doesn’t answer you for a moment, and instead, seems distracted before coming back to his senses.

“Hm? Oh, yes. Conjurer. Those women he hangs with are replicas of the prostitutes he’s said to have murdered. Perhaps talking to them could be our key to finding him.” You weren’t questioning how he knew all of this, but glance at him.

“So you’re going to use this as a speed dating service.” You state, rolling your eyes, though your comment is meant to be more funny than mean. Hisoka, however, looks to you with a confused expression.

“You wound me!” He chuckles in response, dramatically clutching his chest, but taking great care not to reveal the actual hurt underneath. Is that what you saw him as?

There is an awkward silence between the two of you, but as you walk into the entryway of the mansion, you put on your acting expressions and begin to scout out the crowd. There are hundreds of people, live music, drinks, and conversations happening all over the large abode, and in an instant, you feel a bit overwhelmed.

“We should split up.” You suggest. Not that you wanted to leave his side, but wouldn’t it be easier to find the target this way?

Unbeknownst to you, your suggestion slightly upsets Hisoka. He had hoped you would stay together, but he doesn’t protest; he nods, and you two go your separate ways. However, you find yourself glancing in his direction as he slips through the crowd, a pang of guilt stabbing your heart.

~~~~~~~~~

An hour or so later, you have still had no luck locating this bastard, and have decided to stop at the bar for a drink. You know that you’re supposed to be working, but how can you relax at all without a break? You order a drink from the bartender, and promptly begin to down it, leaning on the bar and analyzing the crowd. You can’t help but think of Hisoka, and how handsome he looked in his proper outfit which was so different than what you normally saw him in.

Often, you wondered if his flirtation was just that and nothing else; or whether there could be a chance that he feels morefor you. There were times when he could be so caring toward you… but he did have the tendency to be fickle and dishonest with his emotions.

As much as you hated to admit it… you felt morefor him. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, you liked that about him. You had the ability to see through his apathetic exterior to the human underneath. You didn’t know whether that made you a hopeless romantic, or just plain crazy.

Suddenly, you see a flash of pink hair in the far distance, breaking your fantasy. It is Hisoka, shining like a diamond just next to the dance floor. A wave of relief washes over you briefly, and you set down your drink to make your way toward him, quicker than you’d imagined.

However, the sight you see there before you made your stomach flip, and you question the flirtation you’d just fantasized about. Through the crowd of people, you can see Hisoka talking to a bunch of nicely dressed ladies, a drink perched in his hand like he was some aristocrat. They seem to be laughing at just about everything he said, and one of them has the audacity to playfully touch his lapel, which set you off.

Now you were disobeying your own advice as your bloodlust piqued. Your fists clench and you begin to trudge toward the large magician, who doesn’t seem to notice your presence. That could not be more false, however, and he smirks to himself as he feels your approach, parting the crowd and traversing the ballroom dance floor.

Your high heels, however, have another idea: to ruin your night.

Your heel twists, and you trip over your own feet, a few people gasping as your body flies toward the floor. However, your momentum is stopped by the stern body of your audacious savior.

Hisoka pulls your arm past his neck, his strong arm wrapping around your waist and holding you flush against his body. A few of the people clap at the display, the women especially noting how dashing this charismatic man is, and how lucky the woman in his arms must be.

Obviously, they didn’t know the real Hisoka…

“If you wanted to dance, you could have just asked.” Hisoka notes softly, with a hubristic undertone. The way he holds you, however, is soft and careful, his fingers spread along your waist as he pulls you to your feet. You scoff, and look away, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away from his pleasing embrace. Still, you’re mad at him, and you don’t show your flustered expression outwardly.

Without your permission, Hisoka begins to move your body in tandem with his, guiding your hips to the beat of the new song playing in the ballroom.

“You look angry, (Y/N).” He notices your expression and rigidity but doesn’t stop moving his feet. It’s a rather timid tune at first, however, at the bridge of the song the tempo began to pick up, and you easily accommodated. You two begin to tango across the floor, much to the delight of the people watching your display in awe.

“We’re supposed to be working, and you’re over there flirting.” You scold yourself inwardly as you realize he’s going to have a heyday roasting your obvious jealousy.

“Ah, and you were working at the bar when you were sipping your cocktail?” He retorts fluently, surprising you. He has been watching you this whole time and was perfectly willing to never let you know it!

Hisoka whips his hair out of his eyes, his bangs parting just long enough to reveal to you a flash of his enchanted yellow eyes. Somehow, that hungry, almost pleading look behind his irises melts away your fear that he doesn’t feel anything for you. And from that moment on, you can’t break eye contact with him, as if he’s holding you under some sort of spell.

~God, that was hot.~ You think, but you are determined to keep your cool and not show all your cards, so you shoot him an equally suggestive look that makes his blood boil. Your eyes make him go crazy. He can’t take that look in your eyes, the way you encapsulate your emotions within them makes Hisoka lose his breath and feel a little weak in the knees (not something he’s used to). Both of you are too caught up in each other to realize how much you are both leaking bloodlust.

“Jealousy looks good on you.” He smirks, twirling your body around him, and catching you in his arms.

“Hm.” You smile, beginning to have fun with this performance. “I look good on you, wouldn’t you say?” You retort boldly, not expecting Hisoka to take it quite so seriously. His smile fades, and as you twirl back to him, the song dies down, and Hisoka bends you over his knee, hanging your body in his balance.

His gilded eyes have never looked more intense and sincere. Your comment seems to have uprooted his act, and his forehead presses to yours as it seems he is devouring your soul with his eyes.

“I couldn’t agree more, y/n.” He breathes against your lips at the closing note of the ballad, hoping that you’ll confirm his hopes and take the leap of faith he needs you to in that moment.

Your heart begins to skip beats, and you can’t hold your act any longer. Your cheeks are painted with a deep red shade, and your neck begins to crane. Somehow, on the fly, you are unsure. What would all of this lead to?

Your thoughts of leaving Hisoka hanging are interrupted by the annoying screech of one of the women from before, spewing a slurred, “Way to go, Mr. Horatio!”

Horrible fake name aside, this makes your jealousy skyrocket as you realize she’s talking about your white knight.

You turn back to him with the fire of Hell in your eyes, and meld your lips with Hisoka’s with such ferocity that it takes him off guard, and for a moment he is completely star struck. The taste of your lips ignites such a passion within him that his hand moves to your hair, tilting your head back with a gentle tug to allow him better access to your sensitive parts. His obsession for you is on full display, and he doesn’t care who sees it.

As you break for air, his lips move excitably to your neck, the both of you completely forgetting that you are in the middle of a mission and a whole crowd of people. Neither of you seem to care, and if Hisoka has his way you’ll end this party with a bang.

The guards have a different plan.

“The Magician! I’d recognize that Bloodlust anywhere!” Someone shouts, sending a force of guards your way. Hisoka can’t help but smirk in that general direction, and without a thought, he unleashes the full weight of his bloodlust, and scoops you into his arms protectively. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome, darling. Let’s head out.” He purrs. Somehow, even being chased by a force of guards, which he could easily annihilate, he is as enticing with his voice as ever. You have not the power nor will to disobey that honey-like, nuanced voice that turns your resolve to ash. Instead, you are content with the view of his hair flying in the wind as he gracefully bursts out of the mansion, running with you in his arms.

You’re completely enthralled with him, and he knows it; he feels the same about you. But as the house vanishes from your sight, your eyes widen as you remember one key detail.

“Hisoka… WE DIDN’T KILL THE TARGET!” You panic, as he slows; you’re far enough away to be safe now.

Hisoka chuckles warmly, which confuses you.

“Not to worry, y/n. I killed him days ago.” He says matter-of-factly, anticipating your reaction at hearing that the party was completely unnecessary. “My place?” He skips past it like it’s a minor detail.

Your body tenses.

“Hold on…YOU WHAT?!”

~FIN~

…I could see a very NSFW Part Two for this... -///-

Part two is here!!

https://xhisokas-harleyx.tumblr.com/post/660568203654774784/in-x-this-x-moment-hisoka-x-reader-pt2-to-fire

I loved this prompt. So cute. Hope you all liked it! <3

#hisoka x reader #hisoka morow #hisoka #hxh #hunter x hunter #love #reader insert #fanfic #y/n x hisoka

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bnhaficsforthesoul · 3 years

Text

BNHA College AU - Dabi

Major: Graphic Design

Minor: Business

Sports: Nope

Clubs: He’s not necessarily in the Shogi club, but he competes in tournaments just because he’s so good at it

Dabi has two reasons for going to college: to prove to everyone, mainly his dad, that he can be successful despite what they say, and to force his dad to spend a lot of money

He hangs out with all the labeled creepy people (save for Keigo, but even then he won’t hang out with him in public cause Keigo’s pretty popular), cause of his scars and resting bitch face people are generally too scared to talk to him so he stayed with the people who didn’t judge him for that

He got his scars in an accident when he was young, the house had gotten set on fire and he got trapped inside after saving his little brother Shouto, who luckily got out with only a scar on his face

Overall dabi was lucky to have survived the ordeal at all, having inhaled so much smoke and being so burnt, but by some miracle he turned out fine, and his scars, other than being a permanent dark red and the skin being rough, weren’t too bad (basically he has the scars in the same general areas but they look more like how real burn scars would – there’s no staples anymore either)

He also changed his name as soon as he was old enough, wanting to create his own identity rather than the one his dad had crafted for him

Dabi works at a tattoo shop near campus, he’s always been pretty good at art and loves tattoos, so he decided he might as well get a job doing something he actually likes. He’s given himself a few tattoos too, and all of his piercings

Him being a graphic design major stems from his love of drawing, but him choosing graphic design rather than fine art or just drawing was due to him wanting to try a new medium, and then enjoying it

Then his business minor is so that he can open is own tattoo shop - he feels that owning his own shop and being successful in it is the best way to spite his dad, so he is all for it

He also lives off campus in his own apartment, he didn’t feel like bothering with getting a roommate

You meet him when you go into the shop to get a tattoo, you just had the sudden urge to get a tattoo so you walked in there and asked if there was any space for you, and turned out Dabi was free

You told him the basic design that you wanted, but also told him that he was free to add whatever he wanted which he greatly enjoyed, and he went to work

Normally dabi would kinda just do the work and move on, maybe make a few comments here and there if he felt like it, he wasn’t much of a talker anyways

But hey, you were cute, so he couldn’t help flirt a bit – and you didn’t seem creeped out by him like a lot of people tended to be, so he took that as a sign that you didn’t mind it

And you definitely did not mind it – you weren’t expecting the person tattooing you to be so hot, but it was for sure a welcome surprise. And you’d be lying if you said the smirk he flashed at you occasionally didn’t give you butterflies

After the tattoo was finished, it didn’t take that long since you had gotten a fairly small one, you were doing the stuff for payment and he went, “ya know, if you go on a date with me, maybe I’ll give you a discount on the next one”

Yes he was technically bribing you for a date, but again, you were cute and didn’t give him a weird look when he started flirting, even flirting back a couple times – so he was just tryna shoot his shot

“I’d like that. Even without the discount, though that would be a nice bonus.”

Sexy tattoo man asks you on a date? Who are you to say no

So you give him your number and give him a little wave before running out of the shop, already wondering where he was going to take you

Now, Dabi never wants to come across as desperate, and in all honesty he really isn’t since he’s not even looking for anything serious, so he decided to wait a few days before even texting you – making you worry that he had decided he didn’t wanna go out with you anymore

It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t, it’s not like you’d been crushing on him for months or anything dramatic, you’d met the guy once – but he was pretty, and fun to talk to, so you were hoping you’d at least be able to see where it went

Luckily though, late at night a few days after you had met him, you finally get a text, reading “hey its dabi, the guy who tattooed you. Still interested in that date?’

You almost ended up texting him right away, ready to get on with it. But nah, he waited 3 days, you can at least wait an hour or two – thank god you didn’t have your read receipts on

Eventually you got to it, responding ‘Hey – yeah I’m up to it. What’d you have in mind?’

Finally deciding he would save the both of you the time, he responded quickly, ‘nothing fancy, I’ll surprise you though.’

You said that was fine, and that was it for the night. You were just gonna wait until he told you when, and didn’t worry about it too much

But then that night, at around 7pm, you got another text: ‘you busy rn?’

You weren’t, so you said so, and he said ‘can you meet me back at the shop in like 30 min? We’re going out tonight.”

Bold of this man to not only assume you could make it in 30 minutes but to just spring your first date upon you like that – but you weren’t going to complain about it, other than the fact that if you wanted to get decently ready you’d have to sprint over there (you were lucky that the shop was close to campus – and that he probably assumed you went to the college here since you never told him)

But you threw on the first clothes you deemed acceptable and got any other small touch ups finished in the next 20 minutes before grabbing your phone, keys, and wallet and booking it towards the tattoo shop – only stopping to look at your reflection in a car window once you were up the street to make sure you still looked decent

Why were you putting in so much effort for the hot emo dude? You’d never know. But you wouldn’t be disappointed either.

You soon walked into the shop and were almost immediately greeted by Dabi. He was wearing ripped black jeans and an oversized black hoodie with black converse, simple but nice

“So what are we doing exactly?”

He didn’t say, just walked out of the shop, so you followed him back into the parking lot where he directed you to an expensive looking matte black car – which side note, he was very proud of. He bought it with his own money (I don’t know car breeds, forgive me for not specifying what type of car it is)

The car ride was pretty vibey – he has awesome music taste but he kept it just high enough so that you could hear it but low enough so that the two of you could talk, he generally doesn’t like small talk but you were pretty interesting so he let the conversation go wherever you led

Eventually you arrived at a big park with a lake and a bunch of tall trees, and you got out of the car while Dabi went to grab a backpack from the trunk – then he led you over to a nice little clearing right next to the lake and pulled out a blanket from his backpack and laid it out so you two could sit

“like I said, nothing fancy. We’re just gonna hang out.”

He had a whole bunch of snacks and drinks in his backpack, and you just spent the next couple hours talking about anything and everything – he loved when you asked him about tattooing and stuff, gave him a chance to brag, and he asked you a bunch of probably too personal questions just because he thought it was cute seeing you flustered

In the end, the first date was a success – and it led to many more. Many of which weren’t even classified dates, just more times where he would randomly text you to hang out, and each time you found yourself liking him more and more, and he shockingly felt the same

At the beginning, the best and most dabi could hope for with you was a kind of friends with benefits situation. He didn’t want a real relationship, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to be close with someone

But then you came along, and despite you being very good looking of course, he wasn’t just waiting for the right time to ask if he could fuck you, he just wanted to be around you and actually spend time with you – not just turn you into someone he could fuck when he was bored

Regardless, he’s not very good at getting attached to people, it scares him, so as soon as he realized he caught actual feelings he kinda ghosted you for a bit, worrying you that you did something wrong – he wouldn’t respond to your texts or anything

So this time you stormed your way down to his apartment, where he had brought you a couple times to watch movies and whatever, and knocked on his door

Dabi, much to his disdain, was happy when he saw you standing there. So because of that, he didn’t immediately shut the door, and you walked inside before he could protest

“Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? Why’d you disappear all the sudden?” Even outside of your crush, you considered him a friend, and you had hoped he did too, so you were worried

“It’s nothing… I’ve just been busy, don’t worry your cute little head about it.”

You rolled your eyes, “Dabi, I’m serious. What’s wrong?”

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his messy hair and staring back at you, “It’s – it’s stupid. I don’t want to talk about it.”

God he hated how concerned you looked, he could tell you cared about him and it weirded him out, but he loved it so much. He couldn’t help himself, as much as he wanted to push you away, he knew that he wanted to keep you around

“Still… if you change your mind, I’m here you-“ you didn’t even get to finish your sentence before his lips were on yours – something you very much weren’t expecting to happen today but you sure as hell weren’t complaining

“That’s what’s wrong. I think I love you.”

You could see that he looked scared, but he wasn’t pulling away, so you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a soft kiss on his lips, “Well, if it makes you feel better, I think I love you too.”

There was no formal asking out, just from that day on you were his. It still took some time for him to get used to it, not being familiar with how to act in a relationship, but with your help he got the hang of it

He loves when you watch him draw, he’s dubbed you his muse and therefore you being there helps inspire him

Wants to get matching tattoos with you eventually, and you know that if you want any more tattoos he’s gonna be the one to give you them, he might even let you do a tattoo or two for him

He’ll also do all your piercings for you, he’ll dye your hair for you - we love a boyfriend who supports you spicing up your look

Aw but you two dyeing each others hair would be so cute

Your relationship is pretty chill, like you guys only ever hang out at his apartment or go on dates in the middle of the night, sometimes clubbing or sometimes just walking around town, whatever you feel like honestly

You do go back to that one spot by the lake a l o t, you both love it there because it’s just full of memories of each other

When you met his friends you were probably a bit creeped out by them, you’ve never had any bad experiences with them but most of them looked pretty angry. But toga and jin were quick to accept you, and so you got to become friends with them too which was really important to Dabi because his friends are basically his family

When he told you about his dad – not him having to stop you from walking into his dad’s house and beating the shit out of that fucker, despite him very much wanting to watch you do it (he just doesn’t want you to get hurt/have to deal with the consequences of what that could bring – but if you were to bring out them fighting words during the next family dinner he’d definitely be very proud)

You’re welcome to move into his apartment whenever you want, after he’s decided he loves you you could propose and he’d probably say yes honestly- so you moving in isn’t an issue to him just tell him and he’ll help you bring all your stuff over

You might as well honestly, you’re there in most all your free time. You already have clothes in his closet, your school stuff is next to his - it just makes things so much easier

Besides, then you get to be around your hot emo bf even more than you already are, doesn’t that sound fun

#dabi #dabi x reader #dabi imagine #dabi headcanons #dabi college au #touya todoroki x reader #bnha #mha #bnha college au #dabi as a tattoo artist just feels right ya know

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lune-hime · 3 years

Text

Future (Chocobros x f!Reader)

“How did you imagine our future?”

↞Noctis↠

The blossoms tickled your cheek as you turned to regard the prince. His question was asked with a tone as light as the crisp night air.

“Well, last I checked we were still getting married.” You chuckled, reaching out to idly caress a velvety petal between your fingertips. “It will be a grand wedding, no doubt.”

Noctis hummed contently next to you, your forms spread out in the vast field.

“We can expect nothing less from Specs.” He added. The two of you giggled at the image of a Ignis as a wedding planner.

“What should we do for the honeymoon?” You speculated to the starry sky, gaze getting lost in the endless maze of constellations.

“Sleep.” Noctis replied dreamily. You huffed and shook your head in disbelief, the movement causing petals to fall into your splayed locks.

“How about going fishing?” He proposed. The scowl you gave him caused an amused smile to settle on his smooth features.

“Altissia and a little sleeping and fishing on the side?” He offered in a last ditch attempt to fit his two favorite activities into the plans.

“That sounds more like it.” You sighed happily, letting the coolness of the midnight breeze delicately prickle your skin.

“Y/N.” Noctis cooed, the sound as smooth as the surface of the flowers. You turned back towards him, heart lighting up when you were met with his smile. The euphoria only lasted a moment, however, before the once pleasant chill of the night began giving you goosebumps.

“Promise me something.” He requested in a feigned upbeat tone. You could tell he was trying to mask the sadness in his voice.

You nodded once, watching the corners of his mouth quiver slightly.

“Anything.” You whispered. Noctis’ touch was temperate in contrast to the brisk air as he reached out to run his palm along your jawline.

“Promise me you won’t let me ruin your future."

Every physical aspect of reality had seemed to halt in that moment. You no longer had any sense of time nor of the itchy feeling of the blades of grass against your bare legs. You could no longer see the complex colors of the heavens and the moons seemed like dull street lights in the sky. The cold wind no longer bit at your skin. You felt completely numb to everything except Noctis.

“What?” You choked, suddenly feeling like a rock was lodged into your throat. Noctis’ shook his head, silently telling you not to cry, and flashed you another grin.

“Please do everything we just talked about, either for yourself or with someone who makes you happy.” His voice cracked at the second half of his phrase, but he retained his grin.

“I’m so sorry I’m not able to give you that future, goddess knows I would have given you the entirety of Eos.” His sapphire eyes reflected the dazzling lights in the sky and his gaze was filled with thousands of words he would never be able to say to you.

“Instead of living in my memory, live for my memory, okay?” His eyes softened into a smile of their own as he regarded you like it was the last time he ever would.

Suddenly, you felt the sudden urge to embrace him but before you could throw yourself into his arms, he had disappeared on the wind and you felt yourself being dragged out of the field with a swift tug.

“Rise and shine, Y/N. By the six, we need to find a new expression for that now. Time for another hunt.” Iris sang as she gingerly shook you awake. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you craned your neck to peek out the tent window to regard the dark world that awaited for you. Heaving yourself up from your sleeping back, you rubbed your eyes and cracked your back with a resounding pop before getting to your feet. After slipping on your boots, you gave the jewel around your left ring finger a loving twirl as you walked out to the campsite. Even in the shadows of Eos, the little gem still managed to shine.

“I promise, Noct.”

He was now your past, but you would forever be his future.

↞Prompto↠

He was the personification of a wilting flower. His once bright eyes were now sunken and bordered by heavy bags. He barely showed his dazzling smile anymore, so you had said goodbye to the little dimple on his cheek weeks ago. Even his once vibrant golden locks had seemed to dim in hue along with the rest of the world. When Eos lost its sunlight, so did you.

You barely registered the question he posed into his lukewarm coffee. Your heart broke when you hear the hopelessness in his voice.

Turning towards him, you reached over only to brush past his arm to grab his camera lying on the diner counter. Prompto looked over to you with slight interest, still slumped weakly in his chair. You flipped through the photos, pressure bubbling behind your eyes at the happiness of your youth. He always kept old pictures on his camera to make sure he never forgot what life used to be like. Photos were physical and more tangible compared to memories, anyway. You blinked back the wetness in your eyes until you found it.

Wordlessly you slid the camera over to him, and he picked it up with gentle hands. Once his gaze met the screen, they starting shaking and the camera began to fall from his grasp. You placed your hands firmly over his, securly holding the device in place.

It was a selfie Prompto took of the two of you at Wiz’s Chocobo Post early on in your journey. Sandwiched in between the two of you was your own Chocobo, Blueberry, his periwinkle feathers bristling in excitement and his beak open in mid chirp. Happiness radiated off you and Prompto, your smiles overtook all the other features of your face and the afternoon sun casted a cheerful glow over the image.

Prompto sucked in a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

“This was our future.” You gestured towards the photo with a sad smile. You removed your hands from his and used them to cup his cheeks, turning him to face you. It was the first time in a while you had gotten him to directly look at you.

“And it still is.” You stated, voice unwavering. As you looked into his eyes, all the memories of your Prompto flashed through your mind like the title credits of a movie. A happy smile found it's way to your lips this time.

“You are forever my sunshine, even more now so that the world has grown dark. And we will find the light again.” You sealed your promise to him with a soft kiss, his arms immediately coming to cup your forearms gently. When you pulled away you saw a few stray tears had begun staining his cheeks but more importantly that dazzling smile that could drive the darkness away with one glance.

↞Ignis↠

The soft puff of air that left your mouth tickled the corner of Ignis’ lips. Your hesitation caused his heart to sink. He bit his lip nervously, teeth worrying over the chapped skin. He didn't mean to sour the previously sweet and intimate moment but the question had become a chronic worry of his. The various fictional situations of his disability somehow ruining your constantly ran through his mind and were gnawing on his insides.

In the absence of a response, he felt his intrusive thoughts begin to manifest into reality. Before he could turn away, however, your hands on his chest rose to gingerly clasp onto his cheeks, forcing him to face you. Through his clouded vision, he could only see the shadow of your movements but he knew your features were contorted in the way they did when you were trying to articulate a particular feeling.

“I didn't picture it like this, but I know you didn't either.” You almost laughed, bringing his face closer and looking into those milky green orbs. Although seemingly lifeless, they still sparkled with the same vigor the man had expressed before the incident. Brushing his eyelids shut with gentle fingertips, you replaced your touch with a feather light kiss to both of them. When you pulled back, the look of adoration on Ignis’ face made your heart swell. Who knew such a simple thing like a kiss could calm the tidal waves of insecurity that resided within the man.

“But I wouldn't change a thing, because even though the world went to shit, I still have you. And you are still you no matter what happens.”

↞Gladiolus↠

Gladiolus’ question replaced the comfortable silence between the two of you as you maneuvered through the briarwood. The inquiry made you laugh and you almost slipped at the minor distraction, boots squelching against the muddy ground. Gladiolus, reflexes as nimble as ever, gripped your arm thus preventing you from coming into contact with a sizeable bramble bush.

“Well, our lives haven’t exactly been a fairytale now have they?” You replied sarcastically, the both of you chuckling as he lifted up a low hanging vine so you could step under.

“I mean, sure I obviously thought it would be a lot different than this-” You started, abruptly stopping in the middle of the path much to Gladiolus’ confusion.

“But look.” You smiled, pointing to the sky. Gladiolus followed your finger to the thick canopy of the woods. A clearing in the branches allowed for pale rays of sunlight to seep through the dense foliage, the sun warming his skin and causing him to squint. His eyes started to sting from it’s intensity, but it was a welcoming feeling. What wasn’t welcome, however, was the moisture that began collecting in his eyes.

“And we have this” You stated, taking his hand and guiding it to rest on the slight bump of your stomach. He splayed his palm and rubbed soothing circles against the fabric of your shirt. He regarded you with an adoration he never knew he would get to experience.

“Thank you, Noct, for giving us this future.” Gladiolus said to the sky, his voice thick with a menagerie of emotions. The sun had given back their ability to live, but it was the boy behind the sun that had given Eos a second chance to shine.

↞Bonus↠

“Noct for the thousandth time NO we are not spending our honeymoon at the recreational fishing area.” You retorted over your shoulder as you sped walked to keep up with a swift paced Ignis. Why did he have to have such long legs?

Ignis was simultaneously speed firing you questions regarding the shapes and materials of various dining wares and whether or not you wanted hydrangeas or lilies placed in the center of each table as the three of you maneuvered through the elaborate department store. Well, it was more like the two of you with how far back Noctis was straggling behind. While Ignis was like a worker bee buzzing from section to section, the prince on the other hand was taking a leisurely stroll; touching random items here and there but not regarding them with much enthusiasm. You had told him that it was fine if he didn’t come; you were enjoying planning out your wedding enough for the two of you. But Noctis protested, saying that even though it wasn’t his favorite thing to do, he wanted to be there because at the end of the day it was both your wedding.

Ignis abruptly stopped in front of a vast display of fabrics, carefully inspecting each one with fine detail. You patiently waited behind the advisor, giving Noctis some time to catch up.

“On any other occasion a weekend fishing with you sounds heavenly, but I don’t want to spend our honeymoon smelling like trout and stinky worms.” You stated, grimacing at the thought of your cute outfits smelling like dead fish.

“Which one of these do you fancy would be suitable for the table cloths for the reception?” Ignis inquired, shoving a book of samples into your hands as he slowly moved down the line of textiles. A moment later, Noctis popped up behind you, idly looking at the samples from over your shoulder. Once you noticed his presence, you held them up so he could get a better view.

“Black obviously.” Noctis declared blandly. It was clear to everyone that he wasn’t that into the whole wedding planning process and was more excited for the actual event than having to be involved in everything that went into arranging it. It didn’t help that he had to get up two hours earlier than he normally did either.

“Of course, Noct, but which black.” Ignis exhaled, looking close to short circuiting. The cloth samples were indeed both a dark shade of cobalt, but they differed in pattern and sheen. Taking matters into your own hands you pointed to the silk cloth with intricate silver embroidering.

“This one is pretty, Iggy.” You chimed in, wanting to keep Ignis’ sanity intact and let Noctis be done with the whole process as soon as possible.

