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andysorbit · 1 year

Text

1 Corinthians 6:19 (M)

Church boy!Doyoung x church girl!reader Minors, fuck outta here Warnings: corruption?, some bible verses, Siwon is an asshole, unprotected sex, oral sex, fingering, light dirty talk, daddy kink, spanking, choking, overstimulation Is this blasphemy??? Idk sorry to those who are religious? I mean if you're reading this then... ya know.

Word count: 7.2k?? I know it's a lot

"He's not gonna take the bait. He's got a crucifix up his ass," Jaemin says and rolls his eyes.

The church basement is quiet and one thing you've all learned from being in this... Holy Place... is how to successfully whisper in a room so quiet that even Hellen Keller could hear a mouse piss on cotton.

Joy leans in closer but never takes her eyes away from her Bible, "Y/n, he's not interested. You need to learn to quit while you're ahead. Siwon has him on a leash," she mutters.

"No, Jesus has him on a leash," Jaemin counters.

You pretend you don't hear them and turn back to Kun, "You got his cousin to give you a chance. He can't be that much different."

Kun looks across at Joy and smirks, "Don't say it like that... you sound like I used her," he mumbles.

Joy chuckles softly, "You were using me. You just didn't bank on getting used."

"And that's why I love you," he sighs.

Joy shakes her head, "You think you love me."

Your eyes wander back over to Doyoung's face and you watch him closely.

Sunday school is over for the day and you're all left to prepare for next week's lesson.

It's the same ritualistic pattern that’s posted on a bulletin board in Pastor Siwon's obsurdly perfect writing:

Sunday Schedule

Sunday school must begin at 8 AM and end by no later than 8:50 AM.

Breakfast/refreshments to be served from 8:55 AM to 9:15 AM.

Sunday school instructors are to work on next week's lesson from 9:00 AM to 9:45 AM

Everyone must be upstairs and seated in the sanctuary by 9:55 AM

Siwon's a bitch.

He hates women, gay people, and anyone he can't use God to manipulate. He also hates his brother Doyoung.

Siwon's father wanted Doyoung to lead the church in the event that he were to suddenly die. It was a discussion that had been talked about for years.

Nobody paid it much attention until, of course, their father did suddenly die.

The entire church- including Siwon's own wife- voted for Doyoung to lead but Doyoung, being an obedient little brother, declined.

"I'm just happy to be here and serve God with you all. Siwon hyung is more equipped to lead you than I am and I'm more than happy to continue teaching Sunday school with the little ones. If leading a church is my calling, our Savior will make me ready for that day but until then, let's just praise Him and do our best to show His glory."

That day, you were more than a little disappointed to say the least. You knew he'd look good in a clergy robe but here he is, still teaching the little ones.

Doyoung instructs the preschoolers, Kun instructs grades one through three, Jaemin instructs grades four through six, Joy instructs grades seven through nine, and you teach grades ten through twelve.

You don't enjoy it but you do it. You don't enjoy this church but you still come. Not because you feel obligated but because you don't want your funds cut.

None of you do.

Doyoung is the only one who still comes to church willingly, he prays with fervency, and cries during worship.

Sometimes, you wonder if he cries because he really feels God's presence or if that's his subconscious pleading for release from the Holy sunken place.

"I have to teach the kids about abstinence. I hate that," Joy mutters and snaps you out of your trance.

"Because you're a godless whore?" Jaemin laughs quietly.

Surprisingly, she nods, "I feel like a hypocrite."

"But you're not," You tell her. She smiles at you appreciatively.

"Ask Doyoung to help you. He's read the whole fuckin' Bible cover to cover four times already." Jaemin says.

You perk up when you hear Doyoung's folding chair softly drag across the concrete floor.

"Thirsty ass," Jaemin Snickers.

"Shut the fuck up," You hiss and drop your eyes back down to your Bible.

"Ask him for me, Y/n," Joy whispers.

"Hey, Doyoung?" You say as you close your Bible.

The room feels even hotter and you lock eyes with him.

He gives you the warmest smile, "Yes, Y/n?"

"Joy has to teach about abstinence and she needs help but she's not sure how to ask you. She's awkward about it," You tell him.

He smiles and nods at you then looks over at Joy, "You're such a jelly belly, Joy," He glances at the clock behind you, "Well, we have ten minutes. I finished early so I can help you."

He sits down in the empty chair beside yours and opens his Bible,

"I really like first Corinthians chapter six verse... nineteen. It.. speaks on how our bodies are temples and how they belong to God. I think that's a good way to start the conversation. You have to remember, Joy, your job is scratch the surface. They'll have a deeper discussion with their parents. You really don't wanna cross that boundary,"

Joy nods. This is her first go round with Sunday school. Yeri used to teach it but she just disappeared one day. There were rumors that she had gotten pregnant and that's why she stopped coming with her parents.

It's none of your business, though.

You sit and listen to him explain things so happily. His eyes light up and for a moment, you wish you were God just so he could make your own name sound so beautiful.

"I hope I was able to help you with this. If you need any help, don't be scared to ask. I'm here as much as I can be. Closed mouths can't get fed," Doyoung says warmly.

Jaemin snorts and masks it with a cough, "Sorry," he whispers.

Everyone gets up and Doyoung softly touches your arm, "Can I talk to guys before we go up?" he asks. You nod and watch as your friends glance at each other with befuddled expressions.

"Why don't you guys like me?" he asks and you feel your heart break.

"What? Who said that? Doyoung, who said that to you?" You ask him softly.

"My brother did. He said that... you guys talk about me behind my back and- I just wanna know what I did. I haven't made you feel uncomfortable, have I?" he searches your face for an answer and you can't believe he thinks that.

"Doyoung, we thought you didn't like us. You never sit with us and we thought you just preferred your own company," Kun says apologetically.

"I'm sorry. I- we never meant to make you feel that way. Especially me. We would love it if you sat with us," You say eagerly.

"Oh, yeah. Especially her," Jaemin agrees. You whip your head around to glare at Jaemin and he throws his hands up in concession.

You turn back to Doyoung and he smiles, "I know I can be a little closed off sometimes. Please don't hold it against me," he chuckles.

