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supernovafics · 10 days

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hiiii i just read your entire i’ll be there for you universe and I’M OBSESSED❤️❤️ Friends to lovers is my favourite trope ever and I love how you wrote a cute slow burn without characters being toxic and mean towards each other bc that happens a lot!

I was wondering how would their parents react to them being together?? And when do they decide to tell their parents, and how it goes down? It’s totally okay if you don’t want to write it but I thought it might be cute!🌸🌸

𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k words

warnings: explicit language, fluff, implied smut, very slight parent drama

summary: in which your parents finally find out that you and steve are dating

author's note: thanks for the request! (also for @hippiefairy02 since you requested basically the same thing like a week ago lol). i didn’t really know how to end this one so it kinda just ends lol<3 enjoy though<333

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Spring 1986

The movie became long forgotten after only the first twenty minutes, which was somewhat of a routine at this point. It was a good thing that you both had seen this one already.

If you were to look back at who started everything this time around you’d toss the blame onto Steve for initiating the first kiss, but he’d put the blame on you for settling yourself close into his side and giving him a “certain look.”

You were far from thinking about who started what, though, because all you could focus on was the feel of Steve settled on top of you and his mouth against yours.

Your hands started traveling underneath his plain white t-shirt and one of his took hold of your hip, teasingly slipping a finger or two beneath the waistband of your small pajama shorts. Your legs were tangled with his in a way that was a bit awkward because the couch was way too small to do anything completely comfortably, but you two were okay with making it work for the time being.

You maneuvered a bit, attempting to push up so that your head could find the pillow that was leaning against the arm of the couch, and the abrupt movement made your forehead bump his.

It didn’t even hurt, but Steve still pulled back and looked at you concerned. “You okay?”

You nodded as you tilted your head up a bit to press a quick kiss against his nose. “I’m fine. You okay?”

“‘M good.” He nodded too and then slotted his lips against yours again.

You were pulling away after only a second. “Wait, let’s switch. I feel like I’m gonna accidentally knee you or something.”

“Or we can just go to one of our rooms,” He suggested as his lips found your neck, which immediately made your eyes slip shut and you had to bite your lip to hold back the contented sigh that you wanted to let out.

You almost said yes to Steve’s words, it would’ve been so easy to say yes, but you were trying to keep your thinking somewhat rational, so you shook your head instead. “If we do that, we’re not gonna come out for the rest of the night. And we said that we’d at least try to study for the test we have on Thursday once the movie’s over.”

“The movie we’re not watching,” He mumbled against your neck.

“Still counts,” You said, lightly pushing him away, and he conceded as you shifted things around so that you were on top of him, settled nicely in his lap with your legs on either side of him. “See? Much better.”

Before he could potentially say anything in response, you pushed a hand through his hair and leaned down to kiss him. His fingers started teasingly playing with the hem of your t-shirt before simply finding a home on your hips and squeezing you there.

It was almost too obvious what should’ve happened next and both of you could feel the energy shifting into something a bit more heated, more needy. You would’ve lifted from his lap for a second so that he could slide down his sweatpants and boxers, and then you’d simply pull your underwear and shorts to the side because it would’ve been too much work to fully shimmy out of them.

But then the phone started ringing in the kitchen and everything that felt like it was right on the verge of happening was pushed out of the window.

You detached your mouth from Steve’s and sat up. “I’ll get it.”

He let out a groan, head falling back against the throw pillow and hands still on your hips. “Don’t.”

“We have six needy kids and a Robin, I think we have to answer it.”

“Sadly, that makes sense,” His grip on you loosened and you finally maneuvered off of him after pressing a quick kiss against his forehead.

You went to the kitchen, where the phone was, and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi,” It was easy to decipher your mom’s voice on the other end of the line. “What are you doing Saturday?”

It wasn’t surprising to you that your mom completely skipped past any sort of small talk; the “How are you’s” and “How’ve you been’s.” She always got straight to the point.

“Me and Steve are gonna be out of town this weekend,” You answered. “I planned this whole date thing and we leave Friday night.”

It was completely accidental; so accidental that at first, you didn’t even register what you had just told her.

“You and Steve are what?”

“We’re gonna be in Chicago this weekend for—” You stopped abruptly, finally realizing what you said before. “Oh. Oh, yeah, um, we’re dating.”

Her gasp was immediate. “Oh my God.”

You couldn’t decipher what that reaction was. She sounded surprised, definitely, but you couldn’t tell if it was a happy kind of surprise or upset.

“How long has it been?”

“A few months.” You shut your eyes then, bracing yourself for what you knew was about to be nothing short of an interrogation.

“What? Why haven’t you told us sooner?”

In all honesty, it wasn’t like either you or Steve were planning on keeping it from your parents forever, it had just never come up in the handful of conversations you’d had with them over the last few months.

“It’s just, I don’t know. It hadn’t come up yet,” You ultimately answered. “And plus, you never really cared that much about my other relationships.”

“Sure, but Steve’s completely different. This is great!” She told you, and you inwardly sighed in relief that she was happy about the news; even though you were certain that you wouldn’t have cared about having her “approval” either way. “Does Christine know?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’m gonna call her right now,” Your mom told you, and you were actually perfectly okay with her ending the call with you right then to go call Steve’s mom instead. “Oh, this is so great!”

She was hanging up before you could say anything else and you were sighing as you placed the phone back on the hook.

“I’m sorry,” You told Steve as you joined him back on the couch.

He looked at you, confused. “What happened?”

“I accidentally just told my mom that we’re dating, and now she’s calling your mom to tell her too.”

“Oh, okay, that’s not that bad,” He shrugged. “I guess it had to happen eventually.”

“Yes, but I was kinda hoping that that day would be years from now. Like, when we sent out wedding invitations or something.”

In your head, telling your friends about you and Steve was one thing, but telling your parents was something entirely different. Your friends were heavily involved in your life, and you knew that you couldn’t keep it from them forever because of that; and then it eventually just felt right to finally be honest about it, anyway.

Telling your parents, on the other hand, was the farthest thing from your mind.

“They would probably kill us if we did that. Especially our moms because you know that they’re gonna wanna be involved in the whole thing,” Steve told you, and you knew he was right.

There were some few and far in-between moments where your parents would switch and pretend to be real parents that were actually involved in their kid’s life. Usually, it only happened during the holidays; Christmases spent pretending that you were a happy and normal family or Thanksgivings that were used to prove the same thing. In a way, it made sense for this news to warrant that same kind of treatment.

You groaned as you leaned further into Steve. “I hate that you’re right.”

Your mom was calling back barely twenty minutes later, right as the two of you were in the middle picking up where you had left off before the first call. Steve answered that time, pulling his sweatpants back up and heading over to the kitchen, and you slipped your shirt back over your head.

“Oh, um, yeah, that’s fine. That night is good,” You heard him say. “We’ll be there.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion at whatever he was agreeing to right then.

He hung up a few moments later and gave you an apologetic look. “Okay, now I’m the one that needs to say sorry.”

“What happened?”

“It was your mom,” Steve started as he sat next to you again. “She said she talked to my mom and they’re both really happy about us dating. And they decided that they wanna have a “celebratory dinner” kind of thing with us.”

“No.”

Steve nodded. “It’s gonna be at your parent’s house on Thursday since she knows that we’re going to Chicago for the weekend. I couldn’t think of an excuse on the spot, so I was just agreeing.”

“Oh, God. I feel like this is gonna be like Thanksgiving all over again.”

“Hopefully the dessert is better this time around,” He said, attempting to lighten the mood, and you let out a laugh.

“If not, then we will definitely be ending the night at Third Street,” You told him and he nodded in agreement before pulling you into his lap.

“Can we please go to my room?” He asked, arms circling around you. “I feel like the couch is cursed.”

You smiled, lips finding his for a brief second. “Okay, yes, I’ll allow it.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

This night didn’t feel anything like the Thanksgiving dinner that you and Steve had been forced to have all those months ago; at least, not at first. During that night, your parents had gone on and on about their ski trip that was coming up and there were barely any moments where the conversation was focused on you and Steve.

Now things were different because all they cared about was talking about you two, which did make sense given the reasoning for the dinner. But still, you knew your parents, and this amount of excited fanfare surrounding the two of you felt entirely unexpected.

Your dad was jokingly giving his “stamp of approval” for the relationship, and Steve’s dad was saying something about how you’d always been a good influence on Steve. And then your moms went on tangent after tangent going down memory lane and telling stories about you and Steve as kids.

“I’d been hoping this would happen ever since the cruise,” Christine said, a happy smile on her face. “You two were practically attached at the hip the entire time, and that still hasn’t changed.”

“Yes, you guys were always so cute together. Oh, and remember when you took each other to your proms? I think I still have the pictures somewhere,” Your mom said, smiling happily as well, and you honestly wouldn’t have even minded if she brought out the pictures.

Eventually, though, things shifted, and toward the end of dinner, the conversation moved away from you and Steve. Instead, your parents started reminiscing about old moments from their collective friendship that didn’t involve you and Steve at all. This made sense to you; you knew that it could only be a matter of time before they finally started talking about themselves.

With the topic of you and Steve long forgotten, you two slipped away from the table, no one noticing or stopping you, and retreated to your old bedroom that was just down the hall.

You sat at the foot of your old bed and watched as Steve simply walked around, taking a look at the things that you had decided to leave behind and not bring along to the apartment.

You kicked your shoes off and crossed your legs under you. “Tonight actually hasn’t been completely unbearable.”

“Yeah, weirdly, it hasn’t,” Steve agreed as he walked over to you and leaned down to press a kiss against the top of your head. “There’s no dessert though, so we’ll have to go to Third Street.”

“Do you think they’d notice if we slipped out of my window right now?”

He laughed a bit. “Fifty-fifty shot.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t mind taking those odds,” You said, smiling up at him.

“I would say okay, but I think I have to be the reasonable one here and say that we should just walk out the front door like normal people.”

His words only made you smile wider because usually, it was you who would say the logical thing to do in situations.

“We’ve swapped roles tonight,” You said as you stood up and put your shoes back on. “I think you do a great job as the reasonable one.”