“Couldn’t agree more, Y/N. You always have had the better sense of aesthetics out of the two of you.” Ignis praised before immediately moving onto the next item on the list, leaving behind an annoyed Noctis. You choked back a laugh and turned to face him, poking his puffed cheeks until his pout turned into a smile.

“How about we go to Altissia, with some fishing on the side?” He proposed, grasping your hands and lowering them from his face to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“It’s a deal!” You beamed, bouncing on your heels. The excitement on your features set off sparks in Noctis’ chest.

“If I receive some persuasion, maybe we can throw in a few naps in there too.” You added playfully, swaying your entangled hands from side to side.

“Oh, we can do more than just nap.” Noctis grinned, taking his hands out of yours and fluidly moving to lightly tickle your sides, offering an animated shriek from you. Just as you were getting into a small tickle fight, the buzzing of the store’s intercom system activated.

“Stop dilly-dallying lovebirds and lets get a move on, we still have to go to the caterer’s office after this. I am in isle 24, the silverware section.” Ignis’ unamused voice echoed off every surface of the building.

The two of you exchanged a look of disbelief before breaking out into hysterical laughter.

“Better not keep him waiting.” You patted his chest and broke away from his embrace. Noctis rolled his eyes and placed a kiss to your forehead before the two of you ran hand in hand to your lovely wedding planner.

#ffxv #ffxv gladiolus #ffxv noctis #ffxv prompto #ffxv ignis #noctis x reader #Noctis Lucis Caelum #prompto argentum #prompto x reader #gladiolus amicitia #gladiolus x reader #ignis scientia #ignis x reader #ffxv imagines #fanfiction #final fantasy fanfiction #chocobros #chocobros x reader

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loversandantiheroes · 4 years

Text

Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks. I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess. This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary: A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result. At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes. You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it? Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do. Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond? I mean c'mon Claudia. That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway. Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus. As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit? You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong. It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it. Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see. And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension. Whiskey doesn't scare you. His lines don't scare you. The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you. But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.

Maybe it's better to leave it. To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first. Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box. "Look, hon. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure. "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

�� ⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it. Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times. But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair. At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.

You take the time to change when you make it to your room. Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress. Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat. Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise. He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before. Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement. Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head. Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off. He stood you up. You cannot fucking believe it. What's worse is you feel like you should believe it. Should've expected it. As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed. At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now. Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head. The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat. It's satisfying in an awful sort of way. Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood. Too late to take it back now, though. You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly. "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down. Forward. Anywhere but on him. It's hard, too many reflections. Even the distorted shape of his silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?"

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince. You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself. I like that bar. The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor. I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right. I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration. But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click. "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat. "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late. I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that. Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive. "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter. If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right? Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes. "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day. Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me. If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone. But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe. It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that. Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me. I don't mind a bit. I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left. Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from. And the bastard just keeps talking.

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now. I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me. I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give. So I need you to tell me, honeybee. Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists. Fuck, you want that. All of that. And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up. There's sweat on your palms. It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing. He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you. Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it. Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh. "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am." His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering. He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator. "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning. "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles. The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that. And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls. He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs. You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge. He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder. "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet. A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch. Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall. The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better. From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off. And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate. He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus. You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening. "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed. "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he? Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move. The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs. Someone's watching this. The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue. You roll your hips, swearing roundly. It's not enough. It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough. You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp. "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised. "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor. Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands. His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that. Well? Cat got your tongue? Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you. "You can do it, honeybee. I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth. "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl." He grins down at you, wide and wolfish. "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad. And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned. "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me. Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you. "With this? Hm?"

"Fuck, yes." You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.

"Come for me first, honeybee. Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up. The rail digs into your back. You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out. Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!" You moan and laugh all in the same breath.

"You like it," he says simply.

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity. "Don't stop. Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee. Watch yourself."

You try. Everything's a blur; inside and out. Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle. As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek. "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans. "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs. Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding. Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin. The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite. You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights. The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble. Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you. The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse. The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe. The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him. "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt. "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine. "Yeah you do. A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor. "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me." It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes. Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine. "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt. Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly. If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you. He just doesn't stop. And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world. You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming. Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want. This. This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod. Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?" You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him. "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back." The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin. "Fair is fair. Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady. "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee. All right. I only got one rule. If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his. "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.' Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse. And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts. When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples. The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands. "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward. His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon. You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more. And maybe that's what does it. A little mental-short circuit. Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this. But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling. For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11. "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me? I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were." His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are. Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek. When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound. But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you. "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again. Harder this time. For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him. You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth. He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back. A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow. The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space. One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee. You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts. "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades. For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand. The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek. A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down. You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded. You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for. The last thing you wanted was to be sensible. And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand. "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk. They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet. This is just a tease of the real thing. A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek. Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that. Open that up, baby. Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring. The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him. A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time. You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?" Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands. His hand descends again. Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?" CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg. One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter. "Goddamn it yes. I've been thinking about fucking you all day. All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me. Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it. You want him. Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it." His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me. Please. I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before. All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer. Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful. Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that." He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up. Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow. And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more. D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby. Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear. "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you. Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?" Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck! Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night? Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax. His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders. "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin. Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth. "Careful," you warn. "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching. Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it. Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in. Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't. His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper. The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you. "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air. "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out. The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him. You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come. It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point. To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body. It doesn't seem to faze him, though. Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here. Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much. Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven. Sev-seven. F-f-fuck, Jack. No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try. All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses. Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter. His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again. Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually. 'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists. You're not sure if that's better or worse. It's a little ridiculous. Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck. For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles. It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either. So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character." His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once. After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter. “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer. "Well. That sorta depends on you, honeybee. My work's all wrapped up. But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it. "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first. Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow. "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting. "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder. "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb. "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself. But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand. But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath. "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do? What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch. "Shit, is that all? Well. Officially, I'm a businessman. I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully. You don't think he's lying. And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs. "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin. "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh. His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket. From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little. "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less. Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar. For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades. "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name. He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says. "Literally."

"Jackass."

#agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations #spicy spicy content babes #I really didn't mean for this to end up this long but here we are I guess #ao3 version and fic masterlist will be updated shortishly

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tangledstarlight · 3 years

Text

Written for Day Two of Jukebox Appreciation Week: Alternative Universe –– @jukebox-week

here is my, somewhat anticipated, firefighter!luke au. this got. so long guys. i’m so sorry. it became a 5+1 and i lost control. this all started because i wanted to see luke do a pole slide and i didnt even fit it in smh. also check out this amazing art by mamirugbee if you get the chance too!! anyway, much love!! enjoy!!

also on ao3!

lil disclaimer: i’ve never been to la and i’m not a firefighter, i tried to do as much research as i could but firefighter forums aren’t helpful as you’d expect for somethings, who knew! so take everything with big dose of suspension of belief please!

trigger warnings! mentions of blood & injuries (nothing graphic), lots of swearing, fire.

RATED T –– there’s no graphic scenes but there’s a lot of kissing and fading to black, so rating might change if anyone needs me to 😬

Word count: 21,184

ONE

When he was a kid Luke had had a lot of dream jobs.

There was a week when he’d wanted to be a landscape gardener after watching too many renovation shows during a week off school sick. When he was eleven he’d seriously considered being a doctor for approximately two days after watching too many reruns of ER with his mom, but it was quickly pointed out to him that he would need to go school for years. And he’d given serious consideration into being a professional bungee jumper, which he still maintains is a real career path and he’d have been excellent at it.

But then he’d discovered music when he was thirteen when his parents had given him a guitar for his birthday, and that had been it.

That was his dream.

To stand on a stage and play for an audience and create a connection with the world. And he’s pretty sure he could have done it. It would have been the dream he reached.

But then the garage they rented to rehearse caught fire while he was asleep on the ratty old sofa they’d found on the street. And maybe the fire itself wouldn’t have been enough to make him change his dreams, but everything that happened afterwards?

Well, there’s nothing like almost dying to reorder your life, right?

(It’s the story he tells everyone if they ask, it’s the one he almost believes too.)

The owners of the house had left a candle burning or forgot to unplug a toaster or something mundane and silly like that. Something that people always warn about but never think will happen to them. He doesn’t know. He can’t remember.

All he knows is he’d been sleeping on the sofa and the garage had gotten warm and he’d woken up to a room full of smoke. There had been a moment of panic, as he sat frozen, chest having and eyes stinging, before he’d jumped up, grabbed his guitar, his notebook, his phone and ran outside.

Luke remembers watching the flames grow higher and higher in the garage, smoke following after him from the door he’d just run from. He remembers watching them seem to jump from the roof of the house to the garage. He remembers seeing Mrs Anderson running up to him, the oldest daughter trailing behind with wide eyes, and asking for his phone. He remembers fishing it from his pocket and dialing 911. He remembers the moment he heard the line click, a voice asking him a question as his eyes locked on the house and he saw two hands hitting at the upstairs window.

After that he doesn’t really remember much of anything, he tells everyone.

Except that he does.

He can still remember the heat on his skin, how he’d been grateful for once that he’d fallen asleep in his coat. He remembers his lungs aching as he sucked in smoke and coughed it back out. He remembers a split second decision. Guitar and notebook falling to the ground and running into the house as Mrs Anderson screamed something behind him.

He remembers, as he tried to cover his mouth, his nose, with the sleeve of his coat, thinking that this would be an awful way to die. He remembers not wanting to. He remembers, as he kicks down the jammed door of the youngest kids bedroom, how he really wanted to hug his mom again. He remembers someone screaming and his name being called and throwing a blanket over his head, a weight in his arms he doesn’t remember picking up. He remembers flames and heat and wet tears on his neck and gasping for breaths and then he really doesn’t remember anything at all.

Until he wakes up in a hospital bed and his mom is in the chair next to him and it hurts a little to breathe and there’s bandages on his arms but he’s alive and Luke’s pretty sure that’s the important part to remember.

It’s the part he remembers when the doctors say he can’t play his guitar for a couple of weeks while the skin on his hands and arms heals, that he should avoid straining his voice for a while. It’s the part he remembers when they pick through the rubble and burnt out remains of the garage he’d called home for the last few weeks. It’s the part he remembers when Alex and Reggie tell him it’s okay that they take a break from ‘breaking into the music scene’ while he heals and they find a new place to rehearse and replace their equipment.

It’s the part he remembers when the Anderson’s show up at his parents house with flowers and a basket of snacks and thank him.

He’s alive and they’re alive and part of that is down to him.

And it’s that bit that keeps tripping him up. No one has ever called him a hero before, but that kid does. The youngest Anderson that he’s shared maybe five words with before running into a burning building to carry out. He’d called him a hero and hugged him and Luke had spent the next hour trying to figure out what that meant to him.

Music was his dream. He was pretty sure it was his heart and his soul and everything in between. But it hurts to talk for the first few days after and it hurts to sing for a few weeks after that and, without really noticing it, he ends up back at school. And then he’s graduating and Alex is going to UCLA and Reggie decides he wants to be a teacher and the band is at a stand still.

And Luke— doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. Doesn’t mind putting this dream on hold while he maybe explores something new. Something he’d never even thought about before.

(And if telling people about the fire kept them from asking why he no longer sang, well, that was a bonus. He nearly died, that was a good enough reason to reorder anyone's life. Right? They didn’t need to know about his performance issues.)

The point was, Luke had once dreamt of playing music to the world and leaving a mark, something to be remembered by.

And then he’d nearly died and music had to wait and he...found a new sort of dream. It wasn’t exactly making a connection with everyone but for the couple of minutes he was carrying someone out of a burning building? It was a connection that would leave a mark, at least for a little while. And it really didn’t hurt that people seemed to love a man in a firefighter uniform.

But just because his dream of playing music didn’t come true didn’t mean he didn’t still love it. Which was why standing outside the burning record store was really hurting his heart.

“Do we know if there’s anyone inside?” He calls over to his captain who’s already directing people around, but Luke’s eyes are on the windows of the second floor and the smoke he can already see against the glass.

“Not that we—” the words have barely left Harrison’s mouth when they both see a face through the smoke and hands banging on the glass. Whoever it is looks like they try opening the window but nothing happens and their knocking on the glass gets more frantic.

“Roof, window or stairs?” He asks, already flipping his visor down and checking the straps across his waist holding everything important.

“Stairs, they’ve cleared the side entrance. Try to come out the same way you go in this time, Patterson. And take Danforth,” she waves one hand in the air but Luke is already heading towards the side of the building, his mind already ten steps ahead.

Get to the door. Check his oxygen. Check Danforth isn’t about to fuck things up. Count to five in his head and walk inside a burning building..

“Going in now,” he says into his radio, as he nods his head at Danforth and pushes on ahead.

Lukes has been into a lot of fires since that first one when he was seventeen and running on nothing but adrenaline and impulse. But there’s still always a moment after he first steps inside a burning building that feels the same as the first time. A rush of heat, heart pounding, thoughts running wild about how this would be an awful way to die.

Then he sucks in a breath, lets the weight of all his equipment resettle on his body, in his mind, and he gets on with his job.

And sure okay, he still runs mostly on the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he’s pretty proud to say he thinks things through a little more now.

Mostly.

They make it up the stairs and through the flat's front door with little issue, which is, of course, when the issues decide to show up. He can see why the girl in the window was looking frantic, and swears at the fact no one downstairs had noticed the huge fucking hole in the ceiling.

It stretches from just in front of the door to what he assumes used to be a living room, but half the sofa is hanging down and there’s flames already licking their way up a kitchen bar stool. His eyes scan the room on the other side of the hole, trying to spot the best place to cross and the stranded resident.

“Hello? Fire and rescue, we’re here to get you out!” He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, and then a hand shoots up from behind a table followed slowly by a head of curls.

“Over here,” at least he thinks that’s what she says. It gets cut off by a cough and her head ducking back down.

“I’m coming to you,” he calls, but she either doesn’t hear or can’t ankowldge it, but that’s fine. Luke just needs to know where she is. He backs up a step, looks back at the hole in the floor and backs up another, and then he runs, jumps, lands with a thud that echoes up his legs.

There’s a cracking sound behind him, and Luke turns in time to see part of the floor where he’d just been standing start to give away as flames leap up and smoke clouds the area, while Danforth hops backwards to avoid taking a fall. He can see wide eyes through the screen of his visor and Luke reaches up to tap the button on the talkie, inclining his head towards the door as he speaks.

“Better tell Harrison I’m coming out the window.” He shoots the other man a grin before turning back to his job at hand. Find the stuck girl, go out a window, hopefully make it home before Reggie eats all of Alex’s leftover lasagna. Oh he hopes there’s still some garlic bread left over too. Or maybe he can convince Alex to whip some up for them, that man knows how to make a good garlic bread. Little cheese on top. Some of the fancy salad he steals from work. Maybe Willie will be over and he’ll have bought dessert.

Luke’s planned out his ideal menu for the evening, and breakfast the next day, by the time he makes his way carefully across the crumbling floor and is kneeling down across from a girl whose face is mostly obscured by wild curls and a damp towel. Someone paid attention during a fire talk, he thinks.

“Hey, are you hurt?”

It’s only four years worth of training and feeling the heat of flames slowly getting closer that stop Luke from completely blanking on his job as wide brown eyes meet his through his visor. There’s a streak of soot on one of her cheeks and he catches sight of unshed tears pooling in her eyes. She’s looking up at him with a mix of fear and worry and what he really hopes is gratitude and a large part of his mind knows this isn’t the right time, but holy crap, Luke’s pretty sure she might be the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

“No,” she coughs out, shaking her head and Luke blinks. Pulling his thoughts back to the issue at hand. The fire, the falling floor, the window, the— was she wearing monster slippers? He bites back a smile even as his eyebrows tick up, just a little.

“Let's get you out of here, yeah?” He ducks his head to catch her eyes and make sure she’s heard him. “You ever jumped out a window before?”

The girl's eyes widen a fraction as they dart towards the window she hadn’t been able to open and when they dart back to him there’s a determined glint mixed with the fear.

“Wait here, I’m gonna make sure we’ve got a soft place to land,” he pushes himself back up and over to the window, gives it an experimental tug and frowns. Someone has painted the window shut, which is bad for fire safety, but great for him being able to show off a little and smash a window. Luke unhooks the axe from his belt just as his radio crackles to life.

“Which window are you coming out of Patterson?” Harrison’s voice comes through and Luke can picture the way she’d probably sighed in resignation when Danforth had turned up outside with his news. He was always being told off about coming out through a window when it wasn’t a part of the plan. Turning slightly so he’s standing side on, Luke raises his arm and swings the axe at the glass. Someone shouts from below and he hears the girl let out a gasp over the sound of shattering glass.

“This one,” he says, holding down the button on his radio and reattaching his axe in one movement before leaning out the window to see them pulling the large inflatable cushion to below the window he’s standing at. He wishes the bigger ladder truck hadn’t been redirected across town, it was much more badass to help a pretty girl down a ladder then it was to push them out a window and say ‘jump’. He waits until someone shoots him a thumbs up and turns back into the apartment.

“Alright, let's get out of here shall we?” Luke says, holding out a hand to help her up, there’s a second of hesitation before she drops the towel she’s holding and reaches up to grab it. He notices the bag she’s clutching to her chest and idly wonders what she’s deemed important enough to save from a fire. He’s been doing this job long enough now to know that everyone has different priorities. Some are more questionable than others.

“Wait,” she pulls her hand out of his grasp as they reach the window and she leans out, “You’re serious about jumping out? I thought you had like ladders or something! I can’t— I—”

“Woah hey, hey,” he puts a hand on her back as she tries to back up into the room and Luke is conscious of the fire still raging, eating away at the floor, and he knows there’s no time, but sometimes people just need a little reassurance, “It’s okay. What’s your name?”

She looks up at him and there’s tears streaking through the soot on her skin as she breathes in shallowly, “Julie.”

“Alright Julie. Normally we do have a ladder, and I know it looks scary but this is perfectly safe. I promise. It’s like jumping onto a giant cushion. Kinda fun if you forget about the fire.”

She still looks unsure, head shaking slowly as her grip on the bag tightens and Luke ducks his head, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he flips up his visor so she can see him better.

“I know we’ve just met and you have no reason to trust me, but I’m going to ask you to trust me anyway. It’ll just be a shortfall and a bounce. Over before you even remember to be scared,” he can feel his lips tugging into what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Julie’s eyes track over his face quickly before she shuts them tightly and nods once.

“Okay. Okay. I’m jumping out a window. Sure. This is fine,” she mutters and Luke grins, flipping his visor back down and slowly helps Julie up onto the window sill before she can change her mind.

“I’m gonna keep hold of this alright?” he gently extracts the bag from her fingers and secures it over his shoulder before helping Julie sit on the sill and jumps up to join her, legs dangling in the open air. “Short fall and a bounce. You got this,” he squeezes her hand that’s gripping the window frame as she flinches at the sound of something falling behind them. “Ready?”

She whispers something that he doesn’t quite catch but nods her head, squeezes his hand back and jumps. There’s a rush of air, Julie sucking in a breath somewhere next to him, and then he’s hitting something, body being absorbed by something cold and bouncing once, twice, and then settling.

Despite the fact he’d just told Julie that there was nothing scary about jumping out of the window, Luke always felt a spike of fear in the first second he’s airborne. There’s a moment, just a single moment, where he worries that this time he won’t hit the ground again. That he’ll float away. It’s illogical and crazy, and Luke knows that. But he still worries. The same way he always worries that this burning building will be the one he doesn’t walk back out of.

For a moment, Luke just lies there. He lost Julie’s hand somewhere in the fall but he can hear her breathing somewhere nearby and slowly the sounds of his crew start coming back to him and he blows out a breath and gets back to work.

One of the bonuses to being the person to jump out of a burning building is that Luke doesn’t have to help deflate and put away the cushion. The downside is that he has to spend twenty minutes with one of the paramedics as they check him over.

No matter how many times he tells them he’s fine. You lie about bruising a rib one time and no one lets you forget it.

“Are we done here?” He asks as the paramedic finally doesn’t swat his hand away as he takes his oxygen mask off and Luke tries really hard to not let his leg bounce too obviously.

“Any sign of issues—” they start but Luke is already pushing up from the back of the ambulance, shooting the paramedic a two fingered salute and picking up the bag he’d dropped by the back tire when he’d been told to sit. It’s only a short journey to the gurney on the other side of the vehicle and the girl lying on it with her eyes tight shut and holding a phone to her ear, though he thinks it’s more for comfort then actually talking given she’s still got an oxygen mask over her mouth.

He approaches slowly, trying for a gentle smile as her eyes snap open and lock directly with his. He holds her bag up, and fully intends to just leave it by her side and get back to work — no matter how much he so desperately wants to talk to her again, even though he’s not sure why, but he’ll think about that later — but she pulls the mask away from her face and smiles back at him.

“Flynn just hold on,” she rasps and there’s a slight wince on her face as she realises how saw her throat is, Luke slowly approaches the side of the gurney and gives her what he hopes is a sympathetic smile. He remembers how shitty a smoke hurt throat can be.

“I gotta get back to my crew but I just wanted to check in,” he says, resting an elbow on the metal railing and pretending the way his eyes rack over her face and body is simply to check for injuries — though he’s glad to see the monster slippers survived the fire and the fall —, before he licks his lips once, and holds her bag up for her see, “and to make sure you got this back.”

Julie takes her bag with a relieved sigh that Luke might think more about if their fingers didn’t brush slightly in the transfer and leave him wishing he hadn’t been wearing gloves when he’d held her hand as they jumped out of a burning building.

Which right. Burning building. Almost dying. Being scared. Priorities Luke!

He clears his throat and smiles again, a little softer as his eyes linger on her face. Someone has wiped away the worst of the soot from her cheeks and forehead, but there’s still streaks of it across her skin. And she’s looking at him with the same sort of grateful look that he’s seen countless times before, and he swears there’s something else. But she had nearly died, and he’d helped save her. His job here was done. A connection with someone that would last long after she forgot his face or his name.

“I should uh—” he points over his shoulder with his free hand, taps along the side of the gurney once, twice before breathing out, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He only manages to take a step back and turn around before Julie is coughing out, “Wait!”

Luke doesn’t hesitate to spin around and back to her, eyes quick to scan her face to see what might be wrong, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No I just—” she coughs again, and Luke reaches across to slide the oxygen mask back on her face, keeping a careful eye on how many breaths she takes before she slides it off again, about to say something when she beats him to it, “Sorry. I just. I wanted to thank you. For y’know. Saving me. And…” she trails off, biting her lip and for a moment Luke thinks she’s about to start coughing again but with the way she starts avoiding his eyes she realises she’s just putting it off.

“And…?” he prompts, ducking his head slightly to catch her eyes.

“And I realised I didn’t get your name. Which sounds silly now I’ve said it out loud,” she mutters the last part, head hitting the flimsy pillow with a soft thud that makes him grin. Because she wanted to know his name! And it’s not the first time a person he’s saved has wanted to know his name, but it’s the first time a super pretty girl has asked and he’s wanted to tell her.

“It’s Luke,” he says with a grin, taps against the gurney one last time, “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime Julie.”

TWO

Luke had taken up running when he was 19, between jobs and starting to worry all his potential had been burnt up in the same garage fire that had destroyed his favourite couch and stolen his voice at 17.

It had been his dad's suggestion. A way to get him out of the house and doing something that wasn’t moping or waiting for his friends to be finished with classes, he’s sure. But, even after he’d signed up to be a firefighter and had a whole new fitness schedule, running was still his favourite thing to do. He and his dad might have had their issues but he’d been right about needing a way to clear his head when he could no longer write.

And while he no longer really needed to run to clear his head about what he wanted to do with his life, he did need to breathe in fresh air and forget about the damage a fire can cause.

Some days he had more images to forget about then others.

Some days he just wanted to run.

And some days, he needed to get out of the house before Alex force fed him some weird experimental fish dish. Apparently they were testing out a new menu at the restaurant which just meant Alex was testing the food out on him and Reggie and occasionally Willie when the skater couldn’t come up with an excuse quick enough.

So maybe he was running in the park and avoiding one of his roommates. It was still a valid reason. He’d seen grapes being mashed up with paprika and had not been interested in trying it. Reggie and Hotdog could take one for the team.

The route he runs takes him past a duck pond and a bunch of teenagers throwing a frisbee and other people walking their dogs and —

“Fire! Dad! It’s on fire!” A voice from his left screams and Luke’s instincts kick in as he changes the direction he’s running without faltering a step.

It’s one of those stand alone bbq things that parks have dotted around and Alex hates. Something about not being able to properly grill the meat. Luke had given up listening the third time he’d started talking about them, much more concerned about how no one ever checked them over or made sure they were safe to use.

He can see the problem straight away, something has fallen between the grates and caught on the coals, and where it should just be glowing embers and small flames there’s smoke billowing and flames jumping out at the teenage boy frozen in place.

“Hey can I borrow these?” Luke asks as he comes to a stop next to him, carefully extracting the tongs from his grasp before he can respond. It’s not exactly standard protocol or even the safest plan but Luke clicks the tongs together once before darting them into the flames and pulling out whatever was causing the fire and dropping it on the square of concrete that the bbq is planted on. He stops on it a few times until there’s no longer any flames jumping up at him and all that’s left is smoke and what looks like a half burnt cloth.

“Carlos! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Luke turns around just as an older gentleman rushes over, eyes darting from the fire Luke has put out, to the still cooking burgers, to the teenager who’s grinning.

“I’m fine,” he reassures his dad and Luke takes the opportunity to shake some ash off the tongs before offering them back to him, “Dude that was so cool! You just stomped out a literal fire!”

Shrugging, Luke rubs at the back of his neck as he shoots the dad a quick smile, “Just doing my job, it was no big deal. Honestly.”

“Your job?” The man asks, head tilted curiously as he accepts the tongs.

“Yeah I’m a fi—”

“Luke?” A voice he hadn’t expected to hear again cuts him off as a girl with a mass of loose curls in a pretty pale yellow sundress skids to a halt in front of them, eyes looking quickly between him and the other two with increasing concern as she seems to notice the burnt ground. “What happened?”

“Julie! I— Hi,” Luke starts and suddenly wishes he was wearing something more flattering than shorts and an old band t-shirt he’d cut the sleeves off of on a whim. He at least wishes he’d had time to shower before she starts to think he just always stinks like smoke and sweat.

“This young man just saved your brother from a flaming napkin,” the man says and there’s a teasing note in his voice as he looks at his son before raising an eyebrow, “You two know each other?”

“Yes. I— well sort of?” Julie says and there’s a slight furrow between her brows, “Luke’s the firefighter who got me out of the apartment.”

“You’re the one who got my Julie out of the fire? And you just saved Carlos too?,” he says, taking a step closer to him and Luke only has time to nod before he’s speaking again, “You must let me thank you! Do you like burgers? You should stay, eat with us.”

“Oh that’s— that’s really kind of you sir but you don’t have to do that. I was literally just doing my job. Both times,” Luke’s quick to say with a shake of his head, but there’s a gleam in the man's eyes that makes Luke pretty sure he’s about to be eating a burger. Which is better than the option waiting for him at home.

“I won’t hear anything of it. You saved my children, the least I can do is offer you some food. And you can call me Ray,” the man — Ray — waits until Luke gives a smile that feels only a little forced before turning back to the bbq and Luke catches him muttering something, “We really should have attended that fire safety course Victoria mentioned.”

Coughing to hide a laugh Luke looks back in time to catch the tail end of a look that Julie shoots at her brother and the way he rolls his eyes before he grins and walks over to his dad. And then it’s just him and Julie. Who apparently told her family about him. Luke bites his bottom lip to try and not smile because of course she’d told her family, she’d nearly died and hadn’t. It was a big deal. It was something you told people. It doesn’t make him special.

Julie’s looking up at him, her head tilted slightly like she’s considering something and he desperately wants to know what’s going on inside her head. But then his eyes glance down and he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face at the sight of the doodle covered sneakers she’s wearing and how different they are to the monster slippers he’d seen her in last time.

