#How to Save Lawn

[xtruss]

4 Ways To Save Your Lawn From Searing Heat, According To A Superintendent

— By Josh Sens | July 2, 2023

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Here's how to manage a thirsty lawn. Some like it hot. But no one in their right mind favors unrelenting temperatures in the triple digits. Especially not if they’re caring for turf.

Blistering weather, like the kind now bearing down on much of the South, can be rough on superintendents and their grounds — and on homeowners and their yards.

Matt Guilfoil, a longtime member of the Golf Course Superintendents Association and the co-host of the turf-care podcast, From the Jingweeds, is the head super at Desert Canyon Golf Club, in the Phoenix area, where the daily highs this week have been pushing 115.

We asked Guilfoil what he does to prevent burnout of the agronomic kind, and whether those tips might also work at home.

1. Avoid Evaporation

You know how confidence in your swing can vanish in an instant? Water droplets on hots days are like that, too. Faster than you can say evapotranspiration, they dissipate into thin air. The takeaway? Don’t water at high noon, or at any other hour when the sun is blazing. You’re mostly wasting a precious resource. Before sunrise or after sunset are the preferred windows, Guilfoil says,, when temperatures are cooler.

You’ve probably heard that it’s bad to water at night, as it leaves the turf susceptible to fungus and other problems. There’s some truth to that, Guilfoil concedes, but it’s more of an issue in regions with cool-season grasses. Warm-season grasses are hardier that way; they can withstand an overnight soaking. “They pretty much want all the water and humidity they can get,” Guilfoil says. And they’ll be happier the next day when the heat kicks in again. If you’ve got a grass like Bermuda in your yard, don’t hesitate to give it an evening drink.

2. Target Trouble Spots

When grass gets dangerously dehydrated, it starts to discolor. With cool-season grasses, the hue looks almost blue, Guilfoil says. But with warm-season grasses, the color is more blackish. If you see a troubled patch starting to form, hand watering, or spot watering, is the way to go. Turn your hose directly on the parched turf, and keep irrigating until the soil is damp (a simple home test is to stick a screwdriver into the ground and pull it out, checking for dampness).

Spot watering is a common on-course practice. But just as not all supers have similar maintenance budgets, not all homeowners have an equal appetite for yard care. A lot depends not only on your schedule but your expectations.

“At some of the private courses around here, they won’t tolerate any discoloration and they’ve got the resources to keep things that way,” Guilfoil says. “I don’t have that luxury.” Something similar applies at home. “If you’re one of those people who insists on having the nicest lawn on the block, you’re probably going to be out there hand-watering. Otherwise, don’t sweat it. Your lawn isn’t absolutely perfect? There are worse things in life.”

3. Throw Shade

During the summer, Augusta National sets up tents around its greens to protect them from the sun. You could do the same at home, though you might catch flack from neighbors for being excessive, or attract unwanted guests who mistake you for Jay Gatsby throwing a garden party. Just make sure you allow for air flow underneath.

A more understated option is black netting, like the stuff superintendents sometimes stretch over newly seeded ground or a tee box they’re saving for a tournament. Usually, the purpose of the netting is to deter against birds or golfers. “But it can work as shade, too,” Guilfoil says.

4. Raise Your Mowing Heights

The tighter you mow your grass, the more delicate it is. During prolonged heat spells, do yourself—and your lawn—a favor by letting it grow a little longer. More resilience for the blades. Less work for you.

[constelationprize]

Jeremy crashout this Kevin crashout that what I really want is a Thea crashout. Like truly can you imagine giving up your body and your mind and your entire adult life for something and you think you made it. You're the success story of the success stories. And then you find out that, actually, everything was a lie and people are trying to skirt around the fact that it makes you a victim not a victor. And the team you sacrificed everything for is now a mockery of itself. Oh, also, just before they put the final nail in the coffin of their reputation they gave away your dream of captaincy to someone else in a whim. Telling the Ravens to kill themselves was not enough give her a gun

[carlyraejepsans]

you can talk about someone's "fandom impact" all you want (frankly stupid concept, it's a social environment based on a hobby, not everyone aims for popularity so why would you measure your worth like that) but at LEAST i didn't normalize putting flowey/papyrus on people dashes without content warnings

[tomorrowsgardennc]

my dad made me a display 2.0 for the seed packets and omg 😭😭😭😭😭

[friendlifyre]

unless something happens this is probably the year i finally get to pay off debts i've been carrying for +5 years and someone needs to sedate me because im already catching myself daydreaming abt saving up for a house

[shatinn]

Sims 4 - gameplay

(ohgoshwhyjustno)

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Something that is never explained in Stranger Things 4, and it bothers me: who on earth paid for all the stuff they bought at the War Zone? I know this is really in the category of "If you're wondering how he eats and breathes and other science facts," but come ON, the bill must have run into hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Teenagers typically don't just have that kind of money on hand.

Besides practical purchases like buying Nancy a rifle and ammunition, they bought a bunch of things that served no purpose other than to make them feel spiffier, like Eddie wearing a bullet belt when he didn't have a firearm and Robin's jaunty beret. Steve and Nancy both come from well-off families, Steve more so, so do they have additional credit cards on their parents' accounts that they can use? (But Steve's dad cut him off financially in ST3 - has his stance softened since then just because Steve got a job in a video shop and has no other plans?) (And even if Steve has been allowed an additional card for, like, major emergencies, where is he keeping it? Did he jump in the lake with his wallet in his pocket or give it to Robin to hold? Did Robin manage to retain it when she jumped in the lake? If Nancy has a card, where is she keeping it? Do her clothes even have pockets? She's not carrying a bag!) WHO PAID AND HOW???