"It's no problem. We know you mean well," Jaemin says with a tight smile.

He's always been a bit stand-offish with Doyoung. How Siwon could have such a good brother perplexes him.

Doyoung smiles, "Okay. Next Sunday, I'm with you guys."

You nod, "I'm looking forward to it!"

Your week is slow and you're actually excited to be going to church. You pick Jaemin up on your way and he smokes as you drive.

"This shit better be aired out before we get there," You tell him.

He shrugs, "You say that every Sunday. Has it ever not been aired out?"

"Got me there," You concede.

Jaemin tosses his cigarette out the window at the red light. As you turn the block and into the parking lot, you see Doyoung get out of his car.

As always, he's neat and casual; opting for his usual solid-colored slacks and polo shirt. He looks so good.

"As much as I hate to say this, you're gonna have to stop picking me up if you're gonna get him to nail you to a cross," Jaemin says as you're parking your car.

"I hope you get lung cancer," You sigh.

Jaemin laughs, "You don't mean that."

When you get out, you see Doyoung leaning against his car.

He's waiting for you.

"Good morning!" he cheers.

"Good morning," You say back.

Jaemin gives him a wave, "He's trying to figure us out," he murmurs.

"Then stop cockblocking," You mumble back.

"I'm gonna head in. I have to help the kids with a few things. Thanks for the ride, Y/n," Jaemin says.

Doyoung squeezes his Bible and looks over at you, "So you never need any help with Sunday school. How is it?" He asks.

"It's good. The kids are great. Yeri took good care of them before they graduated," You tell him.

He nods, "Hey... uh... I was wondering if you wanted to um... go with me to the church picnic next month? Siwon's been..." he trails off because he's obviously trying not to badmouth his brother.

"Nagging you?" You ask quietly.

He freezes like a startled rabbit then nods, "Yeah," he whispers.

"You don't have to be married until you're ready. Besides... I'm not marrying you," You laugh.

Doyoung laughs too, "You know how he is... why he married Taeyeon and all that," he sighs.

"He just wanted a piece of ass and didn't wanna burn in hell for it?" You blurt out.

Doyoung, surprisingly, bursts out laughing, "Is he that obvious?" he says with an exasperated smile.

He's so handsome.

"Yeah," You say, "He is."

Sunday school is mundane as usual and when it's over, Doyoung comes to sit with you. Right beside you to be specific.

Jaemin smirks.

People in the congregation tried to rally for you and Jaemin to date and prelude to marriage but that would never happen.

Jaemin's gay and he's fucking the choir director's son Renjun but that, along with everything else that's sinful in this church, is none of your business. He's your friend and you love him but he's private about his affairs.

Everyone has a level of privacy they maintain in order to cover their own asses. He trusts you with his life but he stays discreet to keep your hands clean.

"It's my week to clean the church," Doyoung sighs.

"Tough luck," Joy laughs, "I had last week."

"I'll be okay," Doyoung says, "It's my own fault for staying up so late."

"Y/n can help you. It's not like she has anything to do later," Kun pipes up.

"No, that's okay," Doyoung says softly, "If she doesn't wan-"

"I really don't have anything to do later and you look pretty tired. I don't mind helping you," You say eagerly and Jaemin stiffles a laugh.

After service, you seek out Doyoung and he pulls you to the side, "Wait for everyone to leave. It'll make more sense once they do," he whispers.

So you say your goodbyes and avoid Siwon's leering eyes.

Once the church is empty, Doyoung smiles at you, "Come with me," he says cheerfully as he leads you to the sound booth.

"This is why it always takes me so long to finish."

He tinkers with his phone and when Higher Ground by Stevie Wonder begins playing, he looks over at you, "Doesn't it sound so good in the church? The way it echoes?" he says as he leans in close enough for you to hear him.

The chill that rushes down your spine sends you into a frenzy and Doyoung notices. Your voice fails you so you nod.

He doesn't say anything but he does hold your gaze. He's hard to read but you don't worry.

You clean and enjoy his playlist. One thing that hasn't changed is his love for Motown. As you clean, you sing together and when he's feeling extra playful, he keeps his eyes trained on yours and sings to you.

For a moment, you think that he wants you too.

When Doyoung comes to pick you up for the picnic, he's dressed in a seafoam green t-shirt, blue jeans, and white Keds.

He beams at you as he leans against the car, "What are the chances?" he says as he gestures to your seafoam green knee-length midi dress and white Keds.

"I definitely look better," You chuckle as you walk towards him. He opens the passenger door for you, "You look beautiful," he says as his eyes roam over you. "Thank you, Doyoung," You say as you hold his gaze, "You look really good too."

You can't look away from him and it's obvious he's losing the battle as well.

He draws in closer to you and hesitates. You reach out to gently place your hand on his cheek,

"I'm not gonna stop you if that's what you're waiting for."

Doyoung slots his lips against yours and kisses you slowly.

His kiss is essentially who he is; warm, gentle, wholesome.

He slinks an arm around to draw you closer, "Is this okay?" he asks you.

You nod and melt against the firmness of his body. He sets your insides on fire and the subtle strength of his hold on you sends a frenzied storm straight down to the pit of your stomach.

You can already feel your panties soaking.

He breaks the kiss and smiles at you then dips back down to kiss you once more,

"We should... get going," he says into your ear and it's so obvious that he wants to press a kiss to your neck.

"Let me go first," You chuckle.

He loosens his grip on you and smiles, "Whoops," he laughs softly.

"We're gonna be late," He says and it's more to himself because he's very much aware that he's the holdup.

You slip down into the car and look up at him.

He stares back at you and you can see his mind racing. He takes a deep breath and wets his lips with his tongue before closing the passenger door.

You watch him go behind the car and stop for a moment; bowing his head and closing his eyes, he prays. You know he's asking for forgiveness and strength.

He finally moves around to the driver's seat and gets in; he seems ready to pull off but he hesitates,

"Traveling mercies," he says softly and bows his head.

You follow suit and he prays,

"Blessed Father God, thank you for giving us another opportunity to live another day in your glory. Please be with us as we travel today. We're thankful as always for your love and protection. In Jesus' name, amen."

"Amen," You whisper.