“I don’t like it. You can have that job back after tonight,” He told you, smiling as his hand found yours.

You only nodded as you and he headed out of your bedroom. Your parents were still at the dining table, laughing about something that you didn’t hear.

“Hey, we’re gonna head out. We have to wake up early tomorrow, so yeah,” You said, pulling their attention onto you and Steve. It was a lie, but it felt like it would be a plausible enough excuse. “Thanks for tonight.”

“Yeah, it was great,” Steve agreed with a quick nod.

A slew of “Goodnight’s” and “Drive safe’s” came from your parents, which you two nodded and smiled at before exiting your house.

You let out a sigh of relief once you were sat in the passenger seat of Steve’s car.

The night hadn’t been horrible, you’d experienced much worse dinners with your parents. But that didn’t mean that you weren’t glad that this one was over.

“So, are we gonna be basic tonight and do milkshakes, or have whatever pie Mary made for the night?” You asked as you played with the radio and then left it on a station that you’d probably end up changing in a minute or two.

Steve took a quick glance at you and smiled. “If she made apple, then I think the answer is obvious.”

“Very true,” You nodded and smiled back at him.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fluff #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington series #stranger things series #stranger things fic #stranger things imagine #posting this and running away for the rest of the night🫡#see yall in the morning🫶🏾

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 7 months

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wibta if i keep having sex with my friends dad? nsfw warning

i (20s cismale) got invited by my friend (20s nonbinary) to try out some new edibles they made last thursday. this isnt too weird because both of us are unemployed (they get disability, i get money from unemployment, and we both live with our parents) and usually during the day their dad (50s cismale) is at work so we get the house to ourselves. well last thursday was different because i came over late in the night when their dad was home, and he offered to make me some dinner too. i get the munchies really bad so i was immediately like yes please and thank you while i fucked off to my friends room. we played some smash bros while we waited for the cookies to kick in, and when it started to hit his dad called us both out for dinner. dinner was great, and his dad is super chill — so he let us raid his alcohol cabinet. i dont think he knew either of us were stoned for the record (im naturally really quiet/dont make eye contact, my friend sounds high 24/7 naturally) so i dont think he was like trying to get anyone drunk or anything. my tolerance is pretty good but my friends is shit so it didnt take long until they were like blackout drunk and passing out on the couch, while their dad and i were both drunk too (not blackout but pretty drunk, and i was still high) and sitting on the opposite side of the couch next to eachother

important fact about me - i crossdress like femboys or whatever theyre called. i like looking really feminine and cute and confusing people. im not trans or anything like that gender is just a game and i am winning it. but i do tend to dress up in very egirl/goth gf clothes if you know what i mean, and i look pretty convincing ive been told (friend tells me i would pass for ciswoman with the makeup on). i think their dad maybe forgot that i was me (he usually sees me in boy clothes) and he started hitting on me? i didnt think i was gay or bi either until he started doing it and i got really flustered but i didnt stop him? again i was fucked up so the attention felt really nice despite it being my friends dad. but anyways he kept getting closer until he kissed me, and it felt nice so i let it keep going? which was probably super fucked up in retrospect. but anyways stuff gets hot and steamy, their dad doesnt bother lifting up my skirt, one thing leads to another and we have sex. he definitely noticed im not a girl during that (its pretty hard to miss lol) but he didnt stop so we kept going for a while

after we were done he and i passed out on the couch in a kind of awkward position, we both woke up in the morning and i think thats when he realized im me, but he didnt seem to freak out even though hes straight?? or at least i thought he was straight. but we had sex again in the morning and then when my friend woke up we all had breakfast and i went back to my friends room and we hung out more and got high again. while we were though i accidentally spilled the beans to my friend, and they FREAKED out on me and said that i was so gross for doing that, and they cant believe that it happened, stuff like that. they kicked me out of their room and their dad had to drive me home because i was shaking bad from it. but while their dad drove me home i was super pissed and mad and not thinking straight (haha) and so i tried to convince their dad to take a detour so we could fuck again. and he was like, okay sure, so we did?? but now i feel horrible for doing it knowing that it grossed my friend out so much, but i really like their dad and he seems to like me too, and i want to keep banging him :(

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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studyblr-perhaps · 3 months

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01/02/24 || Thursday

I keep feeling like I forgot something lol. I had two quizzes which went well (fortunately), and I am doing okay in my classes. I wanted a break from studying today and got to sit and make the bujo spread for February. It's not the best thing I've made but it's something, and I'll take it. I have wanted to go back to bujo this year (not for tracking purposes because it never works for me, but for art and creativity) and it's going along okay. Now hopefully I keep up with it and make the rest of the spreads too.

Day 3/30 of 30-Day New Year Momentum Challenge

What does your ideal study plan look like this week?

I usually just write down the stuff I need to do and wing everything as I go. But as for now, I have to study for a quiz next week, fill internship applications, beg for letter of recommendations, and finish two presentations for a lab course. When will I do it? Idk let's see.

Ideally I'd prefer to study around 4 hours a day and have a couple of hours for my hobbies but I know I'll end up just scrolling through insta for six hours so I just wing everything.

#does anyone wanna see my bujo spreads? ill post it once (if) i finish #studyblr #studying #studyspo #studyinspo #aesthetic #study aesthetic #30NYM #academia #academia aesthetic #physics #uni #stem #women in stem #stemblr #stem aesthetic #misa tries #misa's undergrad journey #100

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vidavalor · 4 months

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Do you think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink in addition to his 'food' and 'Crowley watching him do stuff' kinks? *hands you a box of spiced apple muffins, along with the recipe: https://www.hairybikers.com/recipes/view/spiced-apple-muffins*

Hi @jotun-philosopher! A recipe!!! I'm so excited. The website you shared is quite interesting. I'll have to make these on the other side of my holiday food as they look delicious. Do I think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink? Oh, yeah. Raging might be an understatement lol.

Praise kink and trauma thoughts under the cut.

In S2, we go from Lord Beezlebub paralleling Aziraphale, missing their Crowley (Gabriel) while in Hell, and musing that it'd be nice if someone ever told them they were doing a good job over to Aziraphale doing some difficult trauma work in Edinburgh and calling Crowley to talk to him about it. What goes a little undersung here, imo, is the way this is filmed and how Aziraphale can't stop talking about 1827 to a point that Crowley actually has to prompt him into telling him what he learned at the pub about Gabriel. This is because while Aziraphale-- who really didn't need to go to this cemetery at all for any reason related to figuring out what happened to Gabriel-- has been back to Edinburgh since 1827 (Crowley mentions him going to Edinburgh "for the festival" in 1.01), he's never been back to this spot since the night Crowley was yanked to Hell in front of him.

When we come in on Aziraphale at the cemetery, it's right off of that scene in the 1827 flashback and then we watch Aziraphale turn around again, now in the present, right? It's that he does have to turn around that's pretty significant. It says that he's not here because he thought maybe seeing Gabriel's statue again might give him some random insight as to what's happening to Gabriel in the present. He wasn't looking at the statue at first-- we come in on him looking at the spot where Crowley was taken.

Crowley and Aziraphale are in a place between S1 and S2 where Armageddon: Round Two could theoretically happen at any time. They have no idea if it's happening in five years or next Thursday or in an hour, really, and that's made the fact that Aziraphale has really never gotten over 1827 worse for him, to a point that it now bothers him to be away from Crowley for any significant length of time, especially if they've been arguing, because he's always worried that something will happen while they're apart and he'll never see him again. He spent almost a month (estimated by the dates in his diary) in 1827 thinking that had happened. He does some work on that in Edinburgh by deciding to go to the spot again and, when he does, he has to magically get the nearest cell phone so he can talk to Crowley from the spot because he knows that hearing his voice will help.

By telling Crowley that he's looking at the statue of Gabriel, we get in his knowledge that Crowley will understand the significance of this (and in Crowley's response indicating that he does) that they've talked about this at some point. There are other suggestions of that in the season (like the "I'm coming back. I won't leave you on your own" moment) but this phone conversation says that Aziraphale has verbalized to Crowley at some point how much 1827 still bothers him and Crowley understands that Aziraphale is telling him that he's taking a step towards trying to deal with it more.

(This is also an example of Aziraphale having done something clever and needing to call Crowley to tell him about it before he pops lol, which he's apparently been doing a lot lately since he no longer can get a pat on the back from Heaven, not that he ever did much, which is part of the whole damn problem. One could then perhaps presume that Crowley's been doling out a lot of praise over the phone of late, in addition to in person.)

So Crowley responds to Aziraphale telling him that he's in the cemetery in Edinburgh and looking at the Gabriel statue/trying to deal with 1827 by doing what they do sometimes-- cheer each other up from some depressing stuff about the past with a little of some of each other's favorite sexy chat.

This is basically a mirror in reverse of the scene in S1 in the car on the way to Tadfield where Crowley tells Aziraphale more about the antichrist baby swap and how it went wrong. Crowley was feeling depressed about the whole mess and how Armageddon was imminent now as a result of it and Aziraphale's response was to pivot to what was, effectively, dirty talking him in blasphemous Bible speak euphemisms in a dry-as-all-fuck, combination Pompous Angel/mildly soft dom tone because Crowley's sooooo weak for that lol. (I'm talking about the "seeds of destruction" scene, the dirtiness of which is probably a whole other meta, since we're mostly talking about Aziraphale here.)

Aziraphale's version of that is a massive praise kink. He looooves being told he's good at something or he did a good job or really just anything related to him and goodness, since Heaven's done a number on him and he struggles sometimes to fundamentally believe that he is good, which is lunacy but so are negative thought cycles in the first place. The praise thing with Crowley isn't unhealthy-- I'm not suggesting that. Aziraphale's negative thought cycle is unhealthy, obviously, but the praise kink thing with Crowley is actually not a terrible counter to it. It's obviously not the entire solution to dealing with Heaven's abuse of him but it is also doesn't hurt that Aziraphale believes Crowley and values what he thinks, which can help break up negative thoughts.