And does the War Zone include a hardware store? Because where did they get a garbage can lid and all the nails for Eddie's shield? Where did they get a hacksaw for Nancy to saw off her gun's barrel? Were all those things fortuitously in the Winnebago or what? Did they find a stash of cash in the Winnebago and steal those people's life savings as well as their home and everything in it?

WHO PAID AND HOW???????

[leapdayowo]

As a kid who’s only traveled concrete paths next to houses no older than two centuries, I send my love to Lisboa

How I loved your cobbled streets, even with the cigarette buds between the cracks. Their edges worn smooth by ghost of faces I will never hope to meet

How giddy I felt to discover new designs of stone below my feet (I was Dorothy following my own magic road)

In my dreams, both day and night, I still see your carvings and mosaics adorning every nook and cranny. Winding through your streets by memories of a left at the restaurant of gods, straight past the theatre, and just past the blue tiled apartments. I trace these paths and feel the gentle breeze from the river below.

Your doors are green! And each store and home is nestled tightly in the city’s burrow of buildings (how lost I felt on where to look, only knowing neon signs and fields of asphalt parking lots telling me where to go)

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the many firsts

a/n: you have no idea how many times while writing this first instalment that i needed to take a break, if you know what i meaannn 🫠

summary: “alright, I’m sorry, geez,” Steve huffed with only a whisper of sincerity, “just come tonight, please? I mean, have you ever even been to a real party before? So how would you know that you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it? Just stop by for a second, and if it’s not for you, then you can just leave, simple as that.” 

warnings: innocent!reader x stepbro!steve rogers, frat!bucky barnes, frat!ari levinson, smut, dark content, college au, move in day at university, frat party, alcohol consumption, kissing, virgin!reader, corruption kink, voyeurism, overstimulation, first orgasm, edging, dirty talk, size kink, masturbation, handjob

word count: 8043

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist 

“Thanks for the ride,” you uttered as Steve’s car finally rolled to a stop in the campus parking lot. Cracking open the passenger side door, you slipped out and trailed back to open up the trunk, “but I can do this on my own, you know,” as the lid floated up to reveal the Tetris-like stacks of both of your stuff, you glanced up at Steve as he rounded the corner of the vehicle as well, “you really don’t have to keep up your end of the deal, our parents aren’t here to see.” 

“It’s alright,” his burly arm reached over you to fish out a laundry basket stuffed to the brim with your things, “I know it was just your mom babying you as usual and whispering in my dad’s ear to get him to make me watch after you.” 

“She doesn’t baby me, she just cares, a lot…” you shot back defensively, “and I don’t need anyone to watch out for me. I’m eighteen, not seven.” 

“Oh yeah?” he let out a faint scoff, “so you wanna just haul all this junk around campus, looking for your dorm, which you have no clue where is yet?” 

Your eyes then slowly narrowed in his direction before you muttered, “…well, maybe you could give me just a bit of a hand… just in the name of saving time instead of wasting my first day getting lost.” 

And as you filled your arms with as much stuff as you could carry, Steve noted, “hey, I'm not offering to be your fucking tour guide,” as he slammed the trunk shut behind you, “don’t worry, I won’t now try to make you suddenly like me,” he spoke of the ship that sailed away a long time ago. 

Arms full, you crossed the crowded parking lot till you reached one of the open gates leading into a lush green area where little paths weaved across the lawns and connected all of the towering buildings. 

“Welcome to Highridge University,” Steve breathed as you walked under the gateway, “best fucking years of your life.” 

For so long, you had dreamt of this moment, finally being out on your own, away at college, meeting kindred spirits and sipping from the well of knowledge. Glancing around, your teeth clamped down on the smile that rapidly grew and faintly calmed the jittery nerves that still tensed up your abdomen in nauseating butterflies. 

“Where are you gonna live, again?” his glance briefly drifted to you. 

“Uh…” one-handed, you swiftly scrambled to get out the papers folded up in your pocket, “… Manning Hall, room eight,” you read out loud once you finally found the information on the crumbled piece of paper. 

“Manning, alright,” he exhaled, “I started out in Lichfield myself, but I’ve, uh–, dated a few girls who lived in Manning,” his comment promptly caused your eyes to roll in your skull before your feet began to shuffle after him as he led the way. 

As you tried to keep up with his long stride, you watched as his gaze suddenly dipped to the contents of the laundry basket he carried before something caught his eye. 

“Ah, no way,” he chuckled as he shifted the hamper to free his one arm and snatch up an item, “I can’t believe you brought this with you.” 

Glancing over, fury swiftly began to simmer in your chest as you watched him clutch the brown plush bovine visage of Chocolate Milk, an old stuffed animal of yours. 

“Hey!” you swiftly snatched the soft cow out of his hand. 

But the loss didn’t get to diminish his flame as he only spotted the others buried deeper within the basket, hidden beneath the mass of Chocolate Milk, “oh my god, there’s more!”

“Will you please stop?” you begged as he picked up both an ivory bunny and a caramel-coloured bear, “okay, fine, so I brought a few stuffed animals with me, big whoop!” you screeched in hopes that he would for once show you an ounce of mercy as this was in fact your first time being away from home, so the sense of comfort that those toys brought seemed better than if you’d begged your own mother to stay with you till you settled in. 

But even when Steve let go of the teddy bears and settled them back into the hamper, his laughter still continued to rumble in his chest, “oh, you’re so adorable, fuck…” 

His laughter had thankfully subsided by the time you reached Manning Hall. Once you’d received your key, your feet began to carry you down the long corridors in search of your new home. 