“No slippers today?” the words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, brows rising as he looks pointedly at the sneakers on her feet and back up at her.

“Didn’t want to make anyone jealous,” she laughs, but Luke can see a slight flush in her cheeks as she brushes some hair behind her ear and he’s suddenly struck by the urge to do it for her. He’s saved from making an embarrassing move by her next words, “I see you’re not in a uniform today either.”

And, if Luke didn’t know any better he’d say she was upset about that fact if the way her eyes tracked down his body and back up to his face, and if the deepening colour in her cheeks was anything to go by. But why would she be upset about him not wearing his uniform? That thing was heavy and warm. He did not get the fascination.

“They let us wear other clothes sometimes. The uniform can get a little hot,” he grumbles only for his lips to pull up into a slight smirk as he watches the way she bites her lip and avoids his eyes, “Why, disappointed?”

“What? No! I—,” she sucks in a breath and blows it out and Luke watches as she tosses curls over her shoulders and straighten her spine before looking him straight in the eye, and there’s a fierce sense of determination mingling with something like excitement, “I was just thinking how I never got to thank you properly. For helping me out of the building. And how I’d like to do it in a way that doesn’t involve my dad burning burgers in the park.”

Luke blinks and just stares at her because it sounds a little like she’s just asked him out but he doesn’t want to be one of those guys who just assume they’re being asked on a date because of a little life saving. She could just mean a totally harmless thank you coffee and he’s just overthinking it and oh fuck she’s still talking and he’s just gaping at her.

“And I mean it doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be! I could just buy you a– a doughnut or something. Wait, that’s police isn’t it? Shit what do you buy firefighters? Do you have a stereotypical food? That’s not the point. I—” she sucks in a breath like she’s about to ramble on some more when Luke’s mind finally catches up and he grins at her, reaching out to catch one of her hands that had started waving through the air mid spiel.

“Julie. I would really fucking love to go to dinner with you.”

Her eyes light up as she looks from where he’s still holding her hand, their fingers somehow becoming interlocked and Luke doesn’t know if he did it or if she did but she doesn’t seem to mind and neither does he. It kinda feels right.

“So dinner. So I can thank you, and we can… get to know each other,” she sounds a little shy as she says it and Luke squeezes her hand.

“It’s a date.”

He gets to the restaurant ten minutes early and Luke’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s been early for something since they had the chance at playing at an under 21s club when he was 16. He hadn’t even been early for his first day at the station.

But for a date with Julie Molina? On time wasn’t even an option.

There was just something about her that made him want to show up early, to wear his fanciest shirt, to comb his hair. She made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in a long time — which he’s pretty sure says something about a guy who runs into fires for a living and maybe he’ll think more on that later — and so far he’d only really met her twice.

And one of those times probably shouldn't count, given all the fire.

But his point still stood. There was something special about Julie that meant she deserved him dressing up and bearing Alex’s teasing and having to gently push Hotdog away before she left hairs all over his pants.

For half a second, as he stands in the doorway of the restaurant, eyes glancing around before landing solidly on Julie in a booth against the wall, Luke wonders if she thinks he’s special enough to not be on time for too. And then he blinks, and she’s waving a hand at him and he remembers he’s pretty ordinary in the scheme of things and Julie is probably just a very punctual person.

“Hi,” he breathes as he slides into the booth on the opposite side of the table from her, noticing her bag and jacket filling the empty space between them and then the way her fingers are fidgeting with one of the cloth napkins on the table, “Sorry I’m late. You look really nice.”

Because she’s wearing a dark blue dress with little stars stitched into it in silver thread that glints under the lights of the restaurant, and her curls look bouncier, if that was even possible, with some pulled back at her temple with clips. And she looks more than nice, but Luke’s already said nice now so he can’t take it back, can he? Oh no, he’s spiralling.

“Oh. I’m just…early,” she trails off, giving a small shrug and shooting him a smile that he doesn’t hesitate to return and he doesn’t know if it’s him smiling or just the fact he’s shown up or — what, but Julie’s fingers still on the napkin as she seems to settle more in herself, and she blows out a breath before smiling at him, “You look nice too. You’ve got...sleeves today.”

Luke can’t help it, he blushes, a laugh working it’s way past his lips as he rubs at the back of his neck, trying to play it off cool only to promptly give up when he catches sight of the way Julie is trying to bite back a smile at his reaction; because making her smile is quickly becoming one of his favourite things. And hopefully, if tonight goes well, he can spend a long time making her smile, and more.

“You’ve seen me with sleeves more than without,” he points out and this time it’s Julie’s turn to blush a little, ducking her eyes.

“Well your arms certainly make an impression,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes at him. But it’s hampered by the blush still on her cheeks and Luke grins, nudging her ankle with his foot under the table.

“Have you been here before? I looked up the menu but couldn’t decide what looked good,” Luke says, letting the topic of his arms drop for now. Though if all goes well he’ll make sure to bring it up at another time.

“My tia says they do a really nice tagliatelle,” she replies, picking up her own menu and letting her eyes glance at it before back up at him with a smile.

“This is the tia who makes the really good um,” Luke bites his lip as he tries to recall the conversation from yesterday, snapping his fingers when the word comes back to him, “Tostones! That your dad was talking about?”

The smile that graces her face lights up her eyes, like she hadn’t thought he’d been paying attention to what was said yesterday, or that he wouldn’t remember even if he had been.

“Yeah, that one,” Julie looks back at her menu and Luke follows suit, eyes skimming past all the options but not really taking any of them in. His mind is still stuck on the way she’d smiled at him and how pretty her eyes were when she did.

Their waiter comes and Luke takes her tia’s suggestion and goes with the pasta dish, pretending not to notice the way Julie smiles at him when he does.

“So,” she starts when the guy has gone and they’re alone in their booth again, her hands folded over each other on the table as she looks at him, “Firefighting huh? That must be...I don’t want to say fun but...interesting?” She wrinkles her nose a little, like it’s still not the word she wants to use, and he gets it.

“Interesting is a pretty good word for it. And it can be fun,” he nods, biting his bottom lip as he thinks about it, “When we get to rescue cats or someone's trapped on their roof or something. But it’s intense too. Some days are harder than others to go home from.”

“Is it something you always wanted to do?” There’s honest curiosity in her voice and Luke almost feels bad for laughing after the way it makes her blink in shock.

“No,” he shakes his head, still laughing a little, “I uh I was gonna be a rockstar. Not like kids say they’re going to be,” he’s quick to add as her smile returns, “Me and my best friends, Alex and Reggie, we had a band and we were fucking good. Played our own instruments, wrote our own songs. I think we could have been legends,” his voice trails off as he thinks about it. About that abandoned dream and the scars from it he still holds.

Julie tilts her head at him and he blinks to pull himself back to the present as she speaks, “Can I ask what happened? If it’s too painful or anything you don’t need to tell me I’m just...curious. Don’t hear many people who sound so passionate about lost dreams.”

“Ironically, there was a fire at our rehearsal space and uh, no one was seriously hurt or anything. Everyone got out. But um, I was in hospital for a few days for minor burns and smoke inhalation,” Luke frowns and tries to keep to the facts, no need to wander down that memory lane right now, “I couldn’t play for a few weeks afterwards, and then the first time I tried to sing was about a month later and it...hurt. So I haven’t tried since.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I was 17 so uh seven, nearly eight years ago now,” he hadn’t realised it had been so long. Huh.

Julie blinks at him, her mouth opens only to close again a few times before she seems to find the words she’s looking for, “That’s...wow Luke, that’s a long time. But I— I kind of understand. The being hurt and...scared to sing again.”

Ignoring the way she seems to have caught on to his unspoken truth in being scared about singing, Luke focuses on her own apparent issues. And the fact that she’s apparently a singer. He might have pushed down all his own music related dreams but he’s always had a type.

“Can I ask what happened?”

“My mom died when I was 17,” she gives him a sad smile and Luke’s eyes immediately widen, lips tugging down as he starts to get an idea of the story that’s about to follow.

“I am so sorry Julie. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” and it’s instinct to reach across the table and touch the back of her hand that’s strayed back to the napkin, and it seems to be instinct for her to turn her hand over and link their fingers.

“No, no it’s fine,” she sucks in a deep breath, and lets it out again, keeping her eyes on their interlock fingers, “It was um cancer. And we knew it was coming, so we got the chance to say goodbye. But my mom she was— God she was the best person I knew. She was amazing and my best friend and just this amazingly talented musician who used to be in some badass bands. She taught me to play piano, and a little guitar and we used to sit out in the garage that her and my dad turned into a studio and just — write and play and sing together for hours.”

There’s a pause where she looks lost in a memory of a different life, and Luke lets her have it. Lets her play with his fingers and figure out how much of her past she’s willing to divulge on a first date. Alex is always reminding him that not everyone subscribes to his brand of honesty from the get go. And then she sighs, licking her lips before looking up at him with a small smile that he thinks means thanks.

“After she died I uh I couldn’t play or sing for a long time. Music was just— it was our thing and I didn’t know how to do it without her. So I avoided it at all costs and didn’t sing for nearly three years,” she blows out a breath, shaking her a little at him, “And then I was in the car one day, I don’t know where I was going, but the radio was on and one of my mom's songs came on. I didn’t even think about it, I just… started singing along,” she shrugs one shoulder at him before blowing out a breath and laughing.

“God, sorry. I really brought the mood down huh.”

“Best to get the traumatic backstories out of the way now,” he grins, squeezing her fingers quickly, “But hey, you can’t just mention your mum being in a band and having songs on the radio that casually! Gotta tell me more now. If you want to.”

So she does. She tells him all about Rose and the Petal Pushers and how her tia was the original bassist before life got in the way, how they’d played the club scene in the 90’s and landed a gig at the Orpheum, about the few songs they’d had that landed on the charts and the ones that some classic rock stations would still play. She tells him about the vinyl she’d had of their first album that she hadn’t been able to save from the fire and how her dad had been the one to shoot the cover art. She tells him about teaching music part time to kids while she works on making connections and plans for an album and how much she hates looking at apartments.

In turn Luke tells her all about his parents, and Alex and Reggie and how he saved Hotdog the cat from under a hotdog vendor's cart and had been hiding her in their apartment ever since. They spend too long talking about how she knows of Reggie’s music classes and how she’s been to the restaurant where Alex works too many times to count, and how it’s so weird they’ve never met before an apartment fire. He tells her how Alex and Reggie are his family, how they’d been with him through the loss of music and finding firefighting and how he’d already beat Reg at rock, paper scissors five times to be Alex’s best man when either he or Willie popped the question. He tells her how he can’t play his guitar unless he’s drunk and the place that used to be full of lyrics is silent.

At the end of the night, when their waiter finally gets tired of them hogging a table and asks them to leave, Luke knows enough about Julie to know that if they hadn’t met the way they did then they would have met some other way.

So he kisses her slowly, gently, against the side of her car and knows that she feels whatever it is between them too when she asks if he has plans tomorrow.

He doesn’t. And even if he did, he would cancel them for her.

THREE

“Ugh I love my dad but I have got to find somewhere to live before him and Tia drive me mad,” Julie grumbles through the phone and Luke smiles as he pictures her gripping her steering wheel a little tighter as she struggles with her love for her family and her need for space.

“Still no luck with the apartment hunting, huh?” He asks, hoping the sympathy is evident in his voice even as it’s partly muffled by the way he’s trying to pull a t-shirt over his head at the same time.

“Everything’s either too expensive or too far away from work or just has bad vibes,” she sighs and Luke can faintly hear the ticking sound of an indicator in the background.

“How can a place have bad vibes?” he laughs as he pulls the hem of his shirt down with one hand, closing his locker with his elbow of his other, nodding at Harrison as she raises an eyebrow at him as she walks past and Luke already knows he’s going to be teased today. Much like everyday since he and Julie had officially started dating.

But look, it wasn’t his fault he’d somehow met literally the best person on earth and she’d decided he was worth spending half her time with. Even Alex, Reggie and Willie had agreed that Julie was pretty fucking awesome and way out of his leage and had made him promise not to fuck it up. Which personally, Luke had found a little rude because he had no intentions of fucking things up and full intentions of spending the rest of his life with her.

Which yeah, okay, he knows is a little much after only a few months.

It was why he hadn’t asked her to move in with him. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Alex was in the back of his head reminding him that they’d only been dating for two months, or sixty seven days if you wanted to be exact. Not that he’d been counting or anything. Because that would be weird. It was just— Luke didn’t do casual when it came to relationships. He was either all in or not at all. And he was all in for Julie, and he was like, 75% sure she was all in for him too. But even still, it was too early to ask her to move in. Right? Fuck, he was going to have to go back to his pros and cons list later.

“Trust me, if you’d been in this place you’d know what I mean by bad vibes. Carlos would say it gave him ‘bad ghost tingles’, which I really didn’t understand before today,” she laughs a little before muttering something he doesn’t quite catch and then something he’s pretty sure translates to shoving something somewhere unpleasant and Luke grins to himself. Julie with a little road rage is kind of hot.

“Anyway,” she returns to the conversation and he really wishes he was in the car with her and not across town leaning in a doorway, it’s almost enough to make him start pouting before her next words are crackling through the phone, “Are we still on for dinner tonight after your shift?”

“Yeah!” Luke clears his throat, hand rubbing at the back of his neck at just how quickly and loudly he had agreed to that, but he can hear Julie laughing gently through the phone so he’s not really all that embarrassed, “I mean, yeah as long as you’re still up for it?”

“You said Alex was going through a fusion phase and I really want to see how he’s going to combine Italian and Thai food.”

“Oh I see, so you’re only using me to get close to my chef roommate, huh?” Not that he could blame her. Alex made some pretty great food.

“Don’t be silly, I’m clearly playing the long game and intend to use you to get to play with the sirens on a fire engines,” she giggles and it’s nearly enough to make Luke quit his job to spend the rest of his life trying to make her repeat the sound over and over.

Which is of course when the alarm sounds and people start rushing around him. He hears Julie blow out a breath on her end of the line and for a moment Luke can picture her so clearly. Sitting in her car, hands gripping the wheel and fingers tapping along to whatever melody is stuck in her head, hair tied up because she was going to wash it tomorrow, a little crease between her brows as she concentrated on the road that would deepen every time someone pissed her off. God he— huh. Luke blinks and blows out a breath of his own. If it’s too early to ask her to move in, he knows it’s probably too early to say the thought that just stuck him.

“I gotta,” he rasps, swallows and tries again, “I gotta go. Duty calls. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Eight o’clock. I’ll meet you at yours,” he imagines she’s nodding her head at him, “Be careful out there okay?”

“Always am,” Luke wants to say something else, but Danfroth hurries past him and he’ll be damned if he's not ready first, “Bye Jules.”

He holds on for a few more seconds, to see if she’s going to say anything more but it’s just static and their breathing and a click as they hang up.

His first year at the station there had been a massive ten car pile up on I-5 where the Hollywood freeway decided to join the party. It had been a lot of broken glass and people calling for help and a car hanging over the edge as others started burning. Luke doesn’t remember many of the details of the night. Except that he kind of remembers all of it.

Because his brain hates him and insists on keeping hold of all the traumatic moments in his life no matter how hard he tries to forget them.

He remembers being frozen at first. Gripping the strap of the bag he’d been told to hold as people bumped into him as they’d got straight to work. He’d been 21 and a probie and suddenly thinking he’d made the wrong career choice. He’d been seconds away from bolting when he’d heard a small voice calling for help. And Luke had blinked. Sucked in a breath of cold air and got to work.

It had been a series of reassuring smiles and telling people to cover their eyes and trying to ignore the way some people were covered in more blood than what was left in their bodies. He hadn’t had to deal with the worst of it, not really, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still sometimes wake up having dreamt of blood on roads and pulling people from cars before they blew up.

Now, as he closes the door of the engine and snaps the strap on his helmet closed, Luke thinks he’ll be dreaming of this call for a long time to come. On the plus side, at least this one was taking place in daylight.

“The hell happened?” he mutters.

“Truck lost a wheel and took out three cars in front of them and then another four behind. I think the rest are just collateral damage,” Danforth shrugs as he passes by Luke to open one of the side hatches on the engine.

Something about the way he says it rubs Luke the wrong way but he doesn’t have time to figure it out because Harrison comes up to give them assignments and he’s grabbing the jaws of life and heading into the chaos and the mess.

There’s a moment of calm between him helping get a young man out of a car and arguing with someone from a different station about not scaring already scared people by saying they’re going to cut trapped limbs off, where Luke manages to take a moment to breathe. There’s sweat coating the back of his neck and he knows if he looks close enough he’ll spot blood on his gloves but that's a problem for future him. Right now all he wants is a cold breeze to blow across the freeway and to not see an other person stuck in their car.

“Can we get some help over here please!” Someone shouts and Luke rolls his neck, pushes away from the wrecked car he’d been leaning against and heads towards the voice.

The first thing he sees is a car on its side with something leaking from somewhere it shouldn’t and knows they don’t have long before it makes a bigger problem. The second thing he sees is someone with strangely familiar curls kneeling over a body surrounded by an awful lot of glass.

“We’re gonna need a medic over here!” He calls over his shoulder before closing the distance with a jog and dropping into a crouch next to the young woman with her hands pressed into the side of an older man. Luke’s eyes track from his body to the car and the trail of blood and back to the woman's hands, coated in blood and arms that are shaking.

“Okay, we got him. Did you pull him ou— Julie!?” Luke’s hands falter for a moment as he reaches to replace the woman's hands with a wad of gauze as he finally has a chance to glance up at her face and realises the familiar curls were familiar for a reason. There’s blood on her sweatshirt and a streak across her cheek that’s disturbed by tear tracks and Luke remembers the first time he’d met her, crouching behind her sofa with tears on her cheeks, holding a bag full of song books and photos to her chest, and looking terrified.

She looks scared right now, but not like she had then, a different kind of scared that comes from not knowing if you’re doing enough to save someone.

“I— I pulled him out because the car is leaking gas and I didn’t—” she pauses to suck in a breath, hands balling into fits as she tries to steady them and Luke takes the pause to run his eyes over her and check for any injuries. But she seems fine, which is the important part right now. Well that and doing his job.

“Hey, we got him,” he ducks his head to catch her eyes and waits until she lets out a shallow breath and nods, “You need to go get checked out by a paramedic.”

“I’m fine, it's— it’s not my blood. I wasn’t in the crash, I just got out to help,” she trails off as her eyes follow the path of a pair of paramedics hands that come into view, taking over his job of putting pressure on the wound and Luke rocks back on his heels to let someone else take his place.

“Come on Jules,” he puts one hand on her elbow and slowly pulls her up as he stands too, moving them both out of the way so the paramedics can do their jobs. He waits until they’re lying down a backboard and Julie can see that he’s breathing. That he’s alive they’ve done all that they can and Luke practically feels the breath she lets out, shoulders dropping and her hands finally uncurling as she lets him pull her further away from the scene.

“You’re okay?” Julie asks as they come to a stop near his station's engine, hands reaching out for him only to seem to notice the blood and stop half in the air, and Luke can’t stop the half scoffed laugh that comes out of his throat as he unclips his helmet to pull it off his head to see her better.

“I should be asking you that,” he mutters, raising a hand up only to remember he’s still wearing his gloves and starts to pull one off before trying again, letting his palm cup her cheek, thumb brushing gently over her cheek and taking some of the blood with him. “What were you doing out there? You could have been hurt.”

“That guy was hurt and he needed help,” Julie shrugs a little as she looks up at him with a small twitch of her lips, leaning her cheek in his hand as her lips brushing slightly against the skin of his wrist as she speaks, “You’re out here every day risking your life, Luke. All I did was drag a guy from a car and try to stop him bleeding out.”

“Probably saved his life is what you did,” he blows out a breath and tries to send all his worries and concerns with it. He wonders if this is how his family and friends feel everyday he goes off to work, because it kinda sucks, maybe he should apologise to his mom later. Luke opens his mouth to say something before being cut off.

“Patterson! We got another call, come on,” Harrison interrupts, shooting a quick smile at Julie before looking at him and nodding towards the engine.

“Are you okay to drive? I can get someone to drop you off at mine?” He’s pretty sure someone around here owes him a favour, or he can see if Willie’s free or—

“I’m fine to drive but you’re not going to be finished for four hours. I don’t want to be intruding or anything,” there’s a small frown between her brows that makes Luke grin and want to kiss it away. So he does. He presses his lips to her forehead, and rests like that for a second, two, three.

“They won't get this all cleared for a while but they’ll let you turn around and my place is back the way you came,” he points out as he pulls back a little to be able to see her eyes better, “So, you go back to mine, feel free to use one of Reg’s bath bombs if you want, raid the cupboard next to the fridge for some of Willie’s cookies. Relax. Plus you know where the spare key is, and Reg should be back at about five so if you can’t find anything he’ll be there to help.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

“Go. I’ll be back by eight. Promise. I love you.

They stand like that for a few more seconds, his hand on her cheek and staring into each other's eyes in a way that he’s sure is going to get him teased later on. And then Harrison calls his name again and he rolls his eyes to make Julie laugh and press a quick kiss to his lips. Before he leaves her, he catches someone from the 97 and asks them to make sure she gets out fine. And Julie rolls her eyes at him, but he simply shrugs as he starts to walk backwards with a grin.

It’s not until he’s sat in his seat, headset on and clutching his helmet that he realises he’s just said he loves her. Oh fuck.

As the door clicks shut behind him the first thing Luke notices is Hotdog waiting by the pile of shoes for him like she does every Tuesday when he gets home.

The second is the smell of onions and garlic, which means Alex is home and cooking dinner and he hadn’t realised how hungry he was.

The third thing is the sound of Julie’s laughter mixing with Reggie’s and Willies and Alex’s voice trying to sound offended. And Luke smiles to himself as he kicks off his shoes, drops his bag and bends down to pick up Hotdog, fingers scratching under her chin as he thinks about how all of this is something he could get very used to.

Plus, if Julie’s here it means he hadn’t scared her off with his spontaneous declaration earlier. Which is good.

“...found her behind the bookcase in Reggie’s room like, 3 hours later!” Alex finishes saying as Luke strolls into the kitchen with said hide and seek champion in his arms.

“Are we talking about the first or the second time Reg couldn’t find her?” He asks leaning his elbow on the back of the chair Julie is sitting in and drops a quick kiss to her lips as she turns her head to smile up at him. She’s retied her hair up and all traces of smoke and sweat and blood are gone from her skin, leaving her smelling like peaches, so Luke’s going to guess she took him up on the bath bomb offer.

“Hey,” he whispers as he pulls away to run his eyes over her face, pretty sure she’s doing the exact same thing to him.

“I’m still fine. Better even. You have a really great bath,” she says, quite enough that only he hears, and he definitely doesn’t miss the suggestive tone that makes him bite his lip before he says something not appropriate for present company. Instead he settles for poking her lightly between the shoulder blades and letting his fingers trail up from her shoulders to her neck to idly play with a loose curl at the nape of her neck. Biting down on the smirk that’s threatening to take over his face, Luke turns his attention back to his boys and the times Reggie has lost their cat.

“Wait, you lost her more than once?” Willie stares pointedly at Reggie who pauses in his cutting up of vegetables to smile a little sheepishly at them all.

“Hey, Alex is the one who freaked out thinking she was blind when she just didn’t give a fuck about the laser pointer!”

“That’s not even—” Alex starts, turning around and pointing his spoon at Reggie only to sigh and shake his head before turning to look at Luke with a raised brow and a look in his eyes that he doesn’t understand in relation to his next words, “Okay, moving on. Put out many fires today?”

Luke rolls his eyes at him because ever since he’d started his firefighter training six years ago Alex had been asking him the same question every night he came home. It was tradition at this point. So he adjusts his position so Hotdog can jump from his arms to the ground and make her way over to Willie before he answers so he has full range of movement for his dramatic retelling of his day. He only gets as far as lifting one arm to point at his friends before he’s cringing and lowering it again, instead holding up his index finger and nodding towards the bathroom.

“Actually, let me shower first. There was a whole incident with vinegar at a store earlier,” he waves away confused looks and drops one eye in a wink as he starts to back out of the room, “All will be answered soon.”

He tries to shower quickly, but gets caught up in scrubbing his hands through his hair and letting the hot water pound on the tight muscles on his back for longer than he’d like to admit. Someone he’d carried down five flights of stairs had once told him that he carried too much tension in his shoulders, like he was carrying a bunch of burdens and shit that he needed to let go. At the time he’d just said it was because his equipment was heavy. Now he’s starting to think that they might have been on to something.

Only problem is that he doesn’t really know what his burdens are or how to let them go so he just keeps ignoring them in hope they’ll sort themselves out.

Turning the water off and wrapping a towel around his waist Luke wipes condensation off the mirror as he grabs another towel to rub over his hair quickly, pushing still damp strands out of his eyes. He can still hear the boys talking faintly in the kitchen and doesn’t have a chance to wonder where Julie might be when he picks up a voice singing from his room. It’s something from a musical he thinks, something that she’s been working on with the kids she teaches for the last few weeks and Luke feels bad for them because how could they possibly compare to her voice?

Luke leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed on his bare chest as he watches Julie move around the other side of his room, picking through the books and cd’s he has stacked haphazardly on a bookshelf. She has her head tilted a little to the side as she reads the spine of something, shoulders moving up and down as she skips through a verse to hit the chorus again, hips swaying in a pair of his dark jogging bottoms that she’s had to turn up several times at the bottom. He hadn’t realised before that she was wearing his clothes, that she must have relaxed in the bath and then rooted through his drawers to find his softest pants and comfiest looking t-shirt. It must be a newish one, he thinks, because it’s still got sleeves attached and he can’t recognise it from the back. God he kind of loves to see her in his clothes.

The frame of the door starts to dig a little uncomfortably into his shoulder and he hisses a little as he pushes away, grabbing Julie’s attention who looks over her shoulder at him her mouth turning up into an almost coy smile as her eyes track down his body. His eyes brows raise a little as he grins back at her, pushing further away from the door to walk towards her only too falter as she fully turns around and —

Luke sucks in a sharp breath as he finally gets to see the t-shirt she’s wearing. He had forgotten he still had it. Cheap white material that was soft until you washed it once and it turned like paper, but when they’d been sixteen with their only money coming from allowances and busking, it was the best they could afford. He can still remember Reggie spending painstaking hours designing their logo, testing out different versions of the curve and font styles before settling on that one. And then the three of them spent even more hours carefully transferring the logo onto cheap t-shirts.

He hadn’t really thought about those t-shirts for a long time. He didn’t know if the others even still had any left. He didn’t know why he even still had one. The thing hadn’t fit him in years, like the second he’d given up on singing and music the t-shirt had grown too small for him. Or he’d just grown too big for it.

“Are you okay?” Julie asks, and he doesn’t know when she has moved, but suddenly she’s in front of him and Luke is getting a clear, up close view of his old band's shirt on her. 17 year old Luke would be losing his mind at the sight. Actually, 24 year old Luke is kind of losing his mind at the sight.

“Yeah just—” his voice cracks a little and he swallows, trying not to notice the way she’s biting her lip to stop a smile, “Not seen that t-shirt in a long time.”

“Oh?” she hums looking down at her chest, pulling slightly at the hem so she can see the logo a bit better before looking back up at him from beneath her lashes, “Reggie did say you might be a little surprised by it. I can take it off if you want?”

Fuck. He kind of wants to kill his friends for not warning him. Kind of wants to not be thinking about anyone but Julie for the next half an hour at least.

“It looks much better on you then it did on any of us,” he mutters, one hand coming up to lightly trace the lettering across the fabric.

“So you want me to keep it on?”

“Did they say how long dinner would be?” He asks as his fingers move from tracing the letters to up following the curve of her collarbone gently, lips ticking up on one side as she shivers.

“Twenty minutes,” she breathes, arching her neck to give his fingers more skin to explore and letting her breath fan across his lips as her fingers drop to the edge of his towel, using a fingernail to trace his hip bone. He’d want to talk about what he said earlier, to see if she felt the same but there’d be time for talking later.

