#i got this one denim button up like 2 years ago

[wintrwinchestr]

kiss it better

the killer & the sound - chapter 2

summary: you’re with the band, officially. you’ve met them, rehearsed with them all of two times, and now it’s the tour’s opening night. pretty nerve-wracking, but nothing you can’t handle, right? that is, until Joel asks you last-minute to perform their suggestive hit single Kiss it Better with them, live on stage. before you know it, your teenage dreams are coming true, in more ways than one.

warnings: 18+, smut, no outbreak au, no use of y/n, rockstar!joel, aspiring rockstar!reader, d/s dynamics, pretty major daddy kink, age gap (reader is early-mid 20’s, joel is early-mid 50’s), heavy flirting, pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, babygirl, etc), shy/anxious reader, a little dub-con bc reader has a couple drinks but is alert and consenting, joel refers to reader’s pussy as she/her, smoking, power imbalance & joel using it to his advantage, exhibitionism (suggestive performance onstage but no sexual activity), lapsitting, praise kink, finger sucking, tummy bulge, unprotected p in v sex, some angst, let me know if i missed any!!

word count: 11.5k (i’m sorry or you’re welcome)

a/n: thank you so much for your patience and interest in this story!! i’m sorry i took so long, but i hope you enjoy another chapter of rockstar!joel that somehow turned out longer than the first one. thank you as always to my best girl kiers i love you so much and i’m so happy our baby rockstar brought us together <3 thank you for reading, nice comments/reblogs appreciated if you enjoyed!!

series masterlist

divider by @saradika-graphics

It was only a handful of days ago that you had received the life changing invitation to open for Death’s Head on their sold out national tour. And it was only a handful of years ago that something like this was an unachievable fever dream, something you could pantomime in the shower or in the car, but still unsure if your hard work and commitment would ever pay off.

It’s been a complete whirlwind, your teenage dreams coming true in the span of less than a week. And now here you sit, shut away in your dressing room, leg bouncing up and down like a jackhammer as you add a final coat of mascara and one last sticky swipe of lip gloss. Meeting your own gaze in the vanity mirror, you fidget with your necklace, eyes wide and unblinking as you try to suppress a complete freakout.

A sudden knock on the door startles you from your daze, followed by a familiar gravelly voice asking your name. It’s Joel. You invite him in, and although you had seen him at soundcheck earlier in the day, it’s the first time you’re seeing him in the clothes he’s chosen to perform in tonight: black button-down shirt with western-style embroidery on the pockets, generously opened at the top to expose his tattooed chest. He pairs it with his signature black leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots with a pointed silver toe. He’s got various chains and metalwork adorning his ensemble, making him jingle and clink as he moves.

“Jus’ wanted to drop by before you go on, tell ya to ‘break a leg’ and everythin’...” He stands in the doorway, the thumb of one hand hooked on a belt loop while the other rests above his head against the doorframe. He looks you up and down quickly. “Look real pretty, darlin’, ‘s a nice dress.”

You look down at yourself, so flustered and not in your own head that you have to remind yourself of what you’re wearing. “Oh, th-thanks. Just bought it yesterday, got it special for tonight.”

“Certainly is special…” He muses, shutting the door behind him before taking a few long strides in your direction. “You feelin’ okay, sweetheart, feelin’ good?” He pulls up an extra chair from the corner of the room as he speaks, setting it down next to where you sit in front of your vanity. He spins it around in his grip to sit on it backwards, dark denim-clad thighs straddling the backrest of the chair. You resist the urge to stare at how his strong body stretches the material.

You opt to answer him with a lie, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

He drops his chin, looking at you from underneath his dark lashes. “Now why don’t I believe you? We've been over this, darlin’. Nothin’ to be scared of, yeah?” He places a large hand on your knee in an attempt to halt its incessant movement.

“‘S just a lotta people… never played in front of crowds this big before. Mostly just did a bunch of bars before now, maybe a community center or somethin’ every so often, but never a crowd bigger than a thousand. And there’s gonna be, like, ten thousand people out there.”

“Try doublin’ that.”

Your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline, and it feels like your heart just dropped into your stomach, a red hot piece of iron ore sinking into freezing water.

“Shit, shouldn’t’a said nothin’.” Joel shakes his head, pinching between his brows before lightly gripping your chin so that you stay focused on him. “Look at me. Remember our talk in the car the other day, don’tcha?” You nod your head in his grasp. “Said all about how good you are. Believe force o’ nature is the term I used, wasn’t it?” You can’t help but crack a smile at his compliment, and he returns one in the form of that canine-like grin of his. “You can do this, babygirl, yeah?”

Oh, that’s a new one. You decide you like the sound of it already, how it rolls off his tongue coated in his gravelly drawl.

You nod again in understanding, but he seems dissatisfied. “Say it back to me, sweetheart,” he instructs.

“I-I can do this,” you reply, your voice quiet, embarrassed of having to reassure yourself to his face.

“One more time, lil’ louder, like you mean it.”

You try again, attempting to infuse the sentence with a little more confidence. “I can do this.”

He seems content with your second try, and swipes at your chin before rising from his seat. “Fuck yeah, y’ can. Gonna knock ‘em dead, baby.”

He takes one last look at you before he leaves the room, and reminds you that you’re ‘Sposed to be on in fifteen, darlin’. See ya out there. He winks at you before closing the door, and then you’re alone again. Savoring your last few minutes to yourself, you decide to pace a few laps around the small room, running through a few more vocal warmups in an effort to drown out the sound of babygirl, babygirl, babygirl echoing around in your thoughts. Jesus Christ. It’s like he finds it impossible to comfort you without throwing in a little something extra to work you back up again. Though, you suppose you’d rather have your nervous energy redirected to him than to keep it focused on the endless expanse of people you’re about to be introduced to for the first time. 

What if they hate your music? What if you forget your own lyrics? What if they think you’re not good enough?

You take a guess that they’ve hit the lights in the venue now, judging by the cacophonous roar of voices that just erupted from somewhere sounding altogether too close and too far away at the same time. Too late to back out now. Not that he’d let you.

You brace your hands on the vanity counter, looking yourself in the eye one last time before you make your way to the stage. “I can do this,” you repeat the little mantra to your reflection. “I can do this, I can do this, Joel said I can do this.” A final deep breath and a tousle of your hair before you’re swinging the dressing room door open, heavy lace-up boots carrying you to the wings of the stage where your band members are already waiting to go on. It’s dark backstage, and it takes your eyes a second to adjust before they land on Joel. The accents of silver decorating his face and scattered throughout the clothing he wears catch some of the light from the stage, helping you to identify his form. You acknowledge him, but keep your feet planted where they are, flexing your hands and then clenching them into little fists as you try to peek at the audience, relishing your final moments of being a relative nobody. Your chords, your lyrics, your innermost thoughts are still only known to you and a few handfuls of others, for the next few minutes at least. Your life, your career, begins tonight, there, on that daunting and expansive stage. Angel is already out there waiting for you, beckoning to you, if only you could just push off the balls of your feet and go to her. You wish Cat were here.

A rough hand perches itself on your shoulder, and a low voice begins to speak close to your ear. “Everythin’s all set, show starts whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” you half-whisper, giving a swift nod of your head, swallowing hard and worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. His hand applies some pressure to the slope of skin between your neck and shoulder, massaging the muscle.

“Gotta relax, sweetheart, c’mon. Breathe with me. In…” He inhales deeply, and you mimic the action, holding your breath until he permits you to let it go. “And out…” 

He moves his hand to your upper back, course calluses scratching against the patch of soft skin exposed by the low back of your dress. “Gonna be back here the whole time. You start gettin’ nervous, you look at me, ‘kay?” He speaks the phrase slowly, like he’s trying not to spook a newborn animal. You suppose he’s validated in that, the way you do feel a little like a fawn about to walk out onto a frozen lake.

You turn your head to face him over your shoulder. “Okay. Um… wish me luck, I guess.”

“Don’t need it, babygirl.”

The both of you share a knowing smile once more, and it makes enough of your nerves melt away that you don’t even realize that Angel is becoming closer and clearer in your vision. Your feet had started carrying you out onto the stage before you had given them permission to, it seems, and now the embroidered luna moths are wrapped around your body. The hot lights are shining brightly in your eyes, and you’re suddenly enveloped in a dense cloud of white noise that sounds like cheering and screaming. 

You look behind you, and your band members have each taken their positions. They all give you a nod or a thumbs up, and now it’s up to you to kick off the tour’s opening night. When you turn your head toward the wings one last time, Joel is still standing where you left him, arms crossed in the darkness. He juts his chin upwards and mouths something to you, the shapes of his lips forming the phrase you can do this. You whisper the affirmative phrase back to him, the same way he had you do in your dressing room.

After you’ve introduced yourself into the mic using the steadiest voice you can muster, you shut your eyes, take a final stabilizing inhale, and then a metallic chord reverberates around the venue as you begin your set.

Instincts and muscle memory carry you most of the way through the first half of your songs. You can worry about building up your confidence and stage presence after you’ve come out the other side of this first night in one piece, you resolve. Right now, you’re just trying to work up the courage to unstick your eyes from the setlist taped to the floor in front of you. Those titles printed in bold black ink are the only familiar things you can see, and you wish someone else covered in black ink were standing in front of you for you to rest your gaze on. Someone to use his tattooed fingers and devilish grin to charm you like a snake, prevent you from curling up and hiding from him, from the tens of thousands of people who traveled and paid good money to see you. You can’t let them down, let him down. You won’t.

One of the songs toward the end of your set requires Angel to be the sole performer for the first few measures before your voice and your band come in behind her. The song starts with a repetitive, hypnotic strum pattern, one you’ve practiced hundreds of times by now. But, it’s easy to get lost in it, lose track of your place if you allow your mind to get distracted or your fingers to be on autopilot for too long. 

That’s exactly what’s happened, you realize, when the first verse starts without its igniting lyric. You come in just in time to sing the second line, hoping your voice isn’t coming out too shaky as you try to cover up your mitsake. Your face feels hot, fingers struggling to grip your guitar pick as they become sweaty with embarrassment.

You start gettin’ nervous, you look at me, he had told you, what seems like hours ago now. 

When you feel you’ve got a better handle on the song, you turn your head toward the wings to find him already looking at you. If he had noticed the slip-up, his face doesn’t let onto it, which helps to relax you. He wears a proud smile, and holds eye contact until you’re ready to let it go.

His reassuring presence allows you to finish strong, and the remainder of your set is over before you know it. When the drums and bass have faded behind you, and the remaining tones of your closing chord have dissipated into the air, you start to come back into your own body as the white noise filling your ears turns into voices. They’re cheering, whistling, screaming. You raise a hand above your brows, blocking the harsh spotlights so you can get a better look at the crowd, at the thousands of people you had been too scared to acknowledge the reality of earlier this evening. You break into a laugh, eyes becoming wet when you realize Joel was right, you could do it. You did do it. And the crowd fucking loves you. 

Unable to contain your elation, you step back from your mic to do a little spin in place, strumming out some final nonsense chords with your nose all scrunched up as the skirt of your dress flutters around you. You take a bashful bow and wave to the crowd, your cheeks burning with the stretch of your smile. Stepping forward again, your voice echoes around the venue as you extend some final “thank you”s to your incredible audience, reminding them of your name one last time before skipping offstage, your band following close behind. 

Although your vision is still recovering from the blinding lights, you don’t find Joel in your quick scan of the dark backstage area, and you figure he must be doing some last-minute warm ups or pre-show rituals with the rest of Death’s Head. You share a quick celebration with your bandmates, and then head your separate ways for the night, realizing when you go to change your clothes in your dressing room that you’ve still got Angel draped across your body. It’s going to take a few shows to get used to leaving her onstage for a roadie to pack up for you, you suppose. It’s difficult to remember that you’re not the only one taking care of yourself anymore. But if this was what the rest of your life was going to be like, what your years of hard work and trying and failing and rejection and acceptance had gotten you, you could certainly learn to get used to it.

For now, you detach yourself from Angel and lay her down gently on the couch in your dressing room, setting a mental reminder to find a stagehand later to surrender her to. You know it’s strange to feel such fondness toward an instrument, but she’s like a close friend to you now, a partner. “We did it,” you say to her quietly, smiling to yourself.

Your sentimental little moment is interrupted by another knock at the door.

“You in there, darlin’?” Joel calls from the other side of the wall.

“Oh, yeah! You can come in,” you permit, and he pushes the door open as you turn to him. “What’re you still doin’ back here?”

He scoffs and makes a face in mock disgust. “Damn, could act a lil’ happy to see me.”

“Sorry,” you giggle as he steps fully inside the room, shutting the door behind him. For a beat, you just stand facing each other in silence. You bounce on your heels and fiddle with the hem of your dress, waiting for him to say something.

“Fuckin’ incredible out there, babygirl. ‘Bout knocked me on my ass, I swear.” He steps closer to you, taking your face in both of his large hands. It makes your breath hitch, your eyes widening as they look into his. “Goddamn superstar, you are. They fuckin’ loved you.”

You break into a grin, swollen cheeks pushing into his calloused fingers. “Thank you… Took me a while to get it going, slipped up a little towards the end, but it was fun. Can’t believe I did it.”

“Well shit, I can. You should be proud of yourself, baby.”

“I am.”

“Good.” He studies your face for a moment, and for a split second, you think he might kiss you, and that you might want him to. You try to knock the thought from your head swiftly, and he drops his hands from your face as you do.

“So listen, came back here to ask you somethin’ actually. I know it’s pretty short notice and all, but the guys and I were wonderin’ if you’d wanna come back out and open our set with us.”

Your lips part in surprise, blinking quickly as you process his request. “Oh, um… That’d be really cool, but–”

“But what? C’mon, sweetheart, they loved you. They’ll go crazy for it.” He almost sounds like he’s getting impatient, the way he cuts you off. 

You try to justify your hesitation, hoping he’ll understand. “We just didn’t rehearse it together, I don’t really know the chords–” He interrupts you again. “Don’t matter, we’re changin’ the opener, anyway. Gonna play Kiss it Better instead. Gotta know that one, right? Since you’re such a huge fan and all.”

He’s caught you, and he knows it. Of course you’re familiar with Death’s Head’s biggest hit. When you first fell in love with their music, it was one of the first songs you taught yourself to play. He had probably heard you absentmindedly plucking out the chorus during your soundcheck. You know you can’t lie to him now.

You take a moment to consider, then nod. “Okay, yeah. I’ll do it.”

The stern look on his face melts into one of smug satisfaction. “Good girl. Now c’mon.”

You lean over to grab Angel from the couch, but Joel stops you with a hand on your arm. “Won’t need her.”

You pause, turning your head to look at him with your brows furrowed. “I won’t?”

“Thought you just said you knew the song, baby. You forget how it starts?”

Oh.

He wants you to perform that part of the song with him. You wish you had remembered how the intro goes before agreeing to go back out there.

Shit.

Joel jerks his head toward the hallway with a “c’mon”, and you follow him out of your dressing room and back to the side of the stage. The rest of Death’s Head is already waiting, looking exasperated by Joel’s tardy appearance. Tommy gives you a double take, a brief look of confusion washing over his face before adjusting his expression to offer you a friendly smile instead. He and Joel exchange a few hushed words, and it doesn’t take much for you to gather that the guys weren’t in on this at all. This last minute switch up had all been Joel’s idea.

When the brothers are done speaking, Tommy nods in understanding, then passes the change in plans along to Eugene and Jesse. Joel must hear the erratic metallic scrape of your crucifix dragging across its silver chain as you fidget with it, and he turns his attention to the thousand yard stare you’re wearing.

He nudges one of your shoulders with his own to jostle you back to reality. “Where’d my confident girl go, hm?”

“Nowhere. Just… wasn’t really prepared to do this.”

“Just follow my lead, sweetheart. It’ll be good, promise.”

You nod, blinking rapidly, trying to focus on his face in the dark.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Joel grins down at you in satisfaction, then turns to face the band. “Whaddya say we get this show on the road then, boys?”

Tommy claps him on the back with a “Let’s do it, brother,” and then Joel is taking your hand in one of his big paws, leading you back out onto the stage you thought you’d already seen the last of.

An explosion of screams and cheers even louder than the one you’d received nearly knocks you over where you stand next to Joel, unsure of what to do with yourself while you await his instruction. He lets go of you briefly to pick up his guitar and situate the strap across his broad chest, then replaces his hand against the small of your back. It feels a little grounding, reassuring, and prevents you from being consumed by too many questions of what the fuck you’re doing out here. You’re pleasing him, that’s what. Not letting him down, right? Doing what he asks, because you’d do anything he asks, and he knows that.

He introduces himself and the band to the crowd, not that they need reminding of who they shelled out a couple hundred each to see tonight, and then you realize he’s talking about you.

“Remember her? Beautiful, ain’t she? Hell of a performer, too,” he speaks into his mic. You turn to smile at Joel while the sea of voices threatens to swallow you up, and the way he’s looking back at you is doing much the same. His expression is hungry, almost, and it reminds you of what it is you’re about to do.

He turns to face the crowd again. “Y’all seemed to like her so much, thought she could be my lil’ helper for our first song this evenin’. That alright with y’all?” Another ground-shaking response from the audience, and he leans closer into the mic to huff a laugh and say, “Thought so.”

Joel covers the head of the device with his hand, so that he’s only speaking to you now. “C’mere, sweetheart. Stand in front o’ me.” His other hand tightens against your lower back, moving you to where he wants you. “Want you to kneel for me now, baby.” He moves his hand up to your shoulder, applying downward pressure and helping you sink to the floor. Your eyes are doe-like and sparkling as you look up at him, heart pounding and breath quickening as you settle at his feet. The sound of your own blood rushing through your skull almost drowns out the fit of ecstasy erupting behind you, the band’s most loyal fans already knowing where this is going. And so do you.

Joel removes the mic from its stand, holding it to his lips and speaking a final “You know what I wanna hear, go ahead, now,” before lowering it to your mouth, his hand now level with the growing bulge in his jeans. The other one begins to strum a steady rhythm against steel strings, building up to the crescendo into the crash of the song’s first verse.

You hesitate, opening and closing your mouth once as you reach a wavering hand towards the microphone. Joel shakes his head in disapproval, and his lips form shapes that look like “hands to yourself”. He smirks down at you when you quickly snatch your hand away, pleased with your obedience. His silver brow piercing catches the light when he jerks his chin upward, the bright lights making his eyes appear to flash like a cat as he encourages you to speak.

“Please…” you squeak out, your voice providing the queue for Tommy’s thrumming bassline to come in.

Joel swings the mic back up to his mouth to speak into it once more, initiating this depraved little game of give and take. “Please, who?” he challenges, and then it’s your turn again.

You swallow, knowing what he wants to hear. “Please… Please Da– Daddy…” The title catches in your throat, this being the first time you’ve ever spoken it aloud the way you’ve always fantasized about. What a debauched sight you must be, pretty young thing on her knees for her teenage rock idol, calling him Daddy in front of thousands and thousands of strangers. If only your mother could see you now.

A kick drum comes to life somewhere behind Joel’s towering form. It vibrates your already sore knees, the feeling traveling to the apex of your thighs. “Tha’s it. Now please, what? Use your fuckin’ words, baby.” His demanding tone prompts a soft whimper to escape your lips, and you shift on your heels. His eyes flick down to where the hem of your dress just barely conceals your panties, licking his lips before focusing on your face again.

“Please kiss it better, Daddy,” you plead, and a warm, fluttery sensation begins to wash over you. Your eyelids feel a little heavier, your brain feels a little cloudy, and he knocks the underside of your chin with the mic once to bring you back to him.

“Hm, I dunno… Still think you can beg a lil’ prettier than that. Try one more time for Daddy...” He flashes his canines as he watches your hips rock back and forth, unsure if you even know how your body is reacting to him. He’s got you exactly where he wants you now, making a mess of yourself for him, shedding the skin of that shy little girl he first met not so long ago. 

“Mmh, please, Daddy, need you to kiss it better, please…” Your voice sounds fucking wrecked, and you almost don’t recognize it as your own. It takes you a second or two to realize that Jesse’s guitar has joined in over top of the drums, and you know your little performance is over now.

Joel steals the mic from your panting mouth for a final time, slotting it back into its stand. With lips pressed against the device, he growls, “A’right, good girl, tha’s enough, baby,” and his shrieking guitar resounds all around you as your reward. 

You stay kneeling for the remainder of the song, recovering from the whiplash of sinking into such a soft, unfamiliar headspace for the first time only to have nothing come of it. Attempting to recenter and distract yourself, you study Joel’s fingers up close as he plays, trying not to think too hard about those gothic letters adorning his knuckles. It’s no use, of course it is, and you shift around on your sore knees as the memory of that title leaving your lips, being commanded of you by him, replays itself like a skipping record. You’re a little ashamed at the feeling of how soaked your panties are, only being made worse when you chance a look up at Joel to find him already staring down at you, singing the suggestive lyrics of the song to you.

The final chords ring out a few minutes later, and then he’s reaching an inked hand down for you to take. You use it as leverage to push yourself back up to your feet on shaky legs, and you attempt to smooth out the bottom of your dress while Joel maneuvers you to face the crowd again.

“What a performance, huh? God damn,” he praises, making your cheeks burn as he drinks you in again. “‘S all I need from you for now, sweetheart, catch up with you later, yeah?” 

You nod, doing an uncoordinated little curtsy toward the roaring crowd, cheering voices peppered with a few lewd-sounding whistles and hollers. “A’right, you run along, beautiful thing,” and he sends you offstage with a wink and what seemed like an unspoken promise for more, later.

–

Earlier in the day, you had been looking forward to watching the band from the wings after you were done performing, realizing how cool it was going to be that your first time seeing them live would be from somewhere even better than the front row. You can’t even bear the thought of that now.

You make a beeline from the stage to your dressing room, searching frantically for the lighter and pack of cigarettes in your bag. God damn, you need a fucking smoke right now, and some fresh air. It’s like striking gold when you find them buried underneath receipts and gum wrappers and makeup, guarding them with your life as you head out the venue’s back door.

You let it slam behind you as you press your exposed back up against the cold exterior wall, shaky fingers trying desperately to flick the lighter on and ignite the cigarette between your lips. Closing your eyes for a moment, you take a deep inhale of smoke, letting the cool night air wash over your heated skin. It’s impossible to escape him entirely, even all the way on the other side of the amphitheater, his muffled timbre still audible as the breeze carries it across the dark sky. You let your gaze rest on nothing in particular as you puff through your cigarette, trying to process what the hell just happened out there.

The problem isn’t so much what you did, it’s that you liked it, the evidence of which is still smeared along your aching cunt and between your thighs. The light wind flutters the skirt of your dress, and the sensation on the cooling moisture at your core sends a shiver up your spine, igniting goosebumps all along your exposed skin.

When your cigarette is almost burned down to a nub, you’re tempted to put it out on your arm, just to see if the burn might wake you up from whatever insane erotic dream you seem to be having.

‘S all I need from you for now, sweetheart, catch up with you later, yeah?

For now. Catch up with you later.

You’re sure he meant nothing by it, the “catching up” most likely referring to a conversation where he tells you not to look too far into what happened tonight, that it was just a performance, all a part of his act. You had played your part, it was a one time, spur-of-the-moment thing, and now you navigate the rest of the tour pretending it never happened.

You toss the smoldering butt of your smoke onto the pavement, stomping it out before heading back inside, the majority of your racing thoughts now slowed by a dense cloud of tobacco. You feel a little more stable than you did twenty or so minutes ago, letting your heavy boots lead you to the venue’s green room. You plant yourself on one of the large couches upholstered in tacky paisley fabric, preparing yourself for the awkward but professional talk you’re bound to have with Joel once the show is over.

Eyeing the bar cart in the corner of the room, you decide to get up and pour yourself a drink to pass the time. You don’t typically go for brown liquor, but it’s what’s in front of you, likely at the band’s request. Joel certainly strikes you as a whiskey kind of guy, at least. You hope he won’t mind if you help yourself to some of his share, pouring a finger into a short glass with ice and filling the rest with half a can of Coke from the ice bucket on the cart.

There’s a small, square television in the room, which you notice is playing a live feed of what’s happening on stage. You spot its accompanying remote on the lacquered coffee table in front of you, and grab it to turn the volume up as you begin to sip on your drink. 

It’s not the most high-definition feed you’ve ever seen, and you can tell the television is a few years outdated. But it’s good enough for you to use to pass the rest of the time. You could woman-up and just watch from the side of the stage like you had planned on, but it’s nice to have this little room to yourself for now. The combination of watching Joel through the shabby screen and the sagging couch you’re practically sinking into reminds you of home, in a way, of the first time you’d ever seen his face aside from album covers and posters ripped from magazines. It’s still hard to believe you’ve met him now, performed with him, been on your knees for him. The memory makes you squirm uncomfortably, both from arousal and humiliation. 

You allow your focus to be shifted to the small pile of Rolling Stone copies on the coffee table instead of your little performance, and flip through the pages while the crackling sound of the rest of Death’s Head’s set plays in the background. You’d always had a knack for finding ways to keep yourself distracted, and you’re thankful for that skill now.

After another hour or so, your attention is pulled back to the television when you hear the words “thank you” and “goodnight” in the mix of what Joel is shouting to the crowd, and you realize the show must be over now. A glance at the clock on the wall lets you know it’s almost eleven thirty, and a yawn takes over the muscles of your jaw on instinct. Between all you’ve been through tonight and what ended up being two Jack and Cokes, you’re looking forward to finally changing out of your clothes and tucking yourself into your tour bus bed. You hope it’s at least somewhat comfortable, having not had a chance to lie down on it yet. 

But before you can succumb to the temptation of sleep, you have to catch up with Joel first. You’ve already gone over what he might say to you a dozen times in your head, prepared for any and all possibilities when he pulls you aside tonight to set the record straight between the two of you. 

The stage is dark and empty now on the square little screen, the sound of screams and applause replaced by baritone laughter and heavy footfalls approaching the green room door. When Joel pushes inside with the other men in tow, you sit up a little straighter and offer him a friendly smile as he heads straight for the bar cart. You were right in your assumption of his alcohol preferences, watching as he pours himself a generous glass of the same whiskey now working its way through your bloodstream.

“You stealin’ some of my good liquor, darlin’?” he jokes, noticing that the cap on the bottle had already been unscrewed and spotting the glass on the table in front of you.  

“Yeah, sorry, was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

“Nah, ‘s fine by me. Want me to top off your glass?” He asks as Tommy relaxes into the other end of the couch you’re perched on. Jesse and Eugene sit down together in a creaking loveseat to your left, already engaged in a conversation of their own.

“I’ve already had two, I probably shouldn’t–” you protest.

Joel interrupts you, reaching a hand out and making a grabbing gesture towards your quarter-full drink. “We’re celebratin’, baby. C’mon, hand it over.”

You oblige, surrendering your glass, and it becomes more and more true with each interaction with Joel that he really doesn’t ever take ‘no’ for an answer. At first, you had thought Tommy’s warning was because Joel was just stubborn, which does seem to be the case. But he doesn’t have to argue much to get his way, he gets it just because his charm and demeanor warrant it. It’s like he cast a spell on you the moment you first met him, and now you can’t help but to say ‘yes’ to whatever he asks of you, even if it might be against your better judgment. 

Joel hands your glass back to you, a little more Jack and a little less Coke than you would’ve poured for yourself, but you only have to sip on it long enough to get through the “catching up”. Maybe the extra helping will make the whole thing a little easier, anyway. Joel plants himself on the black leather chair across from the couch you’re sitting on, groaning as he spreads his legs and relaxes his forearms on top of the chair’s wide armrests. There’s a lamp that sits in the corner of the room, and the warm glow illuminates the back of his head of curls, still damp and sticking in odd directions from the sweat he worked up while performing. The slight golden halo almost makes him look like a king sat atop his throne. 

He catches you staring, studying him, and his lips tug into a smirk. He chooses not to taunt you about it, instead turning his attention to Tommy to talk about the show. That’s what you assume they’re talking about, at least. You feel a little awkward, out of place among the group of men, and your eyelids are getting heavier with each passing minute despite their gruff voices and sharp bursts of laughter. You let yourself shrink into the couch's worn fabric, swirling your glass around and taking an occasional sip just to look like you’re doing something. You’re half tempted to reread one of the magazines you had already looked through.

Eventually, after each of the men have gotten a drink or two in them, Tommy is the first to rise from his seat. You had been playing with the lace hem of your dress, tracing the patterns with your finger, so engrossed in it you had almost forgotten you were sharing the couch with him.

“Well, you ready to head out, boys? Keep the party goin’ a lil’ bit longer?” he proposes. “You’re welcome to come too, sweetheart, if you wanna. Just not sure it’d be your kinda scene,” he adds, turning to you.

“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll probably just head to bed soon. Thank you for offering, though.”

Tommy smiles at you and nods in understanding. Jesse and Eugene accept his invitation, and then there’s only one member of Death’s Head whose plans you’re unsure of. “You comin’, brother?” Tommy asks him.

“Nah, I’ll stay here. Make sure our special guest gets to her bus alright ‘n all.”

“Good idea... Well, see y’all later, then. You were great tonight, darlin’, by the way,” Tommy compliments, and you smile politely as you thank him.

The three men leave the room, closing the door behind them, and now you’re alone with Joel again. It’s mostly silent, save for the squeak of the leather and light jingling of metal chains when he decides to get up from his chair, replacing Tommy in the empty spot beside you on the couch. He crosses one leg over the other, resting a calf atop the opposite thick thigh. You can feel his gaze on you as he stretches his arms across the back of the couch, not quite sitting close enough to you for his arm to reach across your shoulders. You fidget with your fingernails, avoiding acknowledging his presence until you have to. Please just get it over with.

“Said it once, said it a million times, but you really were amazin’ out there tonight. Appreciate you bein’ so willin’ to do that for me last minute.”

“Oh, um… yeah. I mean, the crowd seemed to like it, so–”

“And how’d you like it?”

His question takes you by surprise, and it finally makes you turn your head to look at him. Why does it matter if you liked it or not? You’re sure nothing like it will ever happen again as far as you’re concerned, as far as you’re sure he’s concerned.

“How’d I like what…?” You question, just to make sure he’s asking you what it seems like he is.

“You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, sweetheart,” he speaks lowly, those carnivorous eyes of his scanning over your body, coming to rest on where white lace just barely conceals the tops of your thighs.

“Oh… I, um… I liked it, I guess,” you admit sheepishly.

“‘S okay if you did, I could tell.”