It exists both in and out of bed and Crowley was intentionally blending that over the phone in the Edinburgh scene by responding to Aziraphale being like I did the really hard trauma work thing we were talking about today and I'm still here go me with the kind of praise you'd give someone for doing something that was tough ("good job") but delivered low and with the little "mmrmm" before it, which was to associate it with, uh, other kinds of praise Aziraphale has elicited from Crowley before, by way of also invoking Aziraphale's Assorted Rumbly Crowley Sounds Kink as well.

Aziraphale undoubtedly heard it and replied around it, like he was doing with most of Crowley's flirting with him in S2, because driving Crowley slowly insane is also Aziraphale's favorite past time. It was made funnier by the fact that he left Crowley in London to get The Shop Lesbians together, explain The Vavoom to a memory-wiped Jimbriel, answer any questions about love for the Inspector Constable angel Heaven sent to spy on them, and fix Shax's "hot water boiler" so The Love Doctor was in and getting no love himself lol. Crowley's comment wasn't meant to go anywhere anyway, really-- Gabriel was literally five feet away at the time, which was probably also amusing Crowley-- but yeah, I think the conscious, intentional way Crowley phrased that is meant to suggest that Aziraphale not only likes positive reinforcement in life in general but has a bit of a raging praise kink in bed, with which Crowley is very familiar.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #good omens 2 #aziracrow

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pattypanini · 1 month

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Lay All Your Love On Me Chapter 5- Rules

Josh Kiszka x Reader AND slight Jake Kiszka x Reader

Word Count: Around 4k

AN: Hi everyone! Here is the fifth chapter of Lay All Your Love On Me from me and @mar-rein12! Thank you so much for all the support, we appreciate it all. Here is the taglist incase anyone wants to be added to it: TAGLIST. This is our last 'smaller' chapter but its filled with lots of good stuff. We hope you enjoy chapter 5, Rules.

Also get ready for smut because it doesn't end from here, only gets worse. LOL. And get more use to Jake, because we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him soon 😘

Next chapter coming this Thursday!

Warnings: 18+, SMUTTTTT, Unprotected sex, Tit fondling, Fingering, Oral (F receiving), Angst, Flirting, Cursing, Hickeys, Alcohol, not good coping mechanisms, jealousy, heavy petting. (lmk if i forgot anything!)

Y/n’s POV:

Walking to class the next morning was an experience. You both ended up sleeping through the alarm and had to get ready at his house. So that meant having to go to class in his sweats and t-shirt from last night. Charlotte wasn’t the happiest that you didn’t walk with her to class, in fact you ended up being half an hour late to your lecture, but telling her about the night distracted her from her anger.

“He may or may not have eaten me out..” You raise your eyebrows, as you tilt your cold brew up to your lips, taking a swig.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Charlotte covers her mouth to keep her drink in.

“Char, quiet down please. I don’t think all of Starbucks wants to know about my night,” you scolded her with a chuckle. It had become routine to go to Starbucks after your first class due to the break you both had before your next one.

“Well… how was it? Was he good?” Charlotte presses.

“It was really good. A lot better than I expected, I’ll say that. His talkativeness definitely translates into the bedroom.”

“Omg, I bet you're looking forward to practicing now. I mean you guys are, like, practically married at this point.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, in a teasing manner.

To be honest you weren’t looking forward to practice this afternoon knowing that Lindsey would be expecting a cover of your adventures of last night, and that Josh would be listening to it to hear what you rated his performance. So fucking cocky.

“Umm yeah, sure I guess I’m excited.” You respond, knowing you were completely lying to her.

You finish your drinks and say your goodbyes, making your way to your hour and a half long class that you would spend most of the time online shopping.

—

First week of April 2023- Spring Semester- Junior Year

The rest of the week, practice goes fairly smooth. It was now the beginning of April and you were enjoying your time at practice, feeling very confident in your role. You still had a little over a month before the real deal but everyone was making good progress. But of course something was nagging at you. Josh was still talking and flirting with that bitch, Sophia. Yeah you were a little jealous, but so was she. She wanted Josh so bad and can’t take seeing Josh being flirty with you.

When everyone was trying out, Sophia explained that she would be soooo perfect for the role of Sophie. Apparently, she's not as perfect as she thinks because you’re the one that got the lead. Guys only want her because she has a fat ass, but she’s just a fucking airhead. All looks, no brains and definitely no personality. She was very rude to everyone she met except for guys. You didn’t understand how Josh couldn’t see that. Or maybe he did, and he just wanted you to get jealous. Asshole.

By the time it hit Friday you were so done with the week. You were kinda excited to hangout with Josh this weekend since you barely talked during the week, but you couldn't seem too desperate.

You walk over to Josh who is still talking to Sophia way after practice ended to talk to him about the weekend. “Hey Sophia, are you done talking to Josh?”

“I’m actually not sooo.”

“It was a rhetorical question dumbass soooo, bye.” You give a bitchy smile, sending her on her way. Josh turns to you with a confused look on his face.

“Uhhh what the fuck y/n?”

“Did you really have any interest in what she was saying, because your body language alone shows literally anything but interest.”

He rolls his eyes, waiting for what you have to say.

“Are we hanging out this weekend?”

“Why so desperate for me y/n? Did Monday night really change you.” He says smirking, eyeing you up and down.

“Sorry for wanting to be around you, besides I can’t be hanging out with anyone else, but you don’t seem to be holding up your end of the bargain so I guess it doesn’t matter. So what are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going to the Alpha Delta Phi house tonight for their party, but you're not coming, those guys would be all over you.”

“Is Sophia coming?”

“Yeah but only because she heard I was going, but you're not coming.”

“Okay fine. I’ll just call Mark to have him over. See you on Monday.” You turn, beginning to walk away before you feel a hand grab your shoulder, turning you Josh’s way.

“No you're not!” He says looking deep into your eyes with anger, and jealousy. “If you're coming you're staying with me, got it?”

You nod your head with innocence and leave without another word. Tonight was going to be fun, and Josh would finally realize why no other girl could ever replace you.

JOSH’s POV:

The shower was relaxing, especially after a week of long practices and stupid classes. You just wanted to unwind and get a little drunk at tonight's party. You weren’t super thrilled when Sophia said she wanted to come to the party, not that you care about her being around everyone. You just didn't want to hear her yap all night, that was your job.

You wanted to pick out an outfit that you knew y/n would like, but she really hasn’t expressed what she likes on you, so you opted to stick with your basics, a white t-shirt, khaki shorts, and high top white vans.

You quickly shoved your pen in your pocket and keys and you and Jake started heading towards the main road. You texted y/n that you would meet her outside the frat house at 11:15 before you went in. You wouldn’t let her walk into that damn house alone, even though she probably has a million times.

The walk to the house was quiet. Jake has obviously been flirting with y/n, but she wasn’t reciprocating it so you didn’t worry. When you finally got there you waited outside and sent y/n a text.

11:13pm Josh: We’re here, where are you?

11:13 pm y/n: I’m on the street, chill.

You waited a moment and scrolled on your phone until you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turn to see her. Holy shit. She was pure beauty. Y/n stands there wearing a plum corset top with black leather pants and black docs. Her long hair was curled loosely and fell over her shoulders perfectly. Her makeup was gorgeous and perfectly accentuated her features. You hadn't realized how long you had been staring for before y/n said something.

“Josh, hello? Are you good?” She flashed her perfect, white teeth at you.

“Oh yeah, we can head in.” You notice her necklace is off centered and reach forward to fix it, lining the initial in the middle of her collarbone.

“Thanks Joshy.” She smiles at you and makes her way up the stairs as you turn to look at Jake.

“Pick your jaw off the floor Jake, she's not yours bud.”

“We’ll see about that, brother.” He pats you on the back, a stupid smirk plastered across his face, following y/n’s footsteps.

I’m gonna kill him.

Something about tonight made you think you were going to need a fair amount of alcohol. You make your way to the kitchen where bottles are scattered across the counter tops. The rooms were dark and overstimulating with all the music and people. You make your way across the room on the creaky floors into the kitchen. You grab a cup for you and y/n and attempt to find her in the ocean of people. When you finally find her dancing with some of her friends you tap her and hand her her drink.

“Thanks Joshyyy.” She smiles, takes a sip, and continues to dance. She already seems a little tipsy.

“Did you drink already?” You ask, taking a sip of your own drink.

“I meannnn, I had a few shots before I came, but I’m tot-ally in control.” She says slurring her words. She grabs you by your shirt pulling you into her, forcing you to dance with her. In her drunken state, you feel a splash of something soak into your white shirt. “Josh, oh my god, I’m sorryyy.”

“Fuck. Uh, it’s fine,” You were pissed, slightly embarrassed as well. Annoyed, you stomp away from her to find some napkins.

As you enter the kitchen, you locate the napkins and look over to y/n’s direction. You see she’s already found another guy. She leans her head on the mystery man’s shoulder, loudly speaking into his ear.

“My number is 517, wait, that's not close. Um, haha. Uh, 273- 5. Wait fuck- its actually 274,” she screams into his ear, laughing hysterically. “The last four digits are-”

You’ve had enough, you race towards her leaning into her ear. “What did you not understand about our deal?” You say through gritted teeth, speaking just loud enough so only she could hear.

“I’m only being nice. Cool it.” She snaps back at you, defensively.

“Fine. I guess I can be ‘nice’ too, hm?” You walk away from her, beginning to regret letting her come along. You grab your pen from your pocket and take a quick hit, followed by another sip of the mixed drink. You make your way to the dance floor, looking for her. When your eyes spot her, you quickly make your way over.

You reach your hand out to her, inviting her to dance with you. “ Care to dance?” You offer her a syrupy, sweet smile. Your eyes plead with her to say ‘yes’.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Sophia takes your hand and you guide her so her back is pressed against your front. The song Kill The Lights begins to blare through the speakers, undoubtedly rupturing anyone’s eardrums who were in close vicinity. The strobe lights flicker around the, otherwise, dark room. Your hands land on her hips, grinding her ass into your semi-hard dick. She looked lovely tonight dressed in an emerald green bodysuit paired with black skinny jeans. Her tits practically falling out of her top and her jeans perfectly highlighting her curvy hips.