“Keep the shirt on.”

FOUR

Luke really fucking hates working nights.

It’s a fact Alex is always laughing at him for, because of them all he’s always had the worst sleeping habits, had always been known to be up in the middle of the night doing something else. But that was by choice. This is because he needs money to pay rent and buy food and take Julie on nice dates.

Which is his newest reason for hating working nights.

He misses spending time with Julie. Being on opposite schedules really fucking sucks.

At this point he’d even take just getting to hug her, to watch something crappy on tv and fall asleep together in the same bed.

Logically, Luke knows that Harrison hadn’t been aware of what stage his relationship with Julie was at, but a part of him truly believes she had scheduled his turn of nights just as they’d gotten past that awkward stage of not knowing if they could stay over at each others place and where hitting the stage of leaving a toothbrush and saying ‘I love you’ when they said goodbye. And hello. And just anytime one of them felt like it.

Harrison couldn’t have known, but he’s going to blame her for not getting to see his girlfriend in daylight for the last week anyway. And when he starts to feel bad for blaming Harrison he’ll find a way to blame Danforth instead.

“You’re extra grumpy today,” Alex comments as he stirs something in a pot on the stove, watching the way Luke dumps cream into this coffee and grunting at the way his favourite bowl is still dirty in the sink from yesterday.

“I hate the night shift,” he mutters, giving up on his hunt for cereal and pulling a box of leftover pasta from the fridge instead.

“If you wait five minutes you can have some of this.” Luke doesn’t even have a chance to say anything before Alex is pulling the container away from him and is left with no other choice but to wait.

“Something is smelling good!” Reggie breezes into the kitchen with the air of someone who has been up for hours and is preparing to wind down for the evening. Luke kind of wants to throw something at him for it, and might have tried if he didn’t spot a ball of fur purring away on his shoulder, “What’s going on with Mr McPouty?”

“He’s not seen Julie in a week. I think he’s having withdrawals,” Alex whispers loudly as he spoon what Luke thinks is risotto into a bowl and slides it across to him.

“Can’t say I blame him, we went for coffee yesterday between classes? Man Julie’s so cool! And did you know her dad's this, like, semi famous photographer?” Reggie gushes and it takes everything in Luke not to pout even more at the fact Reggie got to hang out with Julie and he didn’t, “She says hi by the way.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters, flipping Reggie off as he starts laughing and pulling a fork out of the drawer closest to him, it does nothing to dissuade his boys from their laughter and Luke can’t find it in himself to care.

He’s tried and he misses Julie. He’s allowed to be grumpy about it.

“Anyway, you can’t talk to me about being grumpy. Remember when Willie went to that competition thing in San Diego and you didn’t see him for two days?” Luke points his fork at Alex and is rewarded with him having the decency to flush a little at the memory.

“Oh yeah! You lonely baked like, fifty cupcakes!” Reggie grins, snapping his fingers and leans in to whisper to Hotdog, “Two of your parents are lovesick fools. But it’s okay, because Julie and Willie are super cool. I’m sorry I didn’t properly prepare you though, I thought we’d have more time.”

“If I wasn’t so tired I’d take offence at you insinuating we’d never get partners,” Luke grumbles, shoving a fork full of risotto into his mouth and shooting Reggie a half hearted sort of glare.

“Well I’m not tired so I take full offence to it! And stop lying to Hotdog about us!” Alex steps away from the stove, picking up some cooked chicken to toss towards Hotdog, grinning at the way Reggie sputters in protest as she tries to climb his face to catch them.

He knows Alex and Reggie are still bickering around him but he lets it all fade into the background as he eats and thinks about what Reggie had said. Because he wasn’t strictly wrong. Luke's last serious relationship had been at least four years ago and had lasted a month before things had just...fizzled out. And yeah there’d been the occasional girl since, but nothing serious. Nothing like what he felt for Julie.

She made him want to pick up a pen and write again. She made him want to look at old dreams he’d pushed aside out of fear. Which was a kind of terrifying thought in itself. Because Luke hadn’t thought about that dream of standing on a stage and playing music he wrote and making a connection to everyone in a long time. Not since he’d left the hospital after a house fire and the first time he’d tried to sing a month later his throat had felt like it was bleeding. So he’d pushed that dream down and found a new one and had avoided looking at it ever since.

Until Julie.

With her stunning voice and captivating laugh and blinding smile. Until she’d dragged him to a silly open mic night and handed him a guitar and just asked him to back her up.

Luke hadn’t told the boys about it.

That he’d stood on a stage and played while a crowd cheered. He didn’t know what it meant. Wasn’t even sure if it could be classed as progress if he hadn’t actually sang anything. But playing something for someone that wasn’t him was something, right?

He chews thoughtfully at a piece of chicken and looks between Alex and Reggie who have moved on from bickering to discussing weekend plans. Maybe he should tell them, they’d probably have some helpful insight into his problems.

Or they might just call him dumb and point out it’s been seven years and his throat is fine and he’s not had any problems talking since two weeks after leaving the hospital and he’s just been a coward. Damn he needed to get Alex and his stupid logical voice out of his head.

“Dude,” Reggie cuts through his thoughts, frowning at his phone screen, “You’re gonna be late if you don’t get ready soon.”

Luke squints at the screen as Reggie turns it towards him and nearly chokes on the bite food in his mouth as he pushes out of his chair and picking up his bowl as he goes, “Fuck!”

Luke slams the door of the fire alarm panel shut as the beeping and sprinklers in the restaurant finally stop and he’s left with a slight ringing in his ear and water soaking into his back. Which is bad. Because it means he’s torn his coat at some point and is going to need to sort that out before their next call. He’s glad he found out on a false alarm rather than while being in a burning building though, better a slightly damp back to being burnt.

“Alarms off, I’m going to do a sweep through,” he holds down the button on his radio and waits for the crackling to die down and Harrisons voice to filter through a confirmation.

False alarms are his least favourite calls, which he knows is bad, but he likes a little action in his night. If he’s going to be stuck on the night shift he at least wants to be doing something more than opening storage closets to check there’s no one trying to wait out a fire.

He hums the theme tune of some 90’s sitcom he can’t remember the name of as he walks down the short corridor between the kitchen and the main dining area, glancing in the men's room and the ladies and pauses a moment too long as he looks in the disabled toilet.

The last time he’d been out for a meal it had been an awful group event that Alex had made them all go to for one of the waiters at his restaurant. The food had all been weirdly sticky and they kept playing a questionable remix of Bless the Broken Road and the biggest bright spot of the whole evening had been when everyone was wandering around talking, Julie had dragged him down a corridor and into a bathroom.

Letting the door shut, Luke lets out a slight groan as he moves away from the corridor and back towards the main entrance. As if he wasn’t missing Julie enough already. He just had to go and remember that evening.

“Place is clear. It looks like a wire got loose but they’ll need to get someone in to check all the detectors. It didn’t seem like the sprinklers were really doing their job in the kitchen,” Luke reports to Harrison once he’s outside and within earshot of her, taking his helmet off and running a hand through his hair as he comes to a stop beside her, glancing towards the crowd of people waiting behind cones and a man arguing with someone in a police uniform. Luke shakes his head at the sight of the man gesturing towards the building and back at himself as he unfastens his coat and shrugs it off his shoulders, “He doesn’t think he’s actually going to be able to reopen tonight does he?”

“Hm? Not our problem,” Harrison says without even looking up from whatever form she’s filling out, though she does lift her pen up and wave it to something over his shoulder, “There’s someone over there looking for you. You’ve got 15 before we’ll be ready to leave.”

With a frown Luke looks over his shoulder, but can’t see anyone that he knows and it’s as he turns back to tell Harrison that when she taps him on the ear with her pen and Luke gets the hint. He leaves his helmet and coat with her and is halfway to the taped line when he spots a face in the crowd that makes a smile split across his face.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, not even attempting to keep the widening smile off his face as he jogs to a stop beside the tape line where Julie is standing with an arm linked through Flynns.

“Well we were trying to have a nice dinner,” Flynn mutters, and Luke catches the way she wrinkles her nose as he pulls away after leaning over to kiss Julie quickly, but there’s a slight smile on her lips too. Which is always nice to see because winning over Flynn had felt like the biggest test of his life and some days he still wasn’t entirely sure if she liked him or not.

“Just karma for trying to eat anywhere that’s not Alex’s place,” he rocks back on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest, letting the thumb on his right hand hook under the suspenders and dragging it a little across his chest.

“I don’t want him to think that I’m interested in being his friend because he can get me a table at the last minute,” Julie says, a small furrow appearing between her brows and Luke can’t help but shake his head with a laugh.

“Trust me, Alex’s first rule of friendship is don’t eat at crappy places that don’t get their fire alarms checked regularly.”

“That sounds more like your rule,” Flynn points out and she’s raising an eyebrow as she looks at him in a way that sends him back to being fifteen and put on the spot in a maths class.

Before Luke can formulate a reply Julie is shaking her head at her friend with a laugh and Luke’s eyes are drawn back to her, “No. Luke’s first rule of friendship is that you need to be able to name at least one band or artist from the 80’s. Quickly followed by knowing where all your fire exits are.”

“Just like to make sure people know the classic,” he shrugs, lips curving into a smile as realises just how well Julie knows him, and how much she remembers from their first date too.

“Ugh. You two are annoyingly cute,” Flynn mutters which is only when Luke notices that Julie’s been smiling back at him. But he can’t find it in himself to care how annoyingly cute they might look, he’s not seen her in a week and has to go back to work in less than five minutes. He’s gonna stare at her like the lovesick fool his friends accuse him of being.

A yawn creeps up his throat as he balls up his t-shirt and throws it into his bag, rolling out his neck as he reaches for the navy hoodie from inside his locker, foregoing another t-shirt in order to speed up the process of getting home and going straight to bed. He has plans to sleep for the next forty-two hours and only answer his phone for Julie, or his mom if she rings more then twice.

Heaving a breath he slips his hands through the arms of his hoodie and has it half lifted up to his head when a shiver runs up his back as someone traces a spiral pattern up his bare back.

“Hi,” a voice whispers behind him and Luke feels a sudden spike of energy at the sound of her voice. Enough to slip his arms the rest of the way into his hoodie and pull it over his head, he can feel Julie tugging at the hem at his neck, pulling it down to the waistband on his jeans and he tries not to be sad at the lack of her touch.

“Hey,” he finally replies as he turns around, eyes sweeping across her face and the casual leggings and too big band shirt that he’s pretty sure is his that she’s wearing, “You’re up early.”

“Mhm,” she smiles up at him, and it’s sweet and simple and lights up Lukes life in more ways than he’ll ever be able to express to her in words. “Thought I’d come pick you up. See if you maybe wanted to grab a little breakfast before you vanish into your bed.”

If it was anyone else asking him, Luke is pretty sure he’d give them a flat out no and grumble about people being too cheery in the morning. But it’s been five months and he loves her and he’s not been able to say no yet. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say no to her. Luke blinks as that thought settles within him.

Spending his life being unable to say no to Julie. He really likes the sound of that.

Completely unaware of the sudden life epiphany he’s experienced, Julie has zipped up his bag and is holding it, eyebrow raised as she looks at him. Waits for him. And Luke pushes all thoughts so the future aside for now, he’ll deal with them later and focuses on the now. On how easily Julie slips her hand into his when he offers it to her, how simple it feels to tug her a little closer and drop a kiss to her forehead before they leave the locker room.

“So you're gonna buy me pancakes, right?” He asks as he waves at one of the engine drivers already busy readjusting his seat for the day.

“I’ll even treat you to an extra topping,” she teases and Luke wrinkles his nose at her even as a smile pulls at his lips.

FIVE

“Hey so uh, I have to ask you something,” Luke started, eyes following the hands of the paramedic as they checked her over for any injuries. But, much like all the previous times, Julie seemed perfectly fine. Which was part of his problem. Or not problem. But his concerns. Because this was the fifth fire his station had been called out to that Julie had been at the scene for. And yeah okay maybe asking her while she was sitting on the sidewalk after running out a burning building wasn’t his best move but he’d been holding off on asking for a while and it just sorta slipped out.

“Are you—”

“You’re all good here, just keep with that oxygen for a little longer for me and then we’ll clear you to go,” the paramedic says, giving her arm a single pat before nodding to him and walking away.

“Julie, are you an arsonist!?” He blurts the question out before he can stop himself, and he watches with mounting embarrassment as Julie removes the oxygen mask from her face — slight indents in her cheeks that he’d want to smooth away if he hadn’t just accused her of a crime — and eyebrows halfway to her hairline.

“Excuse me?” she rasps and Luke winces from the hurt look in her eyes.

“I just—” he starts, waving his arms around them to try and encompass where they are. The store that’s still on fire, the firefighters still trying to get it under control, the people being treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation. “This is like the fifth time you’ve been at a fire! And I love you, you know I love you but I just gotta know if I should be covering for you or something here!”

For a moment Julie doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with her wide brown eyes and lips slightly parted and a little smudge of dirt across her chin. And then she laughs, throwing her head back against his shoulder and eyes shut tight as her body shakes with the force of it. Which does nothing to calm Luke’s fraying nerves about dating an arsonist, but does a lot to make him want to smile at the sight of her joy. Even if it’s maybe tinged with a little insanity.

“You’d really cover for me if I was an arsonist?” She asks after she calms her laughter and regains her breath.

“I mean...yeah,” he shrugs, rubbing one hand at the back of his neck as he smiles at her, a little sheepishly as he tries his best not to dislodge her head from where it’s resting.

“Luke, you’re very sweet and I love you too,” she reaches out a hand and wiggles her fingers at him and Luke barely even hesitates before he’s putting his hand in hers, fingers interlocking and rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand as he waits for her to carry on, “But I promise, I’m not an arsonist. I just seem to have really bad luck when it comes to places with faulty wiring.”

He’s silent for a moment as he lets her words register in his mind. Not an arsonist. Just bad luck. God, he’s so dumb.

“And!” she continues, sitting up straight again and poking a finger of her free hand into his cheek and snatching it away quickly before he has a chance to bite it, “You’re not even on duty today! I wouldn’t have even been in that store if you hadn’t been running late because you had to help Reggie with something.”

“Ah so it’s Reggie’s fault then,” Luke agrees and is rewarded by Julie huffing a laugh as she drops her head back to his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek as he rests it against the top of her head. He gently reaches over to reattach the oxygen mask to her face as they sink back into a comfortable silence.

Luke thinks back to an hour ago, when he’d been hovering over Reggie’s shoulder and trying to help him work out the issue with a song he was helping to produce. He thinks about the look of shock and then excitement that had taken over his best friend's face at the sight of him scratching out a rough arrangement on his notes. How it had been the first time outside of drunken nights — and a dark crappy bar’s creaky stage for an open mic night — that he’d played anything on his guitar for someone.

When Luke had sworn off music, out of what he can now recognise as fear, he’d never really stopped to think what it meant for the people around him. At the time, he’d thought his mom was just still trying to keep the peace whenever she’d asked why he didn’t play anymore, had thought Alex and Reggie were happy for an excuse to not follow him on his quest for connections with the world, had thought that maybe music wasn’t for him.

He had never thought maybe they missed him playing as much as he had loved it.

And then he’d met Julie and that part of his brain that he’d shut off had exploded with lyrics and melodies and chords he hadn’t thought about in years. He still hadn’t sung, still wasn’t sure if he could, but Luke was starting to think maybe not being able to sing was okay if he could grab his guitar and finally express his feelings through music again. Some of them at least, he turns his head a little to press a kiss into Julie’s hair before resting his cheek back in the same spot.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he whispers, “And that I accused you of being an arsonist.”

“I’ll forgive you,” she mutters, the sound a little lost by the mask but he doesn’t miss the way her lips are pulled up into a smile, “If you buy me pancakes.”

“Okay what about this one?” Luke asks as he holds up a vinyl, The Bangles staring out at them from under their big hair and questionable bangs of the Manic Monday era.

“I’m trying to find some music from this century,” Julie rolls her eyes at him as she pushes his hand down and Luke pouts at her, which only earns him another eye roll.

“But you’re going to need some of the old classics too! You did say you lost most of your music in the fire,” he points out, slipping the vinyl into the small growing collection under his arm with a sweet smile at her. If she’d wanted someone to suggest modern music she had to have known he was the wrong person to bring shopping.

“You know there’s this thing called spotify? It’s amazing, it has like, all the music you could possibly want on it,” she teases as she leans in a little and Luke can’t help but do the same, wrinkling his nose as he pretends to look lost.

“Never heard of it, guess you’ll just have to come home with me later and show me how to use it,” his eyes glance down at her lips before slowly trailing back up to her eyes in time to see her rolling them again, though he also notices the slight flush to her cheeks and grins.

“Only if you help me find the records on my list,” she whispers, and for a moment Luke thinks she’ll close the distance between them and press her lips to his and is so distracted with the thought that he misses the way her hand comes up to push at his chest, sending him rocking back on his heels and Julie sliding past him.

“Tease,” he mumbles and Julie laughs from behind him, already moving through the rows and looking for things on her list. Things she lost in the fire, things she’s just always been on the lookout for. And Luke here’s to try and help her find them. But he’s also here for an ulterior motive and uses Julie’s distraction of looking through the r&b to head towards the other side of the store where he knows they keep the unsorted second hand stuff.

He’d started his hunt a few months ago, stopping by various music stores and second hand places to look around and ask the staff to let him know when they get a new stock of vinyls or tapes. So far he’d not had much luck. But he was feeling confident about today. He’d played music for Reg and Julie wasn’t an arsonist and Willie was ‘stealing’ them some of his uncles cheesecake for tonight. So today was the day he was going to find it. And it would be the best housewarming gift for when Julie moved into her new place next month.

And he really hopes he can find it because his back up plan is a plant of some kind and that just feels too cliche.

He shifts through copies of The Beatles and The 1975 and a shocking number of The Zombies which is something he’ll be thinking about later. He’s down to the last few vinyls in the crate and close to heaving a sigh when he flips back the second to last one and grins. Purple petals falling onto the upturned faces of four women who are smirking up at their band name on a dark blue background. Pulling it out, Luke flips it over and skims the five songs on the back and bites his lip as he examines the small signs of wear and tear on the edges but otherwise seems fine. Almost perfect condition.

He just knew today was a good day!

“Luke!” Julie’s voice startles him out of his thoughts and he only just has enough time to slide the record between two others in his hands before she spots it as she runs up to his, fingers wrapping around his forearm as she tugs at him, “They have a photo booth! Come take some photos with me. Please?”

She looks up at him with wide eyes and everyone always tells him he has the best puppy dog eyes they’ve seen, but Luke thinks that’s just because they’ve never seen Julie’s. Not that she needs them. He’d say yes to anything she wanted. Which she knows.

“Only if we take the most cliche ones possible,” he lets himself be pulled towards the back of the store where an old fashioned photo booth with a red crushed velvet curtain is nestled between stacks of crates and t-shirts on a railing. Putting the records down on the edge of one of the crates Luke digs some change out of his pocket while Julie slides onto the bench, leaving a space for him to join her.

Her hair brushes against his shoulder as she leans forward to read the faded instructions and Luke hands her a couple of dollar bills before she can even reach for her own purse. There’s a whirring sound after she feeds them into the machine and the screen flickers a few times before a countdown starts and Julie lets out a gasp as he wraps an arm around her shoulders to pull her back just in time for the first flash.

“Oh fuck,” she laughs and flings her arms around his neck, smooching their cheeks together and now Luke’s laughing, their reflections showing two people a mess of hair and half closed eyes. By the third flash Luke has his face buried in her curls as his shoulders shake with laughter while Julie tells him to get it together between her own giggles.

“Shall we try that again?” He asks after the last flash and the whirring has stopped and they’ve managed to calm their laughter down.

“I didn’t think it would be that quick!” Julie shakes her head, but fishes some more money out of her bag, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sits up, “Okay. We need a plan this time around. Money in. A nice smiling one, a funny face, kiss on the cheek, classic peace sign. Got it?”

Julie waits for him to nod before leaning to put money in the machine again, and Luke honestly has every intention of following her plan. Smile, funny face, kiss on the cheek, peace. Cliche, just like he’d wanted. But as the countdown starts and Julie sits back, shoulder brushing against his as she smiles, he can’t help but turn to smile at her. At the way she’s tucked some curls behind her ear so he can see the butterfly earrings and the little stars that trail up from her seconds to her helix, at the collection of necklaces glinting at her throat, the chain of one resting below the pulse point on her neck that he knows makes her moan when he presses his lips against, the way her lips stretch into a smile that he knows if she was facing him he’d be able to see the little gap between her teeth.

A flash goes off and Luke licks his lips, mouth ticking up a little at the side as she turns to look at him with her eyebrows raised, “You were meant to be smiling.”

“I was,” he defends and proves his point by grinning at her, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he tries to keep it in check.

“You’re not following the plan.” But she doesn’t seem to be too annoyed, even as the second flash lights up the booth and Luke knows they only have a few seconds before the third one goes off so he takes his chance and leans forward to capture her lips before she can say anything else.

They miss the third flash, and the forth.

When they leave the booth a few minutes later his hair is sticking up and his lips are a little swollen and Julie has to spend a few seconds readjusting her crop top so it’s no longer riding up. If the guy at the front counter had noticed them giggling or being in the booth for too long he doesn’t show it and Luke’s not about to push his luck.

“See, told you I was smiling,” he mutters as he looks over her shoulder to look at the two strips of photos in her hands, at the blurry giggling messes that they are in the first one and the heart-eyed cliche couple they are in the second. He’s starting to get what Alex, Reggie and Flynn mean about the way they look at each other.

“I’m going to go pay for these then we can go check out that place with the lamp you liked,” he says, pressing a kiss into her temple and reaching around her to pick up the records and gently pulls the second photo strip from her fingers, dropping her a wink as she turns to pout at him, “I’m going to put this one in my locker at work. They’re starting to run low on stuff to tease me about.”

Julie’s laugh follows him as he makes his way up to the counter where the guy doesn’t even blink at his messed up hair or the bruise he’s pretty sure is starting to show up on his collarbone given how tender it feels as he brushes past it to scratch his neck. Which is another thing for his friends to tease him about.

Luke grins at the strip of glossy photos in his hand. So worth it.

+ONE

As he waits for the shower water to heat up a little Luke taps out a quick reply to Julie promising he’ll be at her new place by two to help her move boxes and unpack. Which is all very exciting. He’d personally been round to check all the fire detectors and the wiring were up to code, and should anything happen, her new apartment was in his station's district so he’d be on the scene to help.

Apparently even Ray found that reassuring, and Luke was trying to not let that go to his head. His girlfriend's dad likes him. He thinks that’s pretty cool. Of course Ray had also taken up texting Reggie a lot which was a little weird but it was fine. He had bonus points of saving both his kids from fires.

Locking his phone he puts it on the counter, bobbing his head as a song from a tiktok plays in his head as he moves back over to the shower and stepping into the hot water.

He doesn’t really know what happens next.

One minute he’s lathering shampoo into his hair, head swaying from side to side and hips rocking in a circular motion as he hums along with the song in his head.

And then his mouth is opening and he’s singing.

“We're stuck where we are, with no house, no car. Castaways, ahoy, we are castaways,” his voice tails off as he starts humming again as he sticks his head under the shower stream to start rinsing off the shampoo. Only he only gets as far as leaning a little forward before he realises what’s just happened.

“Holy shit!” he sputters, stumbling a step backwards and wiping water out of his eyes only to wince and swear again as he rubs shampoo into them. Fumbling, he reaches for the face cloth he knows is somewhere nearby and wipes at his eyes again, blinking and heart racing.

For a moment the only thing he can hear is the water hitting tiles and his heart racing in his chest and that damn song still playing on a loop in his head. Swallowing, Luke sucks in a breath and tests his voice out again. He hasn’t sung anything in seven years but he can still remember the lyrics to Now or Never like he’d written them yesterday and as he pushes himself off the wall his fingers absentmindedly start picking out the chords as the words breeze out of him.

Like they’d just been waiting on the tip of his tongue all this time. And fuck, he really does feel like he’s been hit with an electric hammer to the heart with how fast his is beating right now.

He knows exactly what happens next. He acts on instinct. And instinct tells him he has to tell someone else.

Not stopping to turn the water off, or even grab a towel, Luke jumps out of the shower, fingers scrambling with the lock on the door before he can jank it open and then he’s running down the corridor, bare feet slipping on wood.

“Boys!” He shouts, skidding to a stop in the doorway of the living room, chest still heaving as he bends over a little to catch his breath. Pushing wet — and still soapy — hair out of his face, Luke turns a wide grin at the three pairs of wide eyes watching him from the sofa. He hadn’t known Willie was here. But that’s fine. Willie’s practically family, they’re all just waiting for one of them to propose at this point.

“Uh Luke—” Reggie starts, eyes firmly on his face even as his hand waves in the general direction of his legs, but Luke doesn’t have time to worry about dripping water on the floor right now.

“Boys. I sang again.” It’s a statement. A sentence that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. That wouldn't be a big deal or cause for celebration.

But Alex and Reggie had been there after the fire, after the doctors had told him to rest his voice, after he’d tried once and refused to do it since. It had been Alex and Reggie who he’d blown up at one day after school at 17 when they’d suggested going out for the school talent show as an attempt to help him. It was Alex and Reggie who have been with him every song-less day since.

So they get it.

“Holy shit,” Alex whispers, standing up from the couch at the same moment that Reggie vaults over it, both of them grinning just as wide as Luke is sure he is.

“And your voice, it was…” Reggie trails off, but his eyebrows wiggle and Luke gets the point.

“I don’t want to brag but I think a seven year vocal rest might have possibly made me sound better,” he shrugs one shoulder, but the calm, cool and casual air he’s trying to project is totally ruined by the way he’s practically bouncing in place. He feels jittery, his fingers itching for strings, mind racing with years worth of lyrics he’s suppressed.

“We told you!” Alex slaps his hand on his bicep, only to cringe as he wipes his now wet hand on his jeans.

“Dude you are so naked right now,” Willie laughs from his place on the couch, and Luke can’t help it, he drops one eye in a wink and dodges out of the way of Alex’s fist, which only makes Willie laugh more, “Happy for you though man. On the singing again. Does this mean the band is back together?”

The three of them look at each other, eyebrows raised and smiles stretched and Luke doesn’t know. But he does know that something has shifted back into place inside him. Like he’d been walking around a little off balance, not enough to really notice it until he’d been righted.

“How about we discuss future band plans when you’ve washed the shampoo out of your hair,” Reggie suggests, and Luke’s not self conscious about being naked in their living room, but he is starting to feel a little cold.

“Good plan. And then I need to get to Jules’ to help move furniture,” he points once at Reggie, and then at Alex as he starts walking backwards down the corridor, “And then we can get this band back together.”

The bathroom has filled with steam by the time he gets back, and the water is a little too hot, but Luke doesn’t care as he jumps back under the stream and finally washes the shampoo from his hair as he sings through Now or Never twice.

The second he steps through the door Luke knocks into a bed frame and only just manages to catch it before it topples on to him, raising an eyebrow at Julie who’s grimacing at him from the other side, “I say we move the bed first.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and she rests one hand on her hip, “Oh?”

“Not for— I just meant before it knocks someone out! Not for that,” his eyes trail down her body, at the denim shorts and plain purple t-shirt she’s tied up to making to a crop top that expose just a little of her skin, and he can’t help but grin, “Not yet at least.”

“You grab that end? And try not to drag it on the floor, I don’t want to scratch them,” she says, hands wrapping around one side of the frame and tilting her head at him until he follows suit. There’s a lot of awkward pulling and lifting and bumping into stacks of boxes with Julie’s neat writing scrawled along the sides. Then they spend a solid few minutes struggling to fit the thing through her bedroom doorway until they do some pivoting and silly impressions of Ross from friends that does little to help but make them laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Luke pants, resting against the wardrobe that’s already in the room and looking around, “I’ve lifted weights in the gym that were easier to move then that thing.”