And there he goes again, always being fucking right about you. You should know by now that there’s no use in trying to skirt around the truth with him.

You continue to try, anyway. “I just haven’t really done something like that before, wasn’t sure if I was doing a good job.”

“Did a perfect job, babygirl. Looked so pretty on your knees for me, sounded so sweet when you were beggin’ for Daddy.”

Oh. 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting him to say next, but it certainly wasn’t that. The room starts to spin a little, either from the alcohol still floating through your veins or from the sharp turn your catching up has taken, you can’t say for certain. Joel huffs lightly through his nose, and you think he must have noticed your breath catch in your throat and the shift of your hips in response to his filthy compliment, punctuated by the title he used so casually. 

“C’mere, sweet thing. Sittin’ so far away, you scared o’ me or somethin’?” He teases.

“N-no…”

“Didn’t think so. Now don’t make me ask again, sweetheart.” He pats the empty cushion beside him as he speaks, brows raised at you expectantly.

You obey, of course you do, and your heart hammers against your ribcage as you slide closer to his side of the couch. Your eyelids start to flutter against their own volition, and that candy-sweet, far away feeling from earlier on stage begins to make its second appearance of the night.

“Good girl… So beautiful, baby, you know that?” he praises softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before lightly rubbing his thumb across your pouty bottom lip. He presses it downward against the pillowy skin, and pushes the digit inside with ease when your mouth parts for him so eagerly. You close your lips around him and swirl your tongue along the calloused skin a few times, and he looks like he wants to eat you alive as he watches you fall apart for him so easily.

Joel pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it down your spit-slick lip so that it bounces back into place when his finger leaves your skin. He wears a satisfied grin at the way he has you completely at his mercy now, looking up at him with your glazed-over doll eyes. They scan back and forth between his glowing amber ones, awaiting your next direction.

“Gave you a compliment. What do you say, babygirl, hm?”

“Thank you, Da– unh…” The word starts to come out before you can catch it in time, shove it back into his cage. Your face runs hot immediately at your slip-up.

“‘S okay, sweetheart. You can call me that, if you wanna, say it real pretty for me. Don’t got it tattooed on me for nothin’,” Joel soothes, still-wet thumb rubbing across your cheekbone in placating strokes. “C’mon, finish your sentence, baby.”

“Th– thank you, Daddy,” you repeat, so lost in this saccharine headspace he’s coaxed out of you that you can’t even feel ashamed anymore.

“There we go, good girl… Y’know why I got that special word tattooed on me, hm?” He asks, already knowing you’re too far gone to come up with an answer. But it’s fun to watch those little gears behind your eyes struggle to turn. If you did ever know the reason, it’s long gone now. You shake your head, humming an mm-mm.

“Figured if it was part of the song that made me famous, might as well own it. Don’t you think, sweet girl? Think it belongs to me, that it should always be there to remind you who I am?”

You manage a weak sounding noise and nod in response, cheek brushing up and down against the skin of his palm.

“And who am I, sweetheart? Wanna hear you say it again…”

“D-Daddy…”

He smirks, enjoying how quickly he’s been able to reduce you into nothing more than a wet, pliant puddle of a girl. “Yeah, tha’s right… c’mere, baby. Lemme feel you.” He uncrosses his legs, returning them to their trademark spread so that he can pull you into his lap and situate you into straddling his hips. The position makes your dress ride up so far that your panties are exposed to him now, soaked-through gusset and all. His fingers make to tease the wet spot there, but change course to pay attention to something else first instead. Something scrawled in uneven black linework, peeking out from underneath your dress’ hemline. He pushes the fabric further up your bare thigh to fully unveil the shoddy little illustration, tracing around it with a roughened finger.

“Wha’s this, sweetheart, hm? This for me?” He prompts, hooking a knuckle of the opposite hand into the little dip in your chin, guiding your head downward to look at his discovery. A death’s-head hawkmoth, bearing a striking resemblance to the band’s logo, with its scribbled wings made of bleeding ink spread out across your skin.

You hum in confirmation, not trusting your own voice anymore. He squeezes at the plush skin of your upper thigh, massaging around the tattoo. A faint growl rumbles from deep in his chest. “Tha’s cute, babygirl. ‘S real cute.”

“Th-thank you,” you return, politely accepting his compliment the way he likes you to. 

His large hand migrates from the moth to your dampened core, nudging at your clothed clit with a tattooed knuckle. “All this for me too?” 

You’re so sensitive there, his touch sending a shock through your nervous system that makes your hips rock into his hand. You nod, your affirming noise sounding more like a whimper. He pinches the swollen nub between two knuckles, and you let out a pained little yelp. “Yeah?” he taunts. 

“Yeah, yes, Daddy,” you squeak out, so fucking gone for him already as his other hand guides your hips to move along his covered crotch. Even through his tight jeans, you can feel how hard he is, his cock straining against the thick material.

“Fuck, need to feel this lil’ pussy, baby. You gonna let me?”

“Uh huh, please,” you whine, ready for him to see you, touch you however he wants right here on the worn-down couch cushions. You’ve never felt anything quite like the hazy little cloud he’s got you floating in, shyness and inhibitions suddenly gone, replaced with unabashed submission.

Joel glances at the watch on his wrist, then over your shoulder to the door you’ve got your back to as you continue to unconsciously roll your hips in his lap. 

“Reckon someone’ll be back here pretty soon to clean up for the night, don’t want no one walkin’ in on what I’m about to do to you, do we?” You barely register what he’s saying, making some unintelligible sound in response as you fight to keep your eyes open. “Well, maybe you do… Had you whimperin’ and whinin’ for me in front of all those people pretty quick, didn’t I? Hardly even put up a fight, just wanna be good for me so bad, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Yes, Daddy, wanna be good.” Another wave of wetness seeps from your aching core, staining your panties a shade darker and making the fabric adhere to the shape of your swollen pussy.

“Yeah, fuck, know you do. Hang onto me babygirl, gonna take this somewhere else, let you prove it to me.” He stands up as he speaks, and you wrap your limbs around him as he carries you out the back door of the venue and onto the Death’s Head tour bus.

When he steps onto it with you clutched tightly against him, you can see the bus is spacious enough to have a bedroom in the back, which of course gets to belong to Joel for the next several weeks as opposed to a cramped bunk. You’re not sure there’s ever been a time in his life when he hasn’t gotten exactly what he wants, what he deserves, it seems, and tonight is no exception.

He tosses you onto the bed, and you don’t even have time to unlace your boots before he’s gripping your ankles and yanking you down toward the edge of the mattress. The movement hikes up your dress all the way up to your tummy, and you attempt to pull it back over yourself before his hands are replacing yours on the hem. “Nuh uh, way past that, sweetheart. Off,” he orders, and helps you sit up enough to shimmy it over your head and discard it onto the floor. “Get these off too.” His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips to help him rid you of the ruined fabric. “Now lay down, baby, spread ‘em. Lemme see her.”

You pull your knees in towards you, and Joel places two rough hands on your inner thighs, pushing them apart to slowly reveal your glistening cunt to him as he crouches down to face her. “Oh, she’s pretty, ain’t she?” He marvels, collecting the slick pooling at your entrance with a calloused thumb and using it to circle your sensitive clit. All you can do is whine and let him play with you, so entirely blissed out that you can’t be sure if any of this is real. “Knew you’d have such a pretty lil’ cunt like this.” The sensation of his warm breath ghosting against your sensitive bud combined with his touch and his praise makes you squirm, shifting your hips into his hand and silently begging for more. He uses his thumb to tease your dripping entrance a few times, and laughs when it makes you whine a little louder, a little more pathetic-sounding, before abandoning it to pay attention to your clit again.

“What’re you makin’ all those pretty sounds for, sweetheart, hm? She feelin’ empty, ‘s that it?” He goads, fingers leaving your core entirely as he stands up to finally free his cock from his jeans, hard and angry and leaking. He taps the head against your hole, enjoying the sight of it constricting around nothing. “This what you want, baby? Need me to fuck you full?”

“Unh, uh huh,” you cry, still desperately bucking toward what he’s so close to giving you. 

“Might be a lil’ selfish of me, but I think I wanna hear you beg for it again. Just sounded so sweet tonight, can’t help if I wanna hear it some more... Look at me,” he barks, and you hadn’t realized your eyes were closed until he demanded you to open them. He towers over you, sliding a thick hand up and down his shaft, the wet sound of it making you salivate. “You want this cock?”

“Yeah, yes, Daddy, please…”

“Please, what?”

“P-please gimme your c-cock, Daddy, please… Please f-fuck me.” It almost sounds like you’re crying, the way you’re hiccuping and sobbing through your words, one slurring into the next as you beg him.

“So fuckin’ eager, Christ. Such a good girl for me,” he praises, moving to line himself up with where you’re aching for him the most. You’re probably dripping onto his nice sheets, so soaked that he’ll barely have to put in any effort to fully slip inside you. “I’ll give it to ya, babygirl, fuck. So goddamn desperate.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him before he spears into you, and you let out an involuntary little mewl at how big his cock is. You only have the one experience to go off of for comparison, but Joel is fucking huge. He’s thick and long, with a blushing mushroom tip and a prominent vein running down the length of him. Your reaction to him makes him refocus on your face, noticing how wide your eyes are as you take him in.

“Can’t promise I’m gonna be gentle, don’t got it in me. Say somethin’ if you can’t handle it, I’ll put your pretty mouth to use instead, ‘kay?”

“O-okay,” you promise, continuing to watch as he begins to push inside with a groan, just the tip at first, until he quickly loses his patience and sheaths the rest of himself inside you.

“Tight lil’ cunt, suckin’ me in already, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good…” He releases a strained breath once he bottoms out, and you swear that swollen tip of his is kissing your fucking cervix. You feel so full, letting out a debauched sound as you adjust to the burn and stretch of him. He lets himself sit inside you for just a second before he slides out almost completely, growling again when he pushes back inside.

“Oh fuck, look at that,” he muses, trailing a hand from your entrance to the expanse of skin just under your belly button. His touch tickles, making you shiver, and you direct your attention from where the two of you meet to whatever it is he’s suddenly become fascinated with. “So big inside you, huh? Tummy’s tryin’ to push me out, can’t hardly take it, Christ… You’re gonna, though, huh sweet girl? Gonna take it for me?”

“Y-yes, Daddy…” you cry.

“Yeah, y’ are, good girl,” Joel says through gritted teeth, and you let your back fall flat against the bed once more as he quickens his pace, rough hands gripped onto the underside of your thighs as he pistons in and out of you. Each slap, slap, slap of skin on skin is accompanied by obscene wet squelching, the sounds becoming more distant in your ears as you let yourself drift away into some dreamy, filthy space. God, you almost wish that stupid bartender you unfortunately gave your virginity to were here to take notes on how to actually fuck a girl. Joel’s got a dirty mouth, and he knows exactly how to use it to push and pull you, mold you into exactly what he wants you to be, at least for tonight. And you’re more than willing to give in.

You’re not sure how much time has passed before you feel a thumb and fingers squeezing either side of your face, forcing your lips into a pout as he jostles your head to bring you back to reality. When your fluttering eyes finally focus on Joel’s face hovering over yours, you can see that his lips are moving, teeth bared as he speaks. He’s looking at you expectantly, his pierced brow twitching into an arch, and you assume he must have asked you a question.

“Hm?” You mumble, and he gives your jaw another little shake.

“Asked you if it feels good, sweetheart. Tell me it feels fuckin’ good, need to hear it, babygirl. C’mon,” he spits through gritted teeth, that rockstar ego of his taking over in its need to be aroused. He punctuates his request with a particularly sharp thrust, one that makes you yelp.

“F-feels… feels good, Daddy. Feel so… so– unh,” you cry out, unable to finish your string of nonsense reassurance, the jumbled mess of sounds only spurring him on to fuck into you even harder. He returns his thumb to your clit, using your slick to rub quick circles around it. It’s all too much, too fast, too hard, too big, but it’s just the right amount of overstimulation to launch you to the edge of your orgasm. You can feel yourself constrict around him, abdominal muscles contracting as you shut your eyes so tight you start seeing stars.

“Oh fuck, gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my fuckin’ cock, huh? C’mon, pretty girl, come for me, can feel you chokin’ me.” All it takes is a few more rubs around your aching clit, a few more of his filthy words, few more stuttering pulses of his cock inside your walls so deep and powerful you know you’ll be sore tomorrow, and then you’re howling, spasming on the sheets as he groans above you. Fireworks are exploding on the backs of your eyelids, so vivid you swear you can really hear them. The imaginary booms muffle Joel’s voice as he floods you with his come only a moment later, grumbling good girl, such a good fuckin’ girl, so god damn perfect. 

Falling forward to brace his hands on either side of your head, he stays inside you for a couple of minutes, still rock hard as his cock finishes out its last few shudders. He pulls out all too soon, and you let out an involuntary little whine as soon as he does, your subconscious’ way of protesting the loss.

“I know, babygirl, I know. She misses me already, don’t she?” he placates, thumbing some of his spend still dripping from your fucked out hole and smearing it around your pussy. Not to provide any more pleasure, just to play with you, enjoying the sight of what he did to you. “Did so well for me, sweetheart.”

As you half-whisper a “thank you, Daddy,” you hear what sounds like the bus door open and close, followed by boisterous laughter and clumsy footsteps getting louder and closer. You’re quickly snapped back to the reality of your situation, and panic begins to set in when you fully realize where you are and what you’ve just done, and with who. You’d been so lost in arousal and pleasure you’d lost track of how much time had passed. Joel hears them too, and notices the fear in your expression as he sucks his finger clean from your shared release.

“Oh, shit... It’s fine, sweetheart, it’s okay. Listen to me.” You lock your eyes onto his, your brows knit together in worry as you push yourself up to a more alert sitting position. “Just stay put, alright? You can… just sleep here tonight, I guess. Not gonna sneak you out like a fuckin’ teenager.”

“Okay,” you reply, wrapping your arms around your body as you start to shiver. For some reason, you feel the need to apologize. 

He looks around the room, quickly shoving himself back into his jeans and running his hands through his damp hair. He reaches into a still half-packed suitcase and tosses you one of his t-shirts, black with a fading whiskey brand logo printed across the chest. “Here, uh… put this on. I’ll bring you somethin’ to clean up with, just try to relax.” 

You make quick work of slipping it over your head, enjoying the comforting feeling of the soft cotton on your skin, providing some warmth on your chilled skin as its thin layer of perspiration begins to dry.

Joel slips out of the bedroom in the second that the dark fabric covers your eyes, closing the door behind him. You can hear the men’s voices erupt at the sight of him, greetings coated in their slowly dissipating inebriation. Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like they’re asking him any questions, mostly just laughing at themselves as they talk over each other, struggling to recount some apparently hilarious story from earlier in the evening. From the sounds of it, you just had to be there, you guess. Tommy says something to Joel of a similar effect, and then the commotion seems to quiet down as they each collapse onto their bunks.

The bedroom door opens again a minute later, and you lean back where you sit in an attempt to duck out of the sight of the other band members.

He lets out a light chuckle at your stealthy movement. “They ain’t gonna see ya, darlin’. Wouldn’t remember it tomorrow even if they did. Here, brought you these–” He sets a glass of water down onto a nightstand with one hand, the other occupied with a damp washcloth. You extend your arm to take it from him, and he tuts. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Lemme do it. Lay down again, like I had ya before.”

You obey him wordlessly, resuming the same position he had just fucked you in a few minutes prior. His touch is much softer, gentler this time, as he uses the warm cloth to pet at your still-sensitive pussy, cleaning her of your shared fluids. It’s such a striking difference, the two sides of him you’ve seen tonight, and you’re surprised when he completes the task without so much as a suggestive praise or filthy remark. It makes you start to think that he might actually care about you, that maybe he could see you as something more than a plaything, something fun to tease. But he makes it so goddamn difficult to tell for sure. 

“There we are, she’s all cleaned up.” He discards the cloth into a pile of laundry, then bends down to retrieve something else from his suitcase. “Why don’t you cover up with these tonight, too. Since the pair you came in here with is a lil’... outta commission, for the time bein’.” 

You gather that he’s referring to your panties, how they wouldn’t be very comfortable to put back on again, what with how they’re still soaked through with your arousal. He seems to smile at the notion of that being his doing.

“Lift up,” he commands softly, and you raise your feet off the bed, still laid flat on your back with your knees bent. He slides a clean pair of his briefs up your legs, situating them around your waist, before applying light pressure to the tops of your feet to help you lower them once more.

“Alright… Just, uh, make yourself comfortable, then,” he says, laughing quietly when a yawn overtakes your face before he can even finish his sentence. “Think I’m gonna rinse off quick, so… ‘night, I guess.”

“Okay, yeah. ‘Night, Joel,” you reply, and he offers a quick nod as he slips out the bedroom door again. You infer that he’s expecting you to fall asleep before he comes back, which is fine, you suppose. You’re not sure you could force yourself to stay awake much longer to wait for him, anyway. Reaching over to the glass on the nightstand to take a few sips of the water he brought you, you let your mind wander to what he could be thinking right now, what any part of tonight could mean. He cleaned you up, he’s letting you sleep over, he didn’t sell you out to his bandmates. That means he cares about you, right? He didn’t kiss you, but everything happened so fast, and you could’ve been the one to kiss him if you had enough wherewithal to do so. Maybe he’s just not much of a romantic guy. But he cares about you, you’re sure of it now.

You pull back the sheets and curl yourself into a ball underneath them, then extend a hand up to turn off the bedside lamp. Now shrouded in darkness, the muffled sound of the bus shower running nearby prompts your heavy eyelids to pull further and further over your eyes. It only takes a few minutes for you to finally succumb to the temptation of sleep, feeling sore but satisfied, hoping that tonight will be the first of many spent like this with him.

–

You wake up several hours later to an empty bed, having been so exhausted last night that you don’t have any recollection of if Joel had ever joined you there in the first place. You don’t even remember hearing the shower turn off, or feeling his big, warm body slide into bed beside you, or even noticing the bus lurch into motion at some point to transport you to the next city. You wonder if he had pulled you close to him, let you nuzzle into his chest, if he had scratched the top of your head to soothe you after you had made some little noise in your sleep. You think at least one of those things might have happened, you’re just not sure which one. You smile to yourself at the dreamy memory.

Sitting up, you rub the sleep from your eyes, then reach out a hand to feel where the sheets are mussed on his side of the bed. The fitted sheet feels cool, indicating that he must have gotten up a while ago, but let you sleep as long as you wanted. The digital clock on the nightstand reads a little past 10 AM.

You peel back the comforter, swinging your legs around and letting your bare toes touch down on the carpet. You carefully pad your way to the bedroom door, staying quiet in case any of the other band members are out there. Cracking the door open ever so slightly, you check if the coast is clear. The men’s bunks look empty, but you can see the boots of someone sitting on a couch near the front of the bus. The silver tips make them unmistakably Joel’s.

When you make your way over to him, it almost looks like he’s just been sitting there waiting for you to finally wake up, the way he’s hunched forward over last month’s issue of a guitar magazine. He’s fully dressed, and you feel a little embarrassed to still be wearing his shirt and briefs.

He flicks his eyes up to you quickly before returning them to his reading, and greets you with a curt “Mornin’”. Not spoken playfully, not punctuated with one of his charming little names for you or a scan of his eyes over your bare legs, just “mornin’”. You repeat the word back to him, taking a seat on the couch opposite him. You’re not really sure what else to say or do, the air feeling tense and thick for a reason he hasn’t let on to yet. You decide to be brave and break the silence first, but he cuts you off, closing his magazine and tossing it onto the coffee table between you.

“Listen, last night was a mistake, alright? I shouldn’t’ve let myself get carried away like that, should’a shown you some more respect, treated you like a professional. That’s what this is gonna be from now on, okay? Professional. Tell me you understand that.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach at his words, and you try not to let your face reflect the cocktail of confusion and disappointment and hurt you feel. You take a deep inhale and nod your head. “I understand.”

He looks like he wants to say more, something with some actual emotion behind it, maybe, but he pushes it down. “Already dropped your clothes from last night back onto your bus. Best go on before the boys get back, get yourself somethin’ to eat before soundcheck this afternoon.”

“Okay,” you reply quietly, eyes glued to the floor so he doesn’t see the whites of your eyes turn pink and the shine begin to well up in them. “Um, see you later, then, I guess.”

“Yeah,” is all Joel says back to you, but you hardly hear it as you swiftly exit the Death’s Head bus and slam the door behind you. You don’t have far to go, you and your band’s bus being parked right behind theirs, but it feels like the longest, most shameful sprint of your life. You allow your tears to fall once you’re safely cocooned inside your own bunk bed, thankful to be alone. You figure your band must be out for a late breakfast or exploring the city together, and you’re grateful that even if they did notice you missing last night, they probably won’t ask any questions about it.

You feel so fucking stupid, like such a naive little girl, for ever entertaining any of your childish hopes that some playful flirting and a one night stand might ever turn into something real. He’s made it very clear to you now that you’re nothing more than a little mouse for him to bat around, toying with your emotions and your cunt any way he pleases, just because he can. Because you’re so inexperienced, such an easy target, too good and too eager and too willing. And he knows you’ll do exactly as he asks now, keep it professional, because it’s what he commanded of you. And you want to please him, don’t you? Despite the hurt you feel now, you still can’t make yourself disobey him.

You feel drained all over again once your tears finally run dry, but decide you can’t let yourself wallow on your own shattered girlish dreams all afternoon. You turn over and pull the curtain back on your bunk to check the clock on the wall, and realize you have a good handful of hours until you have to be anywhere. You’ve done more with less, you think to yourself, springing out of bed to pull on some of your own clothes. You rush to locate a pen and a notepad, and retrieve Angel from the storage underneath the bus. 

With all necessary items in your possession, you sit yourself down on your own bus’s couch, and let your tangled mess of feelings transform themselves into chords and lyrics. You’ve always used your music as an outlet to cope with what you’re dealing with, why should now be any different? He wants a goddamn professional, you’re going to show him one, and if he can spring a surprise on you as big as moaning for Daddy on stage in front of tens of thousands of people, you can certainly perform a brand new song just for him, tonight.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75

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#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #rockstar!joel #tk&ts

[fluentmoviequoter]

I just watched the new insidious can I request dalton where the reader is elise's granddaughter the reader knew their family and the things that happened because when elise was alive reader is always with her, reader is just like elise a psychic like paranormal ability kinda but after Elise died she never used it anymore and kinda angry with the lamber family (esp with josh lmao) then she met dalton again in the school reader is avoiding him but when things got worst for dalton, reader decided to help him:)))) reader gave them a chance(☆▽☆)

Thank you so much for this request! Apologies for the wait! I really enjoyed writing this and would love to write a part 2 with more background/flashbacks if anyone is interested!! I hope this is what you wanted and let me know what you think! :)

Warnings: angst, the beginnings of fluff, descriptions of the Further, spoilers for The Red Door. 2.1k+ words

A Second Chance

Nine Years Ago

“It’s too dangerous now,” Elise said. “I’ll be back sometime tonight, maybe in the morning.”

“What if Dalton needs my help again?” you asked.

“We can go see Dalton tomorrow and make sure everything is alright, but the entity in that house has grown too powerful for you to be around it.”

“Will I get strong enough, like you, one day?”

“Absolutely. Remember how?”

“Keep a steady stride,” you said together, hugging your grandmother before watching her climb into the van with Specs and Tucker.

Specs and Tucker knocked on the door, and you immediately felt their sadness and nervousness. You knew before you actually saw them, but the look in their eyes confirmed your biggest fear. Your grandmother, one of the only people who knew about your abilities, was gone. Last night, she told you that entity was too strong for you, but nothing should have been strong enough to overpower her in the Further, let alone this realm. Falling to your knees, you began to cry as Specs knelt beside you and hugged you tightly.

“How did it happen?” you asked after a few moments.

“Something possessed Josh,” Tucker begins.

“Josh Lambert? He’s dealt with this before, why couldn’t he get free or send a signal?”

Specs shook his head and began to speak, but you cut him off.

“What about Dalton? What did Dalton do to help?”

“Dalton wasn’t there,” Specs answered carefully. “And whatever thing did this is still in Josh’s body. Maybe he can send a signal now, or Elise can help him from the other side, but…”

“I’m not helping him, if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

“But you’re the only one with the knowledge, the power,” Tucker pointed out.

You stand and wipe your tears as you argue, “And he killed my grandmother.”

From that moment, you vowed never to use your abilities again, to leave your knowledge in the past, and never let anything in the Further affect you again.

Present Day

Graduating high school and starting college are two of the worst days of your life because you miss Elise so much on big occasions. Moving into your dorm and adjusting was surprisingly easy though. In fact, everything seems too easy until your roommate asks you to accompany her to a frat house.

“Why?”

“I left my favorite jacket there at the party last night, and I don’t want to go alone. Please?” she begs.

“Fine. But if anything gross or weird happens, I will leave you there and claim your side of the dorm.”

She crosses her heart, vowing everything will be fine, before leading the way to the frat house. The front lawn is littered with empty cups, bottles, and what looks to be diapers. You wait beside her as she knocks on the front door.

“Hey, can I help you?” a girl asks when she opens the door.

“Hi. I was here last night and think I left my jacket; can I look around for it?”

“Of course.”

Your roommate leads the way inside and then asks you to look upstairs.

“I am not going upstairs alone.”

“You’ll be fine. Thanks so much! It’s a light blue denim jacket with black buttons.”

She disappears into the house, so you walk up the stairs, looking around as you climb. You hear a guy reading something in a room to your right, so you decide to go left first, nearly running into someone. Hands on your shoulders keep you upright as an oddly familiar voice apologizes.

You look up and cough out of surprise. “Dalton?”

Dalton’s eyes widen, and he pulls you slightly closer. “Are you alright?”

“Dalton?” you repeat.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s been a long time. What are you doing here?”

“I go here – to the school I mean, not the frat. Wait, are you?”

“In a frat? No.”

A girl down the hall says Dalton’s name and then opens a door. “This one’s dark.”

Your eyes quickly lift to Dalton’s. “Please tell me you’re not messing with the Further again.”

“It’s messing with me,” Dalton attempts to joke.

You shake his hands off your arms and turn around, spotting a jacket matching your roommate’s description draped on a doorknob. Picking it up, you head for the stairs.

“Can I see you again?” Dalton asks.

“Probably not,” you snap, then sigh. Stopping and looking up at Dalton, you whisper, “This is dangerous, Dalton. Make sure you know what you’re messing with.”

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, your roommate rushes forward and grabs the jacket, thanks you for finding it so quickly, then drags you out of the house. Your mind drifts to Dalton, and you force your mind to remember why you don’t affiliate with the Lamberts. Because one of them killed Elise as far as you're concerned.

Assuming that Dalton attends the art school, based on all the pictures he drew when he was younger, you ensure you do not go near those buildings when walking on campus. You know it isn’t Dalton’s fault that Elise is gone, or even Josh’s, but it is much easier to have a person to blame. A person to direct all your buried hate at.

As you enter your dorm building, all of the lights go out, but this is a darkness you recognize. This is a darkness that you vowed to never return to.

“Dalton,” you gasp before dropping your bag and running up the stairs. You look out at every landing, hoping to see Dalton on one of them.

Before you can find him, the darkness begins to fade. You hear the distant sound of a piano playing and realize that Dalton is messing around in the most dangerous realm you’ve ever heard of. Allowing your anger toward the Lamberts to grow, you return to the main floor, retrieve your backpack, and leave. There’s only one group you can call for answers regarding why you got sucked into Dalton’s play-date in the Further.

“You don’t understand, I didn’t do anything, I was wide awake. Someone else went into the Further and I ended up in it too,” you explain.

“How do you know someone else traveled?” Specs asks through the phone.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you tell him the truth. “Dalton Lambert is here and he told me he’s been messing around with it, or vice versa.”

“He said the Further is messing with him?” Tucker clarifies.

“Yeah.”

“Carl wiped their memory,” Specs says to Tucker, but you make out the words.

“Carl wiped whose memory?”

“Dalton and Josh,” Specs answers. “Nine years ago.”

“So, if he’s saying the Further is messing with him,” you trail off.

“He’s telling the truth,” Tucker finishes.

“And he’s in danger,” you say with Specs.

Hanging up the phone, you pace as you try to think of where Dalton would be or how to contact him. You take a chance and begin walking around campus, looking into all the shadows and hoping that Dalton is alright. You may not like his family, but that doesn’t mean you want him to get hurt.

As you get to the administrative buildings, you prepare to admit defeat and return to your room. Then Dalton enters your sight, leaning against a pillar outside the student health center. You watch from a distance as he stops a girl as she walks out. They talk for a moment, then she walks away.

“Dalton?” you call, walking toward him.

He turns and says your name, meeting you in the middle.

“What happened?”

“They attacked my friend, Chris.”

“In this realm?”

Dalton nods, and you bite your lip, thinking as you look down. “You need help.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Me helping doesn’t change anything. Do you understand that? When this is over, I’m going to walk away and pretend like this never happened.”

Dalton’s eyes drop for a moment. “Yeah, whatever you need to do.”

You nod, then begin to walk with him.

“I should call my brother and see if he remembers the red door, or the hammer,” Dalton says quietly.

You grab his forearm, stopping him. “Red door? The one in the Further?”

“You know what it is?”

“Yeah. No chance you remember the lipstick demon yet?”

“The what demon?”

“Carl did a good job,” you say under your breath. “The red door is home to one of the most dangerous demons in the Further.”

“And the hammer?”

“You don’t remember?”

“My parents said I was in a coma, that’s what I remember.”

“You were awake when your dad tried to kill you.” You can’t keep the bitterness from your voice when you mention Josh.

That comment sparks something in Dalton, and he grabs your hand before running to his dorm, pulling you along with him. When he enters his dorm, you silently watch as he adds a face, Josh Lambert’s, to his painting. It is not nearly as satisfying as it should be to see Josh in the likeness of a monster.

“I sent a picture to Foster. I don’t know what to do now,” Dalton confesses as he stands and faces you.

Dalton closes his eyes, so you say his name. You groan, which grows into a yell, before closing your eyes and forcing yourself into the Further.

“Dalton, what are you doing?” you ask when you catch up with him.

“I didn’t mean to.”

You look around and realize with detached fear where you are.

“We need to go,” you insist, grabbing his arm. “Now!”

A chain appears around Dalton’s ankle, and chairs begin to build a dome in the midst of the lipstick demon’s arrangement of Dalton’s memories. Dalton is pulled to the floor, and you kneel before him, focusing your energy on holding the chairs off.