When you found the correct door, it already stood ajar, prompting you to slowly push it open before you peeked your head inside. 

On the floor, next to one of the nightstands, there sat a dark-haired girl your age, haphazardly stuffing the small drawer with some of her things. 

“Hi,” you gently tapped your knuckles against the open door before crossing the threshold. 

Glancing over her shoulder, her eyebrows floated up before she exclaimed, “oh! You must be my roommate!” before she sprang up and rushed towards you, “hey, I’m Kate,” she reached out to shake your hand. 

Setting down enough stuff to free one palm, you grasped hers and offered her a timid smile, “nice to meet you, I’m Y/n.” 

Coming in behind you, Steve bumped against your side as he squeezed his eclipsing form in through the doorway, “where do you want this shit?”

“Oh,” you tried to get out of the way before his stride tumbled you down, “on the bed is fine, I think,” you gestured to the empty one. 

Slipping in past you both, Kate then asked as he placed the hamper down on the small mattress, “is this your boyfriend?”

You nearly choked on your giggle as your wide eyes soared to stare back at her, “him? My boy–, no,” you tried your best to ignore the flutter that tingled deep within your belly at her assumption, “that’s my stepbrother. He’s just already a senior here, so we drove together.” 

“Oh,” she exhaled before her face screwed up in immediate regret, “sorry.” 

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, your stepbrother briefly glanced down at the screen before muttering, ��well, I'll let you girls talk. I'm gonna go grab the rest from the car and then be on my way.” 

Offering him a small nod, your gaze shadowed him as he exited the small dorm room, your eyes only ripping away from his fading visage down the hall when Kate soon uttered, “hey, I was about to go get my student ID. You wanna join?”

“Sure,” you nodded, stuffing both of your hands in your pockets, “do you know where it is?”

“Actually, I do,” she cocked her head proudly before sharing, “my girlfriend goes here, so I’ve already been visiting this place for an entire year.” 

“Wait, wait, wait, let me readjust my grip,” the frat bro with a buzzcut wheezed to the other guy carrying the heavy beer keg. They were barely halfway up the steps that led to the fraternity’s porch as you approached. 

“Seriously?” the one that looked like a Norse god halted with a huff, “you can’t keep pausing every five seconds or we won’t get this thing inside till next year!” 

“Hi,” the quiet tone of your voice caused them to drop their squabble as both of their eyes promptly drifted directly towards you, “I’m sorry, is this the Kappa Alpha Nu house?”

“It most certainly is, gorgeous,” the blonde one let his stare take a journey down over your frame, “why? You wanna join?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I'm just looking for someone.”

“Okay,” the other one nodded, “well I'm pretty sure everyone’s inside,” his head invitingly tilted towards the open front door behind them before he added, “except for if you’re looking for Frank or Billy, they haven’t arrived yet.” 

Slipping in behind them, the entryway that met you was generous and wide, with a broad staircase off to the side that stretched up to an open landing where numerous hallways spewed forth and weaved deeper into the house. Peeking around, you first poked your head inside the living room that bloomed off to the left, though the room that met you was completely vacant. 

Though as you twisted to take your search somewhere else, a figure appeared from out of nowhere, curving around the corner, before you blindly bumped directly into the mass. 

“Ow, fuck!” he cursed before you stepped off his toes that your shoes had accidentally stomped down on in the collision.

“Shit, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going–…” your apology then promptly faded from your lips as you blinked up into the blue eyes of none other than Bucky Barnes. 

“Y/n? What are you doing here?” your stepbrother’s best friend blinked back into your wide eyes before his glance dipped down to the deep neckline of your shirt, “and since when did these stop being mosquito bites?” he teased as a smirk began to bloom on his lips. 

As you then tugged at your shirt to cover up more of your cleavage, Bucky only continued to brashly stare.  

“Do you know where Steve is?” you avoided his inappropriate comment with a roll of your eyes. 

“Yeah, he should be down any second,” his brawny arm curled up before he leaned his weight against the wall behind you, “so, how the hell are you? Taken any showers lately?” he briefly wiggled his brows, recalling the time over the summer when he had come over to hang out with his friend, only to naturally walk into your bathroom right as you were washing shampoo out of your hair. 

“I’m fine,” you sighed as your cheeks began to burn, “glad to finally have a bathroom door with a lock that actually works.” 

But then, before Bucky could torment you any further, three separate pairs of footsteps creaked on the staircase. 

“Hey, Buck,” you heard Steve call out before he reached the bottom of the steps, “did you remember to invite the Delta Phi girls tonight, because–,” his sentence then crumbled as his gaze landed upon you. Stopping in his tracks, he blinked down at you with his eyebrows harshly knitted together before his glare flickered to his friend, “what is she doing here?” 

Crossing the width of the entryway, you dipped your fingers into your pocket and said, “you forgot your phone in my room,” before you fished the device out and stretched it up towards him. 

Finally crossing over the threshold behind you, the two guys hauling the keg perked up, “already trying out the new wares on campus? Nice.”

“What?” you twisted around to glare at them, your heart suddenly thumping in your chest, “I’m his stepsister…”

“Oh…” one of the guys on the staircase beside Steve murmured before turning to utter closer to him, “this is her? Seriously?” though hushed, his voice was still loud enough for each and every person in the room to hear what he said, “that’s your stepsister?” 

The clearly lewd undertones of his cadence flew directly over your head as you then blinked up at Steve and asked, “you told them about me?”