He starts the car and his motown playlist picks up from the middle of Mama’s Pearl by the Jackson 5 and you smile.

As he drives, you both chat about work and sometimes stop to sing because the music is just too good.

"You're the only person who sings with me," he says as he pulls into the church parking lot.

"Am I?" You ask incredulously, "How could anyone not wanna sing with you?"

Doyoung shrugs, "I dunno... I don't mind. I think I prefer if it's only you anyway."

You smile at him and he puts the car in park before cutting the engine.

Your mind wanders back to when you were both younger and how close you were to each other.

As if he read your mind, he pipes up,

"What happened to us?"

"I don't know, Doyoung, but I miss you," You reply.

"I think I let Siwon steer me too much. He always said you were trouble and I'd be getting myself a one-way ticket to hell if I stuck around you..." he trails off.

"Ouch," You grunt.

"I'm sorry I told you that," he says apologetically.

"Don't be... I kinda already knew... but why the sudden change? Are you just trying to spite him?" You ask.

Doyoung shakes his head, "Not at all. I just... I'm tired of trusting him so blindly... he's not a good person."

You arch your eyebrows in surprise, "It's okay that you trusted him. He's your brother and you love him. There's nothing wrong with that."

He nods and then opens his door, "I'll get your door for you. Stay put," he says.

He comes around and opens your door. As you get out, you see Siwon pull in a few spots down.

He's alone.

He gets out of comes over with a confused smile, "Sister, your dress is mighty short," he says.

"And considering there's a dresses only code for a picnic, so is my patience," You say with a tight smile.

Siwon nods and stands down, "Fair enough," he concedes before looking over at Doyoung, "Is she your date?"

Doyoung nods, "We agreed to come together so yes... she is."

Siwon smiles. "Well it is time you started seeking out a wife."

Doyoung shakes his head, "It's not a job hunt, hyung. I'll know when it's time," he says sheepishly.

"Of course," Siwon says with a smile, "I'll see you guys 'round back."

When he leaves, Doyoung looks at you, "I'll leave early if you do."

"Definitely. How long should we stay?" You ask him.

"I say we give it about an hour. Eat light. I'll cook for you," he says with a shy smile.

"You're gonna cook for me? Get outta here," You say with surprised smile.

"It's a hobby... no big deal," he says coolly.

He's pulling you in.

You watch as Siwon stands at the grill and burns a fourth burger. It's a shame that hardly anyone is eating and those who are, obviously aren't enjoying the food.

You're close enough to hear him mutter to himself about it. Renjun comes over, "Pastor, I can take it from here." he says with a sheepish smile.

Siwon turns him away just as he has the others but Renjun doesn't back down; instead, he drops all pretenses of pleasantries and gently pries the spatula out of Siwon's hand, "Nobody likes your food. Look around," he says.

"They're burgers, Renjun. Taeyeon did this all by herself last year. How hard can it be?" Siwon scoffs.

"Rocket science since nobody can tell your burgers from a hockey puck now... move. Over," Renjun says shortly.

Siwon sighs and moves over, "Everyone's so mean today. First Y/n and her dress now you and these burgers."

Renjun flips the burgers with ease and rolls his eyes, "We're only two people- not the whole world and there's nothing wrong with Y/n's dress. She looks pretty. If you're feeling some type of way about her kneecaps then that's something you should work out with God. Don't put the blame on her for it."

Renjun looks at you and winks. You smile back and fight back your laughter. You take a sip of your soda and watch Doyoung come over to you.

"Ready to go?" he asks you softly.

You nod, "Yeah... I am."

"Head into the church. I'll count to seventy and meet you by the nursery," he says.

You nod and stand up.

You head inside and wait for him.

You send Jaemin a text:

Y/n: he's gonna cook for me 😳

Jaemin: CAN I GET TO DA YAMZ??? SWEET YAAAAAAMZ!!! 😩😩😩💦💦💦💦🍑🍑🍑🍑🍆🍆🍆🍆

Y/n: Why did I even bother telling you 🙄

Doyoung comes around the corner and you slip your phone back into your bag. He takes your hand,

"Come on."

Doyoung's house is a cozy one level cottage. He's big on earth tones.

"This is your house? It suits you, Doyoung," You gush as he unlocks the front door. The aroma of clove hits you and for only a breadth of a second, you imagine waiting for him in this very foyer after he's come home from along day of work.

"Is that a good thing?" he laughs.

"Yeah. Your house is really cute."

"You think I'm cute?"

"I don't kiss ugly men."

He turns to you and smirks, "That was... my first kiss y'know."

"No," You gasp.

He nods, "Yep."

"Doyoung, be serious!" You exclaim because there is no way in hell he could've kissed you that well if it was his first time.

"I am! Why is that so hard to believe?" he laughs.

"It was too good... just too good," You say incredulously.

He gives you a smug smile, "My ego's gonna skyrocket. Be quiet."

You stare at him with bewildered eyes and he waves a hand at you, "Come on. I know you're hungry."

His kitchen is decorated in shades of terracotta. You look around at the neatness of everything.

After you take turns washing your hands, Doyoung pulls a bowl of fruit salad out of his refrigerator, "I made this for the picnic but I forgot it so eat as much as you want because I don't want it to go to waste but I'm definitely not going back to drop it off."

You laugh and pop a grape into your mouth. His eyes linger on your mouth so you take the opportunity to pick up a pineapple chunk and bite into it slowly.

The blush spreads across his cheeks but he can't look away, "I um... what are you hungry for?"

"Whatever you wanna cook. I just wanna eat," You say between bites.

Doyoung smiles at you, "Do you want... rosemary chicken? I have a really good recipe and I still have fresh rosemary left," he rings his hands out nervously.

"That sounds so good!" You exclaim.

You watch Doyoung prepare ingredients and you make small talk and of course, he plays some music; this time opting for a soft jazz playlist.

"You like carrots?" He asks as he chops up a carrot.

"Eh... not raw," You say with a frown. You watch him hold a slice out for you.

"Do it for me. It's good for your eyes. They're too pretty to not be taken care of. Say 'ah'. C'mon," he says eagerly.

You frown a little deeper and pull back.