“I have to go. I’ll be right back.”

Dalton’s hand thrashes out and grabs your wrist as he looks up at you.

“That’s what you said last time.”

“You remember?”

“I’m starting to. I remember you leaving and never coming back.”

“Just like I remember Elise leaving and never coming back,” you counter quietly. “I promise, Dalton, but I have to fight in the real world now. I’ll come back for you. Stay with me, yeah?”

Dalton nods, and you run toward the light, willing yourself to wake up. The chairs crash down around Dalton as you enter your body, prepared to fend off the lipstick demon until Dalton can regain control of his mind. As you attempt to psychically defeat the lipstick demon, you see a sudden change as Dalton’s eyes return to normal. Immediately after, Dalton goes rigid and falls to the floor.

Returning to the Further, you hear Josh telling Dalton to go. You take another step and see Josh holding the red door closed, sacrificing his life to keep everyone from getting hurt. Following Dalton to ensure his safe return, you gasp as your body hits the floor just as you reenter your body. Dalton helps you up and then begins spreading black paint over the image of the red door and possessed Josh. As soon as he’s finished, his phone rings. He ensures his dad is back and then hangs up, turning his attention to you.

“You’re okay? Back to yourself?” You ask, holding your hands behind your back.

“I’m me. Are you alright?”

You shake your head and take a step backward. “Glad you made it out. I saw your dad helped, so maybe you guys can make up after... you know.”

“You saw my dad? You came back?”

“I promised I would.” You take another step back, and Dalton makes up for it by stepping toward you.

“I’m sorry about what happened that night. If I had been there, maybe I could have gone in and gotten my dad out or helped.”

You shrug. “You weren’t. It’s over, nothing we can change now.”

“I really am sorry. If I had known, I would’ve, I don’t know, called or come to see you. Made sure you were okay.”

“Dalton, don’t worry about it.”

“I just miss you. Even when I didn’t remember you, I always felt like something was missing.”

“There wasn’t anything you could do.”

“I could have been a friend.”

You nod, looking toward the door. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Wait. Thank you. For helping me, coming back. I can never repay you for that.”

“You could try.”

“What?” Dalton furrows his brows as you take another step toward him this time.

“I could use a friend now. I haven’t had one in a while.”

Dalton’s phone rings, and he raises it to show his mom’s contact. You smile at him and open the door, turning at the last second to say, “And maybe we could be more than friends this time. If you want a second chance, which I know I do, call me.”

“A second chance,” Dalton repeats, spotting the piece of paper with a phone number beside his open sketchbook. “I’d like one too.”

#dalton lambert x reader #dalton lambert imagine #dalton lambert fic #dalton lambert #insidious #dalton lambert fluff #insidious the red door #requests

[liaromancewriter]

What Could Have Been (9/9)

Series Premise: When Ethan breaks his promise, Cassie is forced to accept they’re not inevitable after all.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 2,110

Series Masterlist

A/N: Submission for @choicesseptemberchallenge2023, day 7 prompt "sharing something personal" and @choicesflashfics week 48, prompt 2

Chapter 9: Beginnings and Endings. When it’s all said and done, some things are just meant to be, and others are not.

Ethan Ramsey loosely held the leash in his hands, strolling behind the Jack Russell Terrier that could give him lessons on being inquisitive. If he’d known Cassie Valentine would insist on meeting today, he would have begged off dog sitting for his neighbor.

He sighed as Jack (his neighbor, Donovan, wasn’t known for his imagination) stopped to sniff at yet another tree. So far, he hadn’t had any luck getting him to hurry up and finish his business. The last thing Ethan wanted was to greet Cassie while picking up dog poop.

He cursed when he checked his wristwatch. It was almost two o’clock, and they were nowhere near the swan boats.

“You’re not helping, furball,” he said in exasperation, looking down at the unrepentant canine.

The dog didn’t care about his love life. Instead, he watched Ethan curiously, head cocked sideways, and barked good naturedly before nosing the mulchy ground.

“You’re lucky to be so cute,” Ethan continued the one-sided conversation. “And that I’m a patient man because you’re crimping my style.”

He hadn’t thought about getting a dog again. When Jenner passed away a few years ago, his dad told him he didn’t have the heart to replace him. Busy with his own career, Ethan didn’t push it either.

Now and then, he wondered if it was time. And then he got busy with work, coming home late into the night, leaving early, and it reminded him why it was a bad idea.

The wind picked up, ruffling his hair. Summer was almost over, he thought, leading Jack onto the walking path and their destination with a firm grip on the leash. As they neared the pond, the noise of families enjoying a day out increased.

Tourists chattered as they waited their turn, couples took selfies, and kids ran around screaming and laughing. Cassie had picked the perfect venue to throw him out of his comfort zone.

Lost in thought, he suddenly stumbled when Jack barked excitedly and took off running, the leash flying out of Ethan’s hand.

“Jack, come back here,” he shouted, giving chase.

Ethan staggered to a halt when he saw Cassie crouched on her knees on the path ahead, her arms full of Jack. She giggled as she scratched the back of his ears. Jack woofed and burrowed his nose into the open vee-neck of her white button-down shirt.

“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” Cassie’s laughter rang out as she hugged him. “Did you miss me?” Jacked let out a sharp back. “Aww. I missed you too.”

Ethan watched the scene with a perplexed expression. How did Cassie know his neighbor’s dog?

As he slowly walked towards them, he took in Cassie’s outfit. Dark denim jeans paired with a distressed black jacket, white sneakers and a matching handbag.

He mused that she even looked like Old Money, thinking back to the gossip he’d overhead.

Ethan wondered why he hadn’t noticed before. She hadn’t balked once while they treated Bloom in his majestic house or luxurious yacht, taking the excessive wealth in stride.

Outside the hospital, her classy outfits and demeanor exuded an understated elegance he’d often associated with the patrons at the yacht club in Newport, where he worked summers during college.

It was a world far removed from his blue-collar neighborhood in Providence or the place he occupied now in the hospital. He might have invested to grow his earnings, but his car, a couple of custom suits and a season’s box at the opera were the extent of his luxurious lifestyle.

Something else he needed to reconcile with if today went how he’d hoped.

Cassie glanced up at him when his legs stopped in her line of sight. Her green eyes beamed with joy from Jack’s antics, and her lips curled into a warm smile.

“How do you know Jack?” he asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

Cassie affectionately kissed the top of Jack’s nose and uncrouched from the ground.

“Jack and I are old friends,” she explained with a misty-eyed smile at the dog. “I often ran into Jack and his dad when I visited you about Naveen last year and then when we were dating. Jack likes evening and late-night walks, so we often rode the elevator down.”

“It was love at first sight.” She reached down to pat Jack’s head. “Soon, he and Donovan started walking me to the T before continuing on their adventures.”

“The sentiment is clearly mutual,” Ethan commented neutrally, at a loss of what else to say.

He had a different idea of how their meeting would go. Now, he wasn’t sure how to segue from this to that.

They started walking again. He kept one eye on Jack, who seemed more interested now in a patch of grass. This would be so much easier if his attention wasn’t split in two. But Cassie loved dogs, especially this one, so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Cassie said, eyes softening as she stepped closer. “And thank you for the flowers. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful earlier. They really were beautiful.”

“Were?” he said, ears pricking at the word.

“There were thirty-six red roses, Ethan,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t keep enough vases in our apartment on the off chance some guy’s going to send me three dozen roses. I saved a few for my room, but the rest…well, my neighbors are enjoying the heady scent of roses from a secret admirer.”

Ethan grinned, more at the amused exasperation in her tone than anything else she said. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. Their easy banter, the way she looked just right beside him, the domesticity of walking the dog in the park on a weekend.

Why did he think he didn’t need or want this?

“Ethan?” Cassie said, apprehension written across her face as she waited.

He turned abashed when he realized she had been talking and he hadn’t listened. A look crossed her face, one he couldn’t identify.

“Cassie,” he began, only for her to put up a hand to stop him.

“Look, this was clearly a bad idea,” she said, walking off the path to sit at a secluded bench.

Ethan followed slowly, uncertain of what was happening. He dropped the leash when Jack squatted beside the bushes and joined Cassie on the bench.

“I thought we could have a reasonable conversation in a neutral zone,” she said when he turned to face her. “But I can’t be reasonable around you.”

He wanted to say something to fill the sudden silence, but he sensed she had more to say.

“All I want, all I ever wanted, was to be yours and for you to be mine,” Cassie said, voice breaking as tears pricked her eyes. “And when you told me it wasn’t to be, I had to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and start anew.”

She closed her eyes. They were filled with resolve when she reopened them.

“I met a good man, one who deserves better than me. He doesn’t see me as lacking. He shows me in little ways how much he cares for me even though I’ve hurt him because of my ambivalence. He’s unafraid to share parts of himself with me, tell me how he feels, and be my equal.”

Ethan’s heart sank as he heard the affection in her voice for the other man, and he knew he’d lost her.

“But all I can think is that he’s not you,” she said in a small voice. “Now you’re sending me red roses and telling me you made a mistake, want me back. I want to believe you, but I don’t trust you.”

Ethan stilled at the last. He could make her love him again, but trust had to be earned. Nothing he’d done in the past few months would justify her faith in him, but he knew something that could.

“I saw my mother,” he blurted before he could change his mind. She wanted him to bare his soul, and he needed to try.

Cassie’s eyes filled with sympathy, and he looked away, unable to get the words out as long as she watched him.

“I told you she walked out on us, but I never told anyone how much her leaving broke me. I loved my mother with everything a child had to give, and it wasn’t enough,” he confessed.

“The fact that my father still loved her despite everything was another wound that festered,” he continued. “Seeing her again, watching who she’s become, a hardened addict with no one, made me realize I’m just like her.”

“Ethan, no,” Cassie sputtered, appalled. “I don’t know her, but I know you. You care about people. Your patients adore you even when you’re tough on them. You don’t give up and walk away because it’s difficult or inconvenient.”

“I walked away from Naveen and the hospital when I couldn’t find a cure,” he cursed, brushing one hand through his hair in frustration.

“And I walked away from you,“ Ethan said quietly, leaning forward. “I did it because I was falling in love with you. I was afraid you’d leave like she did, so I broke it off first. Cauterize the wound before it turns into sepsis.”

“Did you have so little faith in me, in us?” Cassie asked, her voice so soft the wind almost carried it away.

“I figured I’m already broken. I have nothing else to lose.”

“You had me,” she said, placing her hand atop his.

“You are all I ever wanted, Cassie, and the one person I couldn’t give myself to completely.” He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“So, what are we even doing here?” Cassie sighed, letting go of his hand.

She stood up abruptly, and he scrambled off the bench, putting two fingers to whistle for the dog when he didn’t see Jack immediately in the vicinity.

“I won’t be with a man who spends his days afraid to love me,” Cassie warned, stepping back and wrapping her arms around herself. “I deserve better, Ethan.”

“I don’t want to be that man,” Ethan said.

“It sure doesn’t sound like it,” she mocked, picking up on the hesitancy he hadn’t been able to hide despite his best efforts.

He marched toward her, eyes glittering with determination, a panther stalking his prey. Or a wolf circling his mate. His brain might not be convinced, but his heart and body had no such issues.

Before Cassie could sidestep him, he grabbed her elbows and reeled her into his embrace. He locked his arms around hers and framed her face between his palms.

“Give me one more chance,” he cajoled, lips hovering tantalizing above hers.

“Let me earn back your trust and your love. I can’t promise I won’t stumble or make mistakes. But I make a vow to you, here and now, and in the presence of this dog you love so much,” he grinned when she snorted in amusement, “that I will try my hardest every day to not give up and to become who you want me to be.”

“I just want you to be you, Ethan.” Cassie stretched on her toes, her hands circling his neck.

“Be the man who kissed me on a moonlit balcony in Miami because he believed it was a risk worth taking,” she whispered against his lips. “The one who comforted me when we lost Dolores and Teresa even though he wanted to keep his distance. And the man who made love to me like I was his whole world. That’s the Ethan I fell in love with.”

“I can do that, Cassie,” he said decisively, closing the distance to kiss her softly. “This is one promise I won’t ever break.”

She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. “Is that it? I was hoping for something more pass—”

Before she could finish the sentence, Ethan covered her mouth, devouring her lips in a hungry, explosive kiss that took her breath away.

“Wow,” Cassie said, feeling lightheaded as she fanned herself.

Ethan smirked arrogantly. Before he could kiss her again, Jack pushed his way between their legs, jumping and barking excitedly.

“Your timing sucks, furball,” he groaned in dismay, making Cassie laugh.

She bent down to play with Jack, sending the dog into ecstasy when she rubbed his belly. Ethan hunkered beside her and gazed into her eyes.

“Come home with me, please?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she smiled softly.

Ethan clasped Cassie’s hand in his, picked up the fallen leash and walked toward his future, leaving behind what could have been.

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

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @takemyopenheart @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @midnightmelodiz

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey @youlookappropriate

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart choices #choices fanfics #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #writers on tumblr

[sharperthewriter]

Chapter 17 of Rockwaller Christmas Carol

Chapter 17 - Christmas Day 2020, Part 2

(December 25, 2020 – 8:45am)

Bonnie immediately got two of her limousines together and, with Tightlips and 10 of her servants, headed out of her mansion. Following them was a truck that carried the five surplus turkeys.

Their first stop on the new Bonnie tour was Kim and Ron's house.

Bonnie was wearing her Club Banana dark denim overalls that she wore in her senior year of high school with a red and green cropped sweater from Country CB that she bought many years ago on one of her shopping excursions with Junior. She combined this with a couple gold necklaces and a couple of gold bracelets as well, followed with her with her fancy gold watch from Country CB. She completed the outfit with brown boots as well as a long pink trenchcoat to keep Bonnie warm.

The other servants were keeping warm as well through their coats and gloves.

To Bonnie's own surprise, the overalls were in very good condition and that they were still quite roomy for her. But the thing that astonished the servants even more was that she was wearing the overalls...with both hooks fastened to the buttons on the bib. In her senior year of high school, she normally wore them like the others with both straps unfasted with a belt to hold them up to prevent any Stoppable incidents.

"But, Your Majesty, why did you choose that pair?" Tightlips asked. "You always tended to go for the ones with the buckles even 'accidentally' showed off your thong underwear during an interview and got fined $200,000 by the FCC a couple weeks ago! "

"Duh, Tightlips. This was the only pair out of 20 that did not have the buckles manipulated." Bonnie replied, "And trust me, I do not want an indecent exposure charge ito add to my rap sheet!"

"Point taken." Tightlips admitted before looking out the limo window.

"Hey, I think I see some people!" he exclaimed.

Bonnie also looked out the window.

"I recognize those people!" she shouted, "They're the carolers in those old-timey clothes! Chauffeur, and open the sunroof! I'm going to get the bullhorn"

The chauffeur obeyed and opened the sun roof.

There were indeed two of the 20 carolers that came to the Rockwaller mansion a couple of years ago that were pelted by produce and fruit. Their SUV was stranded on the exit interchange to the Rockwaller Mansion of Interstate 70 because they ran out of gas. Both of the stranded carolers were female.

"If you would've stopped at the Dinoco 15 minutes earlier, this would not have happened!" the first caroler argued.

"Says the person who decided to waste gas by nearly getting us lost in the eastern part of Colorado and nearly getting us killed at Sketchville!" the second caroler retorted.

Then they saw the familiar pink limousines coming up the on-ramp.

"Oh goody, look who it is!" the first caroler snarked.

"If it isn't Bonnie Rockwaller coming to torment us!" the second caroler growled. "Maybe she got her German shepherds to use our clothes as their chew toys!"

Bonnie took a police bullhorn, and got through the sunroof.

"Hey, you two!" she called through the bullhorn.

"What's it to you, Rockwaller? Are you going to have your servants throw snowballs at us?" the first caroler taunted.

"Or have your army of German Shepherds strip us to our undergarments?" the second caroler chimed in.

"Actually, do you two need any help?" Bonnie asked politely. "It is the spirit of the season affter all!"

The two carolers weren't certain.

"Are you serious about this, Rockwaller?" the first caroler asked.

All Bonnie had to do was quote a famed Stoppable.

"Note serious face!" Bonnie replied with determination, "Tightlips, do you have any emergency gas canisters?"

"We have two in the truck!" Tightlips called from the limo.

"Give one of them to the carolers." Bonnie ordered before turning back to the carolers. "There should be a Dinoco about three miles over at the next interchange!"

"But how can we pay for the gas?" the first caroler asked.

"We maxed out on both of our credit cards on Christmas Eve !" the second caroler added. "Spent around $7,000 apiece."

"I'll give ya $100 for the gas...and will deposit $10,000...no...$50,000 of my own money, and not a penny more, to your account at the bank so that you can pay it off!" Bonnie exclaimed.

The two carolers saw the look on Bonnie's face and realized that she was not kidding at all. She had indeed changed from the cold woman that pelted them with rotten eggs a few years ago at her mansion.

"Why...why thank you!" the second caroler exclaimed. "And a Merry Christmas to you too, Bonnie!"

"And Merry Christmas to you too!" Bonnie responded in kind to the carolers.

"So what do we do now?" the first caroler asked, convinced that Bonnie had turned over a new leaf.

"Once you fill your vehicle with gas, follow me to the Possible-Stoppable house!" Bonnie insisted.

#kim possible #fanfiction #rockwaller christmas carol #bonnie rockwaller

[charlottegrrtt]

I decided after a lot of sketching and material sourcing that I wanted to make a maxi skirt for my collection from recycled denim. I think that this will look nice with small tops and the classic denim hues go with everything so it will work well with my collection. I had a 2  pairs of old Levi’s my grandad gave to me a couple years ago in case I wanted to make something with them. One of the pairs I have taken in at the waist and are now my favourite pair of jeans, and the other pair I haven’t known what to do with for ages so I decided to finally make use of them for this project. I wanted this piece in the collection to look obviously recycled so I kept the jeans mainly intact so that you can see that they were jeans before they were up cycled. I unpicked the inside leg seam on both legs as layed them out flat. I could have joined them together at the front and back but I didn’t want a tight fitting skirt so I layed them out flat and cut another section of denim in a darker wash to add interest and then place that in the triangle gaps left at the front and back. This made an interesting triangle panel to add volume to the bottom of the skirt. I kept all of the original features of the jeans on the top like the button fly, the belt loops and the front pockets. Maxi skirts like this have been very popular along with the maxi cargo skirts with lots of pockets and buckles, zip off features and buttons, so I wanted my skirt to resemble this trend. 

Although the idea of following trends is very much a trait of a fast fashion buisness, I want my clothes to appeal to the same audience these brands target who undeniabley want to be trendy. I don’t think this is problematic unless you ditch old things to make way for the new. Instead I am trying to make something new and current from something old, ‘uncool’ and otherwise unused that is versitile and can last a long time and go with a lot of different outfits. 

I spent HOURS removing the back pockets from all of the jeans I could find. I used all of my old denim scraps that I could get my hands on as well and leaving all of the jeans in the textiles room pocketless! I decided that the top stitching on the pockets was an important feature of classic denim piece so I wanted this on my skirt. This meant that I had to unpick two rows of tough denim topstitching from every single pocket. I sat in front of the TV with my stitch unpick and a pile of old jeans for what must’ve been 10 hours if not more. I picked off all of the old thread and then they were ready to sew onto the skirt. I debated for ages about how to approach this massive task. A lot of people suggested that I cut the pocket off of the old pair of jeans along with the denim underneath so that the stitching that I wanted to keep remained intact and then I wouldn’t have had to sew them all on again but I didn’t want loads of layers of denim underneath the pocket on the skirt, it would’ve looked messy and the only way I could think to attach them would’ve been glue and I really didn’t want to do that. I also knew that i wanted the pockets to be functioning pockets so I knew that i was going to have to pick them all off individually and re sew them back on. 

So, after I had got about 40 pockets, I started trying to arrange them on the skirt to see what looked best. I wanted them all over, to look almost like a mosaic of old pockets, a patchwork of old stories, all different colours and sizes and patterns. I started arranging them haphazardly and at random angles. I thought for ages that it would be really cool to have one upside down but I completely went off this idea. It meant that the pockets had to overlap which I didn’t like and I wanted the pockets to be fully function so I decided to arrange them more neatly which looked way better. One thing I really regret doing is taking the pockets off of the original jeans and then putting random ones back in their place because where the jeans have faded over time the denim underneath the pocket remains a much darker wash and it leaves a pocket shape on the jeans. All of the pockets i tried to put over these marks were not big enough or didn’t match or just looked weird and i wish i had just left the original ones on, not sure why i ever took them off in the first place but oh well.

Now I have the mammoth task of sewing them all back on and fitting the entire skirt under the sewing machine yay.  

[kimvvantae]

the misadventures list; 2 (m)

➜ the night shift can be very wild at times. you’ve witnessed so many strange, concerning and absurd situations happen inside the tiny convenience store that you could make a long list with everything that got you stunned - and the situation that takes the prize of being the weirdest of your list is the night a desperate millionaire, for the sake of saving his fortune, asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend.

pairing: playboy!jimin x (f) reader

genre: smut, comedy (?), fluff • fake dating au

warnings: explicit sexual content in future chapters. sexual tension. coarse language. me trying to be funny i guess

rating: 18+

word count: 8k

A/N: i didn't even expect to update this one so soon but i'm so excited about this story!!! hope you guys like it!!! don't forget to leave some feedback, it's SUPER important :)

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

➜  Chapters: check out masterlist in bio!

You angrily check yourself out in the mirror.

"Basic." You probably never sounded as bitter as you do now. "I'll show him who's basic."

It's true that you've been changing clothes for the past hours, trying to figure out the best comfy outfit to go shopping. Certainly not because you'll be seen with Jimin in public, but because his comment on how basic you looked indeed pissed you off.

You're almost paranoid at this point. Tried to combine every pant, every skirt, every shirt you own. Then you thought, wait, am I trying to impress that fucker?!, and you realized that you're not in your normal state of mind.

Maybe because you really quit your job two days ago.

Your chance of giving up is officially over. Now, you're jobless. You have to go until the end.

This is probably what made you even more paranoid.

Your phone rings. You feel a shiver run down your spine as you pick it up, already knowing who's on the other side of the line.

"Good morning, girlfriend!" he says in a teasing, happy tone. You snort.

"Did you suddenly forget my name?"

"I'm getting used to it. We have to be convincing." You can almost see his pout through the phone.

"Calling your girlfriend girlfriend isn't convincing at all."

Jimin hums.

"You're right. I'm calling you pretty from now on, then."

Shut up, stupid nerves. Don't feel goosebumps just because he called you pretty.

"Anyway, are you ready?" You ask.

"I'm always ready, baby. Waiting for you in front of the store."

It's hard to not roll your eyes. "Okay. I'll be there in a minute."

You hang up and shove the phone inside of your shoulder bag, staring at yourself in the mirror one last time.

High waisted denim shorts. A white buttoned shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled, three buttons opened. Unfortunately, Jimin was right about your double ends, so you tied your hair up in a high bun. A little bit of makeup. Black combat boots to match the black bag.

Simple, but not basic.

You huff, nodding at yourself before finally leaving the apartment. Of course you wouldn't give him your address, so he's waiting for you in front of the convenience store.

A cold hits your stomach as you walk down the street. God, this is actually happening. You agreed to go to freaking Hawaii. In any other circumstances you'd be happy - not even in a million years you'd be able to travel to Hawaii, to stay in a five stars resort on top of that - but you're going to impress a bunch of rich people. This is stressful because (1) fuck rich people and (2) fuck impressing others. Yet, again - you already quit your job. There's no going back.

And you have the impression that Jimin wouldn't let you off this one.

The cold in your stomach hits harder as you spot him in front of the convenience store - not that you're the only person to spot him.

The first thing people probably notice is the car he's leaning on - a shiny black BMW (fuck car names!). The second thing is almost as impressive as the car: Jimin himself.

That son of a bitch is attractive.

It's even funny, because he's not wearing anything impressive at all. He wears all black today: a simple shirt, black pants (he must have a lot of them), a thin belt, leather lace up shoes, a shoulder bag and his signature sunglasses. His hair is shiny again. To finish it off, as usual, he wears many silver rings and earrings. Sure, every piece of his "simple" outfit might cost more than your monthly salary, but it is still simple. The man makes the outfit, not the clothes themselves. Jimin is freaking elegant. Even the way he stands there exudes elegance. It's impossible to not look at him.

Again - you don’t know if you’re attracted to him or just jealous.

Jimin also spots you as you walk down the street.

Look.

You’re not usually the type to get all flustered because of men. That’s probably the reason they end up into you; you’re hard to read. They like the chase, you like to feel wanted. It’s easy to hold a poker face, make them intrigued to know what’s going inside your head, if they attract you or not.

But Jimin.

This man.

As you come closer and closer to him, he slowly takes his glasses off and a smirk grows on his lips. You know very well that all of his attention is on you; he turns his body in your direction, his eyes gleaming with approval.

This man makes your legs feel weak. This man makes it hard to act unbothered, because the heat creeping up your neck is impossible to ignore.

The same man that looked at you with puppy eyes not too many nights ago.

This fucking man.

You stand in front of him, trying to control your damn nerves. He looks up and down your body, nodding softly.

“Wow. Look at how pretty my girlfriend is.” He says in a rather quiet and deeper voice that sends actual shivers down your spine. He still has that tiny smile on his lips, yet he doesn’t sound playful at all. “I don’t even think you should change your appearance at all right now.”

You tilt your head slightly and cross your arms.

“I wouldn’t mind not doing it. You’re the one wanting me to change my appearance, which is insulting to some level.”

Jimin laughs, once again throwing his head back slightly. “I already told you why we’re doing this! My brother will recognize you if we don’t do something about your hair, at least.” He explains. “Besides, it’ll be fun, I promise! I’m always fun to be around!”

“Right.” You eye him suspiciously, making him giggle as he opens the door to the passenger’s seat. “Just don’t overdo it, okay? I’ll get a haircut and call it a day.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, smiling sweetly. “I want to spoil my girlfriend today.”

“You’re taking this too seriously.”

“I’m never not serious, baby.”

Again - that damn eyebrow raise.

It’s impossible not to gulp as you enter the car.

You’re definitely in trouble.

Every big city has that type of mall that seems to scream poor people are not allowed.

Jimin parks in front of one of them.

He, of course, does not look bothered at all - this is his type of place. He confidently walks out of the car (you hop off before he can actually open the door for you), putting the car keys on the valet parking’s hand (rich people malls have valet parkings!) and smiling prettily.

“Take care of it for me, will you?” His voice is smooth like silk.

You see the other man blush.

Yet, you don’t have time to make any comments when Jimin grabs your hand unceremoniously, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Let’s go!” he says excitedly, guiding you inside the mall’s gigantic front doors.

You frown. “Is this really necessary?”

“This what?”

You point to your intertwined hands, raising your eyebrows. “Aren’t we supposed to pretend in front of your family? I don’t see any family here.”

“This is training.” He explains as if it’s obvious. “Body language is important. No one will believe that we’re actually dating if we stand one meter apart from each other. We have to act like we’re intimate.”

Okay. That’s fair.

Something that most people might not know is that rich people malls are pretty empty. Differently from regular malls that are almost always packed with people, the stores (rich people call them boutiques for some stupid reason) almost never have actual customers inside of them. You see more security guards than actual customers as you walk past the main hall.

The few customers that are there, though, look at you both.

Literally all of them.

You try your best to ignore it, to keep the poker face plastered on your face, but you're definitely not used to this amount of attention. Hell, you've been working at a convenience store for the past three months. People barely ever pay attention to attendants at all. Most of them don’t say thank you or even a simple good night. Jimin, on the other hand, seems unfazed by them.

He suddenly stops and looks at his right, making you stop as well.

“Oh!” He looks at you with round eyes. “They just released their new collection. We should check it out!”

When you look at the store he’s pointing at, your stomach drops.

“No.” You say, shaking your head. “We’re not going there.”

“‘No’ is your favorite word, right?” Jimin rolls his eyes. “Come on, what’s the problem?”

“You said I was just getting a simple haircut.” Jimin doesn’t understand why you look so apprehensive. “Are you sure I have to wear fucking Chanel?”

Jimin blinks, clearly missing the point.

“Do you have anything against Chanel?” He tilts his head, confused. “Don’t you like their style?”

“No, that’s not the point.” You lower your voice, aware of the curious people around. “It’s just that I’ll feel uncomfortable if you spend a lot of money on me. Do I really need to use this type of brand?” You point at yourself. “Do you see the outfit I’m wearing? Perfectly cute, right? I spent less than $150 on everything. We don’t need to go that far.”

Jimin looks stunned for a moment.

Then, he laughs.

As usual, he laughs with his whole body. You’d usually roll your eyes at someone who’s always so boisterous, but there’s something charming and cute at the way he laughs that won’t let you think this way. Not just his laughter, honestly. Everything he does is charming and cute.

Cute is usually not the word you think of when you feel attracted to a man. Most of the time, it’s the serious and quiet type of man that would have you dropping your panties in no time. Bonus points if he’s smart and hard-working. You’ve always worked so hard in your entire life that you wouldn’t accept anything less of a possible partner. You want someone that has their shit together.

Jimin is the opposite.

Spoiled, scandalous, dramatic, never worked in his life because he never needed to. And he’s rich on top of that. Your experience in that particular school taught you how unbearable rich and attractive guys can be.

Yet, here you are, thinking that whenever he throws his head back as he laughs, his eyes almost completely closing, he looks nothing less than adorable.

He’s weird, but you’re 100% attracted to him. You have no reason to deny that.

But he’s still weird.

You better be careful not to catch actual feelings for him. You don’t need to have spent a lot of time with him to understand that he knows his charms and he uses it and he probably changes partners like he changes clothes.

Careful, careful.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Y/N, you’re cute,” he says, still giggling. “What type of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t buy my girlfriend some gifts?”

“You don’t need to be so serious about this.”

“But that’s not the only reason, Y/N. My parents - and everyone from this social circle, to be honest - take appearance very seriously. How you look is more important than your personality. You have to look impressive if you want them to think highly of you. And unfortunately, they know the difference between Shein and Chanel.”

You sigh, already feeling tired. “This is stupid.”

Jimin giggles again. “You’re funny. Most people I date are always waiting for the moment I buy things for them.”

Oh.

This is kind of sad.

You don’t know if Jimin genuinely doesn’t care or if he’s just a master in hiding his true emotions.

“Well, you’ve been dating the wrong people, my friend.”

He simply shrugs and smirks. “Do you mean I’m dating the right person now?”