“You look pretty tonight, Soph,” You lean down and whisper into her ear.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Kiszka,” she retorts, biting her lip and grinding harder into you.

“Oh fuck,” the friction of her grinding was beginning to get to you. You break away from her, turning her around to face you. “Want me to fill up your drink?”

“Please,” she hands you her cup and you scurry off to the kitchen, yet again. It appeared to be your favorite place tonight. You find yourself looking y/n’s way, to see her staring back at you.

Y/n’s POV

Are you fucking joking. After everything you guys talked about, he still takes it as a fucking joke. Well, maybe you weren't one to talk, but two can play at that game. You make your way through the crowd, in search of a Kiszka twin, and certainly not the slutty, fuckboy twin. You see him standing leaning against the wall, beer in hand. His black button up only buttoned to his navel, enticing you even more. “Can you dance?” You ask him, batting your lashes at Jake.

“Fuck, yeah!” You grab his hand forcefully pulling him to the dance floor, and right pass Josh so he can see you and his twin walking by, hand and hand. Blame It by Jamie Foxx and T- Pain begins to play and that was enough to get you in a certain mood. You left no time to start grinding up on Jake, pressing your ass into his dick.

His hands began feeling up and down your body, going from your ass, around your hips, up to your waist. As you look deep into Josh’s eyes you grab Jake's hands and begin to reach down pulling them higher so they are just below your tits. Your hips sway against him, feeling his dick harden into your ass.

“y/n…” Jake mumbles into your ear, seductively. “Damn..” You move his hands to sit right on top of your tits and he gives them a light squeeze. “... you’re so fucking beautiful.”

You would hate this type of PDA normally, but tonight you were just in the mood for revenge.

“I know you’ve been wanting to touch me, Jake,” You turn around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Yeah? Who says?” His brow quirks up, challenging you. He pulls you closer, your bodies now flush together.

“Says me, and all the flirting you’ve been doing lately.” You tilt your face up to his, looking directly into his chocolatey brown eyes. A few moments of silence pass as you both continue to dance.

You feel a hand wrap around your bicep and pull you away from Jake.

“What the actual, fuck, do you think you’re doing?” It was Josh. His eyes darted between you and his brother.

“Just having some fun Josh since you wanted to leave me stranded on the dance floor! You expected me to dance all alone? I don’t fucking think so,” You snap at him, ripping your arm out of his hand, turning back to Jake.

“Where were we?” You shoot him a small smile, simply to get under Josh’s skin.

“No, it's time to leave, let's go.” He says pulling you away from his brother, dragging you out of the party.

You rip your hand out of his, yet again, and cross your arms as you walk with a purpose to get back to your dorm, whether he would follow or not.

“You’re no fucking fun Josh! You expect me to just stand there while Sophia is grinding on you. I may have been a little drunk but I’m sober enough to realize that you aren’t following the rules. So, OF COURSE, I wasn’t going to either. I didn’t think you could be so dense Josh!” You practically scream at him, as he follows close behind you.

After a long quiet walk you finally make it to your dorm, with him still hot on your heels. Charlotte, without a doubt, would be staying at someone else's dorm tonight so you would be alone. You swing the door open trying to shut it infront of him, but he stopped it before it could fully close. As you make it into your bedroom, you slowly peel your pants off feeling over-stimulated, leaving you in only your corset and undies. After struggling to get your pants off you flop onto your bed, facing up to the ceiling.

You close your eyes for a brief moment, and feel a presence above you.

“You’re being a fucking brat you know that, and its making me crazy, y/n.” He begins to put his hands on both sides of your head, hovering above you. His lips dangerously close to your ear. “You don’t know what you do to me, mama, do you?” You shake your head, obviously knowing you make him horny. “Well I’m gonna fucking show you, and there won’t be any more confusion.”

JOSH’s POV

God, you don't know how long you’d be able to keep it together before you unleashed everything you had on her, but you had to work up to it. You wanted so badly to put her over your legs and spank her hard to teach her a lesson, but since she drank you didn’t think that would be the best move. Hooking your fingers under her panties you pull them aside, giving you full access to her beautiful wet pussy that you know you didn’t contribute to. But you knew you’d contribute to her not being able to walk tomorrow.

“Who made you this wet, mama?” You already know the answer but you just want to hear her say it out loud.

“Y-You Joshy.” She says with innocent eyes. Anticipation written all over her pretty face.

“No, I said who fucking made you this wet, huh? Was it the guy in the corner or my fucking brother. Don’t you dare lie to me,” You say, grabbing her face slightly, making her look into your eyes.

“It was Jakey, I’m sorry baby.” Jakey? Not the fucking pet names.

“Don’t be giving him fucking pet names, those are for me and me only, got it?” She nods again, and you let go of her face.

“There seems to be a lot you need to learn mama, and we're gonna make sure you know all of that before the end of the night.”

You kneel again before her, wasting no time to get to her wet heat. You bring your fingers up to the entrance of her mouth, “Open.” She opens her mouth up, sticking her tongue out slightly. What a dirty whore. You shove your fingers deep down her throat, making her gag slightly. As you bring them out she sucks on them, making your already hard dick throb under the fabric of your shorts.

You shove them deep into her pussy, curling them up to hit all the good spots. As if you had hit a button, she begins to arch her back and moan.

“Let it all out, let me hear you baby. Your moans make me so fucking hard. They turn me on so much, mama.” You quicken the pace of your fingers.

“Josh, oh my god. You’re perfect holy fuck. Your fingers fill me up so good.” You’d be filling her up even more soon.

You notice her tits bouncing in her corset, that needs to come off, immediately. You remove your fingers and flip her onto her stomach. You start unlatching all the clips and turn her back over to back to peel it off the front of her. Her marks had faded from the other week.

You lean forward, making quick work of your mouth to create new purple bruises that would match her corset perfectly. Kissing each one of them before connecting your mouth with hers.

“Are you ready for my cock mama?” You ask quietly.

She frantically nods her head, you could tell she needed it, but we weren't going to give it to her that easy.

“Beg for it baby, tell me how much you need my hard cock in that pretty pussy of yours.”

“Fuck Josh I need it so bad. Wanna feel you inside” You begin to unlatch your pants pulling them down to the floor. “You're gonna stretch me out so good with your huge cock.” Bending down to her pussy, spitting straight onto it. “I wanna cum around your cock, please Josh.” You grin feeling like she gave you enough. You slap her pussy before thrusting into her hard, not giving her much time to adjust.

You lean forward, one hand on the bed, one on her tit. You lay a sloppy kiss to her lips and fuck into her hard. You could tell you were hitting the right spots. She was moaning and bracing herself by grabbing your biceps, which very quickly escalated to her nails scratching down your back. Fuck. It fucking hurt, but hurt so good.

As you continued to pound hard into her you felt a new angle was needed. You pick yourself off her and begin to grab her ankles, and pull them up to your shoulders. Letting them rest there as you fuck her even deeper now.

She was melting beneath you, becoming a sloppy mess. Her moans picked up, you could tell she, and yourself, were close to a breaking point. You kiss her ankles softly, which contrasted to the hard pounding you were inflicting onto your pussy.

“Where do you want me to cum baby?” You say through heavy breathing.

“Cum in me Josh, I wanna feel you fill me up.” Holy shit. You weren’t going to question it. As you get closer to your release you begin to feel squeezing around your cock.

“God, y/n, if you keep squeezing me like that I’ll come right, fucking, now.”

“FUCK JOSH, I’m gonna cum. Please don’t stop, harder!” She begins to buck up against you, meeting your thrusts.

“That's it baby, cum for me. You're such a good girl for me”

With that she let out one final moan, filling the room with pleasure. You weren't too far behind her. You continued pounding her hard and within a few seconds came right into her pussy, just like she told you to.

You fell into the spot right beside her in bed.

“You think you learned your lesson?” You tease, looking over at her.

“Definitely Josh, it’ll be hard not to think about you.”

“Yeah? Why is that y/n”

“Because I’m going to be thinking about you every single time I try to walk.”

You can’t help but laugh at her comment. You wanted to make her feel good, make her want you even more.

You couldn’t be bothered to get dressed, instead you pull the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, press a kiss into her head, and fall asleep next to the girl of your dreams.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TAGLIST

@demonrat444 @gvfstuddedmajesty @jordie-gvf @jazzyfigz @slut4lando @gvfmarge @peaceloveunitygvf @jjwasneverhere @areuirish @mar-rein12 @woyayaofdreams @freyjalw @musicspeaks

#greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf #greta van smut #gvf fic #gvf smut #josh gvf #josh kiskza fanfic #josh kiskza smut #josh kiszka #jake kiskza x reader #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #jake gvf #jake kiszka

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elliesflower · 1 year

Text

i saw you in a dream [5]

summary; you attend ellie's open mic performance. and meet her...roommate.

chapter; 5/? 3.1k words

cw (per chapter); recreational marijuana usage, language

an; hi lol. i love u guys, thank you endlessly for dealing with my slow updating of this story. anyways, i think this may be my favorite chapter yet, please let me know what you think! i love a good cliffhanger ;) (as always, find it on ao3 here)

chapter 4 here

Friday came entirely too quickly—you breezed through your last final exam on Thursday, which left you way too much time to anxiously anticipate your upcoming…event.

“Date!” Dina exclaimed. “Ellie asked you to go because she likes you, it’s practically a date,” she singsonged, twirling a piece of hair around her finger childishly.

“Yes, because I’m sure we’ll have so much time to talk one-on-one and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes in between performances,” you replied sarcastically, continuing to rummage through your closet. “And, you don’t know that she likes me, maybe she just asked me because I was right there.”

“Okay, for someone so smart, sometimes you’re a little stupid,” Dina said, and you shot her the most evil side eye you could manage. “Ellie may or may not like you like that, but she likes you enough to invite you to something that sounds personal and important to her. This is your in! Now, you just have to get flirty.”

“‘Get flirty?’ Do you even know me at all?” You scoffed, turning to face her. “I am, like, the most awkward human being on the planet.”