“My tia says a sturdy bed frame is always a must have,” Julie grins at him from where she’s sat on the floor, with her legs outstretched and Luke wrinkles his nose at her before pushing away from the wardrobe to offer her a hand up.

“Come on, let's get the rest of your boxes into the correct rooms and we can test out this sturdy bed frame your tia recommended,” he pauses after pulling her up, the lack of distance between them meaning he has to look down at her as his brows pull together in a frown, “Wait that sounded weirder than I meant.”

“Just a little,” she agrees, nose wrinkling and reaching up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and kisses him. It’s soft and quick, like they’ll have forever for something more. And then she pulls away, hands sliding down his shoulders to his biceps, “Can you move the boxes for the kitchen and I’ll get the ones for the bathroom?”

It’s a few hours later when all the boxes that had been stacked by the front door are spread out in the correct rooms and they’re sitting surrounded by pieces of wood and nails that are supposed to make an ikea table.

What Luke is learning from it is that Julie is not very good at flat pack furniture.

“It says the weird squiggly one goes into the inside holes at the bottom! But I can’t find any holes and the weird squiggly things won't turn!” she whines, jabbing the screwdriver in the direction of the half built table and waving the instructions at him like he’s personally written them.

“Well uh might help if you turn it the other way around,” he suggests, fingers wrapping around one of the legs and rotating it so the side that had been facing him and is now facing Julie and she can see the holes she was missing. The flush in her cheeks darkens a little as her mouth opens to form a silent ‘oh’ and Luke grins, stretching an arm out to pry to the screwdriver from her fingers. “How about we take a break from building furniture, have some lunch? I’m no Alex but I know how to fry an egg and bacon.”

Julie heaves a sigh, head falling into her hands and then pushing her hair out of her face as she looks back up at him with a tired smile, “I can go and grab us some coffees?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he smiles at her, pushing up onto his knees and kissing her cheek before pushing up further on to his feet with a groan and then offering Julie a hand up too.

“Try not to burn my new apartment down while I’m gone,” she taps her fingers against this chest and then picks up her phone and moves towards the front door to find her shoes.

“Think you’ll find you’re the arsonist in this relationship,” he calls after her, grinning as she laughs into the kiss that she blows to him before shutting the door. And then he’s in her apartment by himself. The place still feels a little empty and cold, with the only furniture in place being the sofa her dad and brother had helped carry up earlier and the bookcase against the wall that connects to the second bedroom. But Luke had caught a glimpse of her old apartment, and had seen her room at her dad's house and knew that while Julie might not be good at putting furniture together she was really amazing at decorating a space and making it feel like home.

After rooting through one box to find a frying pan and a second to find a spatula, Luke grabs eggs and bacon and glances at the spinach that’s part of Victoria’s welcome package before ignoring it and turning back to the stove. He’s pretty sure she’s got a speaker or a radio in one of these boxes somewhere, but he doesn’t want to go rooting through her things. Not that he needs to, because he can make his own background music now and it’ll probably be better then anything on the radio too.

Idly, as he cracks open an egg, Luke wonders if maybe he’s a little too cocky inside his own head for someone who hasn’t sung a note in seven years but well, he’s never been known as the humble one in his friend group.

“You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark,” he sings, hips swaying as he pokes at the eggs, “This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancin' in the dark,” he mumbles through the next sentence as he flips a piece of bacon before throwing himself back into the song in full force, “Radio's on and I'm movin' 'round my place. I check my look in the mirror,” he sucks in a breath and raises the spatula up to his mouth like a makeshift microphone and scrunches his eyes shut as he almost growls the last sentence, “Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!”

“Oh.”

If he hadn’t been gasping for a breath he might not have heard her. Because he certainly hadn’t heard her come back in, but as lowers his spatula and spins around he comes face to face with Julie clutching a tray of drinks and staring at him wide eyed.

“Uh, hi,” and, for some reason, he waves at her with the spatula while his other hand rubs at the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, “Sorry I uh, didn’t hear—”

“When did you start singing again?” She blurts out before he can finish his sentence and right. He hadn’t told her. He’d nearly gotten squished by a bed frame and forgotten about his news.

“Um like, six hours ago?” He shrugs, finally putting the spatula down and taking a step towards her, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t been since their first date.

“That was— you’re—” she trails off, eyes trailing over his face with something that looks like awe, but Luke doesn’t understand why. Shit maybe time has fucked with his brain and he actually sounds shit? Oh god is she going to break up with him for being a terrible singer?

“Fuck Luke, you never said you could sing!”

“Yes I did,” he frowns at her, “I said it on our first date that I used to sing and then I stopped because of a fire!”

“Yeah but I didn’t know you could sing like...that!” She shakes her head slightly, her smile widening as she puts the drinks down on the counter and closes the gap between them, arms reaching up to circle around his neck and Luke’s hands automatically rest on her waist, fingers brushing against the strip of skin above the waistband of her shorts and below her top.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asks.

“Nearly got hit by a bed frame,” he shrugs and flexes his fingers against her waist when she giggles.

“This is big,” she breaths, and her smile softens a little and Luke’s eyes dip to her lips before going back to her eyes, “This is big, right? Because you sounded pretty amazing just now. And it really fucking hot too, but if this isn’t an exciting thing I can—”

“No this...it’s big and it’s exciting,” it’s his turn to cut her off with a shake of his head, and his fingers trail down her ass and trace the edge of the top of her back pocket before sliding in and squeezing, Julie rocks forward, mouth opening to say something but Luke takes his chance to put his lips against hers and find her tongue.

She moans into his mouth and Luke walks them backwards until the hand that’s on her waist hits the counter. He lowers his hand to tap her thigh, and without breaking apart she lifts her leg up to his hip and he hoists her up the rest of the way until he can balance her on the edge of the counter and get better leverage. Julie pulls away first, her breathing heavy and Luke smirks at her before trailing his lips up her jaw and down her throat, paying extra special attention to her pulse point on his way down.

“You really found me singing hot?” he whispers as he sucks at a spot just above her collarbone, nipping at her skin when she only moans instead of answers.

“You already know you're hot,” she groans, fingers in his hair and tugging gently until he gives in and lets her tug his head away from his attack at her collarbone and can reattach her lips to his. And Luke’s not about to complain about that either. Kissing Julie in any way is one of his favourite things. He pulls away first this time, pulling his hand free of her pocket and wrapping it around her thigh to push her further onto the counter. Her whine of protest at the lack of contact pulls a grin from his lips as he leans forward to kiss her again quickly, once, twice, and then runs his hands down her legs slowly as he pulls away again, head lowering back to the dip between her clavicle.

“Fire,” she whispers, and Luke grins against her skin because yeah, he kinda feels like he’s on fire right now too. Julie runs her fingers through his hair again, nails scratching at his scalp, “Luke. Fire.”

“I know, Jules, me too,” he mutters against her, lips moving up the other side of her collarbone and half wondering if she’d mind if he ripped her t-shirt and — “Ow!”

He pulls away sharply, eyes widening as he looks at her while one hand goes to his head to rub at the spot where she’d pulled at his hair too hard, “What was that for?”

“Fire!” Julie shouts and points over his shoulder. Where the stove is. Where Luke had been cooking before getting distracted. Where a small grease fire is now raging in the pan with eggs and bacon for fuel.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dropping his grip on Julie’s leg to lunge for the box of kitchen equipment to pull out a metal baking tray before turning back to the fire and slamming the tray on top, wincing at the heat but pushing through to turn the stove top off and push the pan to the back.

Hands on his hips, Luke blows out a breath and is about to ask if Julie is okay when he hears her burst out into laughter. Eyebrows raised, he turns to see her still on the counter top, fingers gripping the edge as her legs swing back and forth and she leans forward, “I thought I told you not to burn down my apartment?”

“Guess I’ll just have to find a way to make it up to you,” he chuckles and, checking the pan isn’t about to burst into flames again, turns his attention back to what he was doing with a little more attention to detail then before.

“I got you a gift,” he whispers much later after the sun has set and they’d ordered pizza and given up on building furniture to pile blankets and pillows on the floor of her living room to stretch out on. Julie turns her head from where it’s resting against his chest to look at him, eyebrows raised and a small smile playing on her lips.

“You got me a gift?” she repeats, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know but…,” Luke shrugs and gently dislodges her head so he can reach over to grab his boxers and slip them back on before getting up and padding across the apartment towards the front door to retrieve the wrapped box he’d left there earlier. By the time he’s padding back to their nest of blankets Julie is sitting cross legged and pulling her hair out of the neck of his t-shirt.

“It’s uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck as he sits back down, mirroring her position and carefully setting the box between them, it’s dark green paper rustling a little as Julie traces a finger down one edge, “Well you’ll see. And if you don’t like it or— or if it’s too much then that’s fine. I can uh I can take it back or something. But I just, you said it was important to you.”

There’s a quizzical sort of look on her face, brows furrowed and lips pursed as she pulls the box closer and finds the edge of the paper to unwrap it. Luke watches her face carefully as she pulls the paper free and then slowly lifts the lid off the box to see the record nestled in purple tissue paper underneath. Her hand freezes with the lid half in the air, and her lips part and fuck there’s tears in her eyes. He gives her a moment before tilting his head to try and catch her eyes, but they’re tracing over the cover art.

“Jules,” he whispers, though he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, if he should be apologising or comforting or what. “Is it too much?”

Julie blinks and Luke watches as a tear glides down her cheek and he aches to reach over and catch it but she’s closing her eyes, head shaking as a watery laugh bubbles past her lips.

“Where on earth did you find this?” She finally asks, turning eyes of unshed tears at him but she’s smiling so he’s going to guess happy tears.

“Remember that place with the photo booth?” He asks and shrugs when she nods, “I asked a bunch of people to let me know if they got any second hand vinyls in and well, just got lucky that day.”

“Dad looked everywhere to try and find another copy after the fire,” she whispers, and Luke sees her fingers shaking a little as she reaches out to trace the letters of Rose and the Petal Pushers on the cover before looking back up at him, “You’re— Thank you. This is...this is amazing Luke.”

“Good thing we dug your record player out, huh?” He nudges her knee with his own and nods towards the only table they managed to complete, where her TV and record player are set up and Julie wipes at her cheeks before reaching into the box and carefully pulling her mom's record out, holding it like it’s the most precious thing in her life. Which, he supposes it kind of is.

Julie pads across the room to put the record on the machine and set the needle and Luke watches her and thinks. He thinks about music and how it has always been such a large part of his life even when he couldn’t play it, couldn’t sing. How he’d once dreamt of filling his days like this, listening to songs sung by people who understood just how amazing music was. He thinks about how he’d given up on that dream and found a new one, but how he’d ended up back here anyway.

Luke thinks, as Julie sits down next to him, her arm wrapping around his waist, as his goes around her shoulders to pull her closer, his fingers making idle circles on her shoulder through the arm holes of his top, that maybe he was always going to end up here. With Julie in his arms and music playing around them.

He thinks maybe he has a couple of fires to thank for it too.

Luke's fingers are idly playing with one of Julie's curls as the her moms voice echoes around the apartment, drums fading into the background as a piano plays them out of the song and Luke's thinking about how much she sounds likes her, and how incredibly she'd sound singing this song when it hits him. It's sudden and harsh, like a hammer has just landed on his gut and he lurches forward pushing Julie up with him as she looks at him with wide eyes.

"What? What's wrong?" Her hands hover in the air around his chest, like she's afraid she might hurt him by touching him.

"The first song I sang after seven years was the stupid fucking Castaways song that people keep using on tiktoks," he whines, head falling into his hands and Julie's attempts at comforting him by rubbing at his shoulder is lost in the way her laugh replaces the music, both in her apartment and in his head.

#julie and the phantoms #julie molina #luke patterson #jatp fic #jukeboxweek #jukebox #jatp #firefighter!luke au #once again staring at the tags unsure whatelse to put #*fics #also look at my cute lil graphic i did when i got annoyed with part 3 isn't it fun!!!! doodles!!!!

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joshslater · 4 years

Text

Twitching

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

To my surprise people keep joining the stream. Usually it was only my friends and occasionally someone random that watched me play. Space strategy games are not the most audience-friendly. They require you to know a lot about the game mechanics, and they take a long while to play through a full campaign. But all my mates know the game, and are just here to socialize and sometimes provide a tip.

This evening is different though. It had started with some "Lucy333" joining what must have been almost an hour ago. More than 30 minutes for sure. But over the past 10 minutes I've gotten 12 more viewers I think. Suddenly there is a coin sound effect and the chat stream lights up with a donation. $2 from Lucy333 and the text "Hey, spaceboy! Take your shirt off!"

I can instantly feel myself blushing. I'm flattered for a few milliseconds. I'm aware of the streams with girls showing lots of skin to get donations. I've never watched any of them. I'm not even aware of any with boys in them, but I know they exist. "Thanks for the donation, Lucy. This isn't that kind of stream though, clearly." I'm just playing for my mates when we don't feel like meeting up or doing something else. And I know I'm not a looker, though not shockingly ugly like Pete. Honestly, if there wasn't a pandemic going on we would probably do exactly the same thing anyway, playing space strategy and talk Marvel.

There is a flurry of responses from the newcomers in the chat. "Do it! Do it!" says one Donnatrix. "It could be that kind of stream," says fluffy2000. Soon my mates start cheering on as well. It basically turns into a dare. I'm not proud of my body, but I'm not ashamed of it either. It just is. Fuck it. I don't know what I'm going to be teased for more, if I take my shirt off, or if I don't. I reckon if I do what they ask for they have less ground to stand on. I set the game speed to low, say "Ok then", take off my headset, and pull off my T-shirt.

I'm met with a torrent of cheers in the chat. "Now it is that kind of stream," says fluffy. Donnatrix drops $5 and the comment "YAAAASSS". It feels weird. I can't decide if this is a group of sorority girls that randomly and sarcastically sexualize nerds, or if they are genuinely supportive.

"Thank y'all. Now back to trade route 14 to Zephyr-C". My emissary mission hasn't moved far at this speed. I'm about to increase the in-game speed when I get another $2 donation from Lucy. "Spaceboy, keep the game in slow mode and jump over to Heavenly Bodies."

I have no idea what she is talking about, if she even is a she. Her message is instantly met with a wave of support from the other newcomers. At this game speed it would take hours before I need to take any action, and I'm already up a Whopper meal without having done anything, so I reckon I can play whatever they want me to play for a while. Who knew I was that easily bought? "I don't know what that is," I say into my headset.

A few seconds later Lucy sends me a private message with a TinyURL. "This better not mess with my game rig. If it's porn I'll switch back to the game." I say. "It could be that kind of stream too." fluffy offers in the chat. "He could use some porn tbh" my friend Mike responds. I click the link.

The browser loads something that looks like a web game. It's a character creation screen with a faceless, very neutral model on the screen. Looks like those posable figures you use when learning to draw. There are no controls, except a set of buttons that offers you to upload settings, import from Facebook, and similar. I click the Facebook one, click a few approvals, and a progress bar that only lasts a few seconds appears. When it is gone there is a 3D model of me on the screen. "Wow! This looks just like me." Whatever AI they have combing through my online photos managed to get almost everything right. I'm wearing some sort of speedos, but I don't own any, so that part was a miss, but the model looks spot on. "Whatever else they have in the game, I don't think they are going to top this."

A long list of sliders and customizations appear on the screen. It looks like an incredibly detailed character creation screen. I try moving the height controller and is met with a message box saying I'm out of credits, and that I need $10,000 to change my height to whatever I moved it to. Clearly not real money. "I can't change anything". Lucy responded I need to share it. I exit fullscreen on the game and move the browser over to my other screen so everyone on the stream can see. "No, you need to click the share button in the UI and post the link in the chat", Donnatrix writes.

A big gift-wrapped box appears in the corner of the game window. I click it and it presents the text "Hair color and style" with bold letters and below that a text message from Lucy "I think this will be cute on you." I click accept and the 3D model is updated with new hair. It's dark blonde or whatever the oxymoronic name is for it, instead of my usual rat brown hair. It's short on the sides and on top is a big swooping quiff. It looks utterly silly. "Thanks, nice one," I tell the stream. I see a lot of cheers coming in the chat, but I'm a bit perplexed about the "OMYFUCKING GDO!" from Mike. It's just silly hair.

Immediately a new gift box appears on the screen, and soon after a (2) is added on top of it, possibly indicating two gifts waiting. I find it a little bit cute that these girls are essentially playing with paper dolls, but digitally and modeled after someone real. I open the next gift, "Facial Features" from Julia_Awesome. I click accept again, and the doll on the screen is updated. Weirdly it felt like a flash of heat hit me, like those flame effects on concerts. The doll still looks like me, but pretty fictionalized. The face is much sharper, not just less fat, but probably also some bone structure changes as well. It's equally interesting and disheartening, like one of those really good mobile phone filter apps that makes you into a photo model. Makes you understand how unobtainable the Men's Health cover look really is. "Thank you, Julia, but I'm not sure about this look."

I'm ignoring the chat, though I see it is going bananas. I'll have to read that later when the stream is over. I open the next box. Another two has already arrived. This gift is from Donnatrix and is "Core Body", whatever that means. It feels like a gut punch. Perhaps not that, because it doesn't hurt, but it knocks the air out of me. Almost made me fall out of the chair. I'm confused about what is actually happening though because things don't make sense. My body looks deformed. It takes a moment before my brain stops associating what I see with HR Geiger's nightmarish paintings and start to understand what I really see. My body is suddenly a lot leaner and a hell of a lot more stacked than before. Proper abs muscles like a pan of Hawaii rolls.

I look up at the main screen for the first time in what feels like an eternity. The model on the screen looks ripped as well. How stupid can one person be? I turn to the side monitor and look at the window from the webcam. It's me, all new muscles, strong jaw, and a silly quiff on top.

"Hold up! Hold up! Hold up! This is insane! This isn't possible."

"lol, of course not" I see moving by in the chat. I go back to the program. Four more gifts waiting. I look at the model on the screen. I look at the webcam view. "Arms" says the next gift with the text "Promise to flex for me." Well, fuck Zephyr-C and trade route 14.

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anjuschiffer · 4 years

Text

[Mutuals]

Some more self-indulgent writing! Mainly because of a post @zestyzealot reblogged a while back and inspired this piece.

(This is the post I’m referring to!)

Enjoy!

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P.Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life @toodaloo-kangaroo @elijahcrevan

Tag: @polyvirnl

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Context: There’s no miraculouses. None. Nada. But the Bats still exist. Marinette uses her time to expand her brand MDC

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AO3

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Marinette huffed as she placed the last crystal bead onto the hem of the black skirt in her hands.

Bringing it to eye level, a wide smile graced her lips, a smile breaking as Marinette giggled to herself as she watched her vision become reality.

Finally! After four long and exhausting days, it was done. When she started on Monday night, Marinette wondered if this project would get in the way of her weekly sleepover with Alya. Thank God it didn’t.

Placing the skirt on her bed, Marinette smiled as she took a picture of her latest piece for her new collection: 12 o’ clock.

That’s when the hatch on her floor opened up with a creak, Marinette watching as her father poked his head into her room. Why was he here?

“Marinette, there’s someone here looking for you.” He said, giving a side glance down below. “Please tell me he’s just a school friend and not another boy you asked to model for you.”

“Dad, I already told you, Luka is Juleka’s older brother, he- wait, he? It’s not Alya?” Marinette asked, wondering where her best friend was at.

Yes, Alya gave her a heads up that she was running late for their sleepover, but she wasn’t downstairs yet? And her father had said ‘he’ instead of a guy friend’s name, so… who exactly was waiting for her downstairs?

Because despite only saying the name once, her father tended to commit to memory the names of all of her male friends. “What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s a bit on the short side,” Tom started, “has green eyes, tanned, wearing a turtleneck with some of those suit pants-”

“Slacks.” Marinette helped.

“Those,” Tom corrected himself, “and he has a dog with him.” Tom ended, watching as Marinette mumbled to herself.

Marinette didn’t know anyone with a dog, nonetheless with that type of fashion, causing Marinette to start pacing around her room, racking up some idea as to who it was that was in the living room. “He called the dog Titus, if memory serves me correctly. Or if I heard correctly for that matter.”

That caused Mari to stop in her tracks.

A turtleneck with slacks, a Great Dane named Titus, tanned skin...emerald eyes.

“No. Way.” Marinette quickly motioned her father to go down the ladder, quickly following him into the living room, her eyes widening upon seeing her theory be true.

There, standing inside the Dupain-Cheng living room was Damian Wayne with his dog, Titus.

“Took you long enough.” Damian said, adjusting the duffel bag on his shoulder. Titus wagged his tail as he saw his boy open the bag and give him his toy.

Just then, the door swung open, Alya panting as she dropped to the floor as soon as she walked in.

“Girl, you wouldn’t believe who I just saw! There, as soon as I turned the corner of where I lived, I saw the Damian Wayne with his dog, and- why is he in your living room?”

“Seeing as you finally caught up,” Damian said, walking over to Alya, handing her a heavy plastic bag. “Take care of Titus while we’re out.”

“We?” “We?” “We?!” Alya, Tom and Marinette spoke at the same time, although Marinette’s came out as a squeak.

“Did you forget what you told me?” Damian waved his phone that was in his hand. Marinette watched as he showed her a tweet...her tweet in particular, Marinette now going into a state of panic. “You invited me to egg-” Marinette screamed, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as she lowered his phone and dragged him out the apartment, leaving behind a confused Tom and a giddy Alya.

———

“You actually read that?” Marinette asked once more, covering her cheeks as they walked towards the park square.

“I did.” Damian hummed as he adjusted the egg cartoons under his arm, a dangerous twinkle in his emerald eyes.

Marinette let out a silent screech, confusing Damian. “Did you think I wouldn’t read it?” When he saw her nod, he sighed. “I read every comment left under any post I write. Sure, I don’t respond to any of them, but your comment… seemed… interesting.”

Marinette wanted to disappear into a black hole. Damian actually read that stupid comment she had left under his post.

It was a post from earlier that week - a picture Damian had uploaded from the recent animal shelter he was volunteering at (as well as funding).

Another post about an animal up for adoption, this time, a hamster named Louis.

Marinette was scrolling through the comments under the post after retweeting it, when a particular one caught her attention.

<3 ACNH is Life <3 @eliza_beth

Replying to @Real_BloodSon I have a pet chicken and just wanted to ask if the candle method is a good method to check for egg development. If so, then are they safe to eat? If not, what’s a better method?

Everyone knew Damian loved to offer help when it came to animals -as it was no secret- but something stupid inside of Marinette thought she should do the only logical thing in her mind.

She commented on it.

Deadlines Are Approaching @a_mari_not_bug

Replying to @eliza_beth and @Real_BloodSon If it turns out that it is a good method, can I have some eggs? I’ve been wanting to egg someone's house as of late. @Real_BloodSon care to join?

Marinette didn’t think he would actually read it, let alone actually come. Wait…

Damian lives in the US, not France, unlike her.

So how did he know where she lived, let alone reside?

“How did you know where I live?” Marinette asked, realizing they were finally at the park, right across from the targeted house, not even realizing that she had brought him over to the house in question.

Damian blinked, setting the cartons down onto the bench.

“Tsurugi told me.”

“You know Tsurugi. As in Kagami Tsurugi?” Marinette asked, wondering where he had met her friend.

Damian nodded.

“We met during the semifinals for the international fencing competition.”

Oh. So that’s how they knew each other.

Damian let a smirk grace his lips. “Obviously, I won.”

Marinette simply looked at him in awe, causing Damian’s ego to soar more. Of course, that didn’t overcome the other feeling he had inside his chest.

After all, there was no way he was going to tell her that he has been following her account for quite a while.

So using the amounts of aesthetic pictures, selfies, bakery promos and mini photo shoots, it didn’t take long for Damian to pinpoint where she lived.

That’s not following Damian. It’s called stalking.

Okay Drake, but in his defense:

1- it was his side account that he uses for his own personal interests.

Damian didn’t exactly like having thousands of people following him because he was a Wayne. He wanted to be followed for being Damian.

2- he had been following her for quite a while.

Two solid years to be exact.

After exchanging social media accounts with Kagami, Marinette was one of the few people Twitter recommended to follow.

Marinette peaked his curiosity when Kagami mentioned Marinette being the person behind her “lucky” fencing bag. (Although, she didn’t want to admit that she used it as a luck charm.) It was an all black duffel bag, enchanting golden embroidery that collected to a single dragon.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Kagami had provided. A girl in her grade from her school in France, who designed the most intricate designs Damian had seen. (Yes, he has seen all of her sketches and final products of the things she had designed…yes it did involve scrolling through her photos and accidentally liking all of them as he went…)

3- it was too late to press that “follow” button when he already kinda didn’t do it as soon as she followed his own account.

When he finally noticed that she did already follow him, he didn’t know what to do. Should he follow her back?

“Not yet.” Dick had told him. But just how long did he have to wait? He was stupid for listening to Dick’s advice and he definitely wasn’t going to follow her back now. Or should he?

“So,” Marinette started again, looking around the area, scanning to see that no one saw them. “Have you ever done this before?”

“As in egging a house?” Damian watched as Marinette nodded, wondering if this was her first time doing this. “No, but it shouldn’t be any different than throwing snowballs.” Damian compared, remembering last year’s winter.

Jon had managed to convince the Wayne’s and the Kent’s to do a snowball fight.

The Wayne’s obviously won.

“Guess you have a point.” Marinette replied, attempting to vision Damian’s analogy. She picked up an egg and looked at it and then at the window of the person who had been causing her turmoil these past few days. “Are you… are you sure you want to go with this?”

“Aren’t you?” Damian asked, awaiting Marinette’s signal. He had perfectly balanced a dozen eggs into the nook of his arm, one being juggled in his other hand.

He was ready and from the twinkle in his eyes, eager to throw.

Marinette found herself smiling, letting out a laugh as she grabbed a few eggs herself and balanced them in her hand.

“Between you and I, I've been dreaming of doing this for the longest.” Marinette said with the biggest grin Damian had seen her with that night. “Ready?”

“Always.” Damian replied, mirroring her grin as the two looked at the target, Marinette throwing the first attack.

Bonus:

Marinette hummed as she doodled in her sketchbook, her mind wandering to last night’s events.

She hadn’t known how much stress she had built up thanks to Lila and her constant need to be the attention of everything.

The messes Marinette had to clean up due to Lila causing disorder during class and after class, all because of Lila and her gazillion and one ‘medical’ problems.

Marinette didn’t realize how emerged she was towards throwing eggs -with great accuracy- towards Lila’s bedroom window until she threw her last egg.

She remembered how satisfying it was to have thrown all of those eggs at the window, that glee when Damian smiled at her.

How happy she was when Damian complimented her for her graceful and precise throws despite the low lightning of the park lights.

Marinette placed her pencil down as she finished adding some last minute touches to the coat she had finished designing when Alya slammed her hands in front of her. Marinette quickly looked up at her friend, tilting her head when she was met with twinkling eyes.

“Did you hear what happened to Lila last night?” Alya whispered, causing Marinette to quickly tense.

“N-no? What happened?” Marinette asked, closing her sketchbook.

“Her house got egged. Well, her bedroom window did.” Alya corrected herself, watching as Marinette let out a gasp.

“No way! Poor Lila.” Marinette looked over to Lila, watching as she was surrounded by their classmates to gather to listen to her woeful story. “Who would ever do such a thing?”

“Beats me.” Alya said, looking at Marinette, a faint smile on her lips. “You and Damian wouldn’t happen to have been involved-”

“Us?” Marinette instigated, causing Alya to lean forward. “You think Damian and I would do something that stupid and not think of the consequences that awaited us? No way.” Marinette denied, causing Alya to sigh.