“Oh yeah, he has,” the shaggy-haired one on the other side of your stepbrother eyed you a moment before he shifted down the last steps, “I'm Ari, president of this madhouse,” the towering man leaned against the thick bannister before he pointed out each other fraternity members surrounding him, “this is Marc, Thor, Curtis and I'm guessing you already know Bucky.”

“Yeah,” you briefly entertained Bucky and threw a glare over your shoulder at him, “our paths unfortunately crossed back in high school.” 

As your eyes fluttered back, Ari, still standing tall before you, tilted his head and asked, “you stopping by our annual beginning of the semester bash tonight?” 

“Oh,” you breathed, taken aback by the unexpected invitation, “thanks, but I don’t think I should. I have freshman assembly early tomorrow morning, and anyhow, I’m not really much of a party girl,” your fingers began to fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. 

But then, before you could share any more of your completely valid reasons, Steve spoke up, “oh, come on,” he nearly groaned, “I was told to take you under my wing, so I can’t very well stand around and let you waste away your college years just like you did back in high school.” 

“What’s wrong with how I spent those years?” you scoffed and crossed your arms across your chest. 

“Uh, you had no life, no friends, nothing,” he counted on his fingers, “you were basically a nun.” 

Throwing your hands up into the air, you exclaimed, “oh, well, I’m sorry we can’t all be the fucking prom king and go to parties every weekend without it affecting one’s GPA!” 

“Alright, I’m sorry, geez,” Steve huffed with only a whisper of sincerity, “just come tonight, please? I mean, have you ever even been to a real party before? So how would you know that you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it? Just stop by for a second, and if it’s not for you, then you can just leave, simple as that.” 

“Drinks for the beautiful ladies,” Lloyd winked as he and Bucky slithered into the cluster of sorority girls to hand out some beverages. You were leaning up against the nearby wall, shyly only having one foot into the conversation as your new roommate, who now stood with her arm around her girlfriend, Yelena, encouraged you to join in and meet everybody. 

“Fuck off, Lloyd,” the redheaded ringleader of the girls barked after she’d seized a cup from him, “I can’t deal with you tonight.”

“Still playing hard to get, I see,” Lloyd only smirked back at Natasha’s scowl. 

“Oh, I very much am not,” she uttered coldly. 

“See, every party you tell me that and every party, I don’t care. It’s part of our thing,” he briefly waved a finger between the both of them. 

“It is not part of our thing, we don’t have a thing, we will never have a thing.” 

Though his feet didn’t shift at her warning, as his stare only narrowed to a squint before he concluded, “…so what you’re saying is there’s a chance.” 

“Just leave me alone,” she threw up a hand between them to shield her from any more of his desperate attempts, “go flirt with some sad, lonely freshman.”

Though as you watched from the sidelines, you swiftly felt yourself stiffen up as Lloyd suddenly saddled up next to you and flashed you a dazzling grin, “hello… are you by any chance sad and lonely?” 

Sucking in a breath, you nervously blinked up at him, “not particularly.” 

But before the frat guy could make any other attempts, and make you that much further overwhelmed, Bucky’s palm landed on Lloyd’s shoulder before he offered him a band-aid for the rejections.  

“Hey, I think I saw those twins from Callahan’s class out on the dance floor a bit ago,” he leaned in slightly to utter over the booming music that rattled the entire frat house. 

“Really?” Lloyd gasped, promptly renewed with vigour before he darted off, leaving Bucky alone next to you.  

“He seems… nice,” you tilted your head as your gaze traced him onto the dance floor, briefly flickering to Thor behind them all as he controlled the music and put his own spin on it. 

“Ah, he’s not that bad when he’s sober,” Bucky shrugged before shifting to face you, “here,” he then held out a plastic cup for you to grasp.  

“Oh, I’m not really much of a drinker–,” you tried to protest before Bucky rolled his eyes and shoved the beverage into your hand, “oh, okay, sure,” you blinked back into his steely blue eyes as he then brought the cup up to your lips and guided you to take a large gulp. The searing sting caused you to swiftly tilt your head back down as you then coughed because of how strong it was, “oh my god, what is that?”

“Just drink it, it’ll help, trust me,” he urged as you stared down into the well of what must have been pure liquor. 

Cautiously, you took the older guy’s advice, sipping slowly as you let your gaze wander the space, though as you did, you expected Bucky to leave, but to your surprise, he didn’t shift to move away from your side, which then only caused a timid bubble to ache within your belly as your stare nervously flickered up to him, clueless as to what you should do next.  

“So…” you exhaled tensely as you tried to make conversation, “you guys do this kind of thing a lot? Throw parties here?” 

“Yeah, pretty much every weekend,” Bucky nodded after taking a sip of his own drink, “although this one in particular, the beginning of the year bash, it always gets a bit wild. Probably because we haven’t seen each other all summer long, so some years it gets a bit out of hand.” 

“Oh… like, how wild do you mean? Does it turn into a clue movie?” you half-joked. 

“No, nothing quite like that,” he chuckled at your slight terror, “although Scott did almost drown in the pool one time, so…” he shared, pointing to the man erratically shaking his thing in the centre of the dance floor, “he was fine, woke back up, but just don’t get alarmed if anyone pulls something particularly stupid before the sun comes up.”

Pursing your lips, you nodded faintly, “thanks for the tip.” 

As your gaze continued to flicker across the expansive space and the drunken students letting loose, his own stayed glued to you before you eventually heard him utter, “so, have you gotten the grand tour yet?”

“What?” your neck swiftly twisted in his direction.  

“Of the house,” he faintly gestured to the walls around him. 

“…you wanna show me around?” 

“Sure,” he shrugged, “well, I’m kinda just waiting around for it to become my team’s turn in beer pong, so I’ve got the time to kill.” 