“Okay, I take it back,” Dina laughed, standing up. “Let’s just focus on finding you an outfit.”

“What the hell do you even wear to an open-mic?” You complained, turning back to continue looking through your closet.

“You could wear something of mine, if you want,” she suggested.

“Uh, no thank you,” you smiled, pulling out a plain black mock-neck from the depths of your closet, turning around and holding it up to your chest.

“Hey!” Dina gasped. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“No offense, but I don’t really think…whatever look you have going on is the one for me.” It’s not that you didn’t like the way Dina dressed, rather, you really did like it—but expressing yourself through clothing had always been hard for you, sticking to more muted tones, blacks and greys. Dina’s wardrobe was loud and colorful, she always looked so put together, and she never seemed to wear the same thing twice. You admired it, really, but still found yourself gravitating towards more basic clothing.

“Whoever said saying ‘no offense’ actually makes a statement any less offensive needs their ass beat, to be honest,” she replied casually, and you could hear her sorting through hangers in her own closet. “Just try this, at least. It would look nice with that shirt, I promise!” She was shoving a colorful chunky-knit cardigan into your hands before you could protest, and you grimaced.

“I don’t know Dee,” you held up the sweater, contemplating. “I never wear stuff like this.”

“Just put the damn sweater on and let’s go!” She smiled at you. “Don’t you want good seats?”

You rolled your eyes, but went to look in the mirror nonetheless. “As if there’ll be a fight for front row seats at a college open-mic.”

“Oh perfect,” she sighed exaggeratedly before rummaging in her desk drawer. “Then you agree, you have time to split this with me before we leave?” She held up a small, white tube, and you pursed your lips.

“Okay, fine,” you gave in, quickly pulling your shirt off over your head before pulling on the black long-sleeve.

“Just one hit.”

—

You did not, in fact, take just one hit. It was more like four. Or five…or six, or who could keep track, really?

It seemed like a good idea, a little something to take the edge off, maybe soothe the bundle of nerves that had formed in your stomach and in your brain and in your chest at the thought alone of seeing Ellie—god forbid, having to make conversation with her.

And while it did help a little, you hadn’t smoked as much as Dina, so it still felt as though your heartbeat grew louder with each step toward the theater. All that stood between you and Ellie—and, well, a handful of other attendees and performers—was a short corridor.

“It’ll be okay, just chill out,” Dina tried to subdue you, and her voice was thickened by her intoxication, slower and almost more serious. Her eyes were low as she smiled over at you, bumping into your shoulder softly.

“Thank you, Dina, because telling someone to chill out always works so well,” you quipped, shaking your head as she led you through the doors. Though, you did try to chill out, as it were, taking a deep breath and sliding the sleeves of the oversized cardigan up your forearms, nervously tugging at the neck of your long sleeve, fidgeting with anything you could think of to distract you from—

“Oh!” You exclaimed as you ran directly into a body around the corner, staggering backwards slightly before someone was gripping your arms, keeping you steady. Your eyes trailed up the body before you were met with—oh god, “Ellie!”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she laughed melodically, smoothing her hands down your biceps before flashing her teeth at you. The chatter of the other attendees faded into the background as you felt your body heat up under her stare, painfully aware of her hands that were still on your arms.

You could do nothing but let out an awkward laugh in response, nodding your head as she took her hands away. Dina cleared her throat obnoxiously from behind you and you turned your head to give her a look that you hoped conveyed: please for the love of god save me.

“Hi, I’m Dina by the way, or you probably know me as ‘the roommate,’” she said, sticking out her hand past you for Ellie to shake, and you had to admire her confidence for a second, the way she could unapologetically be herself in any situation. You’d think that from spending so much time with her, some of that confidence would have rubbed off on you, but no, you were still just…you.

“Nice to meet you, Dina,” Ellie smiled, and her voice was laced with honey, rich and slow spilling from her lips. She reached her hand past you to shake Dina’s, and you moved out of the way slightly.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Dina dropped her hand and stood next to you now. You looked over at her in shock, and you hoped the shaking of your head and wide eyes weren’t noticeable.

“Uh, not so much,” you laughed nervously, trying to subtly kick Dina’s ankle.

“Wow, you really do have that guitar player look to you,” she ignored you, gesturing to Ellie. “I love the tattoo!”

Your eyes were daggers glaring into the side of Dina’s head, but neither her or Ellie seemed to notice—though it was debatable whether that was good or bad. Ellie chuckled, instinctively looking down at her arm and holding it out as if to show it off. You felt like sinking into the floor, watching her arm flex as she rotated it, skimming her fingers down the length of her forearm, tracing the pattern.

“Thank you,” she was slightly bashful, despite her eagerness to show off. She caught your eye for a moment and—were her cheeks turning red? It is pretty warm in here with all these bodies…yeah, that’s it.

“Well, anyways, nice to finally meet you Ellie, I’m gonna go grab a snack,” Dina smiled politely between both you and Ellie, before patting your shoulder and slipping away. Oh god, why would she leave you to talk to her alone?

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, and suddenly everything was fading away again. You took a moment to look down at her outfit, trying to be as discreet as possible. She adorned a light blue flannel, cuffed just above her elbows and a pair of dark Levi’s—her hair was pulled back, save for a few pieces that fell loosely around her face, which you noticed she tucked hastily behind her ear when a strand tickled her nose before she said, “I love that sweater, by the way.”

Dina was going to have a field day with that one.

“Oh, thank you!” You exclaimed, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself. She smiled at you before continuing.

“Anyways, I’m up last, so don’t feel like you have to stay for the whole thing, if you get bored or anything,” she explained, pointing at the stage behind her. “I’m just glad you could make it.”

On the inside, you were swooning, your eyes were in the shape of hearts and you wanted to reach out and embrace her—you wanted to smell that warm vanilla musk and the earthy savor of weed, you wanted to tell her you wanted nothing more than to spend all your time with her, know her inside and out, you wanted it all.

“No, no, I came here for you,” you said instead, making fists around the material of your sweater and smiling at her. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Ellie’s face flushed again, and you continued to insist it was due to the heat of the room. She glanced behind her, and you followed her gaze to see Dina filling up a plate with what looked like one of everything from the table.

“I should go get ready,” Ellie mumbled before turning back to you. “Why don’t you go grab some snacks with Dina and I’ll catch you after the show?” She sounded hopeful. You nearly choked.

“Yes, I’ll be here!” Of course you’ll be here, where the hell else would you be? You mentally face-palmed yourself before she was giving you a smile and disappearing into the crowd. You took a deep breath and made your way to the snack table, where Dina was still loading up.

“Oh, hey!” She said when she finally saw you.

“Hey, thanks so much for embarrassing the hell out of me,” you complained, stealing a cheese square off of her plate.

“Embarrassing you? Please, I was helping you,” she laughed before stuffing a grape into her mouth. “And it kinda worked, didn’t it? I set you up for a nice little chat with your girlfriend.”

“Oh, shut up,” you bumped her shoulder, but you couldn’t fight the warmth that climbed up the back of your neck. “Let’s go grab a seat.”

The acts that preceded Ellie were actually entertaining—a few songs, a poem or two, and a stand-up act that wasn’t…terrible. Not to say it was good but…you know.

And then the host, who you assumed was Ellie’s roommate, was waltzing back on to the stage as the audience applauded, her short black hair reflecting almost blue in the spotlight. She was eclectic, all mismatched patterns and silver jewelry that hung from her neck and her wrists and her ears. She was funny and vibrant, commanding the attention of everyone in the room every time she stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.

“Alright folks, please give a warm welcome to my best friend, the one and only, Ellie Williams!” She tucked her microphone under her arm before clapping, moving out of the way of the small stool that was behind her. Best friend? Ellie had only said she was her roommate.

But it didn’t matter, because Ellie was walking on to the stage with her guitar in hand, smiling nervously at the crowd. You clapped as loud as you could, trying to reposition your body so that you could see her slightly better over the heads in front of you, though you doubted she could see you from your seat somewhere in the middle row.

“Uh, good evening, everyone,” Ellie started, positioning herself on the stool and pulling the microphone down to her level. “I’m gonna sing a little song for you guys, if that’s cool.” There was a bit of scattered applause and Dina whooped loudly from beside you. You smacked her with the back of your hand.

Your heart was beating out of your chest, partly from the excitement at getting to see Ellie perform, and partly from your second-hand stage fright. Even though you weren’t the one performing, you always seemed to absorb the nerves of the performer, just waiting for them to make a mistake, even if you didn’t want them to. You especially wanted this to go well for Ellie, and you bounced your leg nervously as she positioned her guitar in her lap.

She strummed the first few chords and you nearly had a heart attack.

C, A-minor, F-major. You could probably play those in your sleep, now.

“Holy shit,” Dina whispered from beside you, and of course, she knew too, from the hours and hours you spent listening to the song, practicing the song, getting taught the song.

“Did I drive you away?

I know what you'll say

You say, ‘Oh, sing one we know,’

“Dina,” you whispered back, leaning into her, but not being able to peel your eyes away from Ellie. “Is that…?” But you already knew the answer.

“Dude. She’s so. Into you.”

“But I promise you this

I'll always look out for you

Yeah, that's what I'll do,

You couldn’t help the smile that slowly spread across your face as you leaned back up, watching Ellie lose herself in the song. Suddenly, you were back in her room, the air thick and heavy, watching her sing softly and strum along when she thought you weren’t watching—that little crease between her eyebrows and the dreamy look in her eyes as she sang with the voice of a thousand angels.

Maybe you had a hard time believing Ellie was into you, but she picked this song knowing you would be here. There was no denying that.

“La, la, la, la, o-oh

La, la, la, la, o-oh,

The song ended entirely too soon, and she was smiling, standing up and adjusting the microphone back into a higher position. Applause was erupting from every side of you and you clapped as though you were the only person in the room, as if she could see the intensity in which you showed your recognition and your appreciation and your utter giddiness.