“Should’ve known you wouldn’t be up to it. Only you would step down after overthinking about the consequences.” Alya said as she patted her head before taking a few steps from Marinette. “Not like anyone would know who it was since the security cameras of the area seemed to have gone off at that time, strangely enough. Maybe if I hear what Lila has to say about the event, I’ll get some hints as to who it was.”

With that, Alya left to go and listen to Lila, leaving Marinette by herself.

Finally alone, Marinette let out a sigh, feeling her back relax. She felt as a smile rose to her face.

Giddily, she took out her phone to send Damian a text when a Twitter notification caught her attention.

She quickly checked it, her smile growing even more. She went back to sending Damian a text.

You bugged the cameras last night?

Damian: A necessary precaution.

Marinette giggled at his response.

Also, I saw you started following me. Now we’re mutuals!

Damian liked your message.

Damian: It was only a matter of time, seeing as we egged your enemy’s home.

More like someone I dislike.

Damian: Same thing.

Damian: Query. Would you like to join Titus and I for a walk at the park?

Sure! Class ends at 3. Meet you then?

Damian: Titus and I would await you then.

Marinette grinned as she placed her phone away as the school bell rang, signaling the beginning of class.

She couldn’t wait to spend time with her newfound friend! Who knows what mischief awaited the two!

#maribat #bff daminette #daminette #anju writes

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whumpersdump · 3 years

Text

Project Rebirth - CH7: Food, and a Well-Kept Secret Truth

Whumper has a name! Meet Marcus, to his subjects known as The Parent.

[ Previous ] -- [ Masterlist ]

TW: mild force feeding / infantilization. Like, Marcus will literally be treating Orian like an infant / collar mention / restraints / mild manhandling / implied minor pet whump (heavily implied, not shown at all. Minor as in age) / pet whump / dehuminazation / lab whump (minor tbh) / implied past torture / mass indoctrination of both ‘pets’ and people (mentioned) / unfair legal system

Marcus is enjoying Orian’s new personality (as far as they have one tbh), while also handling the preparations for the new stream of subjects that the government and a few private parties have supplied. This bit contains mostly some worldbuilding, set-up for some more story on Marcus’s side, and Toby’s backstory!

Marcus looked down on Orian from the side of their bed. They slept in the white training overall they’d gotten after the Rebirth, under the Project’s Rebirth certificate that hung on the wall. They twitched every now and then. Murmured, even though they weren’t supposed to be able to for months.

One of the technicians explained it was a malfunction they wouldn’t be able to fix. Supposedly it occurred just a week or two after they started the container procedure, but they couldn’t notice it until Orian woke up. He’d been tempted to strap them down and drug them until they couldn’t lift a finger anymore when they kept screaming for hours on end, but a little side effect of that malfunction meant they put so much pressure on their brain they needed almost as much sleep as an actual infant.

Almost innocent, which they’d soon be for real.

Even then it was the screaming that bothered him. They’d been in the container for nine months, there was nothing left of their muscles.

Their nursery, as the staff still called it, was a light green. Stark white floors, a rocking chair in the corner, though it would never be used. Marcus doubted he’d need it. Though Orian was small, it wouldn’t be a challenge. Orian’s bed was outfitted with barricades on the sides to keep them from rolling out. It could be rocked from side to side as well. He’d hung a light above it, which he let flicker when he needed their attention away from the window they gazed at during the day.

Marcus smiled as the twitches died out, and Orian let out a small puff in their sleep. Despite it being purple in color, now more than ever Orian’s collar marked them as a blank slate. And an opportunity. Orian was no more than a few weeks old by the Project’s calendar—which started at the Rebirth—but the ministry had been so pleased so far, they offered Marcus a deal. Orian. If he tamed them, and they stayed that way for a month in one of the ministry’s own pre-placement facilities, he got to keep them.

It was a small bonus compared to the dozen pets being evaluated and prepared as he sat there, but one he appreciated nonetheless. Toby fulfilled his role the best a pet like him could, but he needed someone who was exactly as he built them to be. Pets might learn best from their trainers, but the lessons only stuck with a good example. Toby was obedient, sure, but his personality was still his own. It got in the way.

If Toby were a fit applicant for the Project he would have done it, but he knew too much about how it worked. The implant could take care of it, but it would have to be permanent, which would mean Toby’s skills went away with it.

Toby was one of the rare pets these days to be raised as a person. Of course Marcus knew how the world really worked, pets were a matter of personality. Or chance, if they just happened to be left on the ministry’s doorstep. Pets these days were either obtained young, or born with the ministry. Toby was in his early twenties when he got into the wrong theoretical area at his university. Got too close to the ministry’s centuries old manufactured truth.

They did a decent job on him. He’d only been a pet for half a decade, but if you asked him he didn’t know any better. Too scared for defiance at the time of capture, that was the culprit. To aware of what he’d be turned into. When Marcus first read his file, when his previous owner submitted him to test the Project, he thought it was a conscious obedience at first.

The way most pets obeyed. Do what they say, so you don’t get hurt. It works well enough, but the owner plays too big a role. It only takes one to be too lenient, and one pet and all they’re in contact with can get ideas they shouldn’t have. Toby on the other hand, was very aware of his place in society. Acted accordingly, even when he didn’t have to.

Marcus played an experiment on him, after his owner died. He was first in line to take him in, since he’d been in his care for months. He had a few actors pull him from the kennel as if they were setting him free. Payed them thousands to try and break his training the way the few opposing groups still tried to do. He ran off and was found crying at the door of the last training facility he’d been in, begging to be fixed.

That’s what got him the first blue. The only reason the rest was still green was because sometimes he was a little too aware that he was unusually well-behaved for a pet. He tried to use it to his advantage with other pets every now and then. He would place himself above them, as if his collar was a status symbol pertaining to him, and not the trainers and owners that raised him to be the pet he was.

A soft rumble came from Orian’s stomach as they opened their eyes.

“Are you hungry?” Marcus asked. He’d gotten criticism on his supposed gentleness, but it only looked like that from the outside. The back of Orian’s mind was still aware they weren’t an infant, alongside the fact that they were as powerless as one.

He took out a bottle that contained a water-thin smoothie with enough vitamins and calories and the whatnot to suffice for a whole meal. Was a liter-sized baby bottle a bit over the top? Maybe, but training pets wasn’t half as fun without a little humiliation. Besides, Orian couldn’t see it anyway, and they needed to be fed somehow. They always felt it though. They’d stay still, until they felt it against their lips and pulled away with the memory.

That was implant not doing it’s job. They weren’t supposed to refuse it. They always got hungry enough eventually though. Sure, Marcus would have to stop letting them refuse it in the first place, but if the implant was malfunctioning that much, he had to ease them out of the bits of control they thought they had left. It had been weeks, so it seemed today would be eventually.

“Come on now, you don’t want to be hungry for the rest of the day, do you?” He brought the bottle to their face after they turned away. Orian kept avoiding. Rocking their head from side to side, it was a pathetic sight really—if he didn’t include the fact that it also looked a little cute—but to Orian it was all they could do. Enough was enough, though.

He waved his free hand, blocking the light from the window. It tricked them, allowing Marcus to force the bottle between their lips with the other before they noticed. He pressed down a little, so they couldn’t push it out. Orian pouted, but Marcus didn’t budge. They drank it up almost half way, before lulling back to sleep.

Marcus stroked their hair. “See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”

As much as he liked watching the most defiant pet he knew sleep like a rose without the help of any sedatives at all, he had other business to attend to. He had a deal with the ministry’s department of re-training and a few private investors to put just over a dozen pets through the program, but the ministry had also given him another interesting offer.

Prevention.

Six of them. All pets that were close to coming of placement-age, or just had. Late teens, most of them. One was twenty. All of them showed signs similar to Orian’s before they peaked, even if they didn’t know it themselves.

The youngest of them could almost be measured up with Toby, but their head-trainer was concerned their obedience was too focused on consequence. They were a little too eager to please, and too disappointed if it didn’t pay off. A few years ago Marcus would have told them to place them at a residence with a… reputation, but the government had faced opposition in the past years. Placement age cut it out. No one was too happy about it, but escapes went down. Probably because pets got more time to be weakened out or trained far enough.

Except for these six, apparently. They’d been put away in the daycare as his staff interviewed the headmaster of the institute they all came from. Marcus had trained close to a dozen trainers to take on some their load. He could only be in so many places at a time. One of those six though, was a challenge he’d like to take on.

Subject Seventeen. Previously named only Theo, though at the ministry’s training facility they were planning to dub him Tyler. Eighteen years old, short file. They’d only belonged to the ministry for a week, after all.

The risk of taking in pet-smugglers to be pets themselves was a risk, but Theo was young. He was the driver at a plan to smuggle nearly two dozen escaped pets over the border. The pets got out, but the truck was easy to trace, since the kid was stupid enough to take it back. Someone high up in the government somewhere took a liking to him when they put him to trial. His luck, because he wouldn’t last a week in prison. He broke his own fingers trying to punch the Catchers that were after the pets he stole.

All it took were some government-sanctioned ‘brain scans’ and ‘blood-work’, and there it was. Misread at birth. Of course the trial wasn’t televised, but Marcus would have loved to see the look in his eyes when the judge decided he’d be shown mercy since he couldn’t know better.

Marcus strutted past the pens. Some were guest’s pets, some prospects, a few had already been accepted for evaluation. To keep his clean reputation running they got an hour in the fresh air for each six they spent there, so most of the pens were empty anyway. Seventeen was in the far back, in one of the more secure pens.

Muzzled, wearing a Rebirth-issue straitjacket and pants that strapped his legs together. A harness around his torso forced him to painlessly stay on his knees. Pain was the one thing Marcus wasn’t the greatest fan of. It thought pets to avoid punishment, rather than avoiding breaking the rules.

Seventeen leaned back with a frown when Marcus opened the pen’s door. “Oh come on now,” Marcus quieted his tone, knowing full well that Seventeen was only starting to show cracks, not breaks. He knew what he was, even if not for long. “You’ve been at this for a week and you’re this jumpy already?”

He eyed the hand trucks they used to move the subjects, but Seventeen couldn’t be sedated before evaluation, and he showed a bit too much fight for Marcus to manhandle him onto it. They had solutions for that, though. The harness that Seventeen wore was attached to a thin rail that ran through the daycare into the evaluation wing. Marcus tested the jacket to make sure Seventeen was secured, then pulled him out.

Seventeen was on the tall side, he had no problem standing. He also had no problem trying to kick him. His legs were bound together, which meant every time he tried he ended up dangling from the ceiling.

Marcus let him have at it until he was out of breath. “Are you done? We’re only going to talk.” Seventeen frowned, but didn’t kick again. At least he knew which battles he could and couldn’t win. It made him just a little bit more cooperative than he likely meant to be. “I doubt you’ve had much training, but whatever you’ve heard, this’ll be much less painful than the ministry’s methods.”

A muffled curse almost broke through the muzzle.

Marcus took the risk of standing closer. Seventeen didn’t take his chance. Good. The same rail that ran along the ceiling, also ran along the middle of the floor. Marcus leaned down and held still Seventeen’s feet as he wrapped a white bag around them, that connected to the rail. “Now let’s go, shall we?”

Pushing him forward at his back, Marcus and Seventeen entered the padded evaluation room. A chair stood in the middle, the straps dangling off.

“Now there’s options,” Marcus said. “I take you off this hook and you sit down without giving me any trouble, or you make the mistake of trying to best me, and six men will be in here to put you in an infinitely more uncomfortable position. Anything’s fine by me, as long you can speak, of course.”

That last part got his attention. Marcus untied the harness and led the subject to the chair, where he strapped down his head, and secured his limbs as far as needed.

“Now. Let’s start simple. What did your childhood bedroom look like?”

Marcus left the room with smile plastered on his face when he was done. The kid had no idea what he was doing. Answered every question in perfect honesty, so jumbled with confusion. He’d never worn a collar other than the purple one around his neck, but even without Marcus he could get on a orange or maybe even yellow on his confusion alone.

He considered running evaluation for the other five newbies as well, but his buzzer went off. Sound alarm, Orian’s room. They were screaming again, of course. He’d have to find the triggers for it. The Rebirth was simple, the transition was as smooth as it could be, but still not pleasant. After that, they knew his voice. It made it easier for them to reach the concepts of defiance and resistance. This time though, they’d been alone for an hour.

Marcus softly opened the door to their room and, sat down next to the bed. Orian’s screams had died down into sobs while he was on his way there. “Shush now,” Marcus said. “There’s no need for all this, what’s wrong?” Of course Orian wouldn’t be able to answer, but that was half the fun. The other half came when he ruffled their hair.

Orian nearly choked on a last sob, but then quieted down. Their face softened as Marcus kept running his hands over the pet’s head. “Lonely, huh?” Marcus smiled. “I guess this…” he looked around for the most effective term to use for the malfunction. Orian would be living with it for the rest of their life. “…Defect, is having some useful side effects after all.” They remembered their life before, or at least how it felt. Which meant they also remembered the severe lack in affection, just not enough to know that they didn’t use to mind.

“Don’t worry.” Marcus softly rocked the bed with his free hand. “I’ll teach you to manage them as you grow up again. I’m The Parent. That’s what I do, after all.”

Orian didn’t go back to sleep. Not surprising, given they’d had more of it than usual. Their first evaluation was in a few months, when they’d gotten enough of their function back to perform a few simple tasks and commands. Of course the implant would cause some trouble in the beginning. It might be hard for them to understand the commands. Still, a double red, or even a partial orange had to be doable. A partial yellow qualified them for placement, which meant with a partial yellow, they’d be his.

“You’re a very versatile pet, Orian. I’m sure you’ll achieve great things, for a pet.”

Tagging the Rebirth crew: @suspicious-whumping-egg @distinctlywhumpthing @panic-and-chaos @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @whump-it @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

#pet whump #whump #force feeding tw #restrained whumpee #whumper POV #lab whump #I told you it'd get weirder and darker #I was two drinks (non-alcoholic because liver disorder) away from calling it a crib #which let's be real... it is #Now there is another... aspect... to infancy and well... food... if you're concerned (or interested IDK.) IF I go into that it would be #in an extra and not a plot-related chapter #Also Theo/Seventeen/Tyler will be a recurring character #as will some others #I'm going to show Project Rebirth from the outside in a little more in Marcus's chapters #so they won't be POV characters

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doctorthreephds · 3 years

Text

Synapses: Part 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Nothing, just a boat load of information about toxicology.

Summary: After landing a job at the Bureau, you tell your dad and in turn end up meeting all of his coworkers. In celebration, your dad invites all of them to a pasta night at his house. There, you find a burning interest in the youngest of his team.

Masterlist

“Well, if you have no further questions for us then I would like to personally welcome you to the Scientific Response and Analysis Unit,” you watch as Director Chase stands and sticks his hand out to shake, one that you take eagerly at the news of your new job.

“Thank you, sir. I look forward to working with you,” a smile stretches across your face as you bid the director goodbye and quickly make your way through the sterile hallways, inhaling the smell of cleanliness that was now your new workplace. For some, the sterile smell is foreign and dangerous--usually an indicator of a hospital where only bad news lurks--but for you, it was a safe haven of information waiting to be uncovered.

The daughter of a diplomat and a criminal profiler, you were certain in your passion to help people and make the world a better place. Of course, a big government job was a bonus in your quest but proved to be the right path as you found your love of science and forensics. You had attended school in both France and D.C. where your mother frequented and often lived with your dad when in D.C. to spend time with him. Of course, David Rossi was almost always busy so your relationship was nothing like the one you had with your mother. Unfortunately, during your second year of college, tragedy struck. Your mother passed after an extensive battle with breast cancer and so you did the only thing you could do, cling to your father as your only lifeline.

After many years of rebuilding what was once a lost relationship, your father was everything to you and wanted to see you succeed. Which is exactly why you chose not to tell him about the interview until after you got the job.

The heels of your shoes gently clack against the tile flooring as you step out of the elevator and onto the floor where the BAU stands. It’s bustling, as always, but you make your way through the glass doors and to his office. You can feel eyes on you, the eyes of your father’s coworkers who had no knowledge of your existence. It was easy to be a well-kept secret, you had your mother’s maiden name, and you knew that your father was a pretty private person.

Gently knocking on his door, you stick your head into the room to see your dad sifting through stacks of paperwork and manila folders.

“Hi, Dad,” you walk into the room, watching as he stands and stretches his arms out for a hug.

“Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing here?” he asks and pulls you into a tight hug, the smell of his expensive Italian cologne engulfing your senses.

“I’ve come to tell you some news,” a bright smile sits on your face as waves of confusion ripple over your father’s face. You try not to laugh as fear furrows on his brow.

“Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” he mutters and you shake your head.

“You’re not a grandfather just yet,” reaching back, you pull out the newly printed badge that displays your picture on it. “I have a new job.”

His frown lifts from his face as the joy overtakes it and you are once again trapped in his warm embrace. Your body melts into his this time, the overwhelming feeling of joy staking claim in your body. It was almost foreign after the last couple years that you had.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you,” your arms wrap around his torso, deeply inhaling as you feel at home. “But I can’t believe you kept this from me. You should have told me, you would have been hired last week.”

“That is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” your laugh rings out as movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You turn to look out the glass window and see a few of his coworkers watching the two of you talking. They try not to look so suspicious, turning away to look at their computers and case files.

“I think you have some explaining to do,” you gesture to the small crown that has amassed.

“Huh. Well, they had to find out some day,” he walks out of the room and you follow, a cold sweat overtaking your body. It’s not like he was ashamed of you, he loved you very much, you simply craved the validation of the work-family that he cared deeply about.

Your eyes scan over the four people, attempting to make some connections in your brain to names that your father has mentioned in passing. As you look, your eyes are drawn to a tall lanky man with a lovely maroon sweater vest. His hair is a mess on top of his head, full of unruly curls, and you attempt to restrain your heart as it seems to skip a beat. Usually, you weren’t this easy, but there was something about him that made all your thoughts vanish for a moment.

“She looks a little young to be your fourth wife, Rossi,” a man, whom you assume is Derek Morgan from the brashness of his comment, states.

“This is my daughter,” your father turns to look at you, a look of pride in his eyes that warms your heart and reassures you. You turn to the crowd and tell them your name, watching the look of bewilderment melt away.

“How come you never turned up on the database?” a blond woman asks. She’s easily identified as Penelope Garcia, by the boldness of her clothing and her affinity for computers. It makes you smile to see another woman in a male-dominated area.

“That’s because I have my mom’s maiden name, Montgomery.”

“Let me introduce you all,” Rossi starts and turns to the group. “This is Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Emily Prentiss, and Spencer Reid.”

“Wait a second,” Emily starts. “Montgomery? Like the diplomat?”

You nod as you feel your chest tighten at the memory of your mother.

“I think I remember you in passing, our mothers worked together.” she adds.

“Probably. Although I couldn’t tell you if we met in D.C. or Paris, my memories of the two are severely mixed up,” you respond, watching the dark-haired woman’s eyes light up in recognition.

“She’s here because she just informed me of her new job at the Bureau. A hell of a secret to keep from your old man,” your dad speaks and you roll your eyes at his insinuation.

“Of course I couldn’t tell you. I wanted this job on my own merit, not because my father pulled some strings.”

“I know how that feels,” Emily perks up and the two of you laugh in the shared feeling of what is both the blessing and curse of networking. You didn’t want to find out what kind of impression getting a job because your father would leave on your peers and coworkers.

“What do you do?” Derek asks and for a second you watch Spencer perk up behind his friends.

“I’m a toxicologist, I was just hired at the Scientific Response and Analysis Unit,” a brief moment of confusion passes over everyone’s faces except Spencer’s which makes you smile. “I’m basically a glorified chemist with a Ph.D. in toxicology. I’ll probably end up helping you guys out on anything related to biological or chemical that is threatening in nature.”

“Ph.D.? Don’t you have a Ph.D. in chemistry, too, Reid?” Derek pipes up.

“In chemistry, mathematics, and engineering,” he states like muscle memory. Your eyes brighten up at the presence of a fellow scholar and smile at him.

“That’s incredible. And how old are you?” you ask in astonishment.

“Twenty-six. I’ll be twenty-seven in October.”

“Huh,” you turn to your dad. “I didn’t know you had coworkers that were so cool, dad. You’ve been holding out on me.”

You turn back to Spencer.

“You’ll have to send me over your research, I would love something new to read.”

A look of astonishment washes over his face at the thought of sharing his research with someone. You assume that no one has ever asked to read it before, it’s not often in this line of work that research--especially scientific in nature--is brought up. Your father clears his throat beside you to draw your attention away from Spencer.

“Why don’t we have dinner at my house tonight to celebrate your new job?” he asks. “Everyone is invited, gives me an excuse to bring out the good wine.”

“You have a wine cellar, you can bring out the good wine whenever you want,” you quip and roll your eyes. He just wanted an excuse to show off.

“But I save it, for special occasions like this,” he gently hugs you from the side as everyone seems to agree on a pasta celebration in your father’s large house. “Good, I’ll go tell Hotch.”

You watch your father walk back up the steps and stand for a moment in awe as he leaves you behind with four of his coworkers that you barely know. The social anxiety sets in for a moment and leaves you slightly short of breath but years of practice help you plaster on a smile.

“I’ll leave you four to work, I’m sure you’re busy. It was nice meeting all of you.”

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Penelope responds as the rest of them bid you goodbye and return to the hefty workloads sitting on their desks. As you turn to leave, you barely miss the gentle punch laid on Spencer’s arm by Derek as he watches you leave.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” she starts as the two of you walk past the glass doors. “I can’t wait to get to know you better. You know us girls in the sciences have to stick together, so just know that you always have a friend in my little office full of screens.”

She gives you a warm hug as your heart fills with the validation you had been craving for so long. Walking into the elevator, your eyes flick to the doors behind her that let you see into the office, hoping for a glimpse of the nerdy doctor before the silver doors close in front of you. With a bit of luck, you see the familiar maroon sweater vest pass by just as the mechanical doors shut.

After going back to your apartment and changing into something a little more fit for a party, you find yourself dropping by a bakery to pick up a few pastries for everyone. Standing in line and staring at the glass case full of desserts you can barely pronounce, the thought of Spencer drifts into your mind. What kind of desserts does he like? Would he want something more tart like an apple strudel or something sweeter like an eclair? Once you reach the counter, you settle on a fancy pre-made cake so that you don’t spend the rest of the night pondering the doctor’s taste in dessert.

Driving to your dad’s house with a careful hand on the cake, you make sure to arrive at least a good 20 minutes before everyone to help cook. It was the least you could do and you wanted to make a good impression, especially because it meant time spent with your father.

“Hey, dad, I brought cake,” you call out as you let yourself in, finding your way to the kitchen to see your father hard at work. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he mutters and leans down to place a kiss on your head as the two of you watch the spaghetti boil in the pot.

“Carbonara?” you ask as a sly smile forms on his face.

“Of course. Who do you think I am?” he reaches over and stirs the noodles. You glance over to the counter to see a very neat mise en place set out.

“Shall I pick out the wine for tonight then?” you push yourself gently off the side of the marble countertops as you giddily look to the doorway leading down to the cellar.

“Only if you pick the right one. The Pinot Grigio on the third rack is from France, I’ve been saving it for a special occasion and this is the perfect time for it.” he pauses briefly. “Your mother gave it to me. She would have been so proud of you.”

You inhale deeply and wrap your arms around your father, tears welling in your eyes. While your parents had not been married for long, you know they were great friends and companions for one another, always dedicated to their jobs. Your mother raised you well.

“We’ll toast to her tonight then,” you mutter and smile up at your father, your vision blurred from the tears as the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it.”

Walking over to the door, you pull it open to see Spencer and Derek standing there.

“Did you carpool here?” you ask and let them in, helping grab their coats to place on the hanger.

“Yep, because Spencer here can’t drive,” Derek says.

“It’s not that I can’t drive, it’s that I prefer not to. On average, there are 3,287 deaths related to car crashes globally,” he states and you let out a nervous laugh.

“That’s a lovely statistic to keep in mind. Perhaps I’ll sleep here tonight,” you close the door behind them and walk over to the kitchen. “You can head into the kitchen, my dad’s just finishing up. I’m gonna go grab the wine.”

“Hey, Reid, why don’t you go with her?” Derek suggests.

“Oh, that’s okay--”

“Sure! I’d enjoy the company. C’mon,” you blurt out and wave him over, making your way over to the door and down the stairs. You silently contemplate things to say, something interesting to make you look smart or anything that will make this small trip a little less awkward. Glancing over, you can tell he’s on the same boat from the hesitancy of his steps so you resort to something a little less high stakes.

“I hope you like sweets because I brought cake,” you state as you sift through the wine, glancing over to Spencer to see him awkwardly standing near you.

“I think I’d much prefer the cake over the wine,” he says and you smile, turning to look at him curiously.

“Not a wine guy?”

“Not a fan of alcohol. It’s both addictive and a depressant. I think I’ll take my chances on sugar. It, while much more addictive, is less likely to kill you in high doses,” the words rush out of his mouth quickly, almost as if the information is overflowing and held back by a broken dam. A small laugh bubbles out from your chest.

“You're marvel, you know that?” you ask as the bottle of wine is held by the neck in your hands. “I wish I had a fraction of the knowledge you store up there. You’re like a walking computer! Would have made writing and researching my dissertation much easier.”

Spencer only stares in shock for a moment as the two of you begin walking up the stairs.

“What did you write your dissertation on?” he asks curiously.

“The Toxicological Aspects of Drug Incorporation into Human Hair. Unfortunately we don’t see a lot of interesting poisons out there, drugs are the biggest poison right now so it was fun to take human hair and analyze it to help predict how long addicts are abusing drugs,” you explain, watching Spencer go a little pale before the two of you reach the kitchen. Looking up at the gathered group, you plaster a smile at the small family that your father has amassed.

“You’ve brought the wine, you’re a goddess,” Penelope walks over and grabs the wine from you as she wraps her arm around in a side hug. You laugh and hug her back, allowing her to take the wine over to your father who opens the bottle and begins to pour out portions.

As you all gather around the table, you sit in between your father and Spencer who was obviously forced into his seat by Derek after a bit of teasing. You didn’t mind, it just meant you could continue your conversation. Next to Spencer was Derek and then Penelope, Hotch, JJ, and Emily.

After you all settle, your father stands and brings his glass up in a toast.

“I would like to make a toast to my wonderful daughter who has finally joined us at the Bureau in a job that will hopefully make our lives easier. And to her mother who raised an amazing woman,” everyone at the table, sans Spencer, raises their glass and takes a small sip. “Now, let’s dig in.”

You twist your fork in the large plate of carbonara and smile as you take a bite, humming with satisfaction as you quickly eat the pasta. It’s familiar, the comfort food you often had in college whenever you came over to your dad’s house to tell him about school. The pasta was a symbol of family and what was once only a meal for two was now a meal for a whole group of people as intended.

“So, you spent time in France? Does that mean you’re bilingual?” Emily asks as she takes a pause to sip from her wine glass.

“Trilingual, actually. I took it upon myself to learn Italian for my dad, even though he doesn’t know it. Just helped me connect with him a little better when I was away for so long. It’s a bit rusty though, I’m out of practice because I’ve spent so much time in D.C. for school.”

“What school did you go to?” Derek asks.

“I got my bachelors at Georgetown in chemistry and my Ph.D. in Forensic Toxicology at NYU. I’m a bit of a science history buff so when I found out that the first forensic medicine department was created in NYU by Charles Norris and Alexander Gettler, I thought it would be the perfect place to get my degree,” when you finish talking, you look up to see most of the table staring in a sort of awe and confusion. The only person that does not look remotely confused is Spencer who even perks up.

“I did a little bit of reading about Charles Norris and Alexander Gettler, but nothing too extensive. There’s not a lot of concise information about them, but Gettler’s research and data on the different effects of poisons is really fascinating. Did you know that he was one of the first people who helped develop a scale for different levels of intoxication by alcohol?” he states, almost forgetting about the food in front of him.