"Ugh, I'm gonna have to scratch you off my potential wife list. You're too disobedient. Yuck," he says with mock disgust and a sassy roll of his own pretty eyes.

You both cackle and you let him ease the carrot slice into your mouth.

"That's a good girl," he hums.

You both freeze and the silence that hangs over his playlist is deafening.

"What?" You grunt.

"I'm so sorry I said that," he says just above a whisper.

"Why would you be sorry you said that?" You ask him as you pucker your lips suspiciously.

Doyoung blushes again, "I don't... know," he replies and pops his lips. He tries not to smirk but he fails and he gives you a gentle brush across your cheek with his knuckles.

You lean into his hand and he gives you a knowing look.

When the food is ready, Doyoung seats you at his breakfast nook, "Lunch is served," he says as he sets your plate down in front of you.

"Wow... Doyoung, it's almost too pretty to eat," You say as you look at the plate and then up at him.

He smiles and turns to get his own plate. He brings it to the table and sits across from you. He reaches his hands across to take yours,

"Will you lead us in saying grace, sister?"

He's definitely flirting.

"Um... dear Lord, thank you for this food we're about to eat, bless the hands of the chef, and bless us as we take privilege in enjoying this meal," You say softly.

Doyoung smiles and stands back up, "I forgot the wine," he says as he crosses the kitchen to retrieve it from the refrigerator before getting two wine glasses from the cabinet.

"So... bless the hands of the chef, huh?" he says as he pops the cork.

You watch him bring the bottle and the glasses over, "Yeah... you did a great job," You say.

He fills your glass and then his own, "Bless the mouths that enjoy it," he counters as he holds his glass up.

You clink your glass against his as you nod in agreement, "Amen."

You can't conceive how Doyoung's meal can taste better than it looks but somehow, it's possible. As you finish off your wine, Doyoung clears the table.

"Doyoung, that was the best meal I've ever eaten," You say as you lean back and sigh.

Doyoung's face lightens up, "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Next time, I'll bake you something," he says and winks at you.

"Bake me something?" You gasp, "You're gonna bake for me too?"

Doyoung nods, "I told you, it's just a hobby."

"That's a great hobby. You're really good at it," You tell him.

"Siwon hates that I do this... he says it's menial woman's work but I like doing it and I like being useful. I don't want my wife to cook for me because she has to... I want her to cook for me because she likes me,"

You tilt your head "Because she likes you?" You ask him.

"Yeah," Doyoung nods, "Loving someone and liking someone are often two very different things. You can love someone and not like them. I love my brother but I don't like him... I want my wife to like me. I want her to smile when she thinks about me. I don't want what Siwon has with Taeyeon. I want my wife to see me as someone worthy of respect and not as someone she feels religiously obligated to respect."

You nod in agreement, "That's a good thing to want. There's nothing wrong with that." You reply.

Doyoung leans over the sink, "I don't want things to be traditional," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" You egg him on. You know the wine has him on the cusp of saying something that he normally wouldn't say.

"I- I don't... I don't wanna marry a woman who gives herself to me because the Bible says we have to reproduce. I wanna marry a woman who jumps into bed with me because she thinks I'm hot and I turn her on, I want her to... to think about me and squeeze her thighs together because I just do it for her. I don't believe that love has to be so... boring. Why would God even give us all of these feelings if we're supposed to just ignore them?" he finally says.

You sit in silence and Doyoung chuckles.

"Have I said too much?" he asks as he turns to look at you.

"No... of course not. I don't... see where you're wrong. You deserve that... Besides, if it's in us, it's meant to be enjoyed within reason," You say as you rise to your feet. You step closer to him and he reaches out for you.

"I placed bets that I'd marry you," he confesses as his lips find the corner of your mouth. He presses a light kiss to your skin there then his lips ease down to your neck.

"Yeah?" You sigh.

He hums as he kisses down to the base of your throat, "Yeah."

"Gambling is a sin." You laugh and he catches you lips with his own.

"I'm not always traditional," he sighs.

He traps you against the counter and the warmth of his body soothes you, "I won't do anything to you that you don't want me to do," he sighs as he kisses you.

"Do your worst, church boy," You whisper.

Doyoung slides his hands up your dress and cups your pussy. He moans, "Did I do that to you?" he purrs.

"Yeah... you always do," You hum.

He quirks up an eyebrow, "This is a regular occurrence for you?" he laughs against your lips.

"Uh huh... And sometimes when it gets to be too much, I touch myself."

"Y/n! No!"

You laugh, "Oh, yes!"

Doyoung tuts and dips his tongue into your mouth, "Such a dirty... dirty girl." He slips his hand into your panties and his fingers find your clit. For the first time ever, he curses,

"Fuck, you're soaked, baby,"

It sounds so hot and you whimper as he strokes your clit slowly.

"Doyoung!" You shrill.

"For what it's worth... I'm no better. You just do something to me and I... I can't control it."

He takes his free hand to bring one of your arms up to his shoulder and then the other, "Hold onto me," he says and his voice is low and steady.

You circle your arms around his neck and kiss him hungrily. His fingers massage you slowly, "Does this feel good?" he asks you.

"F-faster... please?" You plead softly. He laughs and easily obliges.

"Spread your legs a little more for me, sweetheart," he tells you softly; you quickly do as your told and he pulls back to smile at you,

"Good girl."

You moan a little bit louder and he pulls his hand out of your panties. His fingers find his way to his mouth and he sucks them clean, "Are you comfortable with coming with me to my bedroom? I can have you here next time."

"Next time?" You gawk.

"There will be a next time. You have stars in your eyes, Y/n."

He takes your hands and presses your knuckles to his lips, "Am I wrong?"

You shake your head, "No."

"Then let's go," he says and leads you out of the kitchen. Your head spins with excitement as he brings you along gently.

His bedroom is a cozy and comfortably cluttered dream. On the seat of his bow window, sits his Bible; it's opened to the book of Matthew. You try to see what chapter he was reading from but he guides you to his bed.

"Matthew, chapter five... verse twenty-eight," he says softly as his fingers begin to slowly unbutton your dress, "'But I say to you that everyone whose eyes are turned on a woman with desire has had connection with her in his heart'... I've battled with this far longer than I'd ever be proud to admit."