The host was waltzing on stage again before you knew it, and gave Ellie a hug. You ignored the jealous twinge in your heart, for god’s sake you had literally hung out one time, and the applause continued as she thanked everyone for coming, wrapping her arm around Ellie’s waist and requesting one last round of applause for all the performers. You continued clapping, watching Ellie raise her guitar in the air like a glass of champagne for a toast, before the host whispered something in her ear that made her smile. You again ignored the skip of your heart, instead focusing on Dina’s hand gripping your arm.

“Oh my god, you have to go say something to her, ask her out, something! The suspense is literally killing me,” she whined, pulling you along as the lights slowly turned back on and people shimmied out of the aisles.

“I can’t just ask her out, it’s not that easy for me,” you replied.. You wished it was easy for you, you wished you could be more like Dina, just walk right up to her and say: I think I really like you, and we should go out sometime. But your anxiety paralyzed you, rendered you completely helpless when it came to love and lust.

“I swear dude, if I have to sit through any more of your pining and love songs I might request a roommate swap,” Dina said, leading you back to the snack table. “She likes you. And if you can’t see that at this point I don’t know what else to say.” You pouted a bit, like a petulant child, crossing your arms over your chest and surveying the room. Before you could even formulate a response, Ellie was emerging from a group of people who had gathered opposite the table. You quickly uncrossed your arms as she caught your eye and made her way toward you.

“Oh look, who would have guessed,” Dina muttered, popping a grape into her mouth. She smiled exaggeratedly at Ellie before grabbing a handful of crackers. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk,” and you wished so badly you could flip her off without it being obvious.

“Hey,” Ellie said quietly, and her voice was almost timid--a laughable comparison to barely five minutes ago when she had the entire audience wrapped around her finger.

“Ellie,” you breathed, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “Your song choice was…inspired,” you said, wrapping an arm across your body. She looked down at her feet, and you wondered if her cheeks would be rosy when she looked back up.

“Oh, yeah,” she looked up at you now, and you were right. Except, it wasn’t actually that warm in here. “Well, it’s a good song, you know.” Her hand went to the back of her neck, just like it had before, and you wanted to pull it away, to intertwine your fingers and just tell her, just tell her you want to go out, somewhere where she doesn’t have to teach you to play guitar and you can just talk, and mentally map the freckles that littered her face and learn about how she got that scar in her eyebrow and find out if she’d rather go to a tea house or a coffee shop and fuck, you had to ask her, now, before you lost the courage and your mouth was moving before your brain could catch up,

“Ellie, I was wondering if--”

“There you are, superstar!” A voice suddenly came from behind her, and you recognized it immediately. The host--or I guess, Ellie’s roommate--oops, wrong again, Ellie’s best friend, was appearing behind her, grabbing onto her shoulder and looking at her with admiration. Ellie seemed surprised to see her, somehow, as she turned to face her, plastering on a smile that looked…forced.

“Oh, hey,” she replied, before the raven-haired girl was pulling her into a hug. You stood awkwardly as they embraced, looking down at the ground in an attempt to seem casual. Oh god, you couldn’t believe you were actually about to ask Ellie out on a date.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” the girl said abruptly, pulling back as if she’d just noticed your presence. She left an arm around Ellie’s waist, and you noticed the way Ellie suddenly appeared tense. Like, in a bad way.

You offered the girl a small smile and stuck your hand out politely, giving her your name. She took it and shook firmly, her small hand deceivingly strong. Her eyes were painted with thick, black eyeliner, and they raked up and down your body. You felt like shrinking away under her intimidating stare, averting your eyes after a moment.

“Uh, this is Cat, my roommate,” Ellie said after an awkward pause, giving you a sheepish look.

“And best friend,” she chimed, pulling her hand away. She leaned into Ellie’s side, resting her head on Ellie’s shoulder and using her free hand to pat her chest.

“Ellie and I go way back.”

chapter 6 here

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams tlou #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #ellie x you #ellie williams imagine #the last of us #dina tlou #tlou

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baby-yongbok · 7 months

Text

Poetry

Chapter Three - Plan B

Hyunjin × Fem!Reader

Chapter Three - Plan B

Genre: Fluff, the cute slow burn type

Summary: Hyunjin had some amazing things lined up for your first date but the universe had other plans for you two.

Word Count: 5,953

A/N: I wrote this and queued it then I changed 50% of it last minute 🙃. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Honestly I don't know how mini this series is gonna be lol I have a lot of plans. See you next Thursday at 6 💕

Part Two

✧Poetry Series Masterlist✧

✧Main Masterlist✧

Hyunjin’s Pov - 6:28pm

I’m sure that this photographer is fed up with me, I would be too if my model kept looking at the clock and not the camera. In my defense, this shoot was supposed to be over thirty minutes ago. I took the earliest schedule to make sure that I would have enough time to get ready for me and y/n’s date today. I planned to get there early like I usually do so that I can see the moment that she walks into the restaurant. I don’t think that she’s noticed the way that I look at her yet, the way that I watch her. Actually, now that I think about it that sounds a bit creepy but I don’t mean it that way. It’s like photography for me, I just love seeing her from a different lens, strangers point of view. I love admiring her beauty and pretending that she has no idea that I exist. That might sound silly since she does in fact know that I exist and seems to enjoy my existence enough to go on a date with me but I can’t seem to help it.

All of the times that I showed up early to our Thursday bookstore date at Adore was solely because I wanted to see the moment that she walked through the door. I wanted to see her before she painted a smile on and fixed her hair in a way that she thought that I’d find appealing, I wanted to see her for her. So, I make sure to arrive at least thirty minutes early just so I can enjoy the minute or two right before she sees me, just so I can capture that moment. Unfortunately, I don’t think that I'm going to be able to do that today.

“I think we got it.” The photographer's tone is drenched in annoyance but I’m in too much of a hurry to care. I thank him quickly, not even bothering to take a look at the photo proofs, right now I have one mission and that’s to change and get to the restaurant. I rush to the front of the room where my stuff and my stylist are, luckily my stylist for this shoot is my roommate and one of my best friends. Han was one of the first friends that I ever made in this industry. We met at my first Versace shoot where he was a junior style consultant but now he’s calling the shots.

I rummage through my bag, looking for my phone to check for any messages from y/n but what I see instead makes my heart drop. Apparently the clock that I’ve been watching this entire time is an hour fast and there’s only twenty minutes until our reservation, well, there was twenty minutes until our reservation. The second thing that catches my eye is a cancellation text from the restaurant, it says that they’re canceling due to the weather but last time I checked there was only a bit of rain.

“Fuck.” I whisper to myself, running my fingers through my styled hair. I clearly didn’t whisper well enough because when I looked up I noticed a very confused Han staring at me.

“Did your date cancel?”

“Not my date but my reservation, apparently there’s a weather advisory.” I sigh, placing my phone down on the table and then picking it up again. I should call her, I have to let her know what happened but what do I tell her? I need a plan B.

“Weather advisory?” Han looks up the stairs towards the door that leads outside, still wearing an expression of confusion. “Ah, we’re in the basement. There’s no windows.”

How did I not notice that sooner? I look back down at my phone, opening y/n’s contact and staring at it. I don’t have a plan, I don’t know what to do next. How many other restaurants are closed because of the weather? I bet it’s not even that bad outside.

“Uh, Hyunjin.” I got so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Han go up the stairs to the door and open it. The roaring of heavy winds echoed throughout the large room and from where I was standing outside looked like one huge blur. I made my way over to him quickly, standing and staring in disbelief when I got close enough to take in the god awful storm. “You might want to call your date.”

Han looks over at me but I keep my eyes fixed on the pouring rain. There’s no way that anyone is open right now, hell, I’m surprised that this basement isn’t flooded right now.

“What do I tell her?”

“Maybe you guys should reschedule.” That’s honestly the last thing that I want to do right now but I can’t think of a better plan. Maybe she has one? I’d have to call her to find out but I can’t bring myself to dial her number, maybe it’s because we’ve never spoken on the phone before?

“Maybe I’ll text her.” I unlock my phone and start typing but the feeling of Han’s gaze on me stops me before I can send the message. I side eye him for a second before turning my head completely, he has his arms crossed and eyebrows raised and I mimic him prompting him to speak. “What?”

“Are you afraid to call her?” I scoff at him, shaking my head and looking back down at my phone. “No fucking way, Hwang Hyunjin is nervous.”

“I’m not nervous, I just don’t want to bother her.” He chuckles and I roll my eyes, I might be nervous to call her but the last thing that I need is for him to get a hold of that information. I’d never hear the end of it.

“You don’t want to bother the girl who’s going on a date with you and is probably already waiting for your call?” I clear my throat as I smooth out the suit jacket that I wore for the shoot. He has a point but I’ll never let him know that.

“That’s not it I just -” I look down at my phone as it starts to vibrate in my hand and my heart stops. “Oh?”

“What?” Han asks, leaning over a bit to get a look at my phone screen.

“She’s calling me.” I stare wide eyed at the screen, I can’t help it, this is the very first time she’s called me. This would be the first time that we talk with our actual voices outside of the cafe. “What do I do?”

“Uh, answer it?”

“Right...right.” I took a deep breath before swiping the button and putting the phone to my ear but what I heard on the other line made my eyebrows furrow in confusion.

Is she talking to me?

Y/n’s Pov - 6:16 pm

“Are you sure that you’re going on a date today?” My roommate Changbin asks as he stares out of our living room window.

“Uh, yeah, he hasn’t said anything otherwise.” I call back from my bedroom as I look in the mirror to put my earrings on. “Why?”

“Have you not looked outside? It’s insane. I literally just watched our neighbors trash can get blown over the 7/11 across the street.” I sigh as I make my way into the living room.

“He would’ve called me if the plans changed right?” I look over with Changbin, hoping that maybe he can help calm my mind. I’ve been confiding in him when it comes to seeing Hyunjin, asking him what I should wear and how my hair looks before I go out to meet Hyunjin. I even asked him for advice regarding this date so he knows just how anxious I am. Changbin and I are bonded like blood, he’s my best friend and he knows just what to say to calm me down, well, he usually does.

“He should yeah, but maybe you should call him.” I freeze as I take in his suggestion, Hyunjin and I have never spoken on the phone. We’ve been texting nonstop, day and night, but we’ve never called each other. My silence seemed to have grabbed Changbin’s attention, he looks back at me with curious eyes until suddenly it clicked for him.