“Fake dating.”

Jimin chuckles. “Anyway. Let me spoil you, pretty.”

He leads you into the store.

As soon as he walks in, a neatly dressed seller approaches you two with a pristine smile.

“Welcome back, Mr. Park!” She says. “It’s been quite a long time since you’ve been here!”

“Oh! Hello, Helena. How have you been?” Jimin smiles sweetly.

Once again - you see the blush creeping on her cheeks.

“I’m fine, thank you. Did you come to check out the new collection? I would have reserved some pieces for you if you told me you’d be coming! I guess you already know what’s the best items at the men’s wear section this season-”

“Oh, no, Helena. I didn’t come to buy anything for myself today… rather, I want you to show us everything new from women’s wear.” He says politely.

Even though you entered the store holding hands, the woman literally just noticed you.

And you see it.

The judging eyes.

How she discreetly measures you up and down - and, as Jimin said, this woman clearly knows the difference between Shein and Chanel.

You can almost hear the thoughts going on inside her head. She probably thinks you’re a prostitute. Or a gold digger. Or both.

Yet, her pristine smile doesn’t falter.

“Of course! Come on, I’ll show you everything.”

She guides you around the store. You're currently the only customers. You pass your eyes by the pieces of clothing, purses and shoes that are so ridiculously expensive that only someone that has a monthly salary of six digits and beyond could purchase.

"Those are the items presented at the Paris Fashion Week." she explains proudly.

Jimin immediately drops your hand and approaches a particular dress, touching it slightly. "Y/N, this is perfect. I bought a Louis Vuitton suit these days that will match!"

You frown, crossing your arms. "And we have to match our outfits?"

"Of course! It's cute!" He exclaims, smiling widely.

"At least let me see the suit, then. Let me see if it really matches." He pouts.

"Don't you trust me?"

"I have to agree with you. I'm not letting you put me in whatever you want."

Jimin shrugs, taking his phone out of his pocket. After a quick Google research, he shows you a picture of the suit.

"Oh, it will surely match!" you didn't even remember the seller is still standing there. "A good choice, Mr. Park!"

"See, Y/N? We should-"

"I don't think we should wear exactly the same color." You deadpan. "A cream tone would match much better with this suit. Besides, we're going to Hawaii, right? A lighter dress would be better."

"And what do you suggest?" He quirks his eyebrow up.

"A Jacquemus pastel yellow dress from the latest collection." you say as if it's obvious. "It's short and young and pretty. Much more my style. We can match our outfits with the details. Like that golden Rolex of yours."

Jimin nods. "I guess you're right."

"But I like that short blazer, by the way." You say, pointing to a white blazer with silver embroidery. "Could you get one my size, please?"

Helena's look of disdain quiets down as you inform her your size. She disappears inside the store quickly.

Jimin crosses his arms and stares at you, looking impressed.

"For someone that didn't even want to get inside the store, you seem to be enjoying this very much!" He remarks.

"I'm not." You can't hide your scowl. Your blood boils in anger. "That bitch. Did you see the way she looked down on me? As if I wouldn't know anything about fashion! I'm poor, not stupid!"

Maybe you're overreacting, but the way she looked at you triggered all of your past traumas. Rich teenage girls side-eyeing your worn out tennis shoes or mocking the fact that you didn't have the latest, most expensive iPhone in hands.

Jimin opens a comforting smile. "Ow, come on. She's just trying to do her job."

"She should do a better job." You stare at him angrily. "She thinks I'm a whore. And she's jealous because a whore is with you."

Jimin giggles. "Can you tell all that just by spending two minutes with her?"

"Yeah. I'm good at observing people."

"What can I do if people just keep falling for me?" Jimin shrugs, faking an innocent expression. "I'm irresistible."

"Sure." Jimin giggles again when you roll your eyes. "Anyways, let me have a closer look-" As you step closer to the mannequin, finally seeing the tiny price tag attached to the blazer you just ordered, your eyes widen and your stomach drops. "Oh my God. I take it back, Jimin. Let's leave this place before she comes back."

"Why?" He looks very amused at your reaction.

"Did you see how much that costs?! I'm gonna choose a cheaper one!"

This time, Jimin laughs for real and holds your hand tightly once again. "Nope, missy. We're buying that. I have a suit in mind that will match. And we're going after that Jacquemus dress you talked about."

It doesn't sound that he's willing to go back on his words.

Shit.

You watch Jimin attently from across the table, arms crossed.

The waitress comes back. You notice how she has been putting strands of hair behind her ear, the shy smile, how her eyes dart towards his lips more than once.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” Jimin asks. You shake your head.

“No. Just mango juice.” You say once again.

“Okay. Then, one mango juice and one strawberry juice, please.” He eyes the menu with a thoughtful frown, then his expression lights up as he spots something. “Oh! Could you bring me some chips as well?”

“Of course. Would you want the medium sized or the large?” The waitress asks. Jimin hums quietly.

“Medium sized, please.”

“Alright. I’ll be right back with your order, sir.” She says. When Jimin smiles at her, you freaking see the damn blush on her cheeks.

“Thank you!”

She walks away from your table, albeit hesitantly, leaving you alone in the almost empty food court of the mall.

Jimin looks back at you, a resting smile on his face. He notices the way you’re narrowing your eyes and he frowns.

“What?”

“Can you stop flirting with random people?”

He looks confused.

Sure, he didn’t say anything weird to the waitress. But it’s the way he looked at her and his body language and fuck - everything he did was somehow inviting.

And he has been doing that to literally anyone. From the valet parking to the seller at the Chanel store and at the Givenchy store and at the Dior store and at the Alexander Wang store and to the waitress.

He made women and men blush back to back.

It’s starting to get on your nerves.

“I’m not flirting.” He says, his eyebrows shot up in an innocent look.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not! I swear!” Slowly, his expression becomes playful. “What? Are you jealous, pretty?”

“I’m not jealous. It’s just that we’re walking around holding hands, acting like a couple, yet you keep flirting with anything that breathes. It’s making me look stupid.”

Jimin giggles, putting his hand over his chest. “I’m sorry, pretty. Seriously, I’m not flirting with anyone.” He licks his lips. Jesus, he has to stop doing that. It’s so distracting. “Believe me, if I was flirting with them, it’d be all over.”

He wiggles his eyebrows playfully. You just stare at him, eyes still narrowed.

“Anyways.” You rest your back on the chair. “Do you really think your brother won’t recognize me?” You touch the strands of your newly cut hair with your fingertips (no more split ends!), feeling a little bit worried. “I don’t think I look that different at all.”

“I’m sure he won’t. He saw you in that ugly uniform and ponytail. With your new haircut and clothes, he won’t even realize you’re the same person.”

“Wow. Thanks for passive-aggressively calling me ugly in my natural state.” You whine.

“I didn’t say that. I thought you were pretty from the moment I laid eyes on you.” Jimin says defensively. How can he say this type of thing so absently?! “As I said, you just looked basic. Now, you look anything but basic.”

As much as you hated the word “basic”, you kind of have to agree.

You drop your eyes to the bags laying around your legs. Jimin and you planned every single outfit you’ll be wearing each day of your stay in Hawaii - the arrival, the reception dinner, the golf and evening tea (evening tea in freaking Hawaii? What’s wrong with these people?!), the private concert at night, then the actual anniversary ceremony on the third day. Jimin also lowkey forced you to buy a few more things to wear in between the events (like that lace nightgown he shamelessly put on your hands, giving you a suggestive look, but he gave up when you almost shoved the nightgown down his throat).

You can’t even measure how much money is resting around your legs right now. It makes you feel awkward. Jimin repeated more than once that the money he spent on you wasn’t even “that much”, but you can’t forget that the Chanel blazer you chose cost nothing less than (gasp) $8,000, and that other Givenchy dress cost $2,000, and that Alexander Wang sandal cost $600-

Your brain is like a calculator.

You could buy a nice car with all this money combined. Hell, you could even move to a better apartment. Furniture and all.

Jimin seemed very unamused as he took his black card out of his wallet to pay for everything. He wasn’t even checking price tags. How stupidly surreal is it that someone can spend so much money on clothing? Hell, you’ve been struggling to buy food for the past few months. Most people would beam over the fact that they’d be wearing luxury brands; you, however (although you’ve been interested in fashion for quite a few years, keeping up with new trends, fashion weeks and collections), have a bitter taste on your tongue. This doesn’t feel right at all, it doesn’t matter how rich he is.

But you agreed to participate in this craziness and Jimin’s money already left his bank account, so you swallow your morals and focus on your mission.

The waitress comes back with your orders (wow, this lady’s fast. Maybe she worked faster motivated by the fact that she’d see Jimin’s pretty smile again). The moment she turns around, you lean in closer to Jimin.

“Okay. Let’s trace our strategy.” You say. “How do you think we can impress your parents? How are their personalities?”

Jimin puts the straw between his lips and sips his strawberry juice. Goddamn distracting lips. “Well, let me see… my father is the typical soulless businessman.” Jimin starts. “Not to put you under pressure, but he’ll hate you the moment he meets you.”

“I don’t feel pressured at all after hearing this,” you say sarcastically.

“He’ll research your entire life in a minute and when he finds out you’re not some millionaire heiress, he’s gonna hate your guts.” Jimin continues after sipping a little bit more. “The way to get to him is by showing that you’re actually smart and hard-working. You see, my father cares about appearances, but he also values hard-work since he himself works so hard that he barely has a life outside of the company.”

“And finding out that I’m a ‘good girl’ will magically make him give up forcing you into marrying some rich heiress who could bring a potential commercial accord to his company?” It sounds impossible.

“For now, yes.” Jimin says. “He won’t leave me alone, I know. But my father is not the type to make accords. He would never tie Aurum to any other company through marriage or whatever other methods. He wants to destroy his competitors. My father wants me to marry a rich girl from a ‘traditional household’”, he rolls his eyes as he says that, “because it’ll make the Park family look good on the news. I wouldn’t even have proposed this plan if I knew he wanted me to marry someone for business motives at all.”

You nod slowly. It makes sense. Ever since you agreed with this thing, you’ve been researching everything about the Aurum Steel Company, and it’s true that their business strategy is aggressive - even ruthless. Whenever a mining company seemed to be becoming successful, Aurum bought them for such high prices that they just couldn’t refuse. Slowly, the company was becoming one of the best - and only - in the whole world.

“Alright. What about your mother?”

“She’ll also hate you.” Jimin states. “But she’ll like your fierce personality.”

You knit your eyebrows awkwardly. “I’m not fierce.”

“You are.” He remarks, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “I’ve been hearing my whole life how she hates weak and submissive women. You just have to show that you’re not like that and she’ll be fine with you.”

“Okay.” You nod once again, playing with the straw inside of the tall cup of juice. “One more question. We have no photos together on our social media. Won’t it be suspicious?”

“No. I never post photos with anyone on my SNS.” Jimin says.

Indeed. You’ve also been researching Jimin (just to be sure that he’s not a psycho). It wasn’t hard to find his Instagram account - and your jaw nearly dropped when you saw the absurd number of 500k followers. His feed was carefully planned out: only pictures of him showcasing his luxurious life. It looked very professional and not so personal. Very different from your humble account with less than one thousand followers; just like any other normal person, you like to post pictures of yourself and also important things happening in your life.

“Why is that?” You’re genuinely curious.

“I would lose half of my followers if I ever revealed that I’m dating someone.” Jimin explains nonchalantly, chewing some of his chips. “It’s the idea of a hot and single rich guy that makes them fantasize about having a chance and follow me.”

You stare at him, wide eyed, for many seconds. Jimin lifts his eyes to look at you after a while. “What?”

“How can you say that with a straight face?”

“But it’s true!” He shrugs.

“Some people would try to pretend to be a little modest.”

“I have no time for false modesty, honey.” He eats more chips. “Any more questions?”

“Won’t your family think it’s too suspicious of you to conveniently show up with a girlfriend?”

“No. I never introduced any girlfriend to them. They’ll think it’s a huge thing.”

You freeze once again.

“Really?”

“Really. Why does everything I say surprises you?”

“Because… I don’t know.” You sip a little bit of your mango juice, avoiding his gaze. “This was unexpected.”

Jimin giggles. “Why would I introduce every person I date to my parents?”

He just confirmed that he indeed fucks around alot. You shrug, nodding. “That’s fair.”

“Besides, as I already said, I meet my parents, like, once a year, usually at their wedding anniversary. This means they know very little about my love life anyway.”

“They take this wedding anniversary thing very seriously, huh?”

“Yeah.” Jimin rolls his eyes. “Every damn year. They invite a bunch of people they hate just to show off their wealth and how they have the perfect and successful family.”

You sip more juice. “So you avoid seeing them.”

Jimin nods. “I know what you’re thinking. What an ungrateful son.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I can’t judge you. I don’t see my parents that often, either.”

Jimin goes silent.

He leans on the table, a very apparent interest in his eyes as he analyzes you.

“What?” It’s your turn to ask.

“It’s just that you know pretty much everything about my life, but I barely know anything about you.”

You snort, once again playing with the straw. “You decided to spill your whole life on me because you wanted to.”

“Aw, come on. We have to know each other at least a little if we want to be convincing.”

You never thought that an adult man's pout would be able to make you give in so easily. You sigh. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

Jimin rests his cheek on his palm. “What you just said about your parents…”

“Nope.” You’re quick to cut him off. “I won’t talk about that.”

Pout intensifies. “But you know everything about my family drama! Why can’t I know about yours?!”

“Again - you told me because you wanted to tell me. I’m not as eager to expose my traumas like that.”

Jimin huffs dramatically. God, he’s such a kid. “Okay. Then, next question.” You notice the way he eyes you hesitantly. “Look, I don’t wanna sound offensive at all…”

“I don’t even know what you’re gonna ask, but I’m already offended.”

He giggles. This man giggles a lot. Is it weird that you don’t get tired of hearing his giggles, though? “Please, I’m just curious. It’s just that… well… how you knew about that Jacquemus dress…”

“You’re surprised that a poor person like me would know a high fashion brand, isn’t it?”

Jimin gulps, eyes widened. “No!”

You glare at him quietly.

“...Yes.” He admits, shoulders dropping. “I don’t want to offend you! I remember what you said about the seller at the Chanel store! It’s just that… I don’t know, you didn’t seem all that amused about everything. I mean, I saw your jaw dropping at price tags all the time, but I almost feel that you’re… used to it?”

He’s clearly stepping on eggs as he stumbles to find the right words. Once again, the only reason that won’t make you want to punch his face is that Jimin looks genuinely curious. You can’t see or sense any hint of scorn in his expression or voice.

“It’s not that I’m used to it myself. I’m used to seeing people wear those brands.” You tap your nails over the table, starting to feel slightly uncomfortable. You don’t really like to talk about your past - especially to someone that you met just a few days ago. “I studied at a private school, you know. As a scholarship holder. It was full of rich kids. So… yeah, for a good while it was normal to see people walking around wearing Gucci and stuff.”

His interest seems to grow further. “Which school did you study at?” As Jimin hears the school’s name leave your lips, his eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. “Really? I have some friends that studied there!”

“I figured.” You nod, taping your nails over the table more nervously.

He watches you in silence for a few seconds.

“It wasn’t a good experience?” He asks quietly.

Damn right. “Thanks to studying there, I absolutely hate the rich.”

“Do you hate me?” He blinks prettily. You tilt your head, quirking one eyebrow up.

“You still didn’t do anything for me to absolutely hate you, so no. Yet. Actually, I kinda hate you for thinking I wouldn’t know what Jacquemus is. Poor people can be interested in high fashion too, did you know that?”

“Aw, come on, that’s not what I meant!” He smiles, yet his eyes look apologetic. His smile gets smaller and he takes somewhat of a more serious expression. “Thank you for doing this, Y/N.”

“What? Are you getting emotional all of sudden?” You lean back. Jimin chuckles.

“No. It’s just that… after you told me this, I guess going on this trip to be surrounded by people like me must be awful to you. So… thank you for accepting to do it anyway.”

You weren’t expecting that.

Jimin spent thousands on you. Anyone else in his place wouldn’t be taking your feelings into consideration. I’m paying anyway, it’s what they would think. But Jimin immediately understood that your experiences were indeed awful and that, yes, your hate for rich people isn’t unreasonable.

This makes you soften.

You shrug. “Well, as long as you put me in the company as you promised, I’m okay with everything.” After sipping a little bit more of the juice, you quietly add: “And you’re not like them at all.”

His smile widens.

Your heart shouldn’t be beating as fast as it is right now, should it?

When you realize that you’ve been staring at each other in silence for an embarrassing long time, you clean your throat and finally avoid his gaze, staring at the ice cubes inside of the cup. “Okay, any more questions?”

“Oh! Let me think…” He frowns, then his face lights up in a playful expression. “Why are you single?”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a strange question.”

“It’s a perfectly normal question.”

“No, it’s not. You’re saying why are you single as if it’s my choice to be single.”

“But it is your choice, right?” the fucking smirk again. “I’m also good at reading people, Y/N, and I can tell that you’d be dating someone if you wanted to.”

You stare at each other in silence.

Quietly, you consider if telling him the truth is worth it.

No. It’s definitely not worth it.

But you sigh and rest your face on your palm, mirroring his position. You know what? Jimin’s right, he deserves to know at least a little bit of your disgrace.

“I broke up with my boyfriend two months ago.” You admit. “No… He broke up with me. Said some bullshit about wanting his space. Then, he showed up dating a friend of mine literally one week later.”

It’s Jimin’s turn to look totally shocked.

“Are you serious?!” He exclaims, outraged. You tiredly nod.

“Yep. This friend of mine, by the way, always said that our relationship was toxic and encouraged me to break up with him.” You sip more juice. It kinda tastes bitter after you started talking about this. “I mean… I liked him, but being with him wasn’t all that healthy at all. We argued a lot. He wanted me to pay all of my attention to him all the time, complained about how much I studied and worked… shit, he even complained about the size of my skirts.”

“He’s fucking stupid.” Jimin remarks, frowning.

“Yes. Anyway. I think breaking up with him wasn’t that bad after all. But… it still kinda hurt that he ran to her that fast. Like, they didn’t even try to pretend for a while, you know.”

Jimin looks genuinely shocked.

"I don't even know this guy, but I already hate him." He crosses his arms and shakes his head slowly. "Why the hell would he complain about the size of your skirt?! You look great in short skirts!"

"I know, right?!" You agree, outraged.

"I'm glad we bought short dresses. Let's take a lot of pictures and post it on Instagram so he can see it and regret it."

"Didn't you say you never post pictures with anyone on your social media?" You quirk your eyebrow.

Jimin tilts his head and smiles.

"Maybe I found someone that's worth posting."

You roll your eyes as he giggles.

It's impossible to get mad at this man.

Jimin stares at you, concerned. "Are you sure this is your apartment?"

You huff. "Of course. Why?"

"Because it looks like you're trying to break into it."

You giggle, once again pushing the door with your shoulder. "This door has a little problem. It doesn't open if you're gentle. You gotta force it-"

Finally, it opens up with a loud bam as you push it with your shoulder one last time. You exhale, relieved, and open your arms dramatically as Jimin steps in.

"Welcome to my amazing penthouse!"

Jimin takes around half a second to have a full view of the entire place.

It is, indeed, at the top of the four story building. Does it mean you have a wonderful view of the city or that you have more space than the other apartments? Of course not. It's the cheapest one because the heater and the air conditioning system are fucked up - which means when it's cold outside it's cold inside and when it's hot outside it's also hot inside.

It consists of a single room plus a tiny bathroom. Believe it or not, there is an actual kitchen (egg-sized, but it's still a kitchen anyway), a short counter is the only thing that separates the bedroom from it. Your bed occupies almost the entirety of it. The built-in closet helps save some space; your clothes are so perfectly folded that miraculously everything fits in, not even a single centimeter of space unused. It’s also the same with the writing desk in front of the window and the shelves all around. Every space in the room is filled with your belongings, so much that it’s hard for two people to navigate in it. It’s not even that you have too many things, the place is just too small.

“Where can I put these?” Jimin asks, still holding some bags in his hands.

“Over the bed.” You say, carrying bags in your hands as well. “As you can see, this is where the master bedroom is… and the living room… and the dining room… oh! And the games room as well, since here’s where I play my Nintendo Switch.”

Jimin laughs. You watch him intently as he walks in, placing the bags carefully over your neatly made bed. He puts his hands inside the pockets of his pants and looks around once more.

“You’re very organized.” He comments. You tilt your head.

“I can't even walk around if this place isn’t organized.” He chuckles.

“I like it. It feels very cozy.”

You were expecting sarcasm in his tone or expression - like when you hear a compliment that very obviously isn’t a compliment. Being the absurdly rich person he is, you expected him to frown, be uncomfortable or even disgusted at your humble apartment - and God, were you ready to throw hands if he showed any sign of disgust.

That’s not what you see, though.

Jimin looks genuinely amused, no disdain or sarcasm at all. His eyes gleam with the curiosity you’re growing used to; he stretches his neck to see a bookshelf closely, or rapidly eyes a couple of photos you have glued on a grid on the wall.

You huff as you close the door once again. “I’m glad you liked the sardine can that I call home.”

“I’m serious! I like to visit people’s houses. They say a lot about someone.”

“Well, I’m sure it says that I don’t have enough money to fix the infiltration problem at the moment.” The black marks on the kitchen’s wall don’t let you lie. “Oh, that’s Tobey, by the way.”

Jimin frowns, confused, then finally spots what you’re pointing at.

“Oh! You really have a goldfish!” He walks over to where the small aquarium is at the writing desk and waves cutely. “Hello, Tobey. Nice to meet you!”

Shut up, heart. Don’t miss a beat just because he fucking greeted your fish.

“Do you want to drink or eat anything?” You say, walking over to the kitchen and taking a bottle of water. Jimin shakes his head politely.

“No. Wait… is that Pringles?” He narrows his eyes. Indeed, there’s a can sitting over the cabinet along with your stock of noodles.

“Yes.”

He stares at you and smiles.

You know when a toddler wants to eat something so they send you that suggestive look?

Yeah.

“Geez, you can have it. No need to look at me that way.” You hand him the Pringles can from over the counter. Jimin takes it and - believe it - bounces a little. “You really like chips, huh?”

“Mm-hmm!” He says, his mouth already full of it.

You sigh, throwing yourself over the bed. It’s already dark outside. You're relieved that you finally got rid of your shoes, feeling your legs and feet heavy. “God, I’m broken. We walked a marathon.” You notice Jimin standing awkwardly and quickly gesticulate with your hand. “You can sit on the bed, Jimin. As you can see, I don’t have a couch.”

He promptly sits by your side, albeit still hesitantly. You absently check your purse, searching for your phone, but your fingers brush over something else.

You take the passport out of it and narrow your eyes at Jimin.

"You're sure this isn't a falsified passport, right?"

"I already said it's not. You're too suspicious of me. I'm starting to get sad," He pouts dramatically.

"Of course I'm suspicious. Never heard of a passport being done so quickly in my whole life!"

"You're just lucky that your boyfriend is a man that knows a lot of important people that can get things done quickly." He side eyes you with a newly playfulness. "We've been dating for six months, Y/N. You should know this about me already."

Oh. You almost forgot that you've been dating for "this long" if anyone asks you. You huff and take some chips from the can on his hand.

"Sure. And you should know that your girlfriend is paranoid."

Jimin giggles. He finally rests his back against the pillows, propping his body on one elbow. It's weird how you met just a couple of days ago, yet you don't feel uncomfortable or bothered by his presence.

"I know that. I also know that my girlfriend is a clean freak."

“I’m not a clean freak. I’m organized.”

“Sure.” He snorts. “And I know that she has a goldfish called Tobey. Why Tobey, by the way?”

“As in Tobey Maguire.”

Jimin narrows his eyes, trying to muffle the incoming giggles. “The Spider Man?” You nod. “Why?”

���I’m shit at naming things, so I named him after the first thing I saw on TV. Spider Man 2, in this case.”

He shakes his head, eyeing the little fish inside of the aquarium. “Cute. But I feel that he’s staring at me.”

“Yeah, he has this bad habit. It’s his way of intimidating people. You also do that to people, did you know that?”

Jimin tilts his head. “Yeah, my friends already told me this, but most of the time it’s not intentional.”

“Most of the time?”

“Hm-mmh.” He nods. “You would know if it was intentional.”

“Yeah?”

He nods once again and looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Your stomach twirls and you feel yourself gulping.

"Okay, stop." You say, finally breaking eye contact after what seemed to be an eternity. "I got it."

Jimin laughs. "You're cute."

"I'm not cute." You say as you aggressively shove more chips in your mouth. "You are cute."

"I know I'm cute!" Jimin sounds very proud of himself. "Why do you say that as if it's an offense?"

"It's not offensive, but I have a bad bitch reputation and I like it very much, okay? It doesn't include being cute."

"And that's why you're cute."

You narrow your eyes at him again, clearly not getting the point.

God.

You hate the way he's putting that chip inside his mouth. You hate the way his lips are so glossy. You hate the way this motherfucker looks at you. It makes that heat creep the back of your neck once again.

His lips are so pretty.

Fuck.

You want to kiss him.

"You're all serious and sarcastic and hard to read, but you still avoid my gaze all the time." Why is he talking so low now? Why does his voice sound deeper?

You shrug. "Maybe it's because I think you're ugly. Who knows?"

"You don't think I'm ugly." He affirms so strongly that it almost makes you angry at how goddamn cocky he can be. Almost because he's not wrong.

That tiny smirk, the playfulness in his eyes-

Lord, give me strength, for I don't know if I'm strong enough to resist this fucker.

Seriously, how can he look cute and naive in a moment, then literally one second later look like he's a lion ready to jump on you and eat you?

I kinda want to be eaten-

Shut up, brain. Shut. Up.

“You’re too full of yourself, sir.” You break eye contact once again. This doesn’t make the heat leave your body - especially because he chuckles in a low tone, passing his hand through his hair. You also noticed that he has this habit that certainly doesn't make you think he looks hotter every time he does this.

“I already said that I have no time for fake modesty.” He eats more chips.

Silence hovers over you both. It’s hard to think of anything snarky or funny to say because the mood has shifted - it’s not carefree or lighthearted anymore. It’s charged. You didn’t think Jimin would be able to do this so easily. And, for the first time, you realize that you’re sitting side by side on your bed. Your fucking bed. And you think that his lips are so damn inviting, and that you can see his collarbone peeking from under the shirt, and that you’re really really close to each other and you wouldn’t really need to move a lot to press your lips against his.

It also doesn’t help that you don’t have sex with anyone in two months, ever since you broke up.

There is a stupidly attractive man sitting on your bed.

For a moment, you consider this.

It would be just sex, right? What’s the problem with casual sex? It’s not like you never hooked up with anyone in your life. If he’s up to it, then what’s the problem?

The problem is that he’s a weirdo. Hot, but still a weirdo. And he’ll forget about your existence the moment you come back from Hawaii. And he just spent thousands on you, if you actually have sex with him, it will feel like prostitution. Right?

Right. Yeah, right.

Besides, you don’t even know if he’s really up to it, right? Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe he just likes to elicit people’s reactions to caress his ego. You can’t say you don’t do it with men, either.

“I hope this works out in the end.” You say quietly, looking at the bags laying just beside your feet. “I would hate to see all this money go to waste.”

“It will, pretty. Don’t worry. I trust you.”

“Oh. Thank you for putting more pressure over me.” Jimin chuckles and bumps his shoulder against yours softly.

“I’ll be by your side all the time, okay? So just… follow what I do.”

“I don’t think you’re that reliable of a guide.” His quiet giggle, once again, fills your ears. At this point, if you ever see Jimin not giggling, you’ll be sure that there’s something very wrong with him.

“Why do you keep hurting my feelings like this? I’m always so nice to you!” He pouts.

“It’s not my fault that you look like a confused puppy dog 90% of the time.” You can’t help but smile when he throws his head back as he laughs. When he looks at you again, his eyebrows are wiggling playfully.

“Alright Y/N, I got it that you think I’m cute. No need to keep saying that all the time.”

“I don’t mean it as a compliment!”

“You don’t? Really?” He crosses his arms.

“I don’t. Definitely not. I don’t think cute people are reliable. Even less reliable if they have cute hands.”

Jimin leans away and puts his hands over his chest, his face contorting in a dramatic offended expression.

“Cute hands?! You’re saying my hands are cute?!”

You can’t help but fully laugh this time, nodding vehemently. “Yes, you have cute little hands. Just accept it!”

He still stares at you as if you just damned his entire family and his past generations while you laugh. Yes, his hands are cute. His fingers are short and chubby and you noticed it ever since the moment he sat by the cashier counter.

Then, you see the exact moment his gaze shifts from just playfulness to something many shades darker.

He nonchalantly takes more chips from the can and eats them. After he finishes chewing, he does something that will make your heartbeat rate go 200bpm and beyond.

He licks his fingers.

You saw him do that before. Many times, actually. It was always distracting. But then, it was just an innocent act.

Now, it isn’t.

No one licks their lips that slowly. He didn’t need to stare at you with heavy lidded eyes the way he is now. He didn’t need to make his lips appear even more glossy and attractive and plump like this.

That heat isn’t creeping just the back of your neck now. It’s creeping somewhere lower.

“Do you want to know what I can do with my cute little hands, Y/N?” He asks quietly.

Oh fuck.

He is up to it.

All the sirens inside of your head pop off all at once. Sweet Jesus, he is up to it. He is! He is up to it, he is sitting on your bed, he is gazing at you with half lidded eyes and with those beautiful plump lips and - fuck - his fingers are wet and they’re not the only thing getting wet right here-

You’re going to regret this.

You jump off the bed and get up.

“It’s kinda late, right? I think you should- I think you should go.” Your voice is weirdly high pitched. Must be because your throat feels tight.

Jimin stares at you in silence.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He doesn’t move for a few seconds.

Then, he sighs, disappointed.

“Well, that’s sad. I thought we could train our intimacy.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, as you walk to the door. Slowly - hesitantly - Jimin gets up, picking his bag from over the bed.

He’s still staring at you as he walks to the door, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

You open the door and step aside.

“Drive carefully,” you say when he stops in front of you.

He doesn’t move.

“Are you sure?” He’s pouting again.

“Yes, Jimin.”

“Really really sure?”

“Bye, Jimin.” You widen the door.

Jimin sighs again, his shoulders dropping. Then, he shrugs.

“Bye, pretty.”

He puts his hand on your waist and pulls you closer, making more heat spread from the spot he touched, and leaves a kiss on your cheek. His lips are so damn soft…

“See you tomorrow.”