You smile up at him, "You're battling a sex demon?"

He laughs and covers his face with his hands, "Everyone has something that they struggle with! I mean, we're humans!" he laughs. He drops his arms down and smirks at you.

"That is true," You sigh.

Doyoung eases his shirt over his head and tosses it beside you on the bed.

It's your turn to freeze. As his hands find their way back to your dress, your eyes roam over his toned skin. He chuckles as he pushes the dress off of your shoulders,

"What demon do you fight, Y/n?"

"I have no demons... I'm a perfect vessel," You chuckle breathlessly. Doyoung pulls you to stand up and lets the dress pool at your feet, "I don't believe that for a second."

You step out of the dress and he picks it up. You watch him fold it gingerly before bringing it over to his honey colored easy chair and placing it down. He turns back to you. He's ambivalent and it's written all over his face.

"We can... put our clothes back on, Doyoung. We don't have to do this. We can just get dressed and act like this never happened," You tell him reassuringly.

He comes back over to you and pulls you into his arms, "You know neither of us wanna do that."

You nod in agreement and he kisses you. It's different. It's rough.

He eases you down onto the bed and as you scoot up to the middle, he hovers over you, "Tell me something... something wicked. Tell me something that will make me feel better about the things I'm going to do you."

Your body is somehow even hotter. He kisses your lips then licks a warm stripe across your neck before sucking on the tender flesh.

"I think about you all the time... I imagine you... bending me over in the church basement and fucking me until I can't stand," You whimper.

Doyoung groans and presses his hardness against you, "That's your fantasy? Being fucked in a church basement? Such a dirty girl... what else do you think about?" Doyoung kisses his way down to your chest before pulling you up. He reaches around behind you and unclasps your bra.

"I think about you overpowering me and- using me until you're satisfied... I just wanna be ravished by you," You whine as you both grind against each other.

He's invading all of your senses and neither of you has completely undressed yet.

"How are you even real?" he groans as he fumbles with his pants. He clumsily gets them off and kicks them off of the bed. Your bra is next to go then his briefs and then finally, your panties.

Doyoung kisses you with fervency. He pulls back and pins your arms over your head, "You wanna be ravished, huh?" he chuckles and dips down to take your bottom lip between his teeth.

"Uh huh," You sigh.

Doyoung slides down and nestles himself between your thighs. He peppers your skin with soft kisses. His mouth latches onto your clit and he sucks it softly. You cry out and buck your hips against his mouth.

He laps at you and teases you with his tongue.

"Doyoung... yes. Please... please," You gasp.

He continues his attack on you and you reach down to card your fingers through his hair and grind your hips desperately.

"Not enough, is it?" he asks as he raises his head to look at you.

"I... no... that's not it... I just want you. Come back up here... please," You whimper.

Doyoung laughs, "Do you miss me or something?"

"I do," You reply.

Doyoung comes up and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips.

You reach between your bodies and stroke him. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips the sheets.

"Want you in my mouth," You whimper and Doyoung flips you both over. He looks up you before propping himself up on his elbows,

"Have at it."

You nestle between his legs and grip his cock with both hands, "You're bigger than I expected," You say then lick from the base up to the tip.

Doyoung's tongue darts out to wet his lips, "Fuck," he sighs.

"Am I teasing you?" You ask him innocently.

"Come on... do something, baby," he sighs.

You smirk and drag your tongue back and forth over his leaking tip; collecting precum as you do, "Make me do something," You say softly.

Doyoung takes a fistful of your hair, "Don't be such a tease," he says and gently forces your head down. You moan and take him all the way into your mouth.

He slowly bucks his hips as the head of his cock repeatedly taps the back of your throat, "That's a good girl," he moans, "So fucking good."

You let him use your throat as you feel your own wetness slicking up your inner thighs.

Doyoung pulls you back up and kisses you, "Not like this... I need to be inside you," he says as he gets you back underneath him.

He teases your slit with the head of his cock and you whine desperately, "Ask me for it nicely."

"Please... give it to me," You whimper.

"You need me to fuck you?" he asks you roughly; his voice is coarse and heavy with desire.

You nod and that's all it takes for him to guide himself into you.

"Fuck!" You both cry in unison. You look at each other and laugh.

Doyoung dips down to press his forehead to yours, "You're so much better than I could ever have imagined... so fucking tight for me. We were made for each other. Don't you agree?" He says and his hips collide with yours over and over and over again.

"Y- yeah... I... I love this. Please don't stop, Doie... please," You plead. You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, "I want you to fuck me forever."

"Forever?" he sighs and slows his pace, "You could take this forever, baby?"

You kiss him, "Uh huh," You pant.

Doyoung groans, "I'm... fuck, baby... I'm close."

You reach down to bring yourself closer to your own release.

He pushes your hand away and replaces it with his own, "No... that's what I'm here for... let me," he says as his fingers draw fervent circles into your clit.

"Doie! Yes, yes, yes! Fuck..." You moan as you both release together.

"That's it, baby. You sound so pretty when you cum for me. That's my girl," he praises you as his own orgasm rattles his body.

You cling to Doyoung and he collapses on top of you. You both tremble as you regain clarity. Once his breathing is under control, he rears up to press a chaste kiss to your temple then rolls off of you.

You turn to face each other and the air is still thick; he smiles, "I want you to know something..." he says as his eyes roam your face, "I don't want you because I just need a release... I want you because you're the only woman I've ever thought about doing this with... You're the only woman that's ever made me forget that God even matters."

You blush and bring your hand over to stroke his cheek, "I don't even think I could say anything to top how special that is but I can try," You say with a chuckle.

Doyoung smiles.

"I... I've kissed boys... maybe too many but... I waited for you. I didn't want anyone else," You tell him.

His face beams, "We waited for each other and didn't even realize it," he laughs.

Come Sunday morning, Siwon is privy to the way you and Doyoung engage each other.

"Sister, can I have a word with you?" he pipes up. Jaemin's eyes perk up and he's obviously ready to go to battle. You shake your head and smile at him before turning your attention to Siwon.

"Yes, Pastor?" You say.