“No way.” He turns, walking over to me and standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest. I avoid eye contact because I already know that he’s going to make fun of me. “You two haven’t spoken on the phone yet?”

His words are loud and covered in disbelief, I glance over at his amused expression before looking down at my feet. I shrug, trying to play it off before answering in a bit of a whisper.

“It’s complicated.”

“All you have to do is press his contact and put the phone to your ear, how complicated is that?” He bites back sarcastically and I roll my eyes. I know that he’s right, it’s really not that hard but I can’t help that I’m anxious. Talking to Hyunjin is easy and relaxing but at the same time it makes me feel like I’m about to jump out of a plane for the first time. I turn on my heels, stalking back over to my room and picking my phone up from my Vanity. Changbin follows close behind me and watches as I unlock my phone and open my contacts, I scroll down to Hyunjin's name and press it. The call button is right there, all I have to do is press it, it’s simple.

“This is the part where you call him.” Changbin whispers over my shoulder and I groan, throwing a mini tantrum.

“Maybe I’ll just text him.”

“For fucksake, there’s no way that you’re that nervous to talk on the phone.” I turn to him and I’m more than sure that he can see the distress written on my features.

“I’ve never called him before, Bin.” I whine as I stare down at Hyunjin's contact.

“Well, there’s no time like the present.” Before I can process what’s going on Changbin snatches my phone from my hand and presses the call button before handing it back to me. My eyes go wide once I hear the first ring, my finger hovers the end button but I don’t press it. It would be embarrassing to hang up and have to explain what happened. I groan again before putting the phone up to my ear. My eyes land on Changbin’s smiling face and I instantly flip him off.

“I fucking hate you.” Before Changbin can reply I hear a confused voice on the other line and my heart drops. Shit, he thought I was talking to him.

“Did I do something wrong?” Hyunjin asks, confusion laced in his tone.

“Oh, no I’m sorry I was uh, talking to my roommate… anyway, uh hi.” I turn away from Changbin and move to sit at my vanity.

“Hey, I uh, I assume that you’re calling me about this god awful storm.”

“Yeah, it picked up pretty fast.” Hyunjin sighs on the other line and I take a deep breath to try and steady myself. He did a lot of setting up for today’s date and now it’s all ruined by the weather, I can’t imagine how he feels right now. “ Are we still, ya know.”

“Um, well, the restaurant actually canceled the reservation and I’m sure that just about every other place is doing the same.”

“Wow, okay, so uh..I guess we can do this another day.” I tried my best not to let my disappointment bleed into my tone but I’m positive that I failed when I hear yet another sigh come from Hyunjin.

“Yeah I guess so.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me but I can’t bring myself to say anything in response. I’ve been waiting for this day since the last time I saw him and it all got ruined by some fucking rain, that’s just great. I open my mouth to reply but stop when I hear some whispering on the other line, it’s not Hyunjin's voice but it sounds like it’s coming from right next to him. I try to make out what they’re saying but the sound of Hyunjin whispering back interrupts the process. After a couple seconds of him whispering to whoever he’s with I clear my throat to grab his attention.

“Sorry about that, uh, I um… I think that I have an idea but it’s totally fine if you don’t want to do it.” There’s a nervous shake to his voice that comforts me a bit, at least I’m not the only one that’s anxious.

“Oh? What’s the idea?”

“Maybe I could… come over to your place? We could have a home date, order some food and watch a movie. I mean, only if you’re comfortable with it, I don’t want to cross any boundaries.”

My gaze shifts over to where Changbin has been impatiently waiting in the hallway. He looks over at me with furrowed brows and now it’s our turn to whisper.

“What?” Changbin asks, leaning closer to me.

“He wants to come over.” I whisper as quietly as I can and Changbin’s eyebrows fly up in surprise.

“He gets ten points for being bold. Do it.”

“But the apartment is a mess.” I motion towards the living room and Changbin looks behind him, scanning the room carefully.

“We literally just cleaned yesterday.” Anxiety climbs up my spine as I realize that there’s no way to get out of this. It’s not that I don’t want to have this date, I want it more than anything, the problem is I have never in my entire life had a man over to my shared apartment but there’s no time like the present, right?

“Fine.” I whisper back at him, rolling my eyes in defeat.

“Everything alright?” Hyunjin asks from the other line and I sit up straighter in my seat at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, uh let’s do it. A home date sounds good.” He’s quiet for a second, most likely trying to calm down his hammering heart because I am definitely trying to do the same thing.

“Great so, uh do you want to keep the same time?”

“Yeah seven still works, I’ll uh, send you my address.” Changbin gives me a thumbs up, trying his best to encourage me through my anxiety.

“Okay well uh, see you soon.”

“Yeah, see you soon.” I slowly lower the phone from my ear before hanging up and practically throwing it onto my vanity. He’s going to be in my house, in my room, oh my gosh.

“See that wasn’t so bad.” My mind is racing, now I have to prepare for an entirely new date. I need to clean my room, I’m way too overdressed for a home date, I need to redo my makeup. Do I even have enough time? What movie do we watch? “Y/n?”

The sound of Changbin calling my name snapped me out of my thoughts, I don’t have time to sit here, I need to get moving. Oh my god, he’s going to be in my house.

“Out. I need to get ready… again.”

“I don’t think that there’s much for you to do.” I glare over at my roommate and he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m going, I'm going.”

He backs out of my room, closing the door with him. How in the hell do I prepare for this date now?

Third Person Pov - 6:57pm

You spent forty minutes rushing around your room and moving things around. Your room wasn’t even messy but it wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting either. You organized and decorated your bookshelf, lighting some candles and turning on your fairy lights. You vacuumed and changed your sheets so that everything was fresh. After spending way too much time revamping your space you turned your attention to your appearance. You got dressed, again, trying your best to pick something comfortable but not too casual, this is a date after all. The more you think about it, the more comfortable you are with the change of plans. Instead of some expensive wine and some fancy restaurant you get to indulge in cheap wine and fast food on your bedroom floor. It’s more your speed, more intimate, romantic. The idea of it makes you blush, you and Hyunjin always settle into your own bubble when you’re together but tonight it really will be just the two of you. The thought of it is scary yet exciting.

You haven’t heard from Changbin since you sent him away earlier, you were thankful that he gave you your space to prepare instead of hovering but you knew that he’d be back to check on you before your date started. That’s why you’re not surprised when you hear the small knock on your bedroom door.

“Come in.” You call out just as you complete your look, pulling on your forest green sweater. Changbin opens your door and leans against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks you over and shakes his head in approval.

“You look comfortable, it’s very you.” You chuckle lightly, turning towards your mirror to study your look. Your curly hair is pulled up into a messy bun and your green sweater is paired with a pair of high waisted black leggings and a pair of fuzzy green socks to match your sweater.

“You think that it’s okay?” You ask, your eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. He moves from his spot at your door frame and comes up behind you, he places his hands on your shoulders and gives a reassuring squeeze.

“You look wonderful as always, and from what you’ve told me this guy is already head over heels in love with you.” You scoff, turning around to be face to face with your roommate.

“I never said that, that’s just what you think.” You move from in front of him and take a seat at your vanity. You decide that your look could use a subtle touch of lip gloss and maybe a necklace. Changbin goes back over to your door frame leaning against the wood as he watches you.

“I promise you that everything that this guy has done up until this point is just screaming ‘I’m in love’. I even bet that he’s going to kiss you tonight.” Your breath hitches in your throat as you take in Changbin’s words. Is Hyunjin going to try and kiss you tonight? What if he does? It’s been nearly a year since you’ve kissed a man, are you even still good at it? Were you ever good at it? “Hey, get out of your head.”

You’re brought back to reality by Changbin poking your shoulder lightly.

“You think he’s going to kiss me?” Just as Changbin opens his mouth to reply, a deep rumble of thunder rips through the apartment.

“First let's see if he’ll even show up.” You groan before picking up your phone and checking for any new messages from Hyunjin. Maybe you should cancel, having him travel in this storm is dangerous and the last thing that you’d want is for him to get hurt. Just as you're about to reply you’re interrupted by another sound but instead of thunder it’s the sound of knocking at your front door. Your heart rate quickens as you look at the time.

“Fuck, that’s him, oh my gosh.” You rush to stand from your vanity chair, looking in the mirror one more time. “I can do this.”

You start to walk out of your room but just as you pass Changbin he grabs your wrist lightly and flashes you a big smile. “You deserve this, ya know?”

“What do you mean?”

“You deserve to live the life that you read about and you deserve to have your fairytale ending. I know that you’re nervous but you got this, okay?” You smile back at him nodding your head in acknowledgement. Changbin has always been there for you through your ups and downs, especially when the two of you were in university together. You were the classic hopeless romantic looking for her prince charming in all the wrong places. Changbin was your shoulder to cry on whenever you ended up with a broken heart which happened more times than you’d like to admit. “And if you need me to kick him out just text me.”

He lets go of your wrist and you can’t help but to laugh at his previous statement.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” You hear a knock at the door again and you rush over to answer it. You take a deep breath before turning your lock followed by the knob and opening your front door with a smile. That smile quickly drops into a look of confusion once you take in the sight in front of you. Before you stands your date holding orange roses while in a soaking wet black suit that looks expensive enough to pay your rent for two months. His long black hair is slicked down and dripping and you’re almost positive that everything in the bag that he carries is ruined.

“Oh my gosh.” You gasp out, a faint chuckle passes Hyunjin’s lips as you stare at him in shock.

“May I uh, come in?” You nod quickly, moving to the side to let him in. Once he’s inside and you’ve closed the door behind him the two of you stand in a bit of an awkward silence.

“It’s raining just a tiny bit.” Hyunjin whispers towards you and the two of you can’t help but to break out into a fit of laughter.

“Hyunjin, you’re soaked.” You watch as he slips off his shoes and places them neatly by the entrance. He may not have realized it but he placed them right next to yours. The sight of his large shoes next to your smaller ones brings a small smile to your face.