“Oh, alright,” you breathed, your pulse suddenly picking up at the thought of wandering the halls by his side. 

“Cool,” he nodded before shifting his gaze to the room you already stood in, “so, this is the place,” he spread out an arm as if you hadn’t just been standing in this spot for twenty minutes. 

“Yeah, I already figured that one out on my own,” you chuckled briefly before the palm he slid over your lower back caused it to fade away. 

With his hold, he guided you around the corner, into the entryway, “so, the kitchen, dining room and the door to the basement are through there,” he then pointed to the different corners of the abode, “and through there is the living room and this room we use for meetings and shit.” 

He then ushered you upstairs, where barely any partygoers had ventured up. Pointing down the various long hallways, he guided your vision to the different doors all down each of them, “so, Frank, Billy, Curtis and Miguel’s rooms are down that way,” he then gestured to the opposite direction, “Scott, Thor, Lloyd, Ransom and Marc are down there,” before his feet then shifted down the last corridor, “and down here is my room,” he pointed to the closed door that had his name on it, “Steve’s, Andy’s and Ari’s.”

Though as he spoke, your eyes fluttered to the door at the end of the hallway, standing slightly ajar. The movement that caught your eye on the other side caused you to swiftly glance to Bucky with a look of alarm, though he clearly couldn’t spot it from where he was standing as he continued to chat, his voice soon fading and flying over your head as your stare wandered back towards the dark room. 

On a bed in the centre of the room, there was Ari, hovering and grunting above some blonde girl you didn’t recognise. It took a second for you to realise what they were doing, though when it sank in, a small gasp escaped your lips and caused the leader’s eye to snap up from the whimpering girl beneath him and lock with your own stare through the sliver. You wanted to look away, you knew that you should have, but you couldn’t. 

And as you stood there, paralysed and suddenly panting, a wide grin began to bloom upon his lips as he held your eye and began to roll his hips with even more force, causing the chick on the bed to nearly fall off the mattress as each thrust drove her closer and closer to the edge. 

Though as you finally managed to snap out of your trance, you nearly coughed as you scrambled to blink back to Bucky, “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” 

“I said that I’m gonna go take a leak,” Bucky cocked an eyebrow as he watched your chest rise and fall rapidly beneath your shirt, “you good?”

“Yeah,” you breathed foggily, “I think I just need a second before heading back downstairs again…”

“Oh, well, I'm sure you can go hang out in Steve’s room for a bit,” he cracked open the door behind him and gestured for you to slip inside. 

Slowly, your feet shuffled deeper into the room, the plastic cup in your hand soon resting on the windowsill as you momentarily cast your glance outside at the people down in the front yard, playing a rambunctious drinking game. 

Though as your frame sank down with an exhale to sit on the edge of the bed, your head swiftly burying itself in your hands, loud moans seeped through the wall from the other room as they crescendoed in a cacophony that caused your head to spin. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t just the lewd acts that were to blame for why you suddenly felt so dizzy. Ground unsteady beneath your feet, even though you were already sitting down, you noticed how inebriated you truly had become. Not that you had imbibed that much, but as the lightweight that you admittedly were and the minuscule experience your body had with such substances, it didn’t take much to have you feeling more molten than you ever had before. 

“What are you doing up here?” you suddenly heard, causing your face to crawl out of its hiding place in your palms. Glancing up, you saw Steve’s shadow in the doorway.  

“Steve!” you jumped slightly at his unexpected arrival, “you scared me,” you clutched your chest gently as you watched him shut the door behind him. 

Moving over towards the desk in the corner, he briefly dipped down to find a bottle of whisky that rested in the bottom drawer. Casting a glance back at you over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he studied your form, “did I just walk in on something?” he asked as he unscrewed the lid, “you waiting for someone to come up here and fuck you on my bed? Kinky.”

“What? N-no! Oh my god, no,” you sputtered, sensing a mortified heat rush up to your cheeks, “I swear, Bucky was just showing me around a bit, and I wasn’t ready to go back to the chaos downstairs yet, that’s all, he was the one who said it was okay for me to take a break in here.”

“Hmm… you’re still sweet on him, aren’t you?” he guessed before tilting the bottle back for a swig, “is that what was happening here? Were you waiting for him to get back? Did I just cockblock you from finally getting that stick fucked out of your ass? If so, then I feel like I have a responsibility to warn you, he is hung like a fucking horse, so don’t be discouraged if you can’t take him.” 

“I–, what?” you panted, blinking back at him wildly, “no, I’m not! I-I don’t like him, I’ve never–, what are you talking about?” 

“Chill! I’m only joking,” Steve swiftly chuckled at your perplexed panic, “I mean, not about his size, both a blessing and a curse, you know,” he cocked his head, “seriously, you don’t gotta freak out like some innocent little virgin,” he laughed, though his words only caused you to freeze up, a reaction he swiftly picked up on, “…unless you–, oh shit,” growing silent, his stare stayed glued on you as he slowly sat the bottle in his hand down upon the desk behind him, “you are, aren’t you?” 

“Well, you don’t gotta say it like that!” you groaned, keeping your eyes averted to the floor, “it’s not some terminal illness.”

“Sorry, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I just–… fuck…” he exhaled, “really?” 

“…yeah,” you nervously fiddled with the hem of your skirt as you felt the mattress dip beside you, “you know my mom has never let me date anyone…”

“What about like other stuff?” Steve’s tone tickled your hot skin as he now sat right next to you, “you’ve done that, right?” though you only managed to meekly shake your head as an answer, “really? No one’s ever like touched you before? Or you’ve played with someone else?” he pried, and you once again shook your burning face from side to side, “wow,” he exhaled, “well, then I can’t even begin to imagine how much you must masturbate, damn.”