After nodding and smirking one last time, he finally leaves.

You have to lean on the door after you close it, as if your legs suddenly can’t carry the weight of your body.

You stand there in silence for some moments.

“What the hell was that?!” You breathe out.

This definitely didn’t go in the direction you thought it would. Sure, you felt attracted to Jimin the moment you laid eyes on him, but Gosh - you were one step away from giving in.

Thanks for giving me strength, Lord. That was really cool of you.

“Stop staring at me like that!” You say, aggressively pointing at Tobey. The little fish just glares at you in silence. “You can’t judge me for thinking he’s hot!”

Tobey swims around as if saying sure, bitch.

Although whiny millionaire man mentioned previously is strange, you kind of want to fuck him.

This list is escalating quicker than you expected.

#bangtanarmynet #ksmutclub #kwritersworldnet #jimin smut #jimin x reader #jimin imagine #jimin scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin fluff #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts scenario #bts imagine #bts smut #fake dating au #STOP DOING THIS TO ME TUMBLR #I'M SO MAAAAD

[achillieus]

we’re fools. (bucky barnes x reader)

summary: for all bucky barnes knows, he hates clichés. and this thing between you two, happens to be the biggest one.

(enemies to lovers trope or i watched the society on netflix recently and based this entirely on harry bingham and cassandra pressman)

pairing: college au!bucky x reader

warnings: alcohol, angst, too much tension, bucky and reader are stupid and in  denial, sexual tension all around the place

tagging: @tonystankschild​

(other parts)  (masterlist)

part 2/3:

And then it’s the last week of February and you have an assignment together, you and Bucky, the boy with black hair and a mind that you’re certain is not as clever as he insists it is. You know this cannot possibly end well. You feel it when he sits beside you and his knee brushes past your leg. You feel it when you take a breath and smell his aftershave. Sandalwood and vanilla. It makes you want to lick your lips. Please, get a grip. You try to get away, even propose to write the whole thing alone so you wouldn’t have to spend any time around him. In your mind, you call it self defense. But Bucky’s boastful and you can see him pumping the muscles in his neck, trying to intimidate you.

“My dorm, tomorrow at 7,” he says “Don’t be late.”

-

(your late night instagram search history)

(00:38 AM) #literaturememes

(01:15 AM) @buckybrns

(01:30 AM) #newgirl

(01:50 AM) @buckybrns

(02:10 AM) @buckybrns

You find it annoying; how he’s present even when he’s not around.

-

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that everyone, boys and girls, adore him alike. He’s charming, he’s crafty, he’s brilliant. He’s everything they want him to be and even more. It nearly condones his megalomania.

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he’s aware he has an audience. Always plans his moves, knows how to play his character perfectly. He wears dark designer jeans and plain Henley shirts, buttons open, fabric tight around his biceps. Sometimes even a black leather jacket and a tag necklace. Girls are intrigued by the bad-boy, straight A student contrast, while the boys are envious enough keep him close and invite him to all of their parties. Bucky gives them whatever they need.

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he’s utterly lonely. He has never said so, but it’s the truest thing about him. He has Sam. But for how long? Bucky’s used to people going away. It has been imprinted on him. His best friend, Steve, left with his girlfriend in an exchange program last month and Natasha, the one girl he ever came close to loving, just started dating Clint Barton. Clint fucking Barton. What a downgrade.

And then there’s you, sitting at the end of his bed, playing with the ring in your finger, reading some neatly written lecture notes. Usually, Bucky would think about 129 cheeky comments he could make to a girl in his room. But not to you. Are you sure, Bucky? He has grown accustomed to disliking you. It’s the one constant he has left and he’s not planning on losing it.

He leans down and takes the place next to you, a bottle of beer dangling loosely in his hand.

He offers and you decline.

“We need to concentrate on the project.”  

“You’re the biggest killjoy.” Bucky says with a hint of a smirk.

“I’m studying, Bucky.” He can see your left hand holding that dark green pen in a tight grip and your eyes trying to focus everywhere but on his face. He can see your hair glistening in the warm afternoon light that comes from his window. He can see the soft red blush on your cheeks and the beauty mark on your neck. What a tricky thing it is to see. And to feel. And to want.

Is that what dislike tastes like, Bucky?

-

He talks a lot, that’s the first thing you notice. He says all sorts of things, most of them having nothing to do with your project. You’re certain it’s because he’s feeling as uncomfortable and agitated as you. But still, it’s annoying as hell.

“Listen,” you say and turn to his side “I’m not going to fail this class just because you have the attention span of a two year old.”

A laugh escapes his lips and you watch, completely in awe, the way little wrinkles form around his eyes and his nose scrunches. Right now, he looks tender and warm. No, he doesn’t.

“I think we’re both pretty smart,” Bucky says nonchalant and wets his lower lip with his tongue, before he adds, “We’ve got this, so relax doll.”

There are rules, things that are solid, de facto.

Example 1: Bucky never praises you. At least not out loud.

Example 1: Not valid anymore.

Example 2: Bucky uses the word “doll” approximately ten times a day. To other girls. The girls he likes. Not to you.

That’s actually wrong, he called you doll the first time you met. That doesn’t count. He didn’t know you then.

Example 2: Not valid anymore.

It feels foreign. Pleasant and beguiling, but foreign.

“You always call girls “doll”. What is this?” You ask and he looks up. “Is it like your thing, your flirt move?”

Bucky meets your gaze, his forehead creased, and holds it for some seconds before he laughs again. Is this amusing him?

“No, I’m serious.” You bite your lip. “You even did it to me when we first met.”

“I did?”

Of course he doesn’t remember, what did you expect?

“Yeah, when you helped me find the admission office.”

“And you remember that, an entire year later?” He raises his eyebrows, looking entertained and partly interested.

Your mind empties and for some time you feel out of place, embarrassed. But you’re quick to recollect yourself. You can’t let him get you.

“It was my first day as a college student, I remember all of it.”

Liar. You don’t even remember who you sat next to.

Bucky smirks a little too long for your liking and then he leans in, his body bending in a way that makes you forget to breath. He’s so close and you only see blue, a rare kind of blue between the depths of the ocean and the brightest shade of the sky at noon. This would be so much easier if he wasn’t that handsome. Handsome and indomitable. What an awful combination.

“Interesting.” He whispers and lies back, touching the wall.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and clear your throat.

“I should go, it’s obvious we’re not making any progress.” You pick your books and stand up. “Sometimes I wonder how you get all those perfect grades, you clearly-” You merely finish your sentence before he grabs your arm and swiftly, he has you pressed against his wooden bookcase. You don’t have time to blink.

What’s happening? He was sitting down a second ago.

“That day,” he says while his thumb draws circles on your wrist. “You were wearing a denim dress and some Saturn shaped earrings. And you were holding a cherry juice box.”

It’s utterly terrifying how your emotions toss and turn the moment you realize what he’s talking about and the fragile muscles of your heart ache because Bucky cares. Bucky remembers.

“It wasn’t my first day of college, but I remember.”

You want to throw up. Or kiss him. You’re not sure. You know you hate Bucky. Do you? You’ve taught yourself to. And it was never supposed to change. It shouldn’t have to.  

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he shakes his head and steps back.

“You should go.”

And you do. And you’ll never tell him, but you’ll always regret not kissing him then. You’re sure now.

-

your inbox, the next morning

(10:25 AM) from [email protected]

              I’m sending you our assignment. You only need to add a few things and it’s done. If anything else comes up, it’s better we work on our own.

-

For Bucky, it all came crashing down the moment he first saw you. It was all over the moment his eyes met yours. A gourmand perfume lingered in the air around you that day and it stained his pores. And it’s been with him since then. Clinging onto his flesh.

It’s partly obsessive and partly romantic and Bucky tries to keep it locked inside. He thinks he can make it go away easily, the way he flicks a crumb off his expensive cashmere scarf. He thinks if he doesn’t talk about it, it’ll be less true. That’s not how things work, Bucky.

Yeah, he’s starting to notice.

And he’s trying so hard to hate you. The problem is, he doesn’t think he can.

(his late night instagram search history)

(00:45 AM) #tomfordperfumes

(01:30 AM) @y/n

(01:50 AM) #funnycats

(02:15 AM) @y/n

(03:45 AM) @y/n

-

You make it your mission to avoid him and it’s going well until the fifth of March. You spot him at Sam Wilson’s party. You should have known he’d be here, they’re friends. There’s a thick cloud of cigarette smoke all around, but still, you can perfectly see him. He’s standing alone, his skin changing colors under the neon lights, a plastic cup in his hand, eyes crystal blue and swollen and fixated on you.

The room is small and everything feels known but unfamiliar at the same time; the atmosphere, his gaze, the lump on your throat.

They’re suffocating you, the looks you give each other.

-

“Buck, what do you want?” Sam asks, holding both vodka and gin and he observes the way Bucky merely turns his head to look at him.

What do you want Bucky?

Not to play a role anymore. For Steve to be back. Maybe, Natasha. No, he hasn’t thought about her in a month. Perhaps a Pulitzer Prize. Definitely a new pair of sunglasses. But there is one more answer he has behind his teeth.

Y/N, he almost says. Always.

“Vodka.”

-

He leaves before midnight and you can’t remember where the urge came from, yet you’re following him. You know he has noticed. But he just keeps walking until he reaches the door of his dorm and presses his back against it. He sees you and you see him and his eyes cut your heart open.

“Your place is on the other side of the building.”

“I know,” you mumble, “I just never got to say good job on the assignment and I wanted to.” You are unable to meet his eyes. You sound pitiful and you want to hit a wall; with your head.

Why the hell did you follow him here?

Because sometimes you do stupid things.

Bucky mockingly opens his mouth, as if shocked. It almost makes you groan.

“Did Miss high and mighty just comment something nice about me?”

“Why do you have to contradict everything I say?”

He shakes his head and you can feel your heart beat loud and irregular and it’s not because you’re mad. It’s because he’s coming closer, almost chest to chest now. And it’s because you can swear, he just glanced at your lips.

“Someone has to, you can’t act like you know everything all the time.”  

“I don’t do that, you don’t know a thing about me Bucky.”

“Oh, but I do. You’re Y/N, you like plaid skirts and Homer and dark green pens. You expect everyone to be perfect. You expect yourself to be perfect. And you always want to do the right thing.”

His pupils are dilated. Yours must be too. Bucky Barnes is dangerous and fatal. He makes your blood coil and your mouth dry. And there’s a tension, almost pain, almost agony, deep in your lungs and it burns. And you don’t know who leaned in first, probably you because Bucky isn’t that brave yet, but suddenly your hands are everywhere. Your fingers blending in his hair, his digging in the skin on the back of your neck. He’s bringing you closer and it’s a mess and all you can hear is the beating of your heart; a rapid vibration between your ears. It’s pure and raw and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

He tastes like ambrosia and a year-old despair and you think you can go on forever. You eventually break apart because you both need to breath and for a second you worry because he looks like he’s ready to cry, but instead he smiles, softly touching your cheek.

“Did I do the right thing?” You whisper.

...

feedback is so appreciated and motivates me tons, thank you :)

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #college au #bucky barnes imagine #au!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #alternate universe #alternate universe bucky #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #fools

[yuzukult]

from home 04 || jjk & reader

title: from home pairing: jungkook x reader genre: richkid!jk, baker!reader, fakedating!au, fluff, angst, e2l, smut in future chapters word count: 7.4k prompt: jungkook is the youngest of five boys, the last in line to truly inherit any his parents’ money. but what if his mom suddenly cuts him off due to his current poor behavior and he’s forced to learn how it feels like to be part of the working class? a/n: so so so thankful that from home 01 has reached over 400 notes! this is a huge milestone for me so thank you all that reblogged, liked, and replied to my chapters because it means so much to me! so grateful for all of your support because i never thought any of my fics would get any attention! honestly, not my best chapter, but i have plans for from home 05 that are more exciting to write lol please let me know if you’re interested in being tagged! but also let me know if you want to be removed! taglist: @scalubera @strugglingartistno16-2 @taestannie @teresaisla @drumsofheaven @vampgguk @christiandosworld @madjammil @jungkookieyoongs @bananagguknim @shuttheelleup ← previous chapter || next chapter →

You’d never invite him over to your apartment without the company of Hoseok. So why did you ask him to come over and just him?

Jungkook is anxious. Other than the fact that you've requested for his company on a Friday night, he hasn't really spoken to you alone ever since that weekend at his parents' estate. You weren't avoiding him, at least that's what he speculates, but there wasn't much 'alone time' and he was starting to feel insecure about how you felt about your relationship.

Rephrase. Fake relationship, he means.

The brisk, heavy wind smacks his face when he steps out of his apartment, ready to be on route to your house with the address you sent over just minutes ago. Cheeks flushing crimson, he pulls his denim coat with sherpa lining closer, suddening wishing that Hyungjin was still driving him on days like this, oh how lucky Old Jungkook was. 

15 minutes is what the GPS on his phone says, grateful that his mother hasn't cut off his line with the money because he honestly wouldn't have known what to do if he didn't have it. What did people use back then when they needed to go somewhere they've never been to before? He'd have to google that later. His hands are occupied, looking for warmth in his pockets. 

His fingers are curled frozen by the time he reaches the front of your apartment, face pale with only the tint in his nose and cheeks. There's something swirling in his gut—whether it's gas or he's just plain nervous, he's not exactly sure, but he knows that this is the first time he's ever been to your apartment and it's not the same feeling he gets when he's at his one night stands.

Once you receive his text, the buzzer goes off, allowing him to enter into the hallway of your apartment building and how different it is compared to his is astonishing. Other than the fact that the wallpaper was tearing off and the carpets look like it's been years since someone last vacuumed it, the lights were dim, giving off a spooky aura despite Halloween being a month ago.

"Apartment 344," He reiterates to himself from your message, following the instructions underneath that had been oddly specific. "Don't go into elevator car six. Six breaks down after floor two, and five is missing a button for floor three, so only car eight works without a chance of you being stuck in it. There's a smell, so you'll just have to hold your breath."

Weird. So Elevator Eight then?

When he finally reaches your floor, he nearly faints when he walks out. It smelled like a combination of pee and weed with a sprinkle of air freshener which wasn't much help. 

344. The black printed numbers are inscribed in the gold plaque that isn't real gold because it's peeling and the surface underneath it is brown. When you come to the door after he knocks, he can't help but gush at the sight of you. 

Oversized hoodie and shorts with your hair tied in a low bun, strands that fall out effortlessly and frame your no-makeup face, his heart almost jerks out of his chest. It's not fair that someone so mean can be so pretty.

"Hey," You say, breathless. "Come in. I'm in the middle of cooking up dinner. Have you ever had a home cooked meal?"

He furrows his brows. "Uh, the chefs usually put something together at the estate."

"Is it even called home-cooked if you call your house an estate?" 

"Well—" You wave him off, stepping aside for him to enter. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Your apartment is you in a version of a place. Outside entering in, he thinks it's intimidating and tends to throw people off, with the impression that it's not somewhere you'd want to be at. Yet your home itself— he finds that the confined space between where the TV sits on the shelf, books residing in the cubes beneath, across from where a grey love-seat couch is placed is a resemblance of serenity. The kitchen is relatively small, even smaller than his current studio apartment, but everything about it here feels cosy. "It's nice," He hums in content, slipping off his jacket to hang on the coat rack nearby. "I never thought your place would be so... comfortable."

"What'd you think it was going to be? A white void?" Well, you're not wrong, but he fears you so he figured it was best to not respond to that. "So... what are you cooking?"

"Couple things, actually. I even cooked some rice. What did you usually eat when you were living at home— I mean, the estate?" Leading him into the kitchen, which didn't really need much guidance with the short square footage of the apartment, he still can't believe that this place is your own. "American food? Italian? Just generally European? Our chef is from England, and studied somewhere in France. Not much Korean, if I'm being honest."

"Then... is it even home cooked? Take a seat."

He sits at the little round table centered in the middle of the kitchen, a couple recipe books stacked to the side, just enough room for the two of you to work with. "I guess not. You never answered my question, what did you make?"

"Mm... Kimchi Jjigae, bulgogi, and some stir fried veggies. I even baked something for dessert."

Something about this view of you working over the stove, plating the food and side dishes onto the table that makes it feel so domestic. He likes you like this—clear faced without trying so hard, despite thinking how beautiful you looked during the charity event, this felt refreshing.

"Alright," You cheer, handing him a bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks. "Let's dig in."

"Can I ask you something?" You're in the midst of putting some beef into his serving before looking up. "What is it?"

"Why... Are you being so nice to me? I haven't heard a jab since I got here. And why did you invite me over? Not even Hoseok joining in, just us two. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that you were trying to avoid me ever since you got to see what it was like to be in my family but then you asked me to come over. I’m a little confused."

Chewing on your bottom lip, your shoulders slouch as you drop your body back against the seat. "Honestly?" He nods. "I've been putting you in a weird spot. I don't like you because you have money, look down on other people who don't have those opportunities, and to be fair, you're very ignorant to this life stuff. You almost bought something from the Supreme drop until Hoseok stole your phone away from you." Fiddling with the kimchi sitting in it's plate, you poke at it with your chopsticks. "You took me back to your family house but it wasn't a house. You called it an estate then you proceeded to show me that you have no real relationship with your brothers. I get why you'd come to those events drunk, and I felt bad."

He scoffs. "So you pitied me."

"Well— no, I just... I just wanted you to know the feeling of home. What home really feels like, and how it's a place you find yourself wanting to come back to. I'm trying somewhat to show it through food—" You gesture the meal that you spent hours on. "—and possibly other ways. I'm not pitying you, I just don't think it's fair."

Jungkook's face softens. "You... don't think it's fair for me. You've always said things aren't fair for you, how I get all these things and I'm provided with so many advantages and now... you're siding with the rich?"

"No, not siding with the rich. Siding with you, Jeon Jungkook. Or, Kookie, whatever your sister-in-law calls you." He can’t help but laugh, as embarrassing as the nickname is to him because he’s too elated that you see him in a different light now. Maybe Hoseok was right. Learning a thing or two from you would be beneficial for him, if anything.

“Here— have some more of this,” You say before hauling a load of veggies into his bowl and he can only smile at the gesture.

“So,” Jungkook begins, finishing washing the last dish in the sink. Truth be told, he offered because you so kindly prepared a delicious dinner for him, but he needed guidance on how to actually do the chore. “What’s the dessert?”

It’s cute— the way you squirt the bottle of dish soap into the sponge in his hands, teaching him how to properly clean after himself. He feels like a baby being taught how to do the basic life tasks, low-key wishing that he could just ask Hana or Nayeon to do it instead— but it’s you beside him, telling him he needs to thoroughly scrub in order to get the tough grease stains out. He’d say, “how can you tell if it’s still greasy?” and despite you rolling your eyes and responding back, “by touching it?” something about tonight feels different than when you do it at the grocery store.

“Cinnamon rolls!” There’s a sparkle in your eye, exuberant about getting a target to fixate on. “I can pop it back in the oven for a couple minutes to get it all warm again.”

He agrees, wiping his hand off on a rag hanging by the sink, watching as you eagerly pop two buns on a tray, slipping it into the pre-heated oven. “I want you to try the things I bake from scratch... since you’re kind of investing in me.”

“It’s an exchange, more like I’m paying you.”

You grumble, rubbing your face in your hands. “No, no, no, don’t just give me money, Jungkook. If anything includes you putting cash of any form into my palms, it means you’re investing in me because you believe in me.”

Jungkook frowns. “But I do believe in you. Why do I have to keep saying that? You have the characteristics of a trustworthy person. Why else would I have asked you to be my girlfriend?”

“Pretend girlfriend,” you rectify, pointing in his direction, “... you chose me to be your pretend girlfriend. Even so, what if I’m a bad baker?”

A chortle escapes from Jungkook’s lips, shaking his head in disbelief. “OK, ok. Keep baking me goods. If in the end, I think you’re a horrible baker, I won’t ‘invest’ in your business, but I’ll invest in you instead. You keep the money. Do whatever you please with it, even if it means opening a really bad bakery. You’re helping me out here by fake dating me. My father has already personally called me on four occasions, asking when we’re visiting again.”

There it sits. The cinnamon bun. Or roll. Whichever it is— but there you are, directly leaning against the table across from him, eyes watching him attentively. Thoughts start running in his mind like; what if it actually tastes horrific like the possibility you mentioned? What would he do then? You both had already gone as far as meeting his family, he’s too deep in. 

“Stop thinking and just eat.” You say discernibly, impatient with his indecisiveness. Using the fork you provided, he pierces through the the pastry and the cut is buttery smooth, requiring no effort. When he brings it to his mouth, the moment it touches the tip of his tongue, it practically melts, dissolving in contact with his saliva, awakening up his taste buds. It’s sweet, the cinnamon with the brown sugar and butter, yet not overwhelming enough to turn it away because something about it just brings life into you again.

His mouth parts open, gaping in awe. “Oh my god,” he mutters with his cheeks full of the pastry, “W-what, oh my god. Did you drug me or something? Because there’s no way it tastes that good.”

“No— but then I made a home-made yeast dough where I added some more ingredients to transform it into an enriched dough, and that contributes to it’s soft interior with a more fragile crumb. Then the filling, I brushed on butter after rolling the dough out to a rectangle—“ 

“I-I don’t need the details,” Jungkook stutters with a nervous laugh but you were going to go off for hours if he hadn’t stopped you. “I think if all the things you make taste just as good as this, I’m impressed. You’ve sold me. But... I have to ask, why a bakery? I looked up what it means to be someone in your field with your degree and people go off to do product development, maybe research in processed foods— this isn’t necessarily close to being a baker. I honestly don’t know why my father asked you to take part of the restaurant chain he’s planning on building.” 

“Oh,” Pursing up your lips you tap your fingers against the wooden table, heaving out a sigh. “I’m surprised you did some research.”

“Well, you taught me to do some extensive exploration before I invest in something.” He shoots back.

“I wanted to go to culinary school, simple as that. I told you, I love Guy Fieri and wouldn’t it be crazy if he went to my bakery and put me on his show?” Jungkook is keeping this in his back pocket for future teasing, but you seem so dazed when you talk about your dreams that he has to refrain himself. “But I couldn’t just go to culinary school, no, my parents would kill me. So, I chose something as close as possible and so here I am. I should get into product development, maybe I can be part of something that could be preserved and easily accessible to help feed third world countries but— I don’t know how long I’d be able to sit in a lab for. I want to make people happy, see them walk through the front doors and hear the bell ring along with their footsteps, see their faces lit up when they eat what I made.”

There’s a lot of things he can point out in your expression when you talk about your dreams, them being how your eyes become the pools of chocolate cupcakes, swirling dark and sweet, and how your lips look so pillowy pink like a fluffy buttercream frosting. Within your voice, there’s so much certainty that holds it, credence along with each syllable you sing, words rising like the yeast in bread. Wholeheartedly, he wants to back you up on your aspirations, solely from the way you’ve sold them but at the same time, he feels this green-eyed envious being within him that wishes he had something to be equally as passionate about.

Money can only be ardor for so long, an inanimate object that can eventually lose its meaning if the world goes to shreds. It’s value will be there when emphasized but what if it didn’t exist? What did Jungkook like?

It’s a constant battle he finds himself placed in, especially when he absentmindedly scans the groceries for the customers, reiterating the same phrases every couple minutes with a new total tailing behind it. His uniform fits too well these days, stability making a name-tag on the chest pocket of his apron, and he’s not sure what to make of it. 

He has an ivy league degree in international business, but what does he do with it? Currently, he’s asking customers how their day was, what the end price of their shopping run is, and hoping the rest of their day is well. Four years grinding hard at a prestigious university and for what?

He used to look down on people like you and Hoseok, with a belief that their placement in the supermarket was a controllable decision on their part, but visually seeing and hearing the other employees speak about their struggles of the inability to access higher education or finding difficulty in providing for their families so they throw away their dreams for a daily life in the deli section— he wants more because he’s able to, and he doesn’t want it given to him.

Yet, Jungkook still doesn’t have a dream. And according to you, he doesn’t have a home either.

Obviously, Jungkook has been through many flings. He's even said so himself and the women who have stirred up scandals on media outlets are evidence of it but never in your life did you think that you'd find yourself in this position, blankly staring at a girl weeping in front of you as you're in the midst of restocking laundry detergent onto one of the shelves in the middle of an aisle.

"He's supposed to love me," She bawls, eyes swollen from her crying previously. The girl is barely a couple inches shorter than you with long, straight black hair that stretches down to her lower back, waist so small you could wrap your hands around her. "Jungkook told me that I was the only girl for him and nobody else. So who are you? What'd you do? What's so great about you?"

"Uh, beats me," Rubbing the back of your neck in consternation, you're not sure what to do. There's about a handful of these supermarkets in Seoul alone, so how did she even find which one you worked at? "Um... Have you talked to him about this?"

"N-N-No," The pretty girl stutters, lips quivering. "I went to the estate and they kicked me out, said he doesn't live there anymore but I think they're lying to me."

"Jungkook doesn't live there anymore." You confirm, typing something into your price gun. "He moved out into the city."

"H-He did?" She retorts, eyes glimmering in hope. "That means they didn't lie to me just to kick me to the curb. He really moved out, he's not living there anymore?" You nod, glancing up at the girl who is supposedly Jungkook's ex-girlfriend or in his eyes, one late night affair. She really fits his ideal type—one that you've accidentally discovered when you came across an article of his on one of those gossip magazines... that you googled. Nonetheless, you learn that he's into girls like her—skinny, long straight hair, feminine with a soft, high-pitched voice. Nothing wrong with those things, you just observed that none of those things are you.

"Maeri?" Why does that name sound familiar? 

Jungkook rushes his way down the aisle to stand by your side, gaze immediately glued onto you. "Hey, you alright? Did she say or do anything to you?"

"No," You respond, blinking rapidly at his sudden action. There's a girl who's crying her eyes out right in front of him and yet he's asking if you were okay? "But she claims to be your current girlfriend or ex—whatever it was, I don't remember. Kind of your problem and somehow I'm roped into this."

"And you picked her? Even though she speaks to you like that?" Maeri whimpers, nose pink and lips swelling. "She doesn't even treat you the way that I do. I can't understand why you would just drop us and pick her!"

"Maeri," He says, voice soft and gentle, completely different from what you're used to. Jungkook leans over, hand flatly pressed against her mid-back, rubbing soothingly to calm her nerves. "You're also my dad's assistant. It would've never worked out. He would've found out what we were up to and be completely against it." So that's why the name sounded so familiar, Jungkook's dad requested him to make an appointment with him through his assistant, Maeri.

... Question is, why would he do something so risky and get involved with his dad's personal assistant?

"B-B-But..."

"Listen," You quickly interject, dropping the price gun onto the car where the array of laundry detergent bottles sit. "This feels like a private conversation. You can finish this after you talk with her, I'll just find something else to do."

"Wait—" But before Jungkook could even grab you, Maeri already has her grasp tightened around his wrists, pulling him in close. "Jungkook, don't go. Talk to me, please?" He sighs when he sees you don't even glance back.

It's a bit infuriating, you think, to hear some girl complain about how you're not worthy enough for a guy that you'd previously thought wasn't even good enough for you. You were somewhat decently looking, right? Or so, that's what you thought.

"You good?" Hoseok interrupts your thoughts, brows furrowed in confusion. "Seem kinda lost there."

You hum, resuming back to stacking up the apples in the produce section because Jungkook was doing your task instead due to the incident. Truth be told, you hated here in produce, because since you first stepped foot into this section, six old women had already tried starting small talk. But anything to get out of that conversation between him and Maeri. "Well, I just saw Kim Maeri over there with boogers dripping from her nose because Jeon Jungkook suddenly has new arm candy."

Rolling your eyes, you threaten to throw the apple in your hand at him. "Not arm candy. Girlfriend."

"Ohhhh," Hoseok teases, hands slipping into the front pocket of his apron. "Not arm candy but rather girlfriend. Not so fake anymore? So, who confessed first? You or our clueless Kook?"

"Hoseok, not in the mood. I just dealt with some weird girl crying over a guy I'm not even really dating, weeping on for twenty minutes about how I'm not good enough for him."

"Why? Are you sad because you think it's somewhat true?"

Your glare nearly kills him. "No, but it's not easy to hear. I mean—he's this guy who doesn't even know what to prioritize in his spendings, can't even properly do his laundry without dying some of his whites, and he doesn't know how to clean after himself. And yet she thinks he's too good for me?" Scoffing in disbelief, you slam an apple onto the pile and Hoseok grimaces, hand on your wrist. "Please don't bruise the apples."

You sigh and he lets go of his grip. "Sorry. But am I that mean?"

"No, no, don't say it like that, of course you're not. Sure, you sound sorta insensitive sometimes but you mean well. Or else Jungkook and I wouldn't willingly spend time with you, right?"

"I'm your timesheet approver and Jungkook is using me to get back at his parents. I don't know about that."

Hoseok rolls his eyes, handing you the apples from the inventory cart as you continue to organize them onto each other. "If that's the case, I wouldn't actually help you out when we're not at work. You don't have enough authority here for me to kiss your ass my way up for a promotion here. And Jungkook— although, true, yes, he's asking that from you but he wouldn't just willingly see you or try to spend time with you outside of work. Stop being so insecure because some pretty girl came by."

"Uh, Hey." Jungkook appears out of thin air, startling both you and Hoseok. "I... restocked the detergent like you asked. I can take over this if you'd like, I know you don't really like working in the produce section because the grandmas like to start conversations up with you."

A smile tugs on the edges of Hoseok's lips, suggestively eyeing you before stepping back. "I'm gonna go find myself elsewhere..." Then he jolts before you can get a word in.

"I'm good," Turning back to the pyramid of fruits, you're content with how it looks so far yet Jungkook doesn't seem to share the same pleasant expression. "I'm almost done anyways."

"She's not... we've never dated," He says, swallowing his nerves. In all honesty, he's unsure why he feels the need to justify his relationship with her and elaborate the story behind it, but he gives into the urges nonetheless. "Just a fling. We slept with each other a couple times because I liked the rush it gave me, knowing that if my dad knew I slept with his favorite assistant of all time, I'd be done for."

Silent and brushing your hands off from the debris, you avoid chiming into his story. Was he telling this to you because you’re his supervisor or because of the weird relationship that’s going on between the two of you? “Uh, it’s fine. It happens. Wasn’t necessarily your fault, it was unavoidable. At least that over with, right?”