“Yeah, well, my roommate ended up needing to use my car for an emergency. I tried to order an uber but they kept canceling on me. I even tried to catch the bus but the next one didn’t come at a decent time. I figured that if I wanted to be on time my best bet was to walk.”

“You could’ve been a bit late, I would have understood.” Hyunjin shakes his head, a slight grin on his face.

“I never want to be late getting to you.” You can’t help the blush that creeps across your cheeks as his words sink in. “Oh, um, these are for you.”

He takes a step towards you, handing the wet roses over to you and you accept them with a wide smile. “They’re beautiful.”

“They are, but I must admit that they have some very serious competition.” You tear your gaze away from the flowers and look up at Hyunjin with furrowed brows. He reaches forward and takes your hand in his. The small touch makes your body feel electric as always. “You look stunning tonight.”

He leaves a small kiss on the back of your hand and you swear that the butterflies in your stomach have multiplied.

“As do you.. Even though you’re soaked.” You laugh again as you take in his appearance. Keeping your hand in his you decide to lead him away from the main entrance and over to your bedroom. You can hear music coming from Changbin's room and you can’t help but to feel thankful for his attempt at giving you some privacy. You lead Hyunjin through your living room and past the kitchenette until you reach your room.

“You have a very nice apartment.” Hyunjin comments as he takes a quick look around.

“You don’t have to lie.” You chuckle as you lead him into your bedroom, closing the door behind the two of you.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” You smile at his response, That sure does sound familiar.

“Well then, thank you.” You turn to your closet and start to rummage through it. “I should have some clothes that you can change into here.”

“You have mens clothing in your closet?” You can hear the slight confusion in his voice and it makes you a bit nervous. Does he think that that’s odd?

“Well, my roommate gives me the clothes that he doesn’t wear anymore so I have some mens clothing, yeah.” You try your best to sound nonchalant but you’re sure that the shakiness in your voice gave way to how you really felt. Hyunjin flashes you a soft smile as he nods.

“Your roommate is a guy? Are the two of you close?” He asks while his eyes scan your room slowly, taking in all of the personal details.

“He’s like a brother to me.” You grab a set of clothing from the top shelf and turn back around to him. “We met in college and have been best friends ever since.”

“Well, I hope to meet him soon.” You hand Hyunjin the clothes and he smiles. “Beer Pizza?”

You look down at the white t-shirt with maroon lettering and you can’t help the embarrassed blush that covers your cheeks. You have a man wearing the most expensive suit you’ve ever seen in your bedroom and you gave him a silly graphic t-shirt to wear?

“I can find something different.” You mumble as you start to turn back towards your closet but Hyunjin's gentle grip on your wrist stops you. You turn around to his smiling face and your heart calms down a bit at the sight.

“It’s fine. I just thought that the design was kind of… fun, ya know? It’s not what I’d usually wear but I like it.” You nod and he lets go of your wrist. “ Where should I uh..”

“Oh, right um you can change in here. I’ll go put the roses in some water, you can use the towel on the back of the door.” You grab the roses off of your vanity and rush out of the room, once you hear the click of your door closing all the way you take a deep breath and try to calm yourself. You can’t help but to feel a bit embarrassed by your reaction to the clothes you gave him but who could blame you? That man looks expensive, I mean you would too if you did what he did for work… Wait, what does he do for work?

You think to yourself as you fix your roses in the pretty blue vase that you got from some thrift shop years ago. How have you been seeing this man once a week for five weeks and you still have no clue what he does for work? He’s in your apartment and you don’t even know that small detail? You sigh at yourself as you place the flowers in the middle of your kitchen island and head back to your room.

“I should really ask him.” You whisper to yourself as you grip your bedroom door knob. You knock twice and Hyunjin calls out a soft ‘come in’ before you turn the knob. You start to walk in but stop dead in your tracks as you catch a glimpse of Hyunjin's back as he pulls the t-shirt over his frame. Your cheeks heat up instantly and you feel a blush creep over you for the millionth time tonight and the date only just started.

“May I use some hangers? I need to let this dry properly or else I’m in big trouble.” Hyunjin laughs nervously and you nod.

“Why would you be in trouble?” You ask in an attempt to get your brain to focus on something other than the very appealing back muscles of the man in your room.

“It’s not my suit. I begged my stylist to let me keep it on so that I could rush over to you.” He replies with a slight chuckle.

“Stylist?” You ask yourself in a whisper as you try to figure out what job he could have that would require such a thing. Hyunjin smiles as he steps closer to you, taking the hangers that you’ve fished from your closet.

“I never told you what I do for work, did I?” You shake your head and now it was his turn to blush. “I suppose that I always try to avoid that conversation when I first meet people. It gets hard to tell who wants to be your friend for the money and who is actually interested in you.”

“Money? What money?” You joke and Hyunjin chuckles.

“I know that I can trust you. For some reason, I’ve felt that since I met you…” Hyunjin’s sentence trails off into a whisper. He seems to be in deep thought for a second but he snaps out of it before you can ask what he means by that. “Anyway, I’m uh, I’m a model for some luxury brands. Hence all of the Versace that I wear and the YSL suit that I got soaked in.”

“Oh?” You can’t help but look Hyunjin over slowly, taking in his features and his frame. Of course he’s a model, He’s the personification of perfection in the fashion world's eyes.

“Is.. that alright?” He asks, scratching the back of his neck nervously. You perk up at the sound of his uneasy tone and grin.

“Yeah, I just can’t believe I didn’t figure that out. You’re so beautiful, of course you’re a model.” You freeze as you realize the words that just left your mouth. You look down at your rug quickly as your face flushes.

“I’m beautiful?” Hyunjin asks, clearly amused by your confession. “ I believe that I’m in the same position as the roses I gifted you, I definitely have some very serious competition.”

He steps forward so that he’s right in front of you and gently places a finger under your chin so that your flustered gaze meets his soft one. He’s smirking down at you softly, taking in the beautiful rose red that’s sweeping across your features. You stare back at him but you can’t help but to glance down at his blushed lips. The smirk pulling at them makes your heart beat faster than the embarrassment that's melting away.

“Thank you for the compliment.” Hyunjin whispers and now it was his turn to look at your lips. Beautiful and shining with the coat of lip gloss you put on minutes before he arrived. You both have the same thought, the same desire.

“You’re welcome.” You whisper back, blinking up at him with doe eyes that he swears carries the galaxies. You lean into the gentle touch he has on your chin just a bit, drawing yourself closer to him. Hyunjin can feel his heart beating a mile a minute, he can hear his brain telling him what to do but he can also hear the doubt whispering to him and for some reason the whispers always win. With a small sigh Hyunjin retracts his hand and you instantly feel yourself missing his electric touch. He takes a step back and picks up one of the hangers you gave him from your full size mattress.

“Are you hungry? We should figure out what we’d like to eat.” He asks, avoiding eye contact with you. You do the same, as you try to slow down the fast beating of your heart.

“Yeah, I’ll see what’s open.” You reply quietly before stalking over to your vanity and grabbing your phone to browse through a delivery app. “What are you in the mood for?

“Just about anything, you pick what you want and I’ll follow.”

He puts his suit on the hangers and then moves to place the wet items on the back of your door. He watches you as you mindlessly scroll through the restaurants, rocking back and forth lightly. He can’t help but smile but unfortunately there’s only a small trace of happiness in this gesture. His thoughts are racing and he can’t help but to feel like he’s drowning in them. What is he doing here with someone as beautiful as you? Someone so smart and stunning and open to love. What could his damaged heart possibly provide you? Hyunjin can’t help but to bite his tongue as his doubts start to attack him, flashbacks to all the things that have tainted him, all of the things that he wants so desperately to tell you even though the two of you have only just met. He wants to hear you say that none of it matters, that even with his heart being ripped out of his chest before he met you you’ll still love him, that you’ll teach him how to do the only thing that he’s desired to do for years. There’s a hint of hope in his thoughts and it only grows bigger when you look up at him. Your curious eyes ground him immediately and he can’t help but to smile again, that hint of hope budding into a small flower in his heart. Maybe he can do this?

“See anything good?” He asks as he walks over to you, he stands behind you and places a hand on the small of your back gently. You relax into the touch and you both grin a bit.

“I’m buying so go crazy.” He chuckles and you roll your eyes.

“We can go half.” Hyunjin clicks his tongue in disapproval as he sits on the edge of your bed.

“Absolutely not, what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you pay on the first date?” You sigh, turning to face him.

“I just like for things to be fair.” He offers his hand to you and you take it without a second thought. He leads you forward a bit, opening his legs to allow you to get closer to him.

“If I am to be fair then I must treat you the way that my heart so desires. I must gift you all of the world's greatest wonders before I can call you one of my own.” A shy smile adorned Hyunjin's lips full lips before he licked them, pulling them into a thin line right after.

“Who was that by? It was beautiful.” He reaches his free hand up to scratch the back of his neck lightly, a mere chuckle leaving his lips.

“Uh, that was actually an original.” Your eyes widen slightly as a blush sneaks up on you. “That bad?”

Hyunjin chuckles again, this time avoiding your gaze

“No.. I just, I guess I’m surprised? I wasn’t aware that you wrote poetry and that was…that was beautiful, Hyunjin, really.” His eyes meet yours quickly and he can feel his nerves melt away.

“Thank you.” He whispers shyly before clearing his throat a bit. “I only just started writing again. I guess I found my muse.” You watch him as he grins a bit, he sits up straighter trying his best to compose himself. A shiver runs over you and you smile a bit, he can’t be talking about you right? There’s no way that you’re his muse…right? The two of you seem to snap out of your thoughts at the same time, smiling at each other with shy yet soft gazes. The air feels electric again, is this how the entire night is gonna feel?

“So, what are we thinking for dinner? I’m starving.”

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pochipop · 1 year

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win.

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so.

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more.

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from.

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.)

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through.

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever.

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her.

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some.

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.)

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.”

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.”

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July.

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you.

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own.

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another.

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.)

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind.

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh.

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.”

Bingo.

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires.

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that.

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner?

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place.

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira.

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages.

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them.

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