"You've been very close with my brother. What exactly are your intentions?" he asks you suspiciously.

Doyoung is at your side before you even have time to react, "Her intentions are well, hyung. Better than yours were," he says coolly.

Siwon scoffs, "What?"

"Taeyeon hasn't been here in... three months now? She's not that sick. She left you and everyone knows she did," Doyoung says.

"Literally everyone knows," Renjun says in passing.

"I'm just worried about the choices you're making. You seem different," Siwon presses.

Doyoung shrugs, "My choices are fine. If I ever go astray, I'll do the work to get back on track. I think you should worry about your own affairs."

Siwon nods, "Well, if that's how you want it then that's how it'll be."

He excuses himself and Doyoung turns to you, "You're not his sin to overcome," he laughs.

That afternoon, while the sun hangs low in the sky, Doyoung tends to his garden, and you watch him as you remain on standby, ready to help him with his needs.

"Being married is gonna be a lot of fun... I like having you here to help me with the gardening," he sighs with a soft smile.

"Daddy's little helper," You mumble.

He straightens up and his eyebrows go up, "I- I- whoooo, what? What? Y/n, behave!" he gushes as he gently nudges you with his arm.

"You've never had that thought?" You ask him teasingly.

He nods, "I have but I'm busy right now and you have to behave yourself because this was supposed to be done three days ago and I don't want my garden to die so... sit there, be quiet, and don't touch me until I'm done."

"Okay, Daddy," You say sweetly.

Doyoung stands up and pulls off his gloves off, "On your feet. Come on," he says as he places his gloves in his supply box.

You stand up and follow him into the kitchen. He washes his hands and turns to you.

He's trying so hard to be firm with you but a smile shines through on his face, "You gotta... don't smile at me- you-" he laughs and pulls you into his arms, "You gotta behave yourself. You're failing the wife trial. Get it together!"

You hug him and press a kiss to his cheek, "I'll try harder tomorrow," You chuckle.

Before you know it, Doyoung is turning you around and pressing you down against the counter, "Why can't you behave yourself right now?" he asks you softly, his fingers pushing your shorts and panties down.

"Don't wanna," You sigh as his hand caresses your bare ass.

He lands a mild slap down and you gasp.

He laughs low and thick, "You like that?" he asks.

"Y- yes!" You whimper and wiggle your ass in an attempt to touch some part of his body.

"Well, you're not really supposed but... I guess that's okay for right now... I'll just have to find some other way to punish you," he says and slaps your ass again, this time a little bit harder. You moan and he slaps you once more.

"Daddy!" You whine.

Doyoung slides his hand down to your cunt and kicks your legs apart, "You're always so wet for me... no matter what's going on, I know that if I just... slide my hand between those beautiful thighs, I'm gonna get my fingers soaked."

"I always want you, Daddy... always," You sigh as he slides his middle and ring fingers into your pussy. He fucks you with his fingers and leans down to lick the shell of your ear, "Such a greedy little whore." he says softly.

You clench around his fingers and writhe. Moans pour from your mouth as he shows no signs of slowing up.

"Oh? You like that?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"You like it when daddy talks to you like this? Huh, slut?"

You nod furiously and clench around his fingers once more.

He tuts, "Can't hear you."

"Yes, Daddy! Yes!" You scream.

"That's my girl."

Doyoung eases his fingers out of you and pulls you up by your hair, "Taste yourself, baby," he says as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

You hum as you suck them. Doyoung drops down to his knees and helps you out of your shorts, "Hold onto the counter,"

You do as you're told and he lifts your left leg onto his shoulder before devouring your pussy. You throw your head back and cry out as he brings you close to your release.

His tongue speeds up and slows down. He gets better each time and you mentally note his progress. Your legs give out as you cum against his tongue.

"Daddy!"

He pulls back and lets you sink down onto the floor in front of him.

He kisses you, "Was that good, princess?" he asks you.

You nod, too enthralled by the throbbing of your pussy to speak. He chuckles and his hand returns to your cunt, "Then you shouldn't mind one more, right?"

Doyoung brings his other hand up to circle around your throat, "One more time, baby... I know you can do it," he purrs as he tightens his grip just enough to make your eyes roll back. He chuckles at the effect he has on you.

You grip his biceps as he massages your clit and you try in vain to squeeze your thighs shut but he doesn't slow up and you're coming undone again.

Your thighs tremble violently and he just doesn't stop.

"You have the power to stop me, Y/n... you know I'd never do anything you don't want me to do so... go ahead... stop me," he whispers against your mouth.

You don't stop him. You can't. He feels too good and he brings a level of greed to your body.

Tears prick your eyes and a third orgasm rips through your body. You whine weakly and finally, his hand ceases.

"How's my girl?" he asks softly as he moves his hand from your throat to your cheek.

You can't speak. You collapse against him and he rubs your back, "Do you need anything?"

You shake your head and cling to him a little tighter. Your body slowly relaxes and he rocks you slowly.

When you finally come down, you give him a chaste kiss and he smiles.

Doyoung pulls back to look you over, "I stopped repenting y'know... for what we do," he says softly.

"Why?" You ask him. Your voice is still hoarse and he can't help but laugh.

"How can I when I'm not sorry?"

_____

yo if you got to the end of this, thank you!!

1K notes · View notes

seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

bad habit (hangman)

read part ii, read part iii

pairing ; hangman x female!reader

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

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

wc ; 15k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, like. Semantics.

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

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

You hum. “Pretty true, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not very good with Shakespeare, either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I sure hope so.”

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

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

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

Too late.

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

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

Her words, not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dress was a mistake.

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

In short: you’re deeply uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat.

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

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

And, okay… ouch.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re reluctantly impressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stuns you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bigger environmental footprint.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anger lodges in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was so coming onto you.”

“He was not.”

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

“Can I get, like… a glass of water?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gape at her retreating back for a moment.

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

Again… what the fuck just happened?

“Hangman asked me to give him your number.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

��When did you meet him?”

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

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

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

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

“The blond one.”

“Oh, with the green eyes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wait, he’s so cute.”

You groan and drop your head onto the tabletop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“I’m perfectly fine being single.”

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

“What’s wrong with that?”