Jungkook scratches the back of his head quietly, the ponytail on his head bouncing slightly. “About that... there’s an event this weekend.” After brushing over the details, you don’t say much, striving to finish the pyramid of apples, Jungkook assisting by taking over Hoseok’s spot. “I have a question.”

“What’s up?” You don’t shift your attention away from the red fruit.

He clears his throat. “Are you and Hoseok a thing?” Letting out an airy laugh, your eyes finally meet his. “Of course not. He’s just a very involved and caring friend. Nothing more, and he isn’t really my type. Plus, I’m sure he’s not over Hyeri.”

Jungkook nods, pulling his lips into a straight line because he’s trying to hold back a smile. You and Hoseok were not a thing, which meant that there was one thing less he didn’t have to worry about.

Maeri found you through the instruction of Mr. Jeon; he said that his wife had mentioned your current employment at two of her chains and this was her second attempt after wailing over at the coffee shop, hoping that the second location was a charm. Meeting Jungkook there was really a coincidence, in all fairness, because apparently Mr. Jeon didn’t say anything about Jungkook being there—his main target had been you.

“He wants you to come with me to another event... but it requires some travel.” Jungkook told you, feeling a bit guilty because you had just spent a weekend at his parents estate barely a couple days ago. This means begging your supervisor at the supermarket and the café to let you call off for the next week. Hopefully in the end it’s all worth it...

When Jungkook says travel, this is not what you thought it was going to be.

“We can either take the private plane there with my family or ride the train.” You don’t hesitate to pick the latter option, evading the potential family argument that would blossom in seconds if you were to be stuck in a cabin full of the Jeons. 

You don’t recognize the awkward position you put Jungkook in until you’re standing on the platform, waiting for your train’s arrival with a duffle bag in hand, body hidden underneath a heavy winter coat. “Oh. Have you ever rode on the train before?” He shakes his head ‘no’ and you frown. Maybe you should’ve taken the plane there, Jungkook would’ve been more comfortable. And as if he read your thoughts, he nudges you with his elbows, hands dug into the pockets of his jacket. “Since you’re popping my train cherry, take it easy on me, will you?’

He’s perhaps a little funny, but you’re not going to cave into that.

Busan— is what your ticket says, from Seoul to Busan. Honestly, you had never been in Busan before but you recall Jungkook saying that it was his birthplace and he’d be more than happy to guide you through the nooks and cranny of the largest port city in South Korea. 

Once you reach the city, it’s completely different from Seoul. The buildings are condensed, there’s so many markets yet at the same time, there’s just as many people there are in Seoul. Hyungjin is holding a sign that says, “Jeon Jungkook,” written on it in bold letters, bowing when he sees your fake-boyfriend, just as eager as Jungkook. “I’m glad they asked you to pick me up again.”

“Well, I requested it, Mr. Jeon.”

“Oh please, I’m sure you didn’t. You hated having to drive me home whenever I was partying.”

Hyungjin shakes his head with a grin plastered on his face. “I did, perhaps. However you are a new man now with a very intelligent woman by your side, so I can almost guarantee that you’ve changed. Much more likable, Mr. Jeon. Please, let me take you to your hotel.”

You nearly have a nosebleed just from the view from your room.

The sea is beautiful, despite the grey clouds that hover the water from the colder weather but the charm could never be hidden. Apparently, the hotel that Jungkook’s parents had booked for the two of you was a 5-star hotel, spas, pools, restaurants and everything included and some that you can see from your balcony. 

“Holy shit, Jungkook, is there where you grew up?”

“No, not in a hotel.” He laughs, watching as you move around the room like a little kid to see every trinket the hotel had to offer. “My grandparents’ house is just down the road, and I’m sure they want to meet you. We can do some stuff beforehand and meet them for a late lunch with the rest of the family. How’s that sound?”

Jungkook is your tour guide for the day— taking you to the market where they sell merchandise with idols faces on it, snacks, and so on. He takes you to see the Gamcheon Culture Village, a place where homes are condensed that are splatters of the rainbow and filled with painted murals. It’s a sight for sore eyes, and everything is just a bit more enjoyable with a tall little kid standing by your side.

He takes you to the Haeundae Beach, where a story he tells is a place he recalls biking with brothers when he lived there during the summers. Once they were a bit older and found interest in girls, he stopped going since the only thing he looked forward to was spending time with his siblings there. 

When you meet his grandparents at their humble home, his brothers are already there with his parents, paying their respects and doing their ‘routine’ to visit them at least once a month, apparently. You assumed the family would have neglected their grandparents with the presence of wealth, but it was nice to see that his parents still kept their roots.

“This is Jungkook’s girlfriend?” His grandma says in a mixture awe and disbelief, glancing back at his mother and you. “I’m so glad, he hasn’t been here to visit me in a long time. Did you convince him?”

You shake your head in response, bending down to sit across from her. “No, he asked if I’d like to come.”

“He wants to introduce his pretty girlfriend to his grandparents, of course! Why else?”

From the corner, Jungkook can see Jongseok twitching in annoyance at the attention you were gaining from their grandparents, complimenting while pinching your cheeks, pleased with who Jungkook had ended up with. “Smart and beautiful, will you wed her soon or else someone else sweeps her off her feet?”

“I’ll try,” Jungkook says with uncertainty, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “It’s really up to her though.”

“Then make it so that she can’t say no!” His grandfather chimes in.

Lunch had been nice with his family; it had been a lot tamer than the conversations at the dinner table in the Jeon’s. For one, it seemed like if anyone had anything bad to say, they refrained themselves from doing so in respect for their frail grandparents.

Back at the hotel, you stand with your arms rested against the rail of the balcony, your hair blows with the wind, strands getting into your face as you attempt to push them away, only for Jungkook to lean in, gently brushing them out your way. He’s close— so close that you can feel his breathing against your cheek and you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath when you exhale after he steps back. “There,” he grins, proud of his work, “looks good.” Was he talking about how he completed the task well or that you looked good?

“It’s... really nice here, Jungkook.” If it weren’t for this arrangement, you never would’ve found the time or money to come here unexpectedly, especially with how much money you were trying to save to open up the bakery. Enjoying the finer things in life proved burdensome since one of the things on the list of adulting was knowing what your priorities were. “I don’t think I would’ve gotten the chance to explore Busan if it weren’t for you.”

“You... you should take a break every now and then,” Jungkook suggests, leaning beside you. Everything about the sea at night is striking; the gusts of wind from the waves, the lights at the pool from the hotel, the sky, sparkling with stars from above that causes a glimmer in your eyes, swirls of mocha full of wonder and excitement. “You overwork yourself to death. You’re completely burnt out. Yet at the same time you keep making time for Hoseok and I when what you really need is a spa night.”

“It’s... it’s not that easy,” You frown. “I just have so much to do.”

“I told you, let me take care of you. If I can prove to my family that I’m capable, I get the money back. I can pay you for all the things you’ve done for me, all the things you’ve taught me, everything. You need to enjoy your life before you’re old and wrinkly because by then, you won’t have the energy to do the things you want to anymore.”

“Jungkook—“

“No, let me teach you something this time around. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I think I know everything now, I just... with chilling and relaxing, I think you should let me take it from here.”

“I just—“ Cupping your cheeks in his hands, he forces you to face him, pressing them together for your lips to purse up. “No arguments. No disagreeing with me, no more of that. I need you to listen to me for once and not tell me what to do.”

Assertive Jungkook is an inconsistent version of him that’s usually feeble in comparison to you. But something about Busan’s air and water gives him the confidence he needs to stand up to you for once, and it makes your heart skip a beat. You nod in compliance, caving into what he demands. His eyes shift, trailing from the bridge of your nose to the tip, oh how he wants to give it a peck, but once they reach your lips, he realizes that’s what he really wants. 

He swallows, releasing some pressure off of his hands as you survey his distinct expression. “Jungkook, are you—” hastily, he pulls your jaw toward him, lips crashing into yours and it’s more than he expects. He swore in a not dramatic way that it felt like there were fireworks being set off behind him.

Noticing what he’d done, he quickly lets go, hands dropping at his side. “I’m sorry, I just, I couldn’t help myself but I know I said boundaries—”

Hands flying up, your thumb brushes against the soft flesh of his cheeks, hopping onto the tip of your toes, reaching up to meet as much of his height as you could, eyes hooded with your breath fanning his lips. Fingers slipping to the back of his neck, you tug him down, gingerly pushing your lips against his.

It’s gentle— the kind of kiss that Jungkook isn’t familiar with when he comes across his flings, but the way you ease your way into his parted lips and how your tongue brushes against his, it makes him feel hazy, drunk on your scent. His hands find purchase on your waist, tugging your hips to rest on his as your fingers run through his luscious hair. The length is something you’ve grown to love, a huge step from forcing him to tie it back because it hadn’t been ‘professional’ enough. And here you are, making out with your trainee on the balcony of your shared hotel room. He lets you lead the kiss momentarily before you break away, foreheads against each other, you’re both panting with tinted cheeks. “Don’t hold yourself back, please,” you beg in a whisper, completely intoxicated by everything radiating off him. 

Reaching down your thighs, he puts those muscles to use when he grabs onto them, wrapping your legs around his frame as you yelp, arms immediately hugging around his shoulders. He slides the balcony door shut with his feet, dropping you onto the bed, falling along in unison. 

There’s a smile upon his lips, a genuine one filled with admiration. Just when he’s leaning closer to you for a second round, there’s a knock on the door.  Jungkook groans, dropping his face into the crook of your neck as laughter erupts from your chest. “Go get the door.”

“Whoever it is, they just ruined this moment.” He grunts, untangling your legs from his waist to open the door.

Jongseok is leaned up against the door frame, eying his younger brother suggestively. “What were you doing?”

“None of your business,” Jungkook hisses in return. He doesn’t need to say it though because Jongseok knew from his sibling’s disheveled locks, swollen lips, flushed cheeks and labored breathing. Jongseok wasn’t going to look, but he could already tell that Jungkook was supporting a boner in those sweatpants. 

“Hm,” Jongseok hums, narrowing his gaze. “Alright then. Stopped by to tell you that mother wants us to have dinner with family tonight in about 30 minutes. Should be enough time for you to finish, right? How long does 3 pumps take?”

“Get out!” He responds through his gritted teeth, slamming the door on him.

Quickly standing up, you brush your clothes off and fix your hair in the mirror. “We should get ready to head out, I don’t want your mom to wait on us.”

“You sure? I mean we don’t have to go—“ 

“I still need to impress your parents too, right?” Hand pressed against his chest, he calms down at your touch and nods in conformity. “Alright then.”

When the two of you return from the trip, you don’t mention anything about the kiss and what it would’ve led to. Fearing that you’d back out from the agreement, Jungkook doesn’t bring it up either, despite having so many questions running through his head, discovering that there’s a small chance that he’s fallen for you.

Hoseok throws something in Jungkook’s direction, a confused expression on his face when he catches in his hands yet his body doesn’t move from the couch. “What’s this for?” He asks, opening his cupped hands to see a shiny gold key.

“That’s my apartment key,” Hoseok responds calmly, shuffling through some letters that sit on his counter. “For whenever you want to come over.”

In the past month, he found himself gravitating toward not just you, but Hoseok as well, a friendship blooming from being acquaintances. Reminiscing to a time where they would only say ‘hi’ in passing, mostly for politeness because their parents had worked together before, there had never been a real bond between the two of them. And ever since he started working at the market, their friendship had escalated to hanging out with each other on the weekends or any available free-time they had.

Jungkook has friends now.

Real friends, he notes. Ones he never thought he had, ones he had only ever dreamed of, and ones that he didn’t have to bribe for them to become. He admits that whatever he has with you is a bit rocky and unknown, but after having that home-cooked dinner with you that night, he feels like you’re opening up to him. 

An action from you that he rightfully earned, he likes to repeat to himself, because he can’t believe he’s able to obtain relationships with people that didn’t include money.

“You’re giving this to me? You trust me with it?”

“Well, yeah,” Hoseok nets his brows in confusion, making his way to sit beside the other male on the couch, switching his PlayStation 5 on, handing Jungkook a controller as he stares dumbfoundedly. “You come here almost every weekend, or well, recently almost every other day since I got the PS5. You’re a bro now, we’re not just some dudes that acknowledge each other at parties anymore.”

Jungkook feels like he’s soaring. His feet are hovering in the air, and his heart feels light. If this is what it feels like to have a friend who cares and enjoys spending time with, he doesn’t need to get high and wasted to obtain that feeling anymore.

“Mom, I’m not really in the mood to come back so soon.” You sigh, fingers raking through your drenched locks. It’s supposed to be a relaxing Friday night in; Jungkook bringing the pizza with wings and Hoseok grabbing the beers from the supermarket when he finishes his shift tonight. Figuring that you had some time, you’d give yourself a relaxing shower, knowing damn well you were going to need some peace and quiet temporarily with two rowdy boys coming later.

“Please,” She begs, attempting to raise her voice in a baby-ing manner. “Your sister said she was coming tomorrow morning. I would love to get the family back together. And you said so yourself last week, you’re free this weekend!” You’re starting to regret calling your mom with life updates.

The door swings open, the sight of Jungkook hauling in bags and a box in his hand. “Jeon, you can put it on the coffee table,” Pointing in the living room, he nods as you trail behind him. “You can move the books off the table and put it by the TV.”

“Jeon?” Your mom reiterates, suddenly intrigued by whomever you were at your apartment with. “Who is Jeon?” Ignoring her, you press the phone against your shoulder and cheek, freeing your hands in attempt to help Jungkook clear out the table. “Oh, Jungkook, can you close the door? It’s cold for some reason.”

“Jungkook?” She gasps the name into the phone, squealing afterwards. “You have a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me?”

“What?” You reply sharply, Jungkook coming back from your request, brows knitted in confusion. “Who’s on the phone?” He mouths, you retort, “my mom” back faintly. 

“I heard you calling some guy named Jungkook. It’s just him in your apartment alone, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have some guy with you unless he’s your boyfriend, right? Oh my god, I thought you were going to be alone forever—” She yammers on, not even taking a second to breathe. “You know what? Bring him tomorrow. Don’t say no, I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’m letting your dad and siblings know. Goodnight, dear! Sleep well! Tell Jungkook I said hi!” And with that, she hangs up.

Throwing your phone on the couch, you grumble, hands rubbing your face. “I’m assuming she thinks I’m your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, plummeting your body onto the couch. “As much as I don’t want to do this, she’s going to attack me nonstop if I don’t bring you. Are you free tomorrow? Would you... like to meet my family? If not— it’s totally fine, I mean we’re not even really dating anyways and—“

“Of course,” He grins, settling down beside you. “This doesn’t have to just apply to my parents, you know. I am your boyfriend, not just you being my girlfriend.”

In all honesty, he finds this as an opening. Ever since your trip to Busan, he couldn’t help but see you differently out of the blue. He admits, maybe right now isn’t necessarily the best time for him to start a relationship, especially one where a business deal is involved, but he can’t help it. Something about you, since that night, he saw you underneath those lights and you’re not the same mean supervisor that he thought you’d been.

And don’t even get him started on the way you kiss.

#jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts #bts smut #jungkook x reader #gyukultfics

[noforkingclue]

Hey I saw that your requests were open so I thought why not. Anyways I have a request for a Malcolm fanfic. So I was thinking the team got called for a very high profile case where one of the richest guys in the world was murdered and they meet the daughter that just flew in and hadn’t spoken to her father in years and her and Malcolm have like a love at first sight moment. He tries to impress her by showing off more then usual with his skills and at the end could you do where they go on a date. Love your writing thanks!!!

Aww, thank you anon! I really hope that you like the fic!

Now that Prodigal Son series 2 is out in the UK (at least legally) expect a lot more Prodigal Son fics out!

Title: Impressive

Prodigal Son tag list: @takethee, @queenoffandom08

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary

You sat in the police station wringing your hands nervously. People looked at you curiously as the passed by and you heard the whispered conversations. You didn’t look like an heiress, surely you must be a fraud, were you actually a reporter trying to get the inside story. You ran a hand through you hair as you recalled the phone call that you received only a couple of days ago.

“Ms. l/n?”

You looked up sharply when you heard your name called. You quickly stood up and walked towards the office who had called you.

“Gil Arroyo?” you asked, “I think we spoke on the phone.”

“Yes,” he stepped aside and ushered you into his office, “I’m sorry for your-“

“Don’t,” you held up your hand, “My father was a bastard. I’m not sorry he’s gone.”

This seemed to catch Gil by surprise and you realised what you said. You blushed as you sat down in the chair he offered and looked down at your hands.

“Before you say anything,” you said quietly, “I wasn’t even in the country when you told me. I haven’t seen my father in almost five years. I’m surprised you even know about me.”

“Well we had a bit of help with that.”

“Help?”

Before Gil could answer the door to his office was flung open. Gil closed his eyes and took a deep breath as a young man started pacing around.

“It was so obvious,” he said, “I just can’t believe I missed it. Gil we need to-“

It was then that he realised you were in the room. He paused mid-step as he looked between you and Gil.

“Hi.” He said

“Hey.”

“Malcolm,” said Gil, “This is y/n l/n.”

“The daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Great!”

He took the other seat and shifted closer towards you. You blushed when you felt his knee brushed against yours but for some reason you didn’t move away. There was something about Malcolm that was captivating.

“You father,” Malcolm said, “You know what happened?”

“He was murdered,” you replied, “It’s been kind of hard to miss.”

“What was your relationship with him?”

“I didn’t have one,” you grip tightened around the denim jacket you were wearing, “He didn’t have much time for me.”

“Really?”

Malcolm stood up and beckoned you to follow him. After a brief pause you stood up and followed him into the other room. You paled when you saw the photos on the wall but Malcolm just slapped a hand against the board and pointed at you.

“Did you father have many enemies?”

“It would be easier to tell you who wasn’t.”

“Ok.”

“Huh?”

“Look at the way his body was positioned,” Malcolm looked back at the photos, “In his bed. You could almost mistake him for being asleep if it wasn’t for all the blood. His hair was combed, he was dressed in his pyjamas and yet the killer saw fit to completely gut him.”

He looked back at you and smiled at you. You gave him a curious look as you slowly walked over.

“So what you’re saying,” you said, “Is that the killer hated my father and yet had affection for him as well.”

“Yes!” Malcolm said excitedly, “Exactly! Look at the layout of the room, everything personal to your father was destroyed. Photos of him were torn apart, paperwork shredded, this person must’ve hated him and yet,”

Malcolm held up and finger and pushed a file towards you,

“These remained intact.” He said gently

You carefully opened the file and you breath hitched at what you saw. Photos from your childhood. While the face of your father had been etched out the faces of you and your mother smiled back up at you. Memories of a happier time when things were simpler. You wiped away a tear and sat down in a chair. Malcolm sat down next to you.

“This person cares about you,” he said, “Do you know anyone who-“

“My brother.”

This seemed to knock Malcolm. He looked back at the board then back to you.

“You have a brother?” he asked

“Oh yes,” you let out a bitter laugh, “But you wouldn’t suspect it. My father completely cut him out of our lives a couple of years ago. As for these photos,” you lifted one and grimaced, “Edited. My father removed all traces of Ollie from his life.”

“But you still remain close.”

“How… how do you know that?”

“Your jacket,” Malcolm nodded towards it, “The way your grip tightened when you talk about him. It was his, your last memory of him before your father removed him from your life.”

You bit your lip and nodded. Ollie had always been the black sheep of the family, always willing to go one step further and push your father’s buttons. You never expected him to be disowned let alone actually kill your father.

“He still cared,” Malcolm said eventually, “The way he dressed him and put him to bed. He was cleansing himself of his demons. Now that you father is dead he can begin his new life, finally free from the chains and constrictions that your father gave him.”

“But he was already free.”

“Not to Ollie,” Malcolm continued, “He held a mixture of love and loathing that he could never shake free of. Even you, deep down, know how he’s feeling. The sense of relief to know that he can never control your life again. You didn’t come back here to mourn him, you came back here to make sure that he really is dead and honestly,” Malcolm lowered his voice, “I can’t blame you.”

“I didn’t know Ollie was going to do this,” you said, “You have to believe me. I haven’t spoken to him in a year. He just went silent one day. I never… It’s just…”

“I know,” said Malcolm, “We just need to find him.”

“I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Thank you.”

“And Malcolm.”

“Yes?”

“What you said earlier,” you gave him a shy smile, “It was impressive.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah, no one had ever gotten that side of me before.”

“Well,” Malcolm looked a mixture of embarrassed but also a bit pleased, “It wasn’t anything much. Just doing my job.”

“I’d like to learn more about it.”

“Really?”

“Over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Unless,” you said quickly, “You don’t want to. I know I wasn’t a suspect but my brother did kill my father. Would it be unethical? Shit, forget I said anything!”

“No!” said Malcolm quickly, “It’s just I wasn’t expecting you to be interested. People don’t tend to be interested in me in that way.”

“Why not?”

“Umm.”

“Shit that was rude,” you took a deep breath, “Can we pretend that this didn’t happen?”

“You asking me out or-“

“The bit that came after. I still want to go out for dinner. If you want to that is.”

“I do.”

“Great!”

“Good.”

“After work or…”

“How about tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me.”

You stood up and Malcolm copied you. He opened the door for you and you smiled as the left the room. You ignored the stares a Malcolm walked you out and you said,

“Where shall we meet? Here?”

“Why not. If we meet at my apartment you’ll run the risk of meeting my mother and I don’t think you’ll want to meet her.”

“Meeting the parents on the first date is a bit quick for me.”

Malcolm gave you a slightly strained smile before opening the door again for you. You gave him a wave goodbye before walking back outside. You looked over your shoulder briefly as you saw some of his colleagues walk up to him. Just before the door closed you heard one of them say,

“How did you manage that Bright?”

#fanfiction #prodigal son #reader insert #request #malcolm bright #malcolm whitly #malcolm x reader #malcolm bright x reader

[ragingbookdragon]

History In the Making PT. 2

Jason Todd x M!Reader

Word Count: 1.6K Warnings: None

Author's Note: It's about the set-up! Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

Jason leaned up against the brick wall of the bar, half nervous and ready to bolt, the other half bored. What a unique combination of feelings. He thought to himself, wondering how he let the man from last night talk him into a date the night after. Roy certainly hadn’t been a ‘good ole country boy’, but Jason knew from some stupid songs that country split across the U.S.

What bothered him even more was that for some reason, the man’s demeanor and dress didn’t bother him. Which was odd because if Jason had saw anyone else in faded denim jeans, a button-down work shirt, and a pair of steel toed work boots, he’d have laughed hysterically.

Low and behold though, he was enamored by (Y/N) the second he stepped between Jason at the bar, even more so when he’d gently, but firmly pushed him back down into his seat and asked Jason to let him handle the disturbance. Not many people would’ve done that. Most in fact, would have turned the other cheek and let it happen, but not him.

“Jason.”

He looked up from his phone and smiled at (Y/N) coming towards him. “Hey (Y/N). For a moment, I was worried you weren’t gonna show.”

(Y/N) shook his head. “Sorry, my schedule this mornin’ got messed up and I’ve been runnin’ a little late.” He offered Jason an apologetic look. “I hope my tardiness hasn’t put you off.”

Jason chuckled. “Man, you’ve gotta give the gentle-manliness a rest sometime.”

“So, givin’ this to you isn’t wanted right now?” he questioned, holding up a single red rose and Jason’s eyes widened. “Too early for romantic gestures?”

He took the flower and smelled it, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks. “No, it’s…I forgot that guys are typically the ones who give flowers.” He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s different to be on the receiving end.” The second the words left his mouth, (Y/N) cocked a brow and he spluttered, “T-that’s not what I meant! I just meant that I’ve never been given flowers before and—I’m going to stop digging myself in deeper.” he muttered and (Y/N) chuckled lowly.

“No, please keep diggin’. It’s amusing.”

Jason glared at him though it wasn’t as fierce as it could’ve been. “Jerk.”

(Y/N) winked and shoved his hands in the pockets of his corduroy jacket. “Wanna get going? Isaia closes the store around nine-thirty.”

“Yeah, lead the way.” Jason replied, keeping in step with him as they turned the corner of the end of the street.

“Now, I do have to warn you that this place looks like a hole in the wall, but it’s the greatest pizza you’ll ever eat in your life.”

“Is it made by an authentic Italian man whose grandfather came to the Americas in the twenties and has been running this shop since then?”

“Well aren’t you right on the money,” he teased and nodded. “Tony’s family came to New Jersey in nineteen-twenty-one and opened the shop a few years later. They make pizza, pasta, anything and everything Italian cuisine.” He groaned. “It’s the greatest food you’ll ever eat if you’re never able to get to Italy.”

(Y/N) made a turn down a particularly dark alley and Jason couldn’t help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he followed, watching as he stopped at a door on the side of the building and pulled it open.

Immediately, he was hit by the mouthwatering scent of fresh garlic and bread and his stomach rumbled as he inhaled deeply. “Holy crap.” He breathed and (Y/N)’s face broke in a smile.

“Told you.” He gestured to the building. “After you.”

Jason stepped through the doors and was met by an older woman who looked him up and down with a curious expression until he felt (Y/N) behind him peering over his shoulder, and then she smiled. “Mio caro!” she greeted, pulling him into a hug, and Jason almost laughed at how (Y/N) practically towered over her. “It’s so good to see you!”

He laughed. “It’s good to see you as well, Signora Matteo. How’ve you been?”

Pulling away, she waved. “Isaia has driving me up the wall!”

“So, no different than normal?” he teased, shying away when she whacked his stomach.

“Asino,” she hissed, then glanced at Jason. “Who is this (Y/N)? Is he your amore?”

(Y/N) sighed. “You gonna ask that for every guy I bring here?”

She scowled. “You never bring anyone here! How am I supposed to know!” whacking him, she said, “Go! Siediti al tuo tavolo!”

He obeyed, though he was still chuckling when he sat down, Jason taking the seat across from him. “You seem to get along with them well,” he remarked and (Y/N) nodded.

“When I first got up here in Gotham, I didn’t really know anybody. Isaia and Gabriella were kind enough to let me hang around and fix up any problems they had with machines here.”

“You’re a mechanic?” Jason asked.

“Handyman is probably the better term,” he replied. “I went to an applied technology school right outta high school and learned mechanical maintenance electrical and instrumentation.” (Y/N) cleared his throat. “My papa used to run a garage when I was a kid too, so I helped out ‘round there.”

Jason hummed. “So, you’re just an all-round knower of machines, huh?”

He smiled. “I try to pick up skills where I can. Helps with the resume.” Nodding at him, he inquired, “What do you do for a living?”

“I travel a lot. Freelancing work.”

(Y/N) could understand that Jason was being cagey with his answer, but he let it go, not wanting to dig where he wouldn’t get. “Do you work for a secular company or multiple?”

He nodded. “Both. Though I work for Wayne Enterprises a lot.”

“No kidding!” he exclaimed. “I ran into Mister Wayne this morning!”

Jason blinked. He hadn’t been expecting his father to run into (Y/N) anytime soon. Not in this big city. “Really now? What happened?”

“Oh, he had some car trouble. A bad spark plug and a ruined belt.” He handed Jason the menu. “Gave him an address for an older man I worked for a year or so ago that’ll fix him up in no time.” He smiled. “Mister Wayne was a wonderful man to meet. He was absolutely polite the entire time and even tipped me for taking time to look at his car.”

“How much?” Jason knew Bruce probably gave him at least two hundred.

“Two hundred dollars.” He shook his head. “I tried to give him the money back, but he just wouldn’t hear it and insisted I keep it. Even asked me for one of my business cards.”

“You’ve got business cards?”

(Y/N) shot him a look. “You don’t?”

“Touché,” Jason retorted with a grin and Gabriella came back over with two wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

She poured the glasses half full and said, “I put in your order already. It’ll be ready soon.” And she was off again, leaving (Y/N) amused and Jason rather confused.

“Does she do that often?”

“What? Bring your wine and tell you she ordered for you?” (Y/N) smirked. “Only for the customers she likes.” He grabbed the wine stem and raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. “If I had to take a guess, she probably put in an order for margherita pizza. Pinot Grigio pairs well with that pizza.”

“You know wine?” Jason raised the wine glass to his nose and smelled before tasting it. “It’s dry. But good.”

“It’s surprising that a southern man knows wine, but how do you know wine, Jason?”

He chuckled setting the glass down. “My dad is…influential with big cities. I grew up attending galas.”

“Are you and him close?”

“Not…as much as we probably could be.”

(Y/N) nodded with a knowing look in his eyes. “I know what you mean.”

“Telling me the fruity southern man has daddy issues?” Jason quipped.

He barked a laugh. “Oh, the biggest.” He shot Jason a glance. “Something tells me you got ‘em too.”

“Ah, we all wish our relationships with our fathers could be perfect, huh?”

“Cheers,” (Y/N) agreed, raising his wine glass to clink it with Jason’s.

***

“And I told Tucker that he could either get out and push or we’d be stuck in the mud until his daddy came with a chain and his truck.” Jason buried his face in his hands and laughed, bending over the railing and (Y/N) watched him with a grin of his own on his lips. “Ah, you should’ve seen the two of us when we got back to his mama’s house. Covered head to toe in mud and chiggers.” He shook his head. “I took three showers that night.”

Jason turned his head and looked at him, tears in his eyes. “How many ticks did you get?”

(Y/N) groaned, pressing his forehead into Jason’s shoulder. “So many in so many unsavory places.” The two of them fell back into laughter, practically falling into each other as they did.

A few moments later, they were staring out at the water, the moon high in the sky. “I had fun tonight, Jason.” He said quietly. “A lot of fun.” Taking a leap of faith, he reached over and took Jason’s hand. “I’d like to do it again…if you wanna.”

Jason gazed at their hands, silent for some time, then he nodded. “…Yeah…I’d like to do this again too.” He glanced at (Y/N). “Say…next Friday morning? Brunch?”

(Y/N) smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader imagines #jason todd x reader imagine #jason todd imagines #jason todd imagine #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood x reader imagines #red hood x reader imagine #red hood imagines #red hood imagine #red hood #batfamily x reader #batfamily x reader imagines #batfamily x reader imagine #batfamily imagines #batfamily imagine #batfamily #bruce wayne #batman #dc comics #dc imagines #dc imagine #dc

[slipping-through-my-fingertips]

Not a Fashion Major

Summary: Blaine has a crush on a fashion student in his elective class.

Notes: one of said fics that came to me not at all related to my folklore series. But I did enjoy this little fluff story. 