“I–, I–…” you tried to utter, though the truth of your inexperience seemed too difficult to say out loud, rendering you to once again wobble your head. 

“Wait, seriously?” his eyebrows soared up even higher, “you haven’t that either?”

“Well, I’ve–, sort of–, I don’t know,” you stumbled, your gaze still hazy on the floor. 

“How have you done it?” he then asked, making it that much harder for you to fill up your lungs with oxygen. 

“Oh god,” you jaggedly shifted your vision to the ceiling, “this is so mortifying.”

“No, it’s okay, you can tell me,” he pushed in a gentle tone you didn’t think he had in him. 

Gnawing at your bottom lip till a metallic taste met your tongue, you hesitantly muttered, “…kinda just, I guess, sit on a pillow or a stuffed animal or something and then–…”

“Shit…” a low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound that shot straight down between your thighs and worsened the throbbing already distracting you down there, “that’s the only thing you do? You just hump your pretty little pillow till you cum?”

“Well, I don’t know if I–, uh, reach that per say, I just kind of rock till it builds and then I’ve always stopped because–, I don’t know…” you uttered, mortified that your inebriated state had nudged you to share such matters, especially with him, “it’s stupid, I know. My anatomy knowledge is great, much better than yours, I know where stuff is and how things technically work, but when I was younger, I know it’s dumb, but it all kind of scared me, like what if I did it wrong and ruined something, and I know now that statistically speaking the odds of something like that happening are really, really low, but–, yeah…” 

Steve’s eyes never left you for but a second, merely stared as you shared and eventually, after silence had swept through the room like a crisp breeze, he parted his lips and uttered, “do you want me to teach you?”

Finally, you turned your head to meet his gaze, “…you’re my stepbrother…” 

“Yeah, of a couple of years,” he had the audacity to shrug, “and for most of that time, I’ve been away at school, so like, are we really?” 

A stunned scoff then bubbled out of your throat, “our parents are married, so yes, that makes up stepsiblings.” 

“Well, for now,” he tilted his head slightly, “were you living in the same house as I was over this summer? They clearly aren’t newlyweds anymore…” he stated before leaning in closer, “so, what do you say? Will you let me help you?” your eyes flickered down to your knee as his knuckles slowly inched closer and ghosted against your skin, “I promise, it’ll feel so fucking good, you don’t even know…” he nearly whispered as if he was trying to sell you on a drug you’d instantly get addicted to. 

“I–…” you panted, “but wouldn’t it be weird that it’s you showing me?”

“No, it wouldn’t be weird at all,” his head gently shook from side to side, “unless you want me to go grab Bucky, I'm sure he wouldn’t mind either–”

“No, no!” you swiftly squeaked, “that’s not necessary,” as sharing such a secret with Steve had been bad enough, the thought of repeating the whole ordeal with someone else made you feel as if you might faint. 

“Okay,” he breathed before he slowly began to inch closer, an action you swiftly put a stop to when you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Wait, what if I don’t like it?”

“Then you just tell me, and I’ll stop,” one of his hands floated up to rest on top of your own, still pressed against him, “promise,” he offered you a reassuring smile. Steve’s glance then flickered down to your lips before his eyebrows twitched slightly as he wondered, “so, if you’ve never done any of that stuff before, does that mean you’ve also never been kissed?”

“…well, I've played spin the bottle a few times, many years ago, does that count?” you recalled the awkward pecks in your youth. 

“Not really,” the corners of his lips twitched before he asked you, “can I kiss you?”

“Can you–…” you echoed faintly before whispering, “okay,” utterly spellbound as you stared back at him, “what should I do?”

“Just relax,” he then gently grabbed each side of your face with his wide hands, “and follow my lead.” 

It simultaneously felt like an eternity as well as only the blink of an eye before Steve had closed the gap and pressed his lips to your own. At first, it was soft and slow, his right thumb briefly swiping against your cheekbone as he kissed you, but then you felt his tongue flicker forth, making you gasp, before he seized that opportunity to slip past your guard and let his tongue dance against your own, the sensation of which caused you to positively melt as you relaxed into the kiss and mirrored his efforts. 

You had no clue how much time had passed once you finally parted, and you blinked your dazed eyes back at him. 

And in your haze, he first shifted back deeper onto the bed, before he gently manoeuvred your frame to slot you in between his legs, “here, lean back against me,” he drew you closer till your back was pressed up against his chest. 

Twisting your neck to look up at him, you were still too stunned to speak, only suck in a shaky breath as he then pressed a peck to your temple. 

“You ready?” he murmured against your hairline as his hands slid down atop your own, his fingers swiftly interlocking with your smaller ones. 

“I think so,” you uttered nervously. 

“So, let’s start off with the basics,” his low voice only worsened the tingly sensation that now roared in your body like a roiling flame, “could you tell me what places you’ve explored before and where you haven’t yet?”

“…well, I guess I’ve touched most places before…” you hesitantly began, “my hands usually run all over my body when I–, you know… but I’ve never put anything inside, and I only touched my–, uhm, clit one time, a really long ago,” your confession began to make you feel so dizzy, you feared you might faint at any moment, “and it was just really intense and–, I don’t know, I was scared that it was too much, so I never tried it again, not directly anyway, just–, you know, pillows and such…” 

“Alright,” he uttered, letting go of your hands. 