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

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

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

“I agree,” Amelia says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head to banish the thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you stalking me?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have friends?”

He laughs again. “You’re funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You run into girls on purpose often?”

“Only the real pretty ones.”

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

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

He’s so goddamn insufferable.

“You torturing this poor girl, Hang?”

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

Anything’s better than being alone with Hangman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys need any bags?”

“That’s alright,” the woman answers.

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

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

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

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

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

But then he continues, “You should come.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll pay,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He can be a lot, sometimes.”

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

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

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

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

It’s nice. Pleasant. Easy.

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you say, “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then your mother died.

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

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

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

So then you were alone. Resoundingly. Irrevocably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll go to your grave swearing that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s not here yet,” Penny says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least one of you is having fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re going home?”

“I… yeah. I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, but you can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hence my leaving,” you counter drily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want me to teach you, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

The place he touches you seems to tingle.

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

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

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

The ball lands in the pocket with a resounding thunk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoenix laughs at you. “It takes practice.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure you want another one, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody answers your question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That almost makes you choke on your Mojito.

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I don’t…” you falter.

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

It hits you square in the chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t, you think. I just… can’t.

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

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

You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he says your name.

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

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

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

Finally, he asks, “You okay?”

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

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

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

“I don’t know you,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

Everything’s a mess.

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

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

That makes you frown.

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

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

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

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

Your insides are all tangled.

“It’s not like… it’s not like I’ve never done anything,” you rush to explain. “I did sleep with someone when I was sixteen, but I just… and then there was always so much other stuff that I didn’t have time to date, and then other stuff happened, and I didn’t even want to date, so I just….”

At the look he gives you, you trail off.

“So you’re not a virgin, then?”

“Not… technically,” you confirm, then cringe at how ridiculous it all sounds.

He just stares at you.

“It… what does it even matter?” Suddenly, you’re angry. “Even if I was a virgin, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it. And it’s none of your business. Why do you even care?”

One of Hangman’s eyebrows raises. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin,” he says, voice perfectly calm. “I care that you’re comfortable.”

That staggers you. “I… why?”

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Because I happen to like you.”

Now you’re the one staring.

That can’t be right. Hangman’s not supposed to like you, not when you’ve just established that you can’t stand him. Not when you’ve spent every night since you’ve met him listing all the reasons why you need to stay as far away from him as possible.

When you don’t answer, he starts talking again. “Why didn’t you just say you’re not a virgin in there?” he asks, jerking his head back in the general direction of the Hard Deck.

You shrug and look away. “I’m not… experienced.”

He waits for you to continue.

“It was just once, with my first boyfriend, and it wasn’t… I didn’t… well, after it was over, I never wanted to do it again.”

Hangman’s expression is unreadable. The breeze picks up, and you shiver, crossing your arms over your abdomen.

“I’m not…” You swallow. “I’m not confident. I can’t talk about it the way you guys do. So easily.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard. “I’ll stop, then. This was too much. I’m sorry.”

But there’s something there, in the words. A challenge. He’s giving you a way out at the same time as he’s giving you an in.

The way he’s looking at you seems to say, Ball’s in your court now, sweetheart.

In your life, you’ve always taken the familiar path. You thought things through thoroughly, made decisions with your head and not your heart. You liked to be safe, too scared to step out of your comfort zone. And so the house with the blue door stayed a dream, one that eventually moved so far out of reach it lost any appeal it ever had.

But then you think of your life stuffed into a car. Arriving in an unfamiliar city and deciding to stay. Diving headfirst into the unknown.

If you have done it once, you tell yourself, there’s no reason you can’t do it again.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say, voice quiet, hands shaking. “I like it.”

It might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Being honest. Here in this moment, with him, bathed in moonlight that dips the worlds in shades of mercury.

It’s almost impossible to get the words out, and then they dangle awkwardly in the air between you. You feel exposed, stripped, flayed open in front of this man who is practically a stranger to you.

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely even hear the roar of the ocean.

And then Hangman steps closer to you, bridging that distance. His features are dipped in half-shadows, but you see his eyes flickering down to your lips.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“When I saw you for the first time,” he says, and his voice is husky, low, “in that little dress… I wanted to bend you over the bar and fuck you right there. With everyone watching.”

It knocks the air out of you. You let out a choked sound that might be the beginning of a gasp. A jolt goes through the core of you.

He comes even closer, and, instinctively, you stumble backward. He crowds you against the wall of the shed. The wood is rough and cold where it presses against your back.

The stupid nametag is right in front of you then, and it occurs to you suddenly that you don’t even know his first name.

“Look at me,” he says.

In spite of yourself, you listen immediately. There’s something in his voice, not just demanding but commandeering. You don’t think you could disobey him even if you wanted to.

And Hangman’s so close now. Close enough that you can see the specks of gold swimming in his eyes, close enough that you could probably see yourself reflected in them if it wasn’t so dark.

One of his hands is braced against the wood by your head, palm down, and the other goes to cup your cheek. Fingertips trace across the jut of your cheekbone, down, down, down over the planes of your face, avoiding your mouth to ghost toward your chin and then the line of your throat.

You don’t dare breathe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.

It’s such a stark contrast to his earlier words, so crude, that it leaves you light-headed.

You can smell him; over the lingering ashes of burnt-down bonfires, over the salt of the ocean, there’s the scent of his aftershave. Cinnamon and spice. You think you could get drunk on that smell.

“Hangman…” you whisper because you can’t think of something else to say for the life of you.

He shakes his head, tuts gently. “My name’s Jake.”

“Jake,” you repeat. It’s like you’re in a daze, dumb with the intensity of it all. If this night is giving you anything, it’s a severe case of whiplash.

He hums in response, eyelids going heavy. Lets his fingers trail from your throat, where your pulse is beating like a sledgehammer, down your chest, between your breasts, over the flimsy fabric of your dress. He pauses on your stomach, lets his fingers spread out like a starfish, and just watches for a moment as his hand moves with each breath you take.

When he speaks, his voice sounds almost pensive. “Has anybody ever made you come?”

The sound you make is much too close to a whimper for your own comfort. Involuntarily, your thighs clench together, and you realize faintly just how wet you really are, the skin just below the lines of your panties sticking together.