AO3

Blaine wasn’t a fan of war. Hated it in fact. It’s why he was avoiding taking his you-absolutely-need-this-to-graduate-history-class-requirement. The thing about going to a liberal arts college is they make you take classes outside of your major. Most people were dreading their math requirement but Blaine aced statistics spring of his freshman year. The requirement he didn’t want to be reminded of was history. That was until his advisor had told him that any historical content class would be counted.

It’s his junior year and he really wants to be spending all his energy on his thesis next semester. That’s why he chose History of Menswear in the fashion department. Blaine always liked flipping fashion magazines though he may not keep up with the trends in Vogue. He enjoyed a well-patterned bow tie and appreciated a good outfit with suspenders every now and then. He was really hitting two birds with one stone. Goodbye history requirement and hello to some new wardrobe ideas.

He assumed the class wouldn’t be too difficult. Blaine asked around about the professor and apparently he put all the lectures online and his exams were almost all available on Quizlet. However, he was warned about one partner project that counted for half their grade. So, Blaine needed to make a friend who would put in as much effort as he would for this project. At least, it wasn’t a full-blown group thing. Blaine despised group work. It was never equally divided and he always ended up picking up the slack.

With an easy class to end his days three times a week, Blaine had a pep in his step as he walked into his lecture hall in a building he hadn’t really been in before. He got there a few minutes early in case he got lost and chose a seat somewhat in the middle of the room. During his time at college, he found sitting up front or way in the back brought too much attention to yourself. Right in the middle offered the best solution and he was able to see the board, which was great.

All in all, Blaine was ready for a wonderful first day full of ice breakers and going over the semester’s syllabus. What Blaine hadn’t anticipated was Kurt Hummel. A junior fashion major and clearly the best-dressed person in any room, even one containing a large ratio of fashion and design majors.

The room was silent as Kurt introduced himself. He stood up, said his name and major, and favorite article of clothing (scarves). Then, the next person went and listed off their get-to-know-mes.

All Blaine could watch was Kurt. Doodling something in his notebook with an orange-colored pen. Resting his head in his left palm.

He was beautiful. Bright eyes, highlights in his hair, and perfectly put together. A light gray vest covering a forest green silk button-up, and tight denim jeans. Blaine caught glimpses of his white Doc Martens when Kurt shifted his feet under the table.

Blaine tries to talk to him after class but Kurt has someone waiting for him just outside the room. Well, there’s always tomorrow. Except, the same girl met Kurt after every class. Sometimes joined by a tall, blue-haired boy too. They all seemed to be friends.

If he can’t get Kurt’s attention the old fashion way, it’ll have to be just the fashion way. Despite his pacifism, Blaine starts an outfit war. He isn’t even sure if Kurt’s aware he’s playing but every class Blaine steps up his game.

Whether that means tighter pants, crazy patterns (he’s fond of his dinosaur fabric pants he found at the thrift store last week), themed outfits (his loose-leaf striped top and number 2 pencil colored bow tie was a hit with his roommates), or one day of platform shoes he borrowed from his roommate Mike, who had them from a dance number a few months ago. Blaine’s all in.

Kurt claps back with broaches big enough to see across the lecture hall (Blaine is a personal fan of the hippo head), pattened shoes (the tiny polka dots were nice), and one day he donned a pair of leather pants. Blaine didn’t know that pants were made that tight. After the leather pants fiasco, Blaine’s sure he didn’t write any notes that day (thank god for uploaded powerpoints), he was sure Kurt knew about the feud.

Then came mid-terms and the dreaded partner project. When Professor Hank–he told them to call him Hank but Blaine couldn’t let go of Professor–uttered those words, Blaine’s eyes drifted to Kurt as they always tended to, except this time Kurt was looking back at him.

He pointed to himself then Blaine.

‘Partners?’ He mouthed.

Blaine nodded.

“Okay, pair up and I’ll pass out the rubric.”

Blaine stood up and walked over to Kurt. Here it goes, their first conversation.

“Hi, I’m Blaine,” he said.

“Kurt.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

They studied the rubric together and exchanged some initial ideas for a topic. Professor Hank said his final notes on the project, due dates and the like, before dismissing them for the day.

“We’ve never had a class together before,” Kurt commented, packing up his bag.

“Not a fashion major,” Blaine admitted, “Just taking the elective.”

“Oh,” Kurt replied, sounding surprised. He steeled his face before saying, “you wouldn’t know it by the way you dress.”

Blaine blushed and laughed nervously. “Just the gay gene.”

“Wanna get some coffee?”

“I’d love that,” Blaine said.

It’s not until their third date when Kurt asked Blaine if there was a winner of the outfit war.

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #klaine #college!Klaine #fashion student!Kurt #my fics

[bopbopstyles]

2. Birthday Kisses

SERIES RATING: M (sex)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 8.1k

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | ASK

Y/N promised herself she would never date a musician. It was her one rule–her only rule, actually–when it came to dating. But then, Harry Styles rolled into her life and asked her to break it, just this once. And this is what happened.

a/n: thank you for all the love on this story so far!!!! i’m so happy that so many of you are loving Y/N and Harry as much as me. shoot me messages about your thoughts and feelings - i want to hear them!!! xoxo

pls reblog to spread the word about only exception! 🥰

Harry had spent days trying to figure out where to take Y/N for their date. She said he would get one date, and so he was going to make sure it counted. After speaking to his mum and Gemma, as well as James Corden because it’s always good to have a grown man’s opinion, and the entirety of his band. On James’s recommendation, he found a drive-in movie theater on the outskirts of LA. Perfect because it was simple, would allow them to talk, and most of all, it was private. He would drive his own car with the tinted windows and he wouldn’t even really have to talk to anyone. Y/N had made it perfectly obvious that she wasn’t interested in dating a musician, so Harry wanted to keep their date as low key as possible as a result—he wanted her to forget what his job was and just get to know him as a person.

Deciding what to wear for their date was possibly harder, though. Did he just wear jeans and t-shirt? A button down? It was January, so did he go for a sweater? He had Harry Lambert on FaceTime for two hours going through outfits before Lambert told him to just pick something comfortable and that he had to go to bed. So Harry settled on a black button down and black jeans—simple, but he felt good in it. Confident. And he thought he looked good too—he had been working out, partially for Dunkirk filming back in the 2016, but also just generally. Since the band had broken up he had had more time to actually dedicate to himself, and he enjoyed it. Before, exercise had always been something squeezed into the day on the road, him half exhausted and barely alive enough to focus, and now he had energy and the motivation. It was a completely different experience. (It also helped that the other guys weren’t distracting him the whole time.)

At five thirty, he drove over to Y/N’s place—she’d moved out of her dad’s house after the renovation a few days ago. She had told him over text and he had to admit, he felt honored that she had shared facts of her life over text with him after how hesitant she was to go on the date with him.

I’m here, he texted her when he pulled up outside her building. It was an older style but in a nice neighborhood, a light brown brick exterior and not too modern. Can I come up?

Sure, she answered, Just finishing getting ready. Apt. 3C

He pulled on sunglasses, his lame attempt at a disguise, and headed inside, entering the gate code she sent over. He bounded up the stairs, thankful for the exercise to keep his brain busy. If he had taken the elevator he would’ve just stood there panicking. A welcome mat sat outside her door saying Welcome Home! and he smiled at it before knocking softly on her door.

She opened it a few beats later, shoeless and only one earring in. “Hi,” her voice breathless. “Sorry I’m a mess still, come on in.”

“No problem,” he answered, stepping inside. “Shoes on or…?”

“On is fine,” she replied. “I’m not as anal about it as my Dad is.”

Harry nodded, leaving his shoes on, and glanced around her place. There were some things still in disarray, probably from the recent renovation, but all in all it looked perfectly lived in and homey. He missed London and his house, the feeling of having a home base and someplace that felt like his own. He liked the house he was renting for the time being, but it wasn’t his, the bed wasn’t as comfortable as his one in Hampstead, and he desperately missed his expensive blender for morning smoothies. “I like your place.”

Y/N glanced around the space before back at him. “Thank you. Um, make yourself at home? I’ll be just a few.” With that, she was gone into a bedroom, Harry left in the kitchen. He wandered into the living room and explored her bookcase. She had a great selection of stuff, everything from classics like Zora Neale Hurston to The Hunger Games, which Harry had secretly adored and read three times. The walls were laden with picture frames of her and friends from what seemed like her time in college—kegs and Halloween costumes featured prominently, as well as some with her friends at the beach. He tried not to think about her in a bikini for too long. There was also a framed sheet of paper and when he looked closer he realized it was the lyrics to her father’s most famous song, one which he realized was definitely about becoming a father to Y/N. He had listened to all of her father’s music in preparation for their songwriting session and this one was one of his favorites, the raw emotion in it breathtaking.

“Okay,” she aid, entering the doorway of her room. “I’m ready.” She had a different top, the soft purple chiffon falling in vents, swishing as she moved. A pair of loose but flattering denim jeans on her legs, black booties giving her a few more inches in height. A pale red lip and light eyeliner that made her brown eyes pop, the same kind that had been done on my own eyes for many a photoshoot. She looked perfect, gorgeous, like words he didn’t even have.

“You look…incredible,” he said, struggling to speak.

Y/N glanced down at her clothes and then back at him. “Uh, thank you. You too.”

Harry smiled at her and then nodded to the door. “C’mon, we don’t want to be late.”

“You have’t even told me where we’re going!”

“It’s a secret.”

“I don’t want it to be a secret,” she said when they got in the elevator. Harry didn’t want to make her climb down stairs in her boots.

“Well, you’ll have to live,” Harry replied. He hoped she liked the date. If not, he was truly fucked.

When he pulled into the drive-in, Y/N laughed and the sound made Harry’s heart soar. It wasn’t too packed, it being a Wednesday night and all, so they were able to get a spot without too many cars around. He pulled the popcorn bags and bars of chocolate he had brought out from the backseat and handed her a bottle of water.

“You thought of everything, didn’t you?” She said, accepting the bottle with a smile. “What’s the film?”

“The Birds,” he replied, “hope that’s okay. I love Hitchcock and assumed everyone does, but if it’s not your cup of tea we can go—“

She shook her head at him, fingers coming to grip his thigh in a way that set his skin on fire. “It’s perfect. Love this film—Dad and I watched it together years ago and I’ve been meaning to re-watch.”

Harry smiled at her, settling back into his seat. “Candy or popcorn?”

“Popcorn definitely,” she answered, taking the back he handed her. “What about you? Sweet or salty?”

“Depends on the sweet.” He raised the chocolate bar. “This, for instance, is an always. But something like Dum Dums? No thank you.”

“Who even eats Dum Dums?”

Harry chuckled. “Not me.”

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Harry went to fiddle with the radio, turning the channel to match the one for the film. “I’m glad you persuaded me to come,” she said softly, voice barely audible above the sound from the radio as the previews started. “Been a while since I went on a date.”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “I’m happy you came,” he replied. Clearing his throat, he continued, “truth be told, I wanted to ask you out the moment I saw you. Mainly just to get to know you better. I also, honestly, loved how comfortable you were in the music scene—a lot of girls I’ve dated in the past aren’t and it becomes an issue.”

“I get that,” she said. “It’s not the easiest for outsiders.” Before Harry could respond, the film started, and their attention was redirected to the massive screen in front of them.

Even though he was supposed to be watching the screen, his eyes kept flittering back to Y/N. Her side profile entranced him, the curl of her hair perfectly coiled—he wondered what products she used, maybe he should try them? Lou had been telling him to actually get a grip on his hair care routine, but most days lately he couldn’t be bothered. It’s not like he was doing press anyways. When Y/N gasped, hand reaching from the popcorn back to grip his thigh, he tensed and not from panic, but from desire. He wanted to kiss her lips, her lips with faded red lipstick from eating popcorn, her lips that curved up when she smiled and looked soft and utterly delicious.

When he saw she was fidgeting, not able to figure out where to place her legs, he snatched her ankles and dragged them over to his lap. It was a reflex and one that earned him a “What are you doing?” but when he started rubbing her calves in circles, a soft murmur left her mouth and she looked back to the film. Harry loved her feet in his lap, allowing him the ability to notice the daisy chain tattooed around her left ankle. A gasp tumbled into the car when he ran his finger along the skin, her eyes meeting his and suddenly the air in the car changed completely.

It was an hour into the film and other than brief conversation about the film, Y/N saying how much more fucked up it was than she remembered, it had been mostly silent. Harry wondered if she was as preoccupied with how much she wanted him as he was with how much he wanted her.

Then suddenly, her kicked off her boots so she was just in her socks, and with her eyes still on the screen, she rubbed her foot down on his dick. Harry let out a hiss, unable to process what was happening or the shiver that went up his back at the pressure. “Y/N,” he said in a warning. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, innocent as hell except for the smirk on her lips.

“You little minx.” He tossed her boots into the backseat and tickled the bottom of her feet, the squeak that left her mouth allowing him to feel like he’d gotten some form of revenge. “Bored or something?”

Y/N giggled and the sound made Harry’s heart soar. “No, just interested in something else.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

Harry trailed his fingers up her leg slowly, basking in the soft moan that filled the car. “Y/N, I really want to kiss you,” he said, not even fearing her response to the words. She’d started it. He wanted to finish it.

Y/N looked back at him, eyes finally leaving the screen. “Then kiss me,” she said bluntly and Harry didn’t waste another second. He leaned over the center console and tugged Y/N to him with his fingers at the back of her neck and when their lips met Harry kicked himself for not doing this earlier. Her lips were soft, just like he’d thought, and salty from the popcorn, a butter sheen making them delectable. Her fingers wound through his hair, tugging gently, a hiss falling from his mouth and into hers. He ignored the crink in his neck from the position and instead focused on the way Y/N pressed soft kisses to the corners of his mouth. Her hand slid down his front, tucking her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, goosebumps raising on his skin.

“Y/N,” he breathed out, her name a plea and a question all in one. He didn’t want to overstep her boundaries, the memory of her rule—No musicians—echoing loudly in his brain. But he also wanted to kiss her until the end of time.

“Can you move your seat back?” She asked, brushing her thumb along his jaw. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, but he did as she asked. And then she swung her legs over the console, one knee on either side of his waist, and he understood. And he was not mad in the slightest.

Their lips reconnected as a scream came from the radio, but neither of them paid it any mind. The movie was a forgotten memory, their entire focus on where their lips met, nipped at one another, and battled for dominance. Y/N’s hands scrambled all over his body, curling into his button down and leaving wrinkles Harry didn’t give a fuck about. The way her fingernails dug into his skin through the fabric made him buck into her and he loved the gasp that left her mouth, the way her thighs tightened around his hips. He wanted to hear her sounds on an endless loop, noise cancelling headphones on and the world drowned out around him. All he wanted to hear, to see, to smell, was Y/N. The subtle, clean perfume she had put on, her lavender shampoo he could smell when he nestled his nose below her ear to lick her lobe, the faint scent of marijuana and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if she’d smoke with him sometime.

Harry squeezed her hips, ruching her shirt up so he could brush his fingers across her skin. A whine escaped her lips and he chased it with his lips, wanting to hear more. He licked into her mouth, their tongues meeting. Y/N sucked hesitantly on his tongue and he groaned, Y/N giggling against his lips at the sound. “You menace,” he said, kissing a line down the column of her neck. “Driving me mad.” He nipped at the skin at the base of her neck and Y/N’s fingers curled into his hair, holding him there as she bucked her hips against him.

Kissing Y/N was everything Harry had been dreaming about since he met her. He had had actual dreams of kissing her, of knowing what it felt like to touch her skin, of her running her fingers down his arms like she was doing right in that second. He had woken up wondering if her lips would taste as good as they did in his dreams. In reality, she tasted better than he could’ve ever imagined. Sweeter, like a dewy English morning.

“Harry,” Y/N said, pulling away slightly from him. He tried to chase her lips but she just giggled and shook her head.

“What? Miss your lips.” He pressed a litter of kisses across her cheeks and her jaw, earning him gasps until Y/N tugged his head back from her.

“The seat buckle,” her words breathless, “it’s digging into my knee.”

Harry looked down and found that it was, indeed, digging into her kneecap in a way that was most definitely not comfortable. “We, uh, could go in the backseat?” Her face was unreadable and panic seized him—had he crossed a line? “Or we can stop—either is fine with me, I just want to be around you, we don’t have to do anything more and we can stop what we’re doing, I don’t—“

She shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Can we just stop for right now? I…I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Harry nodded quickly, running his hand up her back, desperately wish he could touch her bare skin under her shirt. “Of course. Wanna sit in your seat?”

Y/N looked at her seat and then at him. “Um, not really.”

His eyebrows quirked in response.

“Can I sit with you?” Her voice was small, hesitant. This Y/N was so unlike the one he had met, the strong and fierce girl who told him no. Here, Y/N was cautious in a different way, wanting to make sure what she did was okay with him too, and it warmed his heart that she cared about making him comfortable in the same way he did.

“ Of course, love,” the pet name slipping from his lips without a second thought. “C’mere.” With some difficulty, they adjust so that he was holding her, reclining his chair back slightly. Her body curled up, head resting on his shoulder, legs hooked over his in the small space between his seat and the door. Harry held her knees so they didn’t slip with one hand, the other trailing up and down her back. Y/N’s fingers traced circles on his abdomen and Harry tried to restrain from moaning, but he could feel the singe of her touch through his shirt and it destroyed him. “That better?”

“Mhmm,” she answered, eyes on the movie. “You’re comfortable.”

Harry chuckled, loving the way her mouth curled upwards at her little joke. He loved the feeling of her body against him, her weight pressed into him. A calm washed over him that he hadn’t felt since he was in London. With lips pressed to her hair, he settled in to watch the rest of the film, deciding he wouldn’t move her unless she asked, no matter how much his thighs ached.

After the movie ended, they drove to get ice creams, Y/N running inside to grab them so they didn’t run the risk of anyone seeing Harry. He drove down I5 to get back to her apartment, the lights of the city passing by them as they drove. Y/N told Harry about her work, the recent projects she was on, her co-workers who she adored, especially Jamie, the other strategist on her level. Harry listened intently, wanting to absorb every piece of information she told him like he was going to be tested on it later.

As he pulled up to her building, Y/N leaned over and turned down the volume of the music that had been playing in the background. It was Harry’s driving playlist, a lovingly curated collection of his favorite songs, one that was always a test for him of a person’s musical likeness. Y/N bopped her head along to all of his favorites, softly singing the lyrics to The Chain, so she officially passed the test.

“I had fun tonight,” Y/N said, looking over at him.

Harry threw the car in park and met her eyes. “Me too.” He wanted to ask if he could take her out again, but he didn’t want to rush her—he’d promised to take it at her pace, and he would keep that promise.

Y/N picked at her fingernails, the blue varnish chipping at the tips. “Would you want to do this again?”

A grin crossed Harry’s face, his highest hope realized. “I’d love to. I’ll text you?” Y/N nodded, and Harry took her hand in his, raising it to his lips and pressing a delicate kiss to her knuckles. “Text me when you’re in, okay?”

Faster than he could process, Y/N leaned across the console and kissed him. A quick, albeit deep kiss to his lips that left his mind scrambling as she pulled away and opened the car door. Her top swished in the wind as she walked away from him, the light from the street-lamps illuminating her figure in the dark night. Harry watched as she walked away, fading from sight, The 1975’s Somebody Else coming on shuffle.

His phone illuminated with a text from her a beat later. Inside. Thanks for tonight! :)

I’m happy I could get a second date, he replied, trying to be funny. Can’t wait to see you again xx

She replied with a heart and Harry tried not to read too much into it as he drove away with the windows down, Matty Healy’s voice filling the night air.

It had been two weeks since Harry took Y/N to the drive in, and since then Y/N’s days had been filled with texts from Harry at all hours of the day. He would send her memes he found on Twitter or Instagram, sometimes a photo of his lunch for the day, and ask her about work. She’d send him a selfie of her work outfit when she was feeling particularly confident and he’s text back a heart eye emoji, and one night after a few glasses of wine they FaceTimed, both in their pajamas in bed. Those quiet, soft moments, were the ones that kept Y/N feeling close to Harry in between hours here and there watching films and making out on their respective couches.

Curled up on her couch, Harry holding her close, fingers threading through her hair as they watched The Good Place, Y/N couldn’t remember feeling this at ease this quickly with any other men she’d dated. But with Harry, she felt comfortable in her oversized sweatshirt and ratty sweatpants, hair tossed into a messy bun and her glasses perched on her nose, a glass of wine in her hand. There wasn’t a part of her who felt like she still had to impress him, he was just…Harry. And that was the part that scared her, because if she forgot about his job, about his popularity, did that mean she would let him get too close? She had made her rule for a reason, and this moment was a prime example of how important it was.

The episode ended, Netflix asking them if they were still watching, and Harry squeezed her shoulder. “Want some more?” He asked, nodding to her wine glass.

“Sure,” she answered, sitting up and handing it to him. “We might need to open a fresh bottle—there’s more—“

“In the pantry, I know,” he said, cutting her off with a smile. He’d spent many nights with her on this couch and at this point she didn’t need to tell him where the forks were or where here recycling bin was.  

Y/N tugged the blanket around her shoulders, cold from Harry leaving, and pressed pause on the TV. “Another episode?”

“Obviously,” Harry responded from the kitchen. She rolled over so she could watch him prepare the wine glasses, the sight of him standing in her kitchen, opening the wine on her marble countertops made her stomach flutter with butterflies. Every day that passed made it harder to hold him at a distance. “Are you free on the 1st?” He asked out of nowhere, pouring the wine into their glasses.

“Not sure,” Y/N responded. “Why?”

Harry looked up at her with a devious smile, the one Y/N had grown to enjoy. “It’s my birthday. Having a party and I was hoping you’d come.”

The idea of being in a room full of Harry’s friends, most of whom she would’t know, made Y/N’s head spin. But then again, she thought to herself, it wouldn’t be much different from going to an industry function with her dad and she’d been doing that since she was in diapers. She could hold her own. And plus, it was Harry’s birthday and the prospect of seeing him drunk and happy and eating cake was worth some discomfort. “Sure.”

His face lit up, eyes sparkling under the low lights of her kitchen. “Brilliant. Can’t wait for you to meet everyone—you’ll love them.” He brought over the wine glasses, tugging her back into his chest, arms a secure safe haven. “Now press play, wanna see what Eleanor and Chidi get up to this time.”

“I just want them to get together already,” she said, pressing play and settling into him, her face on his chest.

“Mhm,” he agreed, fingers scratching her scalp in the way she loved, and she tried not to let her eyes drift shut to the sound of his heart beating and the TV going.

With a gin and tonic in her hand and a forced smile on her face, Y/N wove her way through the crowd, trying to find Harry. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but he was her safety blanket of sorts—she didn’t know any of these people. Harry seemed to run in different circles from her dad and the people she’d grown up around, and the prospect of having to be a leech to Harry all night wasn’t exactly comforting. She didn’t want to be that annoying new girl that he had to introduce to everyone.

But then she heard her name from somewhere around her and she knew immediately that it was him. “Y/N!” Her eyes swept around her surroundings until they fell on his smile. He had his hair pushed back by a pair of sunglasses—despite that it was dark out—and he was in a velvet top with a crewneck underneath it. It was impossible, she thought, not to notice how stunning he was. She also wondered how much effort it would take to get him to take that crewneck off, because after the other times he had worn an unbuttoned shirt around her she knew it was one of her favorite things for him to wear.

She decided she would ask him when she gave him his birthday present.

Cutting through the people around her, Excuse me and I’m sorrys falling from her lips as she made her way over to the birthday boy, Y/N considered what he would make of her gift. She’d thought about it long and hard, called her best friend Hanna and Jamie on FaceTime to make sure she wasn’t being too presumptuous, but they’d reassured her she was fine. Overdue, even.

“Happy Birthday,” she said when she reached him, his hand immediately slipping around her waist. From the gleam in his eyes, she assumed he was a few drinks in and she wondered what silly dance moves he would whip out tonight. He’d shown her some earlier in the week after she had made them dinner and he’d had her giggling in seconds.

Harry’s hand squeezed the flesh at her hip, sending tingles up her spine, his eyes not leaving hers. “Thank you, baby.” It was the first time he’d used the nickname and Y/N tried not to think about the way it made her heart constrict with desire. “You look gorgeous.”

Jamie and Hanna had persuaded her to wear the outfit, despite her fears it was too much, but with Harry’s eyes on her and the way his hand curved into her body, she decided it was the right move. The short skirt and knee high boots she had been wanting to break out for ages, a silver top tucked loosely into the waistband to emphasize the curve of her waist. “Thanks,” she replied. “Now you going to introduce me, or will I have to do that myself?”

Harry blinked and the man and woman he was talking to chuckled. Y/N was happy she had made a good first impression—maybe making a joke or two at Harry’s expense would be her ice breaker. Not too many to where it hurt him, but enough to show people that she didn’t care about his fame, that to her he was just Harry, the idiot who did the Macarena in her living room to ABBA. “Oh, this is Mitch and Sarah,” he said, “they’re in my band. Mitch, Sarah, this is Y/N.”

“Pleasure,” the woman said, reaching out to hug Y/N. The display of affection warmed Y/N—maybe she wouldn’t have to be alone all night. This woman, Sarah, seemed lovely, and if she was in Harry’s band then she’d probably be seeing more of her at some point. “Harry mentioned you the other day. Said you have a sweet little place in Atwater?”

“Yes!” Y/N replied, her neighborhood one of her favorite topics of discussion. “I love it—moved in right after I graduated and it’s been perfect.”

“And what do you do, Y/N?” Mitch asked, taking a sip of his beer in his hand.

“Brand strategy,” Harry answered for her. “She’s utterly brilliant at it too—Y/N can you tell them about the project you were talking about at dinner on Tuesday?”

His words caused Y/N to glance at him with shock. She’d never had a guy answer for her before, but she could tell it wasn’t from a place of Harry trying to speak over her, but a place of pride—and support. “Yeah—it’s for a new ethical clothing brand out of Seattle, they’re working on size-inclusive athletic attire for women. The models for the campaign are going to be super diverse and I’m really excited to see it in the industry, since it’s been few and far between, especially in the fitness space.”

Sarah nodded along and Y/N could tell that she got it. “I’d love to know the company—could you text it to me?”

Harry gave Y/N another squeeze and she swallowed the smile that threatened to stay plastered on her face if Harry did that one more time. “Sure thing.” Sarah typed her number into Y/N’s phone, a little sunflower next to her name that reminded Y/N of Harry. It felt good to have a connection to one of Harry’s friends, especially someone as lovely as Sarah seemed.

And Sarah didn’t disappoint. She made Y/N her pet project for the evening, taking over when Harry had to talk to someone, keeping Y/N entertained and introducing her to people. By the time she had finished her second drink, she fonud herself deep in a conversation about a new art exhibit downtown that Jamie had mentioned to her. The thought of Harry’s presence hadn’t even popped into her head and it was nice to be independent in the space, to hold her own in the crowd. She realized that she fit in with his friends, despite her fears.

Harry kept on coming over though, grabbing her hand and leading her to talk to someone he worked with or was close with or he thought she’d find interesting. He refilled their glasses when she asked and kept an arm wrapped around her waist, a smile beaming down at her that filled her with joy. To be so supported by a man she’d only been seeing for a matter of weeks felt unreal, but she wasn’t mad about it. The newest conversation was with an up and coming photographer who Harry had taken a liking to, Harry explained to her.

“And this is my girlfriend Y/N,” he said, gesturing to her.

The title of girlfriend almost passed her over completely, but when she processed it, it stopped her dead in her tracks. They hadn’t talked about titles, about officially being boyfriend and girlfriend, as silly as the term sounded. Every other time he’d introduced her , it was just Y/N, although she assumed the way he held her close probably gave away their relationship to anyone who had eyes. After all, it had only been a few weeks, so they were still infatuated with touching one another. Y/N couldn’t keep her hands off of him either, fingers slipping into a belt loop absentmindedly or creeping up his back and rubbing circles there while he talked.

And maybe it was for those reasons that the word girlfriend didn’t affect her as much as she expected it to. It felt somewhat right, even, she thought. It wasn’t like she particularly wanted to be seeing anyone else, after all—Harry had swooped into her life and she’d become obsessed with spending time with him, despite her rule and her objections to the idea of him. He had shocked her with his charm and honesty and intellect, the way he listened to her and asked her questions, how he held her close and murmured his commentary to films in her ear, willing to jump up and get her ice cream anytime she asked. Even though he was the definition of the man she had always promised herself she would never date, the idea of ending things made her recoil.

So she let the term slide. She smiled and shook the man’s hand, listening intently to him describe his newest exhibition and tucked his business card into her purse when he handed it to her. Later, she told herself. She’d talk to Harry later.

She cheered when Harry blew out the birthday candles on his cake, laughing along with everyone else when James Corden tried to shove his face into the cake. When Harry kissed the top of her head chastely, lips sweet with icing, she reveled in the moment, taking a bite of her own slice. It was late and she was getting tired and she desperately wanted to give Harry his gift with the more time that passed and the more messy his curls got and the more drinks she had. And then Harry started dancing with Sarah and James and a dozen other people, and suddenly he was dragging her onto the dance floor, holding her close and shimmying his hips along to Ariana Grande with her. Her head tipped back and a laugh rang through the night and she decided there was simply no way she could break it off. Harry had proved her wrong and she was going to let him continue.

Their kisses were heavy when they stumbled into Y/N’s apartment, the door slamming shut behind them. It was after midnight and they were both quite tipsy, maybe even drunk. Harry more so than her, but not to the point where he couldn’t tell her how everything she did made him feel.

“Your lips are heaven,” he said, pressing a line down her throat with her pressed up against the door. “How are they so soft? Do you have some special scrub or somethin’?”

“It’s from fresh,” she answered. “Fuck, Harry.” His hand had wrapped around her thigh and tugged it up around his hip so that he could press himself into her center and the friction had her sweating. The combination of his weight against hers and the wetness of his tongue on her collarbones as he sucked a kiss into her skin left her squirming in his hold, hands gripping his coat tightly in her hands. “Get this off,” she said, pushing at his coat.

“Bossy,” he chuckled, shrugging it off, the material falling to the ground. “Want me out of anything else, ma’am?”

Mischief twinkled in his eyes and Y/N wanted him completely naked, but that was a bit much for the entryway to her apartment. “Shirt.”

He unbuttoned his velvet shirt, pulling it off, but Y/N caught it in her hands. He looked at her quizzically, trying to understand what she was doing.