Your eyes grew as they then traced Steve’s touch, first sweeping up to gently cup both of your boobs. Your cunt clenched around nothing as he briefly brushed his thumbs over the pebbles of your nipples, poking through the thin fabric of your shirt. You found yourself barely breathing when he eventually let his palms roam further south till they were at your hips, and his fingers began to hike up your skirt and let it crumble around your waist. 

“Let me see…” he murmured directly in your ear as he poked at your bent legs to pry them open, “oh my god, look at you…” you felt the deep groan vibrate in his chest as he caught sight of your panties and the embarrassingly soaked patch darkening the cotton, “you are so fucking wet…”

Steve then slowly slid his touch down over your covered core, merely cupping your lightly, though still making it near impossible for you to breathe. But your whole body twitched as he lightly curled up his hand till only the tips of his fingers still grazed you, before he then began to draw a feathery pattern of circles, tickling your deprived centre. 

“How does that feel, huh?” he kept up the ghostly touch. 

“I-it’s–, o-oh my god,” you whimpered, doubtful if you could take whatever else he’d dare to throw at you when even such a light touch managed to make you tremble, “Steve.”

Seizing his teasing, his fingers then hooked in the hem of your underwear before pulling them to the side, sticky strings of your arousal clinging to the cotton, “oh, fuck…” he groaned before his instincts overtook him and his fingers caught the waistband before ripping them down your legs till their rushed journey halted at your ankles, resting around them and loosely trapping them together. 

Pushing your legs further apart, one hand then traced your inner thigh while he hooked his other burly arm across your chest, just beneath the swell of your tits, occasionally squeezing so tightly that your boobs were pushed up even higher as he efficiently strapped you in, impossibly close to his broad chest. 

Painstakingly slow, he slid his touch closer and closer to your glistening core, till he reached the places that you never had the nerve to truly touch on your own.

“Oh, f-fuck!” you gasped as the rough pads of his fingers just lightly dragged through your folds. 

“Christ, you’re sensitive,” he kept on peeking over your shoulder as he drew a slow circle over your clit, “look at you, fucking trembling like a leaf, and I've barely touched you yet.”

“Barely?” you echoed breathlessly, “what do you mean–, how is this barely? I-I don’t know if I can–, it’s–, fuck,” you whimpered against his touch, “it’s too much,” your thighs trembled on either side of his wide palm, “I don’t know if I can take it, I think you might have to stop.” 

“No, no, no, it’s not too much, you can take it, I know you can,” he urged before he bent his strong legs and hooked them over your own, trapping your wiggly limbs and holding you down and open for him, “just trust me, I’ve got you, all you gotta do is just relax, okay? Just give into it.” 

His feathery pressure on your puffy pearl then increased, making your hips buck beneath his touch as a moan rippled out from deep within your lungs.

“Oh, fucking hell, there you go,” he smiled from behind you, “look at that little pussy, fucking crying out now that she’s finally getting some attention.”

Your fingers twitched just beneath his arm, still flexing over your ribs, and a murmur slipped out past your whimpers, “I can’t believe this is actually happening…” 

Though as Steve’s touch drove you mad, his fingers slipped down to catch some of the slick that leaked out of your untouched hole, before he went into autopilot and didn’t sweep back up to bully your glistening clit, but instead began to circle your virginal entrance. 

“No, wait,” you instantly began to freak out, “n-not there!” 

“You sure?” he let himself trace your tight opening one last time, “alright, maybe next time then…” 

Once his fingers had swept back up and focused in on your puffy pearl, rolling it firmly beneath his touch, you felt your body reach the agonising point where you’d always chicken out. 

“Steve, I–”

“Hm?” he hummed in your ear and kept up his efforts, surely feeling your clit throb beneath his fingers, “you getting close?”

“I-I–,” you gasped, trying your best to fight the feeling, “this is usually when I stop.” 

“Oh yeah?” you could plainly hear the smirk on his lips. 

“Mhm,” you nodded, staring down at his efforts that barely even paused. 

“So, this is what you’d do, huh? You’d ride your pillow and then just stop?” as he uttered that last word, he abruptly took his hand away, “just leave yourself all edged and needy?” your hips bucked after his fading touch, “that’s usually something I’d do to my girls just to be a menace and make them all dumb and desperate, but that’s just what you do to yourself all of the time?” your whole frame quivered against him as you weakly tried to grab for his hand, even as he brought it completely out of your reach, “damn, gotta admit, wish I had known that earlier… I could have sneaked into your room afterwards and lent a hand, helped you go all the way. That’s what you needed, wasn’t it? You just needed your big bro to come in and hold your hand through it because you got scared? It’s okay, I’m here now, I’ve got you, big brother’s got you.”

“You’re not my brother–” 

“Damn right, I’m not,” he nearly chuckled before he began to touch you once again, rendering any retort you had lined up to fly straight out of the window as shaky moans instead flowed from your lungs.

Though the cruel pause had given your body enough time to calm down just a tad, it barely took any time at all for Steve to push you back towards that intimidating ledge and hold you there as you peeked over the edge. 

“Steve, I don’t know if I can–, it’s–” 

“Baby, it’s okay, you can do it,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “just trust me, it’ll feel so fucking good, you don’t even know,” the hand he had plastered against your ribs slid up to grasp one of your tits, denting the softness with his long fingers, “just let it happen, relax.” 

Shaking uncontrollably, your face tilted to hide in the bulk of his arm as the most blinding and overwhelming sensation you’d ever felt in your entire life rippled through your form, white-hot pleasure in a dose that you hadn’t thought imaginable.

“Oh, there you go, fuck,” he moaned and tried to draw your very first orgasm out as long as he could, “atta girl, that’s it.” 