“Oh yeah, it’s the coolest. Especially during the prohibition when different people were dying left and right from alcohol poisoning. Deborah Blum talks all about it in her book The Poisoner’s Handbook, I’ll have to lend it to you some time,” the two of you turn to face each other as you continue talking. “I thought it was so astounding when people drank even more during the prohibition and the government didn’t think it was a bad idea.”

“Well, yeah, the basis of reverse psychology,” Spencer remarks and you laugh. As the two of you pause for a moment, your cheeks redden as you feel the eyes of the whole room settle on the two of you who were lost in passionate conversation.

“Nerds,” your dad mutters as he takes another bite of his pasta.

“Hey, you made me this way,” you roll your eyes and shake your head, turning to return to your meal.

“I believe it was your mother who had custody over you for most of the time, so technically this is her fault,” he states and regular conversation begins once again between the rest of the group, but you feel Spencer gently nudge you and whisper.

“I would love to get some book recommendations from you. Perhaps you can point me toward some of the better toxicology books,” he suggests in a low voice as you finish up your pasta.

“The key is looking in the true crime sections, they hide there sometimes,” you turn and smile up at him, enjoying the way that his curly hair falls and frames his face or the way that his eyes crinkle when he smiles. It doesn’t look like he smiles nearly as often as he should.

You attempt to hide the overwhelming feeling of joy that bubbles up in your chest as everyone finishes their meals. Getting up, you walk to the fridge and bring the cake over with smaller plates.

“Just a little dessert that I picked up on my way here. I hope everyone likes cake,” you smile up at them and begin cutting into the chocolate tower.

“Who doesn’t like cake?” Penelope asks.

“Actually, studies have shown that 46% of people prefer pie over cake,” Spencer states and you laugh as you hand him the first slice.

“I think it’s safe to assume you prefer cake, though,” you tell him and try not to think about your heart beating out of your chest when your hands touch. It feels stupid, acting like such a teenager at the slightest touch and you try not to let your cheeks show how much you enjoyed it.

Conversation continues as the cake is passed out and everyone attempts to wean off the alcohol they have consumed tonight. For a moment, you sit back and look at everyone gathered as they talk about life outside of work and how everyone is doing. Henry, JJ’s son is getting bigger now that he’s a couple months old and Penelope’s still doing well with her boyfriend. Emily is thinking about adopting a cat and Hotch misses Jack but is doing the best he can. You take a moment to look at your dad who stares at his coworkers the same way that he looks at you, like they’re his family.

After a while, JJ informs everyone that she has to go home to see Henry off to bed and Hotch is close behind with it being a work day tomorrow. Slowly, people funnel out and you see all of them out, including Spencer, who doesn’t stop talking to you about breadcrumbs of science history and the modern day use of toxicology. After getting his phone number for book recommendations, you wave at him as he leaves with Derek. You find your way back to the kitchen and see your dad cleaning up.

“You look very comfortable with Spencer,” your father looks up at you as he washes the dishes. You shake your head as you pick up a dish towel.

“It’s just nice to have someone to talk to about science, you know? No one else really understands it,” you say as you wipe down the dishes he hands to you.

“I know, sweetheart,” he places a kiss atop your head and you smile, silently planning out a secret future with Spencer. It would be nice to have someone new after losing your mother.

After all the dishes are put away, you take your phone out and find Spencer’s contact.

‘Want to go to the bookstore this weekend?’

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #david rossi #derek morgan #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau

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tamagochiie · 3 years

Text

happy new year to you

pairing: tsukishima x fem!reader

genre: angst (?), fluff

warning: none

synopsis: Its New Year's Eve and you're all alone. Well, not really.

Tsukishima, the only friend you've managed to make since you've moved from the country side, comes to visit you after work without any particular reason. Whether it's to fill the space during after hours at your work or pester you with his sarcasm and cockiness; he always seems to come back.

a/n: I wanted a brain break from writing the bonus chapter for the Kenma series: Life As We Know It. The more I worked on it, the more I got a headache, so I really dunno when I’ll be able to post it, so please be patient with me :(

The clock strikes upon the final hour before the new year, and the glimmering streets of Shinjuku echo with hearty laughter and drunken cheers of joy.

Standing on the other side of the glass window, you watch as strangers flow past you in groups and in pairs, all seeming to have the time of their lives while you go back to busying yourself by mopping the creaky wooden floors of the barren, dim lit bar you work in.

Nostalgia, rather than jealousy, pours over your thoughts as you imagine what your friends back home could be doing. They’re probably preparing bento boxes together at Yachi’s house to see the hatsuhinode later; and the thought causes your lips as much as your heart to sink.

As much as you wanted to go home for the holidays, you’re the breadwinner and if making money meant working through the holidays, then you would do exactly that.

Ugh, I wanna be home.

It had been another long night spent with you deciphering a string of intricately slurred orders from one borderline drunkard to the next. Truth be told, if it wasn’t a part of your job, you wouldn’t converse with any of the customers or dive head first into a sea of personalities, but out of all eyes you’ve met and smiles you exchanged, the one that mattered to you most had yet to make his appearance.

That is, until you hear a knocking against the glass.

You flinch back to your senses and your attention is no longer settled on the tiny rain droplets sliding down the window, but to Tsukki. He lazily waves at you with a sly smirk painting across his lips. You smile widely, teeth showing and everything; you quickly motion him to come inside.

Any worry of him being later than he already is that weighed heavily on your shoulders suddenly becomes light as a feather and floats away as the wind from outside breezes in.

“You seem extra happy to see me tonight,” Tsukki cooes your name like he has many times before, and you’re usually annoyed. The only difference is, you don’t mind it this time. You let it slide because today has been a bit unkind.

His wavy blonde wisps barely graze against the frame of the door. With one hand buried deep in his jacket pocket and the other carrying a grocery bag, he holds his head up high like his pride. His sunglasses perched proudly on the tip of his nose.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” He sighs, ambling behind you as you make your way around to the other side of the island. He takes a seat on the stool across from you, shifting in place before setting the grocery bag down next to him. He leans all of his weight onto his elbows, placing his chin in the dip of his palm.

Through the green hue of his sunglasses, Tsukki watches you pull two tall glasses from below the bar and set it between the both of you. You swipe two cans of diet coke from the ice chest and begin to prepare his usual: chilled diet coke with no ice.

It had something to do about his teeth being sensitive.

You pass him his glass and meet his gaze; a smug smile paints across your lips. “What’s with the shades, Tsukki? Were the stars too bright for you?”

He chuckles at your poor attempt of a joke and flips you off before taking a sip. Setting the glass down and keeping his collected disposition, Tsukki slides the shades off his nose.

Your lips sink to a frown and you suck the air between your teeth. A deep, trying sigh escapes you when you see his face sprinkled with fresh cuts and bruises.

“ God, you’re like a teenage boy.” You shake your head, pushing yourself off the counter.

“Hey, just remember that feeling you had when you saw me earlier,” His voice was gruff and croaky like he’d been punched in the throat, and by the looks of his face, it’s possible. “I saw that smile. You missed me.”

“You’re pretty cocky for someone who looks like they’ve been bitched slapped senseless.” You retort, rolling your eyes.

“You should see the other guys,” Tsukki teases, smirking. And though his tone is a bit impish, the fact he fought with more than one guy made you double take.

You relieve yourself with another deep sigh, leaving him behind as you go to the back to grab a first aid kit, a small bucket of ice, and cloth.

You’d only known him for a little while and you weren’t exactly close, but he was the only friend you had managed to make since you moved from the countryside for uni. He wasn’t the best company to have, but he wasn’t the worst either.

He was... good enough.

Since the night you met, it became a common occurrence to have him show up during the peak hours of the night all battered and bruised while you were closing up shop.

The midnight sky wept and the winds were not merciful, so you rushed to haul the chairs into safety before it could be whisked away. And just as you were about to carry in the bar's sign, you found him slumped into a corner, head tilted back.

His face looked like a badly bruised pear. His long, lanky legs stuck out to the narrow pathway, his feet soaked beneath the rain.

You were more curious than you were afraid, so against your better judgement, you inched closer to him, knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. As faint as it was, it was enough for you to gather the little strength you had left to prop him onto his feet and stagger back inside.

Breathless, you sat him in a booth, lulling his head onto the leather backrest of the couch before running to the back for the first aid kit and freezing diet coke because everything like that night, it was unlucky and there wasn’t any more ice.

It took him a while, but he eventually woke up; flustered and drenched in a mixture of rain water and his own sweat. Pupils dilated and full of adrenaline.

You struggled to get him to sit still, swatting away your attempts to help him until all the fight slowly left his body like a light bulb losing its energy. But when he was all able and well, he’d get up and walk out without even a thank you.

The days that passed would smear together like a poorly done Jackson Pollock painting that you would forget the whole thing had even happened.

That is until a familiar tall frame would stride into the bar one night, eyes searching the room till he found you.

Tsukki’s visits were sporadic at first, and it was always during after hours. He wasn’t as kind as he is now. Is he kind? He was like the dead of winter: painfully cold and bitter. At first, he wouldn’t bother a breath to say a single thought or even murmur a word.

Though, he’d trudge in looking tired, stumbling over his feet looking like he came fresh from a fight, or if he was lucky, just tired. He’d take a seat in front of you sometimes burying his head into his arms and take a nap or if you were lucky, he’d ask for a diet coke.

But nevertheless, his eyes are always the same: as light as the sun could gleam, but no sign of life. As far as you were concerned, he was merely a pretty shell.

You never understood why he kept coming back, especially since he pretty much gave you the cold shoulder for the first two months he cycled into his nightly visitations; but you never really bothered to ask.

You even stopped pestering him with any sort of questions about anything he did with his life, knowing full well he’d tell you to mind your own business.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from worrying.

“You should really stop getting into fights.” You move around the island and take a seat on the stool beside Tsukki, setting the first aid kit onto the table. “You scar more and more every time I see you.”

“Are you worried about me?” He chaffs, cooing your name in mockery. You ignore him and tell him to move a little closer, the fluorescent light flickers above you both, allowing you to see the cuts a little clearer.

He smells like old cigarette buds and cheap store bought soap. It’s a peculiar smell, but it isn’t as peculiar as his lifestyle.

“I’m annoyed by you.” You deadpan, beginning to dab away at the wound marking his forehead.

“Well, aren’t you gonna to ask me?” You grimace at him, harshly pressing the cotton against his wound. He flinches away from you and meets your overt eyes, “S-Sorry…”

“Even if I were to ask you, it’s not like you’d tell me.” Tsukki’s walls stand taller than his pride and are even more guarded than a mother to her own child.

“So, why keep helping me, huh?” He clicks his tongue and inches a little closer to you. He’s testing your sense of boundaries, but you’re unfazed. Instead you rip open a bandaid and slap it on him, causing him to seethe at you like he was a cat you threw into a tub of water. “I could be a serial killer, you know. Or someone really dangerous.”

You chortle, crinkling your nose at Tsukki’s cringe worthy strive to be mystifying. For the umpteenth time since he walked into your life, you bury your eyes into the back of your head.

“I like it better when you don't try so hard to be scary,” You tease, smiling at him and he mirrors you, playfully tilting his head just a little. “If you were gonna kill me, I’m sure you would’ve done it by now.”

You wipe off the dried speckles of blood and dirt sticking to his face. Though, the more you try to wipe it away, you begin to question what exactly he is capable of, and if it's his blood or someone else’s.

Like he usually does, Tsukki ignores you and shifts the conversation by asking you about your week. You tell him about your early morning class and the uncomfortable commute there. You lie about having lunch with your friends because tell him you didn’t have any to spend it with would be too embarrassing for someone as cocky as him to know.

There isn’t much about you to share; your life slides on the average side of the weighing scale of coolness. So, you worry you might be boring him, but as you clean the tiny scratch near the corner of Tsukki’s eye, you realize he’s looking at you like a shiny, lucky penny laying on the ground.

He’s looking at you with softness in his eyes and a subtle smile.

Fluttering. That’s what you feel tickling the pit of your stomach and you choose to yield from it, clearing your throat. You flicker your eyes to the plastic bag sitting behind him. “What’s in the bag?”

Without turning away from you, Tsukki extends his arm and reaches for it. He places it on his lap and you pull back, watching him as he pulls a pink cardboard box like the ones from the bakery; and lets the plastic float down to the floor.

“I don’t know much about you,” Tsukki begins, clearing his throat and wriggling in his seat.

For the first time since you’ve met him, all you saw was a walking brick wall that had the personality of dick. For the first time, you see him nervous and a little fidget-y and you enjoy it.

“But I do remember the things you share with me in true confidence even when I don’t always return the favor.” You bite down on your lip, containing your laughter at the sight of Tsukki with his head hanging low, straying away from your gaze. “In the last six months since you took me in that night, you show me kindness.”

You straighten your back and widen your tired eyes when he opens the little box and pulls out a tiny frosted cupcake with a very small candle standing at the top.

You blink because blinking is all you can manage to do.

You didn’t think he’d remember because you merely shared it in passing through a sea of useless information you exchanged between each other and two glasses of fizzy diet coke.

“No one should have to spend their birthday by themselves, don’t you think?” He finally moves his head to look at you and you swallow thickly, lips dried as you realize that all your hiding had been pointless.

But all you can manage is smile, grateful at the gesture and overwhelmed by soft tickling in your stomach. You want to cry because you’ve finally been met with gentleness even if it came from a stranger.

Tsukki looks at his watch and slowly begins to count the seconds. “Happy birthday,” He says your name quite differently than before. Your name sounds like a tune of your favorite song that you’ll wanna replay again and again. “Make a wish that counts because that damn cupcake was pretty expensive.”

You pout as he quickly falls back to his usual self. Clasping your hands together and closing your eyes, you do as he says and conjure the best wish you can make.

With your teeth tugging at your bottom lip, silencing the leftover thoughts lingering in your mind, you wish for happier memories and more friends, but most importantly, though you find him odd and a little annoying, you wish Tsukki could stay by your side.

But it's too bad that out of the three wishes you confidently offered to the gods, they’d choose to decline the one.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukki x reader #tsukki fluff #tsukki imagines #tsukki x y/n #tsukki angst #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #tsukishima x you #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima angst #tsukishima #kei

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ditttiii · 4 years

Text

Mobius

They say some infinities are bigger than others’ and you can’t say that you fully understood what that meant—at least not until you fell in love with Kim Namjoon, the time-traveller and the man who lived in your house, decades before you.

◈ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader (A Time Travel AU // strangers to lovers AU)

◈ Genre: Romance, Angst with a happy ending, Smut, Fluff (PG-18) (slight hair pulling, if that’s a problem for you here’s a warning)

◈ Word Count: 9657 (of which 3k is smut so lol you’re welcome)

◈ Based on the prompt: In the middle of the night, you hear strange sounds. You go to investigate, only to find a man rummaging through your fridge. At the same time, you both say, "What are you doing in my house?" It turns out that the man lived in your house decades ago. But how did he get here? by @megahwn

◈ Event: Written for the “Prompt Twist” event hosted by @bangtanidx

“Because time is a drop in the ocean, and you cannot measure off one drop against another to see which one is bigger, which one is smaller.”

Mobius :: an infinite loop.

*clang*

Your brows furrow as you turn on your bedside lamp and you wince when the bright light assaults your vision. As your blurry eyes try to focus on your bedside alarm clock, you realise that it has been less than three hours since you went to bed.

'What the hell?!' Is the thought at the forefront of your mind as you groan and scoot off your bed. Your scowl only grows darker as your feet touch the cold floor of your apartment.

You had recently bought the property two months ago. You were a writer by profession, and while your books didn't top the bestsellers list, you earned enough to live comfortably. The added bonus of your job being your passion wasn't lost on you either.

As you walk across your room to your door, the noises only get louder. You think you had closed the windows before going to sleep so it shouldn't be the wind, but maybe the wind was strong, and the latch unlocked on its own?

When you had bought the land, it wasn't barren. The property you had bought also had a two-storey built house on it, one you had additionally paid for too. However, it's times like tonight that make you think, that perhaps, buying an old house, with creaky floorboards and loose windows wasn't the smartest decision.

Climbing down the stairs, you tighten your robe around your body to shield yourself from the cold that would settle every time the sun would set. Again, one of the perks of buying an old, abandoned house.

You follow the sounds to your kitchen, your feet padding across the living room. The sound of your footsteps drowned by the noises that were coming from the kitchen.

However, as you enter your kitchen, you freeze midstep. Your eyes widen, and you take a step back, as your eyes take in the scene.

There was a man, crouched over, rummaging through your fridge for lord knows what. A man who you had, from the looks of his back, never seen before in your life.

Your breathes quicken, and adrenaline flows through your veins as your fight or flight instinct kicks in.

You move soundlessly, tiptoeing to where there is a lamp kept on a small table. Your eyes stay locked onto the intruders hunched over figure as you pick it up, wrapping the wire around your arm, to make sure that it wouldn't make any noise as you move.

'To charge or to ask?' The thought runs through your head as your eyes stay trained on his figure. While you did want to protect yourself, you also didn't want to accidentally, fatally injure a hungry, homeless man. As your eyes roam over his old fashioned outfit, your belief only strengthens. Definitely homeless.

When you move to close the distance, the floor below your feet creeks and you curse. Hearing the sound of your curse, the intruders face snaps up, his figure spinning and turning to look at you.

You freeze like a deer caught in headlights, as your eyes lock with him, and at the same time, you both say, "What are you doing in my house?"

Your brows furrow and your eyes narrow, as you scoff out an, "Excuse me? The house you're in right now? Yeah, mine."

Taking a threatening step toward him, you raise your lamp and continue, "Now let me ask that again, Who are you and just what the fuck do you think you are doing in my house, hoarding my fridge?"

The man raises his brows incredulously as he points at himself and goes, "I don't know who you are, but this is my house." He then pauses as his eyes travel to where you are holding the lamp high above your head before he continues, "And I believe that lamp is loose, I'd suggest that you lower your hand before the bulb falls off and shatters on your head."

You blink taken aback before your eyes narrow further. You look up and flinch away from the lamp as you realise that the stranger wasn't lying.

"Who even—"

"Are you?" The unknown man finishes your thought, before looking at you with raised a brow.

Somehow, that makes you feel a little stupid and that, annoys you more.

'Fuck him and his holier-than-thou attitude.' Your mind supplies, miffed and maybe a little irrational, as you further narrow your eyes at him.

"Well genius, why don't you answer the question then?" You practically spit out, your words coming out more like a hiss at the end. You were at your wits end, and your patience was all but ready to snap.

The man looks at you, his jaw clenched and jutting out as he regards you. You unconsciously pull your robe tighter over your body, unsure and wary of his intent. His eyes sweep over you, then sweep over your kitchen, narrowed and contemplative?

"Excuse me?!"

"Shush, one second." He replies as he raises a finger at you as if to ask you to stay quiet?

'What the actual fuck?' Is the only thought that runs through your head as you stand there and wait for the man to finish musing over whatever it was that he was contemplating. There wasn't much else that you could do anyway. You take that time to observe him too and gulp when you see how low the neckline of his shirt is. The material thin and almost see-through hangs lose around his body, the cuffs draping low over his fingers.

You think if you hadn't met him in such unconventional circumstances, you'd have been interested in him.

"The bedroom is through the second door on the floor above this. Also, there is a crack that runs through the third tile on the left of the bathroom door."

Your gaze snaps back to him when you hear him say that and you gape.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out as you look at him with furrowed brows. He shouldn't—couldn't have known those finer details about the interior of your house.

"Wh-what?" Your voice comes out soft, unsure, as your head tilts in confusion. His dark, thin eyes track the movement, follow the way your hair come loose with the motion and slip past your shoulder.

"I have a theory behind why I am in your kitchen, but I don't think you'll believe me." He responds, his eyes never once straying from where they were fixed somewhere on your shoulder.

Your eyes furrow in confusion as your eyes track his line of sight, a soft gasp leaving your mouth as you realise your robe had slipped off your shoulder, and the bare skin of your shoulder was in his plain sight. Quickly gliding a hand over your forearm, pretending like you were itching at a point on your shoulder, you slide your robe up.

The strangers' eyes snap away then, and he blushes?

His behaviour was confusing you more and more. First, he wasn't answering your questions then he was creepy staring at your bare shoulder, and it all that wasn't enough now, he was embarrassed.

'It's way too early for this.'

You clear your throat and wait for him to look at you before continuing, "Right, I might not believe you, but I'd like to hear your theory anyway, but," and here you hold your finger up before you continue, " I'd like to know your name first. Mine's Y/n, and I can't say it's exactly a pleasure to meet you."

At that, he cracks a smile before he puts his hand out and goes, "Hello, I'm Namjoon and uh, I am sorry about all this," Here he randomly waves his hand in the air as if to indicate the mess you two were in before he continues, "but let's talk? I'll try my best to explain."

You nod and shake his hand, a little wary before you gesture him to follow you and you both settle down on your living room couches. Him on the seat opposite yours, as you wait for him to continue.

Namjoon, as you now know, wrings his hands, chin again jutting out as he seems to be deep in his thoughts. You glance at the living room clock and wince when you see the time but don't say anything, for once not disturbing him and instead wait for him to gather his thoughts.

"Do you know who I am?"

Your brows furrow when you hear him say that and you give him a look as if to say what do you think?

He, however, doesn't take any offence to your snappy attitude, and continues, "I mean, have you ever heard my name before?"

At that, you furrow your brows and shrug. "I know a few Namjoons so, what?"

His eyes widen when he hears you say that and he huffs, "Right, My bad, what I meant was my full name is Kim Namjoon. Does that ring any bells?"

Your eyes widen when you hear him say his full name. 'Kim Namjoon', your lips form the words, but no sound comes out. The back of your neck breaks out in cold sweat when you finally put the name to his face. Back when you had been looking to buy the property, your agent had informed you of Namjoons status; missing, and the conspiracy around his disappearance, still no signs of where he was or how he went missing.

He looks at you, observes your reaction and nods as if you had just confirmed something. "That's what I thought. My name is Kim Namjoon, and I am or well," here he stops before he looks at the calendar that was on the table beside his couch and continues, "Was the owner of this house 40 years ago."

You blink before your mouth opens, but again no words come out, and you close your mouth again. Thinking back to a few minutes ago, it suddenly makes sense to you as to how Namjoon would know those details about the interior of your house.

'He lived here, or is it lives here?'

"Where were you all this time then?" You ask instead, you have too many questions and you don't know which one you should ask first so, you go with what comes to your mind first.

Namjoon glances at you surprised, maybe he had expected you to freak out, which would be the logical thing to do, but you are a fantasy author, and you remember what Kim Namjoon's profession was, you just hope your hunch is right and that he wasn't a ghost instead.

As you raise your brow, he snaps out of whatever stupor he was stuck in and continues, "I've been living here. Well or I was at least, I don't know how to explain it to you. I barely understand it on my own, but I have a guess." He fumbles as he explains and you just nod to indicate that you are listening, encouraging him to continue.

"So, if you don't know who I am or was, ugh—I don't know, this is so confusing. But, well, I am a scientist, a physicist if I have to be precise. I studied time, the concept of stars, galaxies, a mixture of quantum and astrophysics." Here his hands flap around in the air randomly, which you think is his way of trying to get his point across and so you just nod to show that you are following along.

He looks at you and nods before one of his hands' rakes through his hair, the strands long, and dark, move under the force, and you gulp as your mouth suddenly goes dry. Now that you are no longer in mortal danger, your brain was finally picking up on how good looking the stranger or not such a stranger, was. His hands big, his fingers thin, long and ridiculously hot.

You snap your gaze away from him and blush as you realise just where your train of thoughts was going and internally admonish yourself for letting your libido get the best of you.

'Focus Y/N, have some shame, will you?' You think to yourself before you let out a quiet huff and straighten up, snapping your gaze back to Namjoon as you hear him continue.

"I don't fully understand how this happened either, but I had been working on a time machine." Here his eyes tentatively find yours probably expecting to see a look of disbelief or annoyance, however, you keep your face straight and expressions neutral, just nodding along as a gesture to continue.

'So your hunch was right.'

"It was a prototype, and I didn't think it would work, I mean time travel wasn't exactly a possible belief amongst the scientist community back then, probably still isn't, is it?" He asks you and looks at you with his brows raised and you fumble. You don't know if it is or isn't, but you hadn't heard about anyone inventing any time machine, so you just shake your head and hope you are right.

He nods along as if you had confirmed something again and you internally wonder why he would hold your opinion and answers so high. You barely know him, he hardly knows you too, what reasons did he have for trusting you? You could be lying, but then again what would you get from lying, it's not like you were intruding in his space.

'Or were you?' Your brain supplies and you run a hand through your hair, raking your fingers across your scalp as you groan out loud, the confusion and insaneness of the situation enough to make you feel like you were going to go crazy.

Namjoon surprised, swivels his gaze to you and frowns before he asks, concerned, "Hey, Are you okay? Do you need me to get you a glass of water? I know this is a lot to take in I can wait."

You are a little taken aback by how genuine his concern is, as you look up at him, you see his eyes on you. Squinted and full of worry, for you— a virtual stranger.

Seeing him genuinely concerned for your well being you feel a little bad about your earlier actions, and in response, you just give a small smile which you think comes out more as a grimace instead, but thankfully he doesn't comment on it.

Shaking your head with a soft, "I am fine." You urge him to continue, taking in a deep breath and settling yourself more comfortably on the couch; you have a feeling it's going to be a long night.

It has been a month since Namjoon had somehow managed to time-travel, to your time, a month since you two had started sharing the same roof over your heads.

You also were right back then because it was a long night.

Namjoon had apparently been testing the prototype of the time machine he was working on, the prototype still in its early stages wasn't fully developed, and Namjoon himself was still figuring things out with where he wanted to take that model.

On his part, it was just a side project, his little brain baby that he worked on in his spare time—something he had high hopes for but because of society and the opinions of his colleagues had been pushed back, and turned into a secret project. Not many believed that something like 'Time travel,' was possible and so they would ridicule Namjoon for his belief, mock him—call him crazy and delusional.

Your heart hurts when you think about that night now, because while you hadn't been close to Namjoon then, you are now.

In the time that you have known him, Namjoon has proven himself to be the kindest, most considerate and sweet man ever. His affection wasn't loud, and he didn't speak about how much he cared for you. Instead, his kindness and care shine through with his actions, the little things he does throughout the day that sometimes you miss at that moment, but later realise and appreciate when you think back.

His care comes through when he leaves behind a cup of coffee, made just the way you like it, every single morning on a tray outside your bedroom door with a glass of water. Or in the way, his soft voice whispers about constellations or other galaxies and paints another world as he sits on the floor beside your bed and helps you fall asleep, his hand running through the strands of your hair, just like your mother did when you were a child.

Those miscellaneous little acts of his were what kept pushing you to fall for him. You try to hold yourself back, try not to them affect you—but you know it's all in vain.

Your heart physically aches—clenches in on itself, when he looks at you with glittering eyes, orbs full of excitement and a sense of pride in his own self, when he makes a breakthrough with his repair of the prototype.

You want to be happy; you want to feel happy for him, but at the same time, you can't help but hope that his repairs don't go well, that instead, they take time. The time that you can then use to get to know him better because, good lord, do you want to know him better.

You know it's selfish to want that, he doesn't belong in the present time. Because while the land you both lived on might be same, nothing else was—not the time, not the people, nothing.

Remembering that little tiny detail, however, is hard, so so hard because you want him to be, you want him to belong to your world, to your time—to you.

Never before have you met a man who makes your heart race as Namjoon does. He makes you feel loved, cherished, happy and you selfishly want more of it, more of this happiness, more of him.

"Y/N have you seen the number four screwdriver?" You hear Namjoon yell out from your basement, his voice bellowing through the house to where you are sitting in the living room.