“Want this on,” she explained, holding up the velvet top. “And that one off.” Her fingers pulled at the neck of his crewneck and Harry’s eyes trailed to her fingers and then back to her face.

“I like your brain,” he said simply. And then complied with her request, crewneck over his head and on the ground. Y/N’s fingers were on his chest immediately, drawing patterns over his tattoos that she knew were there from seeing him in tank tops and thin t-shirts, but it was another thing entirely to be able to touch the ink on his body.

When he tugged on his velvet shirt, Y/N smiled, touching the fabric. “Should’ve just worn this.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Her hands slid under the material, desperate to touch him again.

“I’ll make sure to get your approval next time.”

“Good.” Then, she pulled his lips back to hers, the touch of his mouth on hers leaving her humming. He ate it up, tongue licking into her mouth, the taste of tequila and cake filling her senses. His hand drifted up her side, squeezing the skin next to her breasts. She knew what he wanted and she didn’t want to say no to him. “Bedroom?”

Harry’s eyes widened, dropping to her lips and then back up to her eyes. “You sure?”

“Positive,” she answered. Then, she leaned in so she could whisper in his ear, “I have a present to give you.”

With that information, Harry swept her up in his arms, ignoring her pleas for him to set her down, and carried her into the bedroom. Dropping her onto the duvet, he crawled up her body like a cat, head nuzzling into her skin in a way that was so sweet Y/N didn’t know what to do with herself. “I want my present,” Harry mumbled. “What do I have to unwrap, baby?”

Y/N mewled at the last word of his sentence and he winked at her. Baby. “You said that earlier.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “And?”

A smile wormed its way onto her face. “I like it.”

“Good,” he said, tucking his face back into her body, blowing hot air over her breasts. She could feel the sensation through the fabric of her top and it tightened her nipples, begging for more. “You like anything else I said tonight?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were talking to Eric,” he said, not meeting her eyes, instead pressing wet kisses down her tummy, rucking the hem of the fabric up slightly so he could touch her skin. “Called you something.”

Girlfriend. She knew where he was going and she couldn’t help but chuckle at his coyness. “I caught that.”

He licked into her bellybutton, a yelp escaping her mouth at the sensation. “Thoughts?”

“Can you take my shirt off already, boyfriend?” She didn’t even pause—she’d thought about it for the rest of the night, toying with the terms. The time had allowed her to process and now she knew what she wanted—she wanted him. She’d figure the rest of it out later, but first she wanted him.

Finally, Harry met her eyes. His face was illuminated by the light from her bedside table lamp, the soft glow showing the light tan to his skin, his green eyes popping up to hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed the soft skin above her belly button. “We’ll talk more about it later. But first, I want to see you.” Y/N leaned up and helped him take her shirt off, then shimmy the skirt down her hips. She kicked her boots off somewhere in the process. Lying in just her underwear for him, she tried not to squirm under his gaze as he took inventory of every inch of her exposed skin. “Beautiful,” he finally breathed out, eyes glassy and lips wet. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Your turn,” she said, tugging at his pants. “Get out of these.”

“Give me a second, Jesus woman,” he said, batting her hands away so he could get the button undone. The jeans were tight, which Y/N didn’t hesitate to make fun of him for, and Harry just rolled his eyes at her. “You love them,” he countered and he wasn’t wrong. When he hovered over her in just his boxers, Y/N decided he was positively delectable. Her hands pushed off his top that he had kept on just for her, the fabric falling somewhere on her floor.

“Roll over,” she directed, pushing at his torso so he would lay down in the space next to her.

He was compliant, completely under her spell. In just their underwear, there was far more skin to explore and Y/N planning to take advantage of her opportunity. She ran her hands over his skin, every tattoo earning a kiss from her lips, mumbling how pretty he was as she went down his body. It was like a map, and a map she wanted to know by heart. When he bucked into her core, Y/N smirked at him, Harry groaning as she ignored what he needed.

“Quite bossy, aren’t you?”

“It’s my birthday present, ain’t it?”

Y/N pressed a finger to his lips, hushing him as she had before and yet again, it worked. “Haven’t even told you what it is.” Clamoring off his body, she made her way lower, resting next to his knees. She brushed a finger over the outline of him in his boxer, a guttural moan filling the room at her touch. “That’s your birthday gift,” she told him, words falling soft in the space around them.

“Yeah?” He choked out as she gripped him harder through his boxers. “Please, Y/N, please.” His begs did something to her, his desperation pulling the same from her. She wanted to touch him, to have him in her mouth, to know how he tasted.

Her fingers pulled at his boxers, tugging them down his long legs and letting them fall to the end of her bed. His cock sprung up against his belly, hard and heavy, the tip pink from his desire. “Needy, hm?” Y/N didn’t usually do dirty talk, but with Harry it just fell from her mouth without another thought. The comfort of being with him made her usual worries about what she said collapse, her only thought his pleasure. “What do you want, baby?”

The pet name seemed to do something special to him because he bucked up into the air with a hiss. “Hands. Mouth. Anything.”

Y/N could do anything. She slid back into the spot between his legs and licked a solid stripe up the underside of him, the growl that left his mouth music to her ears. Taking the tip into her mouth she bobbed down as far as she could—she wanted to surprise him, start strong. None of this slow and steady crap. She wanted Harry to know how good she was, how good she could make him feel. She wanted to rock his fucking world.

And she did. She built a steady tempo, taking what she couldn’t fit in her mouth in her hands, rubbing him up and down, the slick of her saliva making the work easy. Harry’s hand found her hair, thumbing through it to keep it out of her face, the sweet motion making her heart sing. Every once in a while she would push down so that he hit the back of her throat and keep him there as long as she could, inhaling through her nose, the choked groan from his chest making the feeling worth it. When his hips popped up, his tip pressing deeper, she let him do it, loving the feeling of him in her mouth. She loved the moans filling the air and the way he rasped her name like the chorus to his favorite song, how he tugged on her hair and wound the strands between his fingers.

She decided that going down on him was her new favorite past time. She would make it a fucking national sport if that meant she could do it every day, because seeing him falling apart from her and her alone brought her a kind of gratification she had never felt.

“Close?” Her words pulled him from a daze, tongue darting over his lower lip.

“Yeah.”

That made Y/N double down her efforts. She wanted him to cum, she wanted it so badly she felt it in every bone of her body. “Want you to come,” she mumbled against him, the vibrations of her voice sending shocks through his body. “Come for me, H.”

He gasped, bucking into her mouth. “You—your mouth? I—“

“Come for me, baby,” her voice a beg, a plea. She wanted to taste him, to know how what he tasted like, to kiss him with the taste still lingering on her tongue.

When he came, she had to wonder if this was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The way he tossed his head back, mouth in a silent scream as he emptied into her mouth. He held her head in place lightly, just enough so there was weight but not too much where she couldn’t move, his other hand gripping the duvet cover in a tight grip. And his taste—he tasted a bit salty, but she didn’t mind. It was tangy, a taste that was him, and she loved it. She held him there on her tongue until he stopped, the ropes of his orgasm stopping finally, and she slipped him from her mouth. As he settled, his chest rose and fell quickly, regaining his breath.

She pressed her head to his thigh, out of breath too, her eyes on him. Watching him regain composure was a sight she would dream of, his hair scattered across her pillow in disarray, the flush to his cheeks, the pants from his parted lips.

“C’mere,” he finally said, voice raw. “Want a kiss.”

Y/N didn’t make him wait. She crawled up his body, legs on either side of his stomach and pressed her lips to his. The idea of him tasting himself on her tongue made her hot, her center clenching, but it was all about Harry tonight. “Happy Birthday,” she mumbled against his lips and he chuckled. “Hope it was a good one.”

“Best one yet,” he told her, smoothing her hair behind her ear. “Tired?”

She nodded, face held in his hands. “Stay?”

Harry smiled and pressed a kiss to her nose. “Course. Got an extra toothbrush?”

In the morning, she woke up in his embrace, arms curled tightly around her frame. He’d kicked some of the covers off overnight, but thankfully he was as hot as a furnace so she wasn’t cold. Without even thinking about it, she cuddled against his chest, shutting her eyes to hold onto the moment a little longer.

“I know you’re awake,” he whispered and Y/N rolled her eyes at him.

Turning over so she could see his face, she murmured, “Sleep well?”

“Perfectly,” he answered. “These sheets are cozy.”

“Target.”

“Huh. Maybe I’ll have to get some.”

She chuckled, pressing her face into his chest. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“Then don’t,” he replied, brushing her hair back. “Wanted to talk to you, though.”

“Hmm?” Her eyes were closed against his skin and it was blissful. He smelled like sweat and his cologne and the distinct smell of Harry, a scent she was quickly growing to adore.

Tucking a leg between hers, he said, “This is a busy year for me. The album’s coming out in May, then Dunkirk in July, then tour in the fall. And I know that you don’t want to date a musician and I know it’s early days, but I—I can’t imagine losing you, you know? So I want to have a plan for how we’re going to do it. Cuz it won’t be easy.”

Y/N looked up at him, the morning sunlight hitting his cheekbones perfectly. “The fact that you even want to have that conversation means so much.” Her words were honest—they showed he cared. He wanted to try, to make it work. “Let’s figure out the specifics when it comes time for that, but for now you’ll be here, yeah?” He nodded and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Let’s make a promise to each other. We talk. All the time about everything and anything. Don’t bottle it up, just share what’s going on in your head. I think that’ll make it somewhat easier. And we visit as much as we can.”

Harry’s fingers ran across the bridge of her nose and then up, a line across the tops of her eyebrows. “I like that.”

“But it’s a continuing conversation, okay?” She added, wanting to make sure this was clear. “We have to keep talking about it, even though it’s harder than it is to ignore it.” It was something she knew from watching her dad over the years and from her own relationship with him. Once she told him that he was gone too much, that she wanted him home, he made it happen. He prioritized her, she just had to remind him that she wanted him there.

“Okay.” Harry kissed her forehead, and then across her cheeks, soft kisses pressed to her skin that left her in giggles. “Now let’s eat something—I’m starved.” Y/N groaned, but let him pull her out of bed. They brushed their teeth together, him pressing toothpaste kisses to her lips, and she let him use her face wash and moisturizer. It was perfect, and for that moment, Y/N’s worries of the future fell away and she hoped she could hold them off. At least for a while.

TAGLIST

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NEXT CHAPTER COMING JULY 8TH @ NOON CST

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[bbrandy2002]

Fools Rush In

Part 6

I’m participating in @wackydrabbles​ prompt 55: This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course, I’m in.

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Liam x Riley

A/N: Thank you to my amazing bestie @burnsoslow who beta read at 2 am last night. And my prereaders @charlotteg234 and @mom2000aggie

Series Premise: With two weeks until Liam is to marry Madeleine, the guys throw him a bachelor party in Vegas. After a drunk night, he finds himself with way more than he bargained.

**MC did not exist in Liam’s social season. OC lives in Las Vegas.

Word Count: 1740

TW: Drug usage mentioned

Permanent Tags: @burnsoslow @dcbbw @ao719​ @hopefulmoonobject @texaskitten30 @drakesensworld @janezillow  @merridithsmiscellany-blog @mskaneko @loveellamae @queenjilian @sirbeepsalot @pedudley @caroldxnvxrs @jovialyouthmusic @forthebrokenheartedthings @desireepow-1986 @bebepac @kingliam2019 @lovablegranny @cordoniaqueensworld @amandablink @blueaster-blog1 @liamxs-world @choiceskatie @iaminlovewithtrr @hopelessromanticmonie @charlotteg234 @twinkleallnight @annekebbphotography @txemrn @thecordoniandiaries @alyssalauren @cordonianroyalty

Series: @princessleac1 @cordonia-continued @sanchita012 @shz256 @cordonia-gothqueen @narrytheworld @graceful-leah @mom2000aggie @queenwalton @tinkie1973 @muchkoolermk @captain-kingliamsqueen @gabesmommie1130 @cordonianprincess @cinnamonspongecake @loudbluebirdlover @liamandneca @waywardromancefantasygirl @thegreentwin​ @walker7519 

The limo pulled out of the Taco Bell parking lot onto Tropicana Avenue, headed west towards Spring Valley. In the back was one king, a former prince, and a teacher-turned-overnight-queen of a country she'd never heard of 24 hours ago. 

While the trio cruised down the bustling thoroughfare to retrieve some of Riley's belongings, Liam was on the phone with his credit card company. He was trying to figure out why his unlimited card was declined, leaving Riley to foot the bill for Leo's Nacho's Grande Box, a Triplelupa Box with extra lupa, and a Pineapple Freeze. 

Leo gulped as he scooped melted cheese and beef up with a tortilla, trying not to look too guilty. He didn't want his younger brother to know that he and Drake paid for the entire bachelor trip using Liam's card ... among other unusual expenses. However, he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing Drake had it last, and the blame could fall squarely on his shoulders.

Frustrated, Liam hung up the phone after the automated agent couldn't understand his Cordonian accent and continued to reroute his call back to the beginning. No sooner did he put his phone away than he was alerted to an incoming call. Liam glanced down to see his stepmother's name flashing boldly with each ring. There were no doubts in his mind what she wanted. Obviously, the news had reached her at the Palace.

With an anxious feeling growing in his stomach, Liam let out a heavy groan before tapping the screen. 

"Hello, Regina."

"Hello, dear." Her greeting was surprisingly warm and pleasant. "I need to know the truth; are these rumors accurate? Did your brother marry you to some strange woman?"

Liam rubbed a hand nervously across his mouth; he was in no mood for a lecture. "He did. But I don't even remember it happening."

He could hear her disappointed sigh and felt terrible that his actions caused her this much distress. Regina might not be his mother, but she had been an integral part of his life since childhood, and he didn't want to let her down.

"Is your brother with you? If so, I would appreciate speaking with him."

Liam shot a look at Leo, whose hands were covered in melty cheese and sour cream. "Uh, yeah, hang on. Let me put you on speaker." He hit the button and whispered loudly to his brother that it was Regina for him.

A broad grin appeared on Leo's face as he swallowed the last bite of food. "What's up, Mommio?"

"Leonardo Wolfschitz Rys!" Her once-gentle tone was now brittle. "I am highly disappointed in you."

His eyes widened in confusion, the grin he had on before fading instantly. "What? Why? It was Liam's idea."

"Perhaps, but did you try to stop him?"

"No. He's 27 years old," he squealed.

"Be that as it may, you're the older brother. You're supposed to know better."

Liam snorted. "That's true, Leo. You really should start setting a better example for me."

Leo narrowed his eyes, reached across Riley, who jerked back, and punched Liam in the groin, causing him to yelp. "You're such a tattletale; you got me in trouble! She was all I had left."

Liam rolled his eyes then reassured his stepmother he would meet with her when the plane landed back in Cordonia in the morning.

Staying quiet, Riley's wide-eyed stare remained fixed to the front of the limo, hands crossed in her lap. This ... this is my new family.

They made their way to Riley's townhome located within a tree-lined community scattered with homes similar to hers. 

While Riley took the shower she’d been desperate to get since waking that morning, Liam made himself at home just as she asked him to. Leo had met Old Man Burt -- Riley's elderly neighbor -- as they walked up the driveway. He begged the man to let him whittle sticks with him. The senior man thoughtfully looked at him before spitting out chewing tobacco and instructing Leo to score him a dime bag, and it would be a deal.

Leo didn’t know the man from a hole in the wall, but replied, “You know what, Burt? This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course, I’m in.”

Leo knew just the place and took off.

The neighborhood was quiet and serene; as Liam drummed his fingers on the leather sofa's armrest, he could almost envision a life of simplicity like this. He closed his eyes to take in all the sounds and scents not entirely unfamiliar to him but things he imagined most people took for granted:birds chirping in the windowsill, the occasional car that passed by, the screech of bicycle brakes, apple cinnamon air fresheners, and another scent he hadn't smelled in years. Craning his neck around to look out the window, he saw Leo smoking pot with the white-haired man dressed in denim overalls in the front yard. "What the hell? Dumbass."

Riley's shower took longer than he expected; feeling antsy, he rose from the sofa and walked through the home, trying to get a sense of who she was. The house was well maintained with brightly colored artwork on the walls, a nicely stocked bookshelf, shiny hardwood floors, and metal-framed photographs of different sizes assembled atop the fireplace mantle. 

Liam's eyes danced from photo to photo, studying Riley's images in a graduation gown posing with a small grinning brunette about Riley's age, her with two older gentlemen hugging in front of a Christmas tree, and a classroom of smiling kids holding up colorful drawings. 

There was one frame that laid face down.

Thinking perhaps it fell over, he gently lifted the frame to put it back in place. His brows lifted in shock.

"She's married?" 

"I was," Riley answered.

Liam whipped around with the photograph still gripped in hand, not sure what else to say. It wasn't like it was some deep, dark secret hidden from him, something that should upset him. She more than likely would have mentioned it to him at some point, considering they still hadn't had time to get to know each other. But he couldn’t shake the jealousy he felt.

"I'm sorry. I was just looking at your pictures and thought this one had been knocked over." He carefully placed it back on the mantle as Riley approached him.

Liam watched the hurt etch across her delicate features, and eyes that reflected a shattering pain as she stood face to face with her image in a flowy white gown wrapped in the arms of a man she admitted to being married to at one time.

"I … met him in my senior year of high school. We dated all through college. Had this big elaborate dream wedding after graduation. He was my best friend, my lover -- I thought he would be it forever ..." 

Liam gripped her shoulder when she paused to catch a breath, noticing the slight break in her voice. "After two years, he no longer wanted to do anything together. His excuses were always the same: working late, too tired, ‘just want to hang out with the guys tonight.’ He stopped talking to me. Quit looking at me. Stopped touching me. I think I knew in my heart what was going on, but didn't want to believe it. Then one day … I came home from work, and his closet was empty." She let out a humorless laugh. "But at least he left a strongly-worded letter detailing all my faults and where I failed him. It said he found someone better and that I didn't make him happy. He just ... didn't want me anymore." Those last words came out in whimper.

"Riley." Liam wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. "Sweetheart, that wasn't your fault."

Riley stepped back and swiped the tears from her cheeks. "That's why I'm doing this, Liam."

"What d’ya mean?."

"When I met Madeleine, I just knew I couldn't let you marry someone who would make you miserable too. You deserve to find someone who will make you happy."

He smiled at her. "What if that's you, Riley?"

She stood motionless for a moment, thinking about that question, then shook her head and muttered, "I don't make people happy, Liam. In the end ... they always leave me."

When Riley turned to walk away, Liam caught her wrist and drew her back. His hands flew to both sides of her face, cupping along her jaw. Their eyes studied each other; those compassionate blues cast a spell on her teary browns, engulfing the warm air surrounding both of them in want and desire. 

"I can't do this," she rasped weakly and lowered her face away from him.

Liam tilted her chin, his voice desperate and pleading. "Look at me, Riley. You can. You can. You just have to let me in."

Without a second more of hesitation, their lips collided into each other passionately.

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

Drake scowled at the envelope in his hand that bore his name in large letters. "What do you mean, I've been served? I ain't been served shit."

The smaller man prepared to explain, but the intimidating glare in Drake's eyes made him choose his words more carefully. "Mr. Walker. Sir. I'm just the messenger --"

"Then, you can take your message and ..." Drake shoved the envelope toward the man. "This fucking envelope back to where you came from. I don't have a kid or owe anyone child support."

The man backed away and looked at Maxwell to gauge whether he would protect him from his rather large, angry friend. He figured out real quickly the lanky one holding two full bags of medications most definitely wouldn't. He swallowed past the fear that collected in his throat. "Everything you need to know is in the envelope." He nodded to them, both. "Have a good day."

Drake slammed the door open and tossed the room key and his wallet on the kitchen counter. He ripped the envelope open and scanned the documents with Maxwell looking over his shoulder. "I'm being sued for $120,000 in back child support by a woman named ... Boom Boom Powell."

A picture slid from the documents and landed at Maxwell's feet. He bent down to pick it up and rose slowly when he caught a glimpse. "Uh, Drake. This must be a picture of the kids." He held the photograph up of what appeared to be three-year-old identical triplets. "Who do these kids look like?" He knew the answer before he asked.

Drake squinted to get a better look; then realization hit him. He had never been to Las Vegas, but he knew someone who had many times before. And judging by the blonde hair, blue eyes, and mischievous smirks on the three little boys in the picture, he knew his assumption was correct. He tightened his jaw. "That fucker! He is dead."

#fools rush in #the royal romance #liam and riley #king liam #trr liam x mc #liam x mc #liam x oc #trr #trr au fanfic #choices liam x mc #choices fanfiction #choices stories you play #choice trr #choices the royal romance #king Liam x mc #drake walker #prince leo #tw drugs

[marvels-writings]

When the World is Against Us (17)

Back Home

Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch) Masterlist

Series Masterlist

| Preview | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | 

A/N: Sorry about the delay with this, google decided to delete the draft I had so i had to rewrite it. This isn’t the best part since I’m in a bit of a writer’s block but here you go, I hope you like it!

Nostalgia filled you as the jet landed in front of the compound. Hardly anything had changed since you were gone. Natasha and Steve headed out first as Sam helped Vision get out. The android limped, trying to assure everyone he was alright while doing so.

Once Wanda was sure Vision was alright, she followed you inside. Her hand slipping into yours as you walked towards the entrance to the compound. The sky was a bright blue, the sunlight warming your back as you walked. Resisting the temptation to see your room, you went to where your mom was leading you.

You rushed through the hallways into the main room where Steve was leading you. Many of the recruits side-eyed the avengers storming through the compound. All of you were wanted by the government. But who was about to try to arrest ex-avengers?

Blue holograms filled the room Rhodey stood in as he talked to them. The secretary of state stood in front of him as you walked into the room. A frown went across your face as memories rushed back to you. His nose had healed rather well, but his attitude made you want to break it again.

Wanda subtly pulled you back when she saw the look on your face. You nodded at her before facing forwards. A small smile made its way across your face when she squeezed your hand in support. She knew what you had done in the prison. Although the need for revenge was there, she didn’t want it.

“Mr. Secretary,” Steve stated, standing in the doorway of the room. His hands rested on his belt, he stood a level above the secretary.

“You’ve got some nerve,” He said, walking up to you. “I’ll give you that.”

You stepped forward to reply when your mom stepped in front of you, pushing you back lightly. You sighed and stepped back again, the secretary’s eyes following your movements. Natasha shot you a glare over her shoulder before responding to him.

“You could use some of that right now,” Natasha stated, a tiny smirk crossing her face quickly. His gaze shifted towards Steve.

Rhodey stood behind them, watching the interaction. Which was when you noticed his legs. This was the first time you’d seen him after the accident at the airport. You didn’t think he’d been hurt this badly. A wince covered your face as you watched the robotic legs shift. The blame was on Vision and Sam, but you still felt some of it on you.

“The world is on fire,” He began, his eyes shifting towards you as he continued. “And you think all is forgiven?"

You shifted on your feet, licking your lips as Steve moved in front of you. Threat underlined his every word. His actions angry and deliberate, more towards you than the rest of the team. Your mom threw you another glare over her shoulder, making sure you wouldn’t say anything.

Sarcasm was something that rubbed off from the rest of the team, especially Tony. Using it against the Secretary of State could only get you into a worse place. You already broke his nose, the last thing he wanted from you was sarcasm.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” He answered, jaw clenching slightly. “And I’m way past asking permission.”

You glanced at the TV in the corner of the room. It reported that Tony Stark was missing, along with two unidentified others. The spaceship they had come in was also gone. Your jaw clenched, worry-filled you as you didn’t know where he was. You hadn’t seen him in a few years, but you still missed him.

“Earth just lost its best defender, so we’re here to fight.” Steve stepped forwards, “And if you stand in our way, we’ll fight you too.”

The secretary looked up at him angrily, trying to see if he could do anything. There wasn’t much he could do, you were the Avengers after all. He was right, the world was burning. He wasn’t going to wage a war on the Avengers. There were lines even he wouldn’t cross . With a heavy sigh, he turned to Rhodey who looked at him with an expectant smirk. Instead of being annoying with the scene playing out in front of him, he was amused. The secretary glared at him, almost to try to get him to stop smiling.

“Arrest them.” He commanded, sounding more exasperated than authoritative. Rhodey raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“All over it,” Rhodey answered, waving his hand and shutting down the hologram.

He stood in front of you with a smirk, looking at all of you with a smile. You fidgeted, unsure who was going to make the first move. Rhodey shrugged and dropped his arms by his side.

“That’s a court martial.” He shrugged.

Steve and Natasha chuckled while moving forwards. They greeted him with a familiar hug, glancing back at you when you stepped forwards. The guilt was written on your and Wanda’s face for his current state. Rhodey saw it but didn’t say anything.

“Well, you guys look like shit,” Rhodey commented, chuckling with one arm resting on the counter behind him. You laughed and made a half shrug, one hand squeezing Wanda’s.

“The hotels weren’t exactly five star,” Sam replied, causing you to chuckle. Vision leaned his weight on him, still limping from the wound in his stomach. He chuckled at Sam’s response, wincing almost immediately after.

“I think you guys look great.” A voice sounded from behind you. A voice you thought had left years ago.

Whipping your head around, you saw Bruce standing there, his shirt ripped from the sleeves as he fidgeted with them. The mud coating his sleeves standing out compared to the lightness of his clothes. Your mom stared at him for a few seconds, mouth wavering open for a few seconds.

“Hi, Bruce.” Natasha greeted, voice wavering unnaturally. You glanced towards her nervously, edging towards her till your shoulder touched hers. She startled, leaning backward slightly into your touch before moving back.

Natasha hadn’t told you much about her and Bruce. She had told you a little about how she had recruited him, a little more before Ultron. But after Sokovia, she didn’t tell you anything except for the fact that they kissed. She blamed herself almost as much as him for leaving.

“Nat.” Bruce nodded, his jaw clenching.

A tense silence surrounded the room, you heard Sam mutter something but you couldn’t make out what it was. Vision gave him a strange look. You cleared your throat and gave Bruce a curt smile before excusing yourself and Wanda from the room.

Hand intertwined in hers, you dragged her away from the room and into the elevator, pushing the button to take you onto your previous floor. Letting out a loud sigh, your hand slipped from hers as you leaned against the wall dramatically. Wanda chuckled and rested against the other wall.

“It’s not that bad.” Wanda consoled, but you simply raised an eyebrow. She laughed and a smirk crossed her face. Her smile infectious, a smile covering your face quickly as you waited for the inevitable sarcastic comment.

“It’s only your mom meeting her ex.” She commented.

You snorted loudly before bursting out into laughter. Wanda laughed at her joke, watching you cackle over the simple statement. Once you’d stopped laughing, you offered her your hand as the elevator doors opened.

“To be honest, I’m not even sure I’d count it as dating.” You muttered while heading towards your room. The hallway looked so familiar, if not a little cleaner than what you remembered.

Wanda shrugged next to you, her hand slipping into yours while heading into your room. The door slid open easily as you stepped inside.

Everything was cleaner than you remembered leaving it. The bed was made, the clothes that had been strewn about were put neatly in the closet. The door to the closet was open, revealing all of the clothes you’d forgotten to take with you.

You had thought your memory of this place, your home, could never fade. But it could, the clothes were in different spots, the room had a different lighting. You remembered it almost as some sort of haven, away from everything else. It’s amazing how much your memory eluded you.

All of the random perfumes and hairbrushes you owned were set up on the dressing table. You spotted a familiar shirt in the closet and went towards it as Wanda sat down on the bed. She played with the bedsheets before reaching out for a necklace placed on the dressing table.

“Remember this shirt?” You asked, lifting it in front of you. A lopsided grin covered your face as you remembered it.

It was the shirt you wore on your first date. It was a navy blue denim button-up, you’d worn a tank top underneath it even though you had the buttons done up all the way. But the park Wanda had taken you to was warmer than you had anticipated, you ended up walking around in a button-up open with the tank top showing.

Wanda had been staring at you when she had tripped over a rock and fallen face first. A small part on your shirt was ripped from where you’d fallen from laughing at her.

Your girlfriend glared at you playfully before trying to snatch the shirt away from you. You drew it away from her, laughing as you did so. Taking off your sweatshirt, you tugged the button up over the black t-shirt you were wearing. It still fit the same, the sleeve of the shirt was slightly ripped from where you had fallen.

“This brings back memories,” Wanda commented, laying down on your bed while facing the ceiling.

You moved to lay down beside her, the button up flaring and meeting her hand. Wanda chuckled as one of your hands tried to slide into hers. It was almost a custom at this point, for one of you to try to hold the other’s hand.

When you felt something metallic in her hand, you moved up to take a look at it. It was a necklace, the chain was a dulled silver and the pendant was a delicately woven butterfly with stones through the wings.

It was the necklace Wanda had gotten you for your six month anniversary. You’d worn it almost religiously after she had given it to you. But after the chain broke in a mission and you had to replace it, you preferred to keep it in your room instead. You chuckled as you remembered almost crying when it had happened.

“It definitely brings back memories.” You muttered, playing with the silver chain of the necklace. Wanda began to hand it back to you when you closed her fingers around it, winking at her playfully.

The witch smiled and began to try to put it on, but couldn’t do the clasp properly. She sat up, fingers still struggling with the tiny clasp. You chuckled and sat, up, gently moving her hair over her shoulder and out of your way. Wanda dropped the clasp in your fingers, waiting for you to close it.

You closed the clasp, patting her back when you were done. Wanda whispered a small thank you, her head bowing down as she played with the pendant in her fingers. A sigh left you as you rested your hands comfortably on her waist.

The mood saddened slightly as you began to remember what you had lost. You almost forgot how much you had missed the compound until you were here. You missed everything, from the way the string lights would make the room seem bathed in gold, the way it looked in the morning. It was almost nostalgic when you thought about what you had lost.

FRIDAY alerted you that your presence was required for a meeting in the kitchen.

You jumped, almost falling off the bed at the sudden alert. FRIDAY was something you had been used to. Now, hearing a voice randomly was a little startling. Wanda turned around and saw your eyes wide in surprise. She burst out into laughter.

You giggled at your reaction, watching her laugh at you. After a few seconds, you shook your head and lightly shoved her shoulder. She bit her lip to try to stop laughing, still finding it hard to do so as she got up.

You rolled your eyes and offered her your hand again. Wanda slid her hand into yours comfortably, leading you towards the kitchen. You had little to no interest in the meeting, only wanting to stay in bed and not bother with any of this. You just didn’t want to lose anything more.

Wanda put stroked your knuckles comfortably, consoling you silently. Both of you had lost something, it was almost poetic you found something new with each other.

| Part 18 |

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