You don’t need to look at Hangman to know that he’s noticed your reaction.

“It… no,” you admit hesitantly. You’re going to spontaneously combust, you just know it. “Just… myself.”

He grins at that, but it’s not a mean expression. “So you touch yourself?”

It’s so hard to swallow. Even harder to talk, to find words, even to form a coherent thought.

Jake leans closer still, so close his breath traces across your face. “Answer me.��

“Sometimes.” Your voice has gone so quiet you’re sure he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t standing so close to you. Like he wants to climb into your skin.

You’re becoming painfully aware of all the points where he isn’t touching you. A minuscule but safe distance between your hips, your faces, your chests. That arm curving around you, braced against the wall. No point of contact except for the large hand on your abdomen.

You shudder.

“What do you think about? When you touch yourself, what do you think about?”

The muscles in his arm flex, straining against the fabric of his uniform, veins protruding blue through the skin, and it shouldn’t be this hot, but it is. You’re on fire and he isn’t even touching you, not really, but you’ve never been so turned on in your life, wound so tightly, a kite dancing higher and higher into the sky.

You shake your head quickly, unsure if it’s supposed to be an answer or just a way to get rid of the fog that’s descended on you.

Jake’s hand wanders a little lower, almost imperceptibly, just about half an inch, but you think your heart almost fails you.

“I…” you swallow again. Your mouth is dry, and your palms are sweating. Your core pulses with the sort of desire that’s impossible to ignore. “I don’t know. I don’t…”

God, if only you could be casual about this sort of thing. You wish you could say something sexy, something teasing, something that would make Jake feel even a fraction of what he’s making you feel. But you’re just you. Inexperienced, unsure even of what you want.

You choke up, and, to your mortification, tears pool in your eyes again.

“Shh,” Jake immediately shushes you, and his face is almost tender. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll give you something to think about.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, blinking up at him.

And then it’s back, that signature Hangman smirk, the same one you’ve wanted to slap off his face so many times, only it’s making you weak in the knees now, makes your lips part, makes you wish he would just touch you already.

“I’m not going to kiss you tonight.”

It’s almost shameful how quickly you try to protest, really. If it hadn’t been for those five and a half Mojitos, you would have stuck your head into the sand right here.

Hangman laughs at you, the sound just a little mean. “You’re much too drunk, sweetheart.”

You suppose it doesn’t make much sense to argue. Now that you think about it, you really are drunk. The fuzzy, warm sort of drunk. Just on the right side of intoxicated, where everything feels packed in cotton, and nothing feels impossible.

Even that someone like Hangman might want to dirty talk to you behind the Hard Deck’s tool shed.

“Can you do something for me?” Jake asks.

You can just bite down on the anything that threatens to spill from your mouth the moment he’s uttered the question, and, god, what’s wrong with you? This is getting out of hand.

Dumbfounded, you nod silently.

He leans impossibly closer, his nose trailing along your jawline, and whispers, “The next time you touch yourself… When you’re alone, I want you to lie down on your bed. I want you to spread your legs, and I want you to touch your pretty little pussy for me.”

You clench your eyes shut, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, as Jake’s hand lifts from your stomach. He takes a fistful of your skirt and pulls it up, using his other hand to hold it away from your body. The cool breeze caresses your legs, but that’s not why you shiver.

His fingers slide along the inside of your thigh, from kneecap up to the very tops of them. You can’t breathe, can’t blink, can’t do anything but stand there and hope you won’t dissolve into a puddle.

“And when you fuck yourself,” he whispers, “I want you to think of me.”

And then he touches his fingers to your core, over the lace of your panties.

If you weren’t so far gone, you think you’d never forgive yourself for your reaction.

You all but squeak, back arching off the wall, pushing yourself into his palm, mouth dropping open as pure heat spreads through you, like an ache, like a tightening at your very center.

“Jesus,” Jake says, and his voice sounds breathless. “You’ve soaked these through, sweetheart.”

It’s the first indication that he’s affected by this, too, that you’re not the only one impacted, and somehow that’s enough to make you want him even more.

You wonder what it would be like to get him off. What he would look like, sound like. Taste like.

Your exhale is a tiny, shuddering thing.

“Can you do that for me?” he wants to know. “Touch yourself for me like I asked?”

“I…” You think you would have agreed if he had asked you to lasso him down the moon.

Anything you say, Hangman. Anything you want. Just keep touching me. Please.

“Yes,” you agree. “Yeah, I… okay.”

“Good girl,” he says. His lips press to the side of your throat just once, right where your pulse is pumping at a rapid pace.

And then he steps away, fingers gone from your panties, mouth gone from your neck.

The loss of him leaves you reeling, dizzy, plastered to the wall like roadkill.

Even Hangman looks a little disheveled, but it's minimal comfort.

Again, you feel on the verge of tears.

Hangman clears his throat and asks, “Do you have a ride home?”

It takes an uncomfortable amount of time for the question to even register. You just stare at him at first, blinking owlishly.

You barely even remember your own name. How are you supposed to answer this?

“I… Uber,” you say.

It’s not even a complete sentence, no verb at all, but it seems enough for Hangman.

He nods once. Then he takes a moment just to watch you.

Finally, he says, “I changed my mind about the dress.”

He takes a step back to admire you head to toe. As he looks at you, the torches reflect in his eyes until it looks like they’re gleaming. You’ve never felt so exposed in your life, and it makes you squirm.

You’re still so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been, and you’d do anything for him to touch you. Slide his fingers into you and fuck you right here, behind Penny’s bar, out on the beach where anyone might see. Think you might just die if he doesn’t.

Jake reaches once more for the skirt of your dress, but this time he doesn’t pull it up. Instead, he just lets his fingers dance through the folds once, the touch featherlight. Just a whisper of his digits across your thigh. You barely feel it.

You’re going to shake apart right here and now.

“I think this is my favorite after all,” he says, grins that Hangman grin, and then he’s gone.

You’re left leaning against the shed, breathless, panting, head and heart a mess. Alone, as you stare out at the white foam cresting on the waves, wondering what the fuck just happened.

read part ii

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