"Did you try the kitchen drawer?" You shout back, the back and forth of your dialogue from halfway across the house now a daily occurrence.

It's quiet for a moment, and then you hear steps padding across your creaky basement stairs, and then Namjoon is in the living room doorway, a full closelipped smile on display, passing you by on his way to the kitchen.

Your eyes follow his tall figure as he walks to the kitchen and you wince when you hear a crash, before a "Sorry about that," reaches you, and you just huff in exasperated fondness.

In the last month, you have come to realise that while Namjoon is a brilliant scientist, he is also an incredibly clumsy person, with him breaking things left and right. Just within this week, he has already shattered two of your coffee cups and a vase your mom had given you for your last birthday.

I've got to say, not too sad about the vase.

Your gaze snaps up when you hear him coming back to the living room, and you smile softly as his eyes lock with yours for a moment before he proceeds to go down the stairs to the basement.

It has been three months since you first moved in; two months since Namjoon came into your life. There wasn't much time between these two incidences, which was why you hadn't been able to fix your house and change the interior before he time travelled. And while you have slowly been making progress room after room with Namjoons help, that wasn't the case a month ago.

The basement, aka Namjoons lab, virtually abandoned for close to four decades was dusty and home to all sorts of insects and rodents; but still the same as he had left it. It was probably because of this reason that Namjoon hadn't initially noticed that his prototype had worked and that he had actually managed to time travel to the future.

The changes that you had made after moving in during the initial two months were minor enough that when Namjoon made his way to your kitchen that night a month ago, they went unnoticed by him; the dim lighting and lateness of the hour only helping to hide the changes more.

Since then you have slowly been working on repairing your home, fixing the roofs and the leaks, changing the creaky floorboards. It was a tough task, and some days you wonder if buying the land was more trouble than it was worth, but then you think of Namjoon and realise you would never have met him, if not for the house and then suddenly your fondness for the land grows.

The creaky floorboards, the chittering of mice running around in your basement, the musky smell of old wood, it all feel warm, almost cosy to you. Maybe it's just your lonely soul cherishing the company of Namjoons’ presence, but you don't dwell on the reasons, knowing full well that—that particular train of thoughts would result in you falling in love, and love wasn't ever kind to you.

Sighing you crane your neck, and let it fall onto the back of your couch, as your thoughts go to places you wish they wouldn't go.

As the clanks of Namjoon fixing up his lab, ring in the back you close your eyes and take a deep breath in, savour the moment—his presence, while you still can.

You hear Namjoons feet pad into the kitchen while you are cooking dinner, and you twist to shoot him a smile before you turn back to continue chopping the vegetables. You would ask him for help, but another thing besides elementary hand-eye coordination, that Namjoon wasn't good at was cooking.

While your new home is a little rough around the edges, it still doesn't deserve to be burned down into hot embers.

"Should I go ahead and set the plates out?" Namjoon asks from where he is leaning on the counter beside you, his eyes following the motion of your hands as you deftly chop the vegetables.

You hum and nod, a soft "Sure, Thank you," Slipping past your lips as you look back down to your chopping board to avoid looking at him for too long.

He is wearing a black muscle shirt, his muscular, coiled arms on display, with hints of his build chest and abbs showing through as the material hugs his body.

You turn your head and allow your hair to fall around your face, curtaining your blushing cheeks and wandering eyes, and take a moment to collect yourself.

It's a little ridiculous how much he affects you, how much his deep, smooth voice feels like molten gold to your ears, his smile and the crinkle around his eyes the brightest parts of your day.

You don't want to like him; if it was, something that was in your control you would prefer to hate him instead.

But the simple fact is that it wasn't—isn't in your control, not when he smiles only for his perfect dimples to pop out, not when he sits for hours beside you as you cry and stress over a chapter or lack of inspiration. Not when he then proceeds to tell you that you can do it because you are Y/N and amazing and he has complete faith in you.

Kim Namjoon is everything you have ever wanted in a man, kind, smart, hard-working, intelligent. It's like, instead of flesh and bones, he is moulded from stardust and magic, too perfect, too good to be true.

Your breath hitches and your heart skips a beat when you feel him lean closer to you, his front softly grazing against your back, as his long, tan arm stretches over your shoulder to the cupboard above and you grip the knife in your hands tighter, your body feeling light just by his mere proximity.

You breathe in to calm down, and it only makes things worse, because with every breath it's like you are breathing him in. The scent of his cologne spicy like cinnamon or spearmint, with an underlying tone of his own fragrance, something so primally Namjoon, that just the tiniest waft of it makes you feel faint.

When he finds whatever it was that he had been looking for, he pauses, inches a little closer to you, his entire front now pressed softly against your back. As he brings his hand back to himself, it grazes against your wrist then glides over your hand, lingers a little on your elbow, before it moves back to its owner.

His touch leaves fire behind in its wake, goosebumps rising over every inch of your skin and you bite your lower lip to stop any unwanted sounds from tumbling out.

It's when he is finally setting down the utensils that you allow yourself to breathe in fully, your chest aching and tight due to lack of oxygen, as you try to get your racing heart under control.

His voice rings across the kitchen as you hear him call you, to join him, and your reply comes in the form of a high pitched, "Yeah!"

Scrunching your nose at the glaringly obvious pitch change, you hope that he doesn't pick up on it. You aren't sure how much of this back and forth teasing you can take before you finally snap, but you have a feeling that the threshold isn't too far off.

You set the bowl of popcorn down on the centre table before you move to sit, your legs curling under you, as you throw a blanket over them to block the chilly night air. The open window allows in the cool breeze from outside, the subtle fragrance of wet mud and roses from your garden wafting in the living room along with it.

"Which movie?" Asks Namjoon as he takes the seat beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight as he slides himself under your shared blanket.

You bend to pick the bowl of popcorn before you hold it over the shared blanket and shrug, replying, "Surprise me."

You allow your eyes stray over to Namjoon. While he is busy picking a movie; you watch the way his brows furrow, that familiar jutted chin making an appearance as he concentrates on the task, his long post-shower hair falling in front of his eyes as messy, wet strands.

Your gaze snaps up to his eyes when you hear him snort, "Talk about ironic, Have you seen this movie before?" He asks with a tilt of his head towards the T.V, and you see the movie title, 'I'll Never Forget You,' a film by Roy Baker and you shake your head, the movie too classic for your usual taste.

Ever since you and Namjoon have started the tradition of watching a movie every night before bed, your repertoire of classic films has expanded, with him introducing you to many of his favourites, while you show him yours.

It's sweet, domestic, almost couply, and your heart tightens a little in your chest every time you realise that while the intimacy might seem real, it isn't the truth.

The inevitability of Namjoon going back to his time isn't lost on you either.

The movie starts, and you recline back onto your couch, the shared bowl of popcorn between you and Namjoon slowly growing lighter as the film progresses. Your fingers bump into each other; some accidentally, and some intentionally. The slide of your nails softly moving against his long, thin fingers, holding more of your attention than the movie.

Your fingers tangle as you both dig for the last few popcorns and you pretend it's not deliberate, but you can't deny that your heart races with the simple action.

The plot progresses, and your hands grow sweaty, your unease increasing as you realise just why Namjoon had called the movie ironic.

The plot revolves around a scientist, who goes back in time and takes the place of one of his ancestors. Fated to marry a woman called Kate, he slowly gets to know her, only to be more interested in her sister Helen. As he stumbles throughout the movie, making mistakes and saying things he shouldn't, dropping his knowledge of the future, Helen falls more and more in love with him.

You shift, uncomfortable and watch as he finally admits to Helen that he is from the future and shows her his basement laboratory, the similarity of the plot while not exact was still quite noticeable.

The end though is what leaves you frozen, your limbs feeling cold and unmoving, as your eyes take in the scene where the man goes back to his time and realises that when he left the past timeline, Helen's grief and sorrow, ate her inside until it finally became too much and took her life.

As the end credits roll, you stay frozen, your spine ramrod straight and your eyes unfocused and blurry, filled with tears that drip down to your cheeks.

You feel as Namjoon shifts to get up, but pauses when he sees you crying. You think you hear him call out your name, but your ears are ringing, and your head is buzzing, filled with far too many troubling thoughts.

Is that going to be me? Will my grief and sorrow cripple me too? You dread just the thought of him going back, how will you ever survive the reality?

Your body shudders, as a loud sob escapes you and you finally break down. Tears drip out of your eyes, leaving wet trails against the soft skin of your cheeks. You taste their saltiness on your lips, feel as your lungs burn due to lack of oxygen as shudder after shudder rack your body.

You hear Namjoon move, as he shifts closer to you and starts running his hands over your forearms, pulling you closer to him and you bury your face in the crook of his neck and let the tears wet his skin.

When another shudder racks your body, you try to take a breath in, your lungs clenching in on themselves, but you regret it instantly.

With every single broken inhale, you breathe more of Namjoon, his cologne, his very own essence, the scent a mixture of the wild and old books.

It's confusing and insane—and so painfully Namjoon. The duality of it much like its owner in the way that Namjoon would be the quietest, most focused person ever when he is working on something, but would turn goofy and clumsy the next second, would make you laugh so hard that your cheeks would hurt and you'd be left gasping for breath.

His presence is like a shot of heroin to your bloodstream, and you are afraid you might be addicted, maybe you are addicted. You must be because the thought of him not being there under the same roof, the same timeline kills you, makes you feel like clawing your heart out and throwing it away, so it would just finally stop hurting.

"Y/N, hey shush, it's a movie, it's okay, you are fine, shush, come here," Namjoon says and pulls you closer, and you suddenly want to scream, pull your hair out, throw a tantrum because doesn't he understand? Doesn't he get that it wasn't just a movie? That someday the scientist would be him and the heartbroken woman in love, you?

He runs his hand over your back, caresses your skin through the layer of your shirt, and you want to push him away, pull him closer. You want him to go away, want him to stay. You want to hold him close, keep him in your arms, house him in your heart so that you never lose him.

You bite your lip as a shudder racks through your body again, and sob out, "Why would you show m-me th-that?" Your words come out broken and in pieces at the end, and you bury your face deeper into his neck. Maybe if you push hard enough, you can push yourself inside him, and then you two can stay together forever.

You feel him tighten his arms around you as he brings you closer, his face coming to rest on the crown of your head, his chin rubbing small, slow circles on the top.

"I am sorry," He says, his voice is smooth—deep, and you feel as the words come rumbling out of his chest, feel the vibrations against your skin, and you clench your eyes closed, more tears slipping out.

"Hey shush, Y/N please don't cry, I am so sorry, I shouldn't have put it on, that was stupid of me, I—" Here he pauses, takes a breath in and you feel his chest moving against yours before he continues, "I should have known better."

You hear his apology, but it does nothing to soothe the burn in your chest because it's not like he has done anything to hurt you, all he did was show you a movie. It's your sentimental, stupid, lovesick heart that decided to take it personally.

"Can you look at me?" You hear him whisper close to your ear, and you tremble, your fingers gripping his shirt around his waist as you nod, the motion making your hair run against his chin and you feel as he shifts, drops a kiss on the crown of your head, his hands moving to rub over your arms.

He cradles your face softly, and his fingers softly caress your cheeks, wipe the tears away, before they make soft circles over your cheekbones. You melt at his touch, of course you do, because no matter what happens, regardless of how much you end up getting hurt at the end, the simple fact is that at this moment? Nestled between the strong, warm arms of the man that you are in love with, you'd choose the pain, the grief, the inevitable agony because at least you have him now. And maybe you are a little selfish—a little stupid, but you still don't want to push him away, not when you can have him now.

Eventually, your breaths start coming out a little clearer, your sobs no longer sending shudders down your spine, and you lay there drained. Tucked under Namjoons chin as he rocks you side to side in slow, gentle motions.

You smile against his neck because it reminds you so much of how your mom would calm you down when you were a child, and your heart squeezes a little in your chest at the realisation.

"Could you get me some water?" You mumble into the crook of Namjoons’ neck. Your words come out soft, and a little muffled but thankfully he understands them and moves to shift away from you, and you let him, moving back and bowing your head, as you wipe away the tear tracks and block your running nose.

'Great look Y/N. Real nice.'

Looking at your reflection in the glass of the centre-table, you wince when you see puffy, bloodshot eyes staring back at you.

The sound of a glass falling into the sink snaps you out of your thoughts, and you snort, Namjoon's clumsiness more endearing than anything else at this point.

"Joon, you good?"

"Yeah! uh, I'll be out in a minute, just stay there will you?"

"Will do!" And with that, you relax back into the cushion. The two of you had gotten the routine down pretty quick, while you were all for supporting each other, you had realised that your presence around him only increased his clumsiness further for some reason, which would then result into more broken dishes. And so, for the sake of both your crockery bill and Namjoons pride, you stay put.

As you shift to lay more comfortably on the couch, your eyes stray to your garden outside, being a writer wasn't exactly an office job. Most of your time was spent at home, usually in your balcony as you'd groan and painstakingly figure out plot details. So, you had grown your garden with a lot of care, much like anything else in your life. You took your time with it, cared and nurtured for the seeds until they finally bloomed to be the beautiful flowers that they were today.

You like taking your time with things, whether it's writing a book or forming friendships or even falling in love. You are patient, and you believe in taking the time to get to know other people, but with Namjoon, you are afraid instead of being too quick, you might be too late.

As you hear his feet pad across the house, towards you, your resolve strengthens.

The idea is crazy, sudden, not thought through at all, but you also know that if you give yourself any more time to think, you will cop-out. So, with your heart in your throat, you spin around and blurt, "I think I am in love with you, please don't go."

Looking back perhaps blurting out your undying love without any context whatsoever wasn't the smartest decision on your part.

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth as your eyes take in another broken glass and spilt water.

You force your eyes to not stray—to not travel up to the man who is standing in the middle of all the wreckage, surrounded by broken glass and spilt water. You don't know what the expression on his face is, what the thoughts whirring inside his head are, but at the moment you aren't sure if you want to know them either.

The sound of breaking glass had served as a wake up a call to you, whatever insane bravado that had led you to decide that confessing your feelings would be a good idea, sapping away with the loud sound and bringing you back to your senses.

Your fists clench when you hear Namjoon shift as he takes a step forward, in response you take two back.

"H-hey careful! There's glass all over the floor. You'll hurt yourself!" You squeak out, but Namjoon doesn't stop nor does he reply.

His feet pad closer to you, and the sound rings in the quiet of the room almost ominously.

You trip over your own feet in your haste to get off the couch and move away, nearly face-planting against the floor, but save yourself at the last second. When you push your head up, raking a hand through your hair and pushing the strands back, you realise that Namjoon is right there—in front of you.

"What did you just say?" He almost whispers, his voice coming out quiet and raspy—but to you? It feels loud, the whisper no different than if he had shouted it from the top of his lungs because you hear him loud and clear.

You just avert your gaze away and let the silence stretch on, did he not hear you? Why'd he shatter the glass then? And why doesn't he use a hearing aid if he's so selectively deaf?

"Y/N, look at me."

You don't, and instead, keep your gaze away as you move to side-step him, but before you can push past, his hands are down on your shoulders pushing you back into the wall.

You gasp, the breath knocking out of you when you feel your back hit the wall, the feel of his hands following close after, as one snakes around your waist while the other curves around your head, your hair bunching under his grip.

"Say it again." His voice, breathy and raspy breaks the stillness of the air around you, and you gulp as your gaze locks with his, the look in his eyes wild, almost feral.

His eyes are blown out and dark with lust, his lips parted as small puffs of his breath fall onto your lips, and you try your best not to shiver, try your best not to give away just how much he affects you.

When you still refuse to answer, his grip over your hair tightens, your head tilting back under the force, as his face inches closer.

Your eyes against your will fall to his lips—pink and full, and you unconsciously lick your own, wetting them as your teeth bury themselves into the soft flesh. His eyes follow the motion, and you think he groans a little deep in his chest, but when your eyes snap back up to his, they are looking into yours.

"Y/N, I am going to kiss you, push me away if you don't want me to," He whispers, as his hold over your hair grows softer, his other hand sliding up the side of your body, as both his hands tangle in the silky strands of your hair.

He inches closer as he closes the distance between the two of you, but despite his warning, you don't do anything and instead stay put, waiting, aching for him.

When his lips finally touch yours, you feel your hands rise without your accord as they slide over his torso. You feel the dips and curves of his chest muscles, sense his heart thudding under your touch, the warmth of his body heat curling around your skin, enveloping you and you push yourself closer, tangling your hands around the nape of his neck.

His lips are soft under yours, the touch slow, warm and sensual. He doesn't rush you and instead takes his time as his hands run over your back, caress the skin under before they pull you closer to him.

You're close, hairsbreadth close and there is no space between the two of you, your lips locked—your bodies touching each other, as your breaths mingle.

His lips leave yours, and you let out a soft huff as you twist to have them back on your own, but he pushes your head to the side, revealing the soft, smooth skin of your neck.

He exhales, warm breath hitting your skin, and you almost mewl out loud, goosebumps rising over the sensitive skin of your nape in response. He chuckles when you try to push your shoulder up before one of his hand shifts to hold your jaw softly, but with enough force to prevent you from moving.

The feel of his plush, plump lips on your neck leaves tingles running down your spine, and you can not help but shudder when those same lips part and close around your skin, sucking the flesh in. The moist, warm cavern of his mouth over your slightly cooler skin has you moaning out loud as your hands curl around his waist in pleasure.

His lips run over the skin of your neck—caressing, kissing and sucking the soft skin until it's left red and covered in a thin layer of his saliva. The much cooler air of the room hits your skin, and you tilt your head back; hit the wall behind softly as he kisses his way down your neck, to your chest.

His tongue leaves a wet, trail in its wake, and his nose dips under the depression of your collar bone before he breathes the faint smell of you in. His lips leave a soft peck there as he nuzzles the underside of your chin softly before your head is being pulled straight, your eyes meeting his dark, chocolate brown ones.

Now that you are closer and can look clearly, you realise there are flecks of hazel at the outer edges, the hazel and brown all swirling together to form a warm pool of tender, shimmering orbs.

This time you decide to take the lead, taking his hand in yours, you pull him to your room, him following behind as your fingers intertwine and the soft sound of his feet padding behind you rings in the quiet of the room.

As you slam the door to your room shut, you feel as Namjoons' hands again fall to your body, disentangling his fingers from yours, he glides them from your wrist to your elbows, forearms, then shoulders—your shirt bunching under his ministrations.

The feel of his touch is like a flame over your skin even through the layers of clothes, and you just tilt your head back, letting it fall on his shoulder, as you let him do what he pleases. His hands softly stroke over your waist, the motion slow and deliberate, but still over your tee and you arch, pushing your back into him as you try to feel more of his touch, more of him.

Namjoon takes the hint, drops a kiss onto your shoulder before his hands are under your knees and you are in his arms, bridal style, being carried over to your bed.

The mattress dips under your combined weight as Namjoon lays you down before he leans forward and kisses you. This time you meet him halfway, pushing and straining to take the lead as your tongue swipes across his lower lip asking for entrance, one he instantly grants. Tugging his hair strands softly, you hear him let out a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, before you are pulling him closer, your hands getting lost between the soft, long strands of his hair.

Your tongue glides over his, tangles and twists around as it pushes to lead. Strings of your shared saliva hang between the two of you when you lean back to rest and catch your breath, and you chuckle when you realise just how badly you had been holding yourself back for a while.

While you are catching your breath, Namjoon is busy getting rid of his clothes. Your hands itch to run over his chiselled chest, but you hold yourself back and appreciate the view for a second. In the dim light of the room, you look at Namjoons body and your breath hitches, as the realisation of just how fine he is, hits you all over again.

Long legs, thin waist, that rise to make way for wide shoulders and pectoral muscles to absolutely die for, not a single imperfection marred his smooth, tanned skin.

Every inch of him from his toes to the tip of his hair strands was perfect— or maybe you are just in love. Whatever the reason, you don't stop yourself, unabashedly raking an appreciative gaze over his body and let out a soft groan when he pulls his tee off of him, the action simple but incredibly hot to you in the moment.

‘‘Like what you see babygirl?” Namjoon smirks, now only in his boxers, as he gets down on his knees and leans over to unbutton your jeans, the button coming undone with a pop before he pushes the flap open and drops a kiss on the exposed skin of your navel.

You just humm, too wired with Namjoon so close to where you want, need him to be. Your exhales come out broken and your chest feels tight with anticipation.

You don't think anyone has ever made you feel this way before, you have barely even started, but for some reason, you can feel your wetness dripping out of you as the heat in your belly grows stronger.

A surprised squeak pushes out of you, and you arch off the bed, closing your legs when you realise Namjoon had pulled your panties along with your jeans and now you were naked, bare with nothing to hide just how aroused you were.

When your strayed eyes return back to Namjoons you find him standing there looking at you, you feel as his gaze rakes over you, slides over your skin like water and you blush, curl into yourself, a little self-conscious.

“You're the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Namjoon speaks, his voice soft and breathy, as his eyes find yours in the dim light, soft, glittering and brimming with affection. Looking into his eyes you feel reassured, confident in your own skin as you see how much you affect him and you push yourself up, sliding across the bed only stopping once you are at the edge.

With your hands on Namjoons waist, you push him back a few steps, getting down on your knees on the floor, you push your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and lookup. His gaze that was till now filled with nothing but affection and soft love for you was now once again growing dark, his chin jutting out, as his long, dark strands fell in front of his eyes, making him look like a dark, sinful dream.

One of his hands comes to your chin before it caresses the skin there and moves to the nape of your neck, sliding across your skin until it finally rests at the crown of your head—his touch leaving fire behind in its wake.

Still, with your eyes trained on his, you push the waistband down, the last piece of clothing on him, falling away under your hands with it.

His hand on your head tangles with your hair as he runs it through your strands, wrapping the ends around his hand like a yarn ball, and tugs.

Your neck arches from where it was inching closer to him before he tugs again, and you push yourself off of your knees and on your feet, as the tug becomes slightly painful. What you hadn’t accounted for before was how much you’d like that pain, the sting doing nothing more but arousing you further.

You try to take your tee off, but he tugs your hair again, and you let the ends drop, your eyes coming and finding him instead.

Your heart thuds and you wonder if he can hear it too. Your pulse racing, as your breaths come out more as soft pants than complete breaths. The foreplay, the tease, the promise of his touch has you feeling unbearably hot, and you feel as your wetness drips out of you and runs down your thigh.

“The shirt stays until I say otherwise.” Namjoon whispers before his lips are on you again. His hands sliding under your knees, as your legs go around his waist.

Picking you up, he lays you back on the bed before his lips leave yours and find purchase in the crook of your neck. His pillowy soft lips skim over your neck, leaving you breathless and you moan as they move down to your shoulder, his hands on your breasts kneading and squeezing the flesh.

When his lips finally fall to your breasts, you let out a broken moan, his mouth hot, wet and painfully good even through the thin layer of your tee. You internally thank your lucky stars that you had decided to forego your bra that day.

With only a thin, now wet piece of clothing between your sensitive bud and Namjoons mouth, the pleasure you feel makes your toes curl.

Your hands tangle in his strands, and his mouth moves over your shirt—biting, pulling and licking at the skin under.

Broken gasps and moans pour out of your mouth like a mantra, the feel of his other hand running down your side and stopping at your inner thigh, making you mewl as you ache for his touch.

Namjoon, however, has the patience of a saint, as even though you can feel how hard he is against your thigh, he doesn’t rush. Instead, taking his time as his lips rove over your breasts, kissing and sucking your skin under the tee raw.

You groan out in relief when his hands finally pull the ends of your tee over your head, and your skin feels the cool air of the room hit it, your nipples growing hard under the temperature shift.

When his lips finally do fall to your bare skin, it feels like heaven, your body so sensitive that, a simple tug on his side has you crashing into an orgasm—your back arching off the bed as a loud moan rips out of your body, waves of pleasure rushing through your bloodstream.

You hear Namjoon release your nipple with a 'pop' before he moves to slide further down your body, but you stop him.

Hands wrapped around his forearms, his muscles coiled and tight under your touch, you rasp out, “I want you, now.”

Your chest is still heaving from your last orgasm when you feel Namjoon position himself at your entrance, you moan when he bumps into you before he is sliding in and the moan turns into a loud groan.

Your legs cross behind his back as he drives into you and your walls clench, fluttering and squeezing him as your lips part, sighs and soft moans slipping out.

“Joon, oh god!"

You find his eyes in the dim-lit room, and you bring him closer, the hands on the nape of his neck pulling him to you, as you reach out to kiss him. The rush of affection and love that flows through your veins for the man above you almost makes you cry, the feel of his solid, warm body anchoring you to the reality of the moment. All your life all you had wanted was to be the one, someones forever after, you wanted the kind of love you dreamed of as a child, wrote about as an adult, and with Namjoon—with him? You think you might finally have found it.

His mouth is insistent on yours, parting your lips and dwelling in, licking and stroking every inch, sending wild tremors along your nerves as he becomes the only solid thing. Everything else around you falling apart, fading away until all you can feel is him.

Pulling back on a particularly deep thrust, Namjoon groans as your walls clench around him, pulling him in, every time he pulls back. You feel wet, warm and deliciously full as he thrusts in deep and hits your sweet spot, making your toes curl.

Moans and cries of his name fall off your lips like a prayer as he rocks into you and you feel the heat in your abdomen simmer, as an orgasm starts to build. Your hands grasp Namjoons back, and your nails scrape against the skin, making him growl out loud.

“Come for me baby, I’ve got you,” Namjoon whispers over your skin, his lips fluttering and forming the words over the juncture of your collarbone, leaving you with shivers running down your spine.

With a few more thrusts to your sweet spot, you are sent craning into your orgasm, your back arching as a scream rips out of you, and the world spins, as pure unadulterated euphoria flows through your veins.

Not too behind, Namjoon quickly follows with a loud groan, your name slipping past his lips, in a deep, guttural voice.

Your walls grip him tight, and you pull him closer into you as he comes, filling you up from inside, and you are left feeling full—sated.

As his orgasm rushes through him, the fall from the peak sending him reeling, he falls onto your chest, his face between your breasts and you run your hands through his hair, savour the moment, the feel of him still inside you, as close to you as anyone could ever physically be.

After a few seconds of catching his breath, he leans back a little to look at you, and you tilt your head up to meet him.

With only a few inches of space between the two of you, you take your time and look at each other, relish the closeness, let the reality set in. The silence stretches on, but it isn’t uncomfortable, if anything it’s nicer, like a warm hug, a space in time when you don’t need words because the touch of the other person is enough, more than enough.

“I love you.” You finally break the silence, your voice coming out low and a little hoarse, as your eyes gaze into his warm, chocolate brown ones. The very same eyes that you had looked into not too long ago and thought belonged to a stranger.

Now, you look into them and they look like coming home, the tiny little flecks of hazel at the edges which might go unseen by others, now so familiar to you .

That familiar close eyed smile of his that he has on now, as he hears you say that, the happy stretch of his full lips when he smiles, all of it fills you with so much love for him.

“I love you too.” Namjoon says, his deep, breathy voice forming the words that you had been longing to hear for some time now.

His eyes turn into two crescent moons when he sees you grin and a laugh spills out of him at seeing you get so happy after hearing his admission.

As you lay there, curled under him, you think you’ve finally got all that you had hoped for as a child, your own little perfect fairy tale. A house tucked away from the world, a garden full of roses, a job that you are passionate about, but most importantly, a man that you love—your own prince charming.

At that moment you feel like the two of you are infinite, the threads of your feelings for each other woven with your love—love that is far stronger than anything that time could wear and tear.

Cocooned under Namjoons warmth, with his arm wrapped tight against your waist, and your legs tangled with his, you think you finally understand why they say some infinities are bigger than other infinities.

Because even if you were galaxies apart, your soul would still always call out for Namjoon—would find him and then would tether itself to his forever, timelines and distances be damned.

Love ya, Thanks for reading!

—ditttiii ♡

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