When his movements finally stopped, his messy hand slipped down to rest against your twitching thigh, hazy whimpers ever flowing from your lungs as you reeled in the staggering sensation. 

“Holy shit…” you eventually managed to pant shakily. 

“Told you it’d feel good,” he uttered cockily before pressing a kiss to your temple. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as he then began to caress your thigh gently, sweeping his touch up and down the goosebump-ridden flesh till your breathing began to slow. 

But then as you felt yourself relax even further back against him, wiggling slightly to get more comfortable, you noticed something hard poking your back. Assuming that it was something in his pocket, you shifted once again, but still couldn’t escape it, though with each of your squirming attempts, a low groan was conjured deep within Steve’s chest.

“What is that?” you then muttered, “is it your phone? Could you take it out of your pocket?”

“No, it’s not my phone,” he couldn’t help but chuckle at your innocence, swiftly causing you to freeze up, “you got me hard.”

Gasping loudly as if he hadn’t just had his hand on your pussy, you shot up to a sitting position and swiftly crawled around to direct your wide eyes straight at him. Skirt falling down to cover you back up, your panties however still remained around your ankles as you shifted to kneel on the bed before him. 

“Oh my god,” the stunned expression plastered all over your face caused him to melt, “you’re so cute…” 

Blinking back at him, you stammered, “that was–… you’re–…” 

“Hard? Yeah,” he casually uttered, “kinda impossible not to be after what just happened,” he let his hand drift down to palm himself through his pants, guiding your vision to flutter down as well to finally look at the prominent bulge that strained against the zipper of his jeans. And as his touch slowly rubbed against the mouthwatering hardness, teasingly squeezing it for an ounce of relief, his head then cocked as he continued to stare at you, “can I ask you something?”

Downright hypnotised as you stared down at the overwhelming display of his arousal, you only managed to hum as a reply, “mhm,” as you stayed transfixed on the clothed hardness that somehow both terrified and exhilarated you at the same time. 

“Have you ever seen a cock before?”

Meeting his unwavering gaze, you blinked, “…in textbooks and stuff…”

“How about up close?” he asked and you swiftly shook your hazy head, “you wanna see mine?”

“I–… what?” 

“Do you wanna see mine?” 

“U-uh…” you could barely think as you felt the sore sensitivity between your unsteady thighs somehow blossom back into the same agonising tingles that had taken hold of you before, “okay.” 

A sharp breath filled your lungs as you watched him free his dick. Your eyes swiftly grew even wider as he enveloped the hand, still glistening with your juices, around the fat girth. Slick and sloppy sounds filled the room with every leisurely stroke as he began to slowly jerk himself, your thighs unconsciously squeezing together at the show. 

“You good?” he chuckled lightly at the way your eyes had gone glassy. 

“Mhm…” you foggily nodded, struggling to grasp onto even a single thought, “it’s–… a lot bigger than I imagined…” 

“Have you been imagining what my cock looked like?” he relentlessly teased. 

“No, no, I mean, just in general,” you fumbled over your words as he kept up his silky strokes, “yours is bigger than I imagined them to be in real life.” 

“You wanna touch it?”

“…t-touch?” your eyes fought to blink back up and lock with Steve’s own. 

“Yeah, come on,” he then grabbed your hand and brought it towards his length. At first, he let you just graze your fingertips against his dick, guiding your touch as he slowly dragged it across the velvety skin, all the way from the bulbous head, glistening with shiny precum that beaded at the tip, to the fat base where his heavy balls bloomed beneath. 

“Oh–,” you swallowed as he then wrapped your fingers around his girth before engulfing them with his own broad hand, still shiny from your wetness, “it’s–, really hard.”

“Yeah, well that’s what you do to me, baby,” he smiled as he tightened his fist around your own, though even so, his girth was still too big for your own fingers to meet on the other side, “this is all for you…” 

His free hand then grabbed your chin before he ravenously pressed his lips to your own, kissing you fiercely as he began to move your hand and guide your touch over his throbbing length. 

Eventually, as you broke from the kiss, you peeped down at his cock, tight in your grasp. 

His fingers kept on clutching your chin, holding you close, as he then purred, “here, like this,” his wide hand flexed around your smaller one, “a little tighter, don’t be scared, you won’t hurt me–, yeah,” he then moaned as you obeyed his command, “fuck, that’s it…” briefly letting his eyes flutter closed as he breathed through the pleasure. Though as he blinked his gaze back open, his broad thumb brushed against your knuckles as he asked, “you wanna try on your own?”

“O-okay,” you uttered before his guiding touch faded and you timidly tried to emulate his efforts, “like this?”

“Yeah, that’s good,” he groaned as you slowly slid your careful touch up and down the length of his cock, “shit, you’re a natural, baby,” his fingers that clutched your chin briefly shifted before his thumb poked up to brush the pad against your bottom lip, “keep going like that and I’ll blow in no fucking time.” 

“Oh,” you swiftly ripped your stare away from his dick as you misunderstood his words, “should I stop then?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled before claiming your lips once again, not holding back in the slightest as he let the kiss grow sloppy and desperate. 

Rejoining his touch to your own, he began to speed up your actions, making you stroke his thick girth even faster than before. And as he tilted away from the greedy kiss, a glossy string of saliva still kept you both connected. 

Panting as he neared the finish line, he cast a brief glance down at his fat cock slick in both of your hands, before he threw his head back and moaned loudly as he unravelled at your touch. 

“Fuck…” he panted as he let go of your palm, now sticky with his hot load just as his own hand was as well. Chest still rising and falling rapidly, he caught your frame and tugged you even closer, “come here,” he murmured as he pulled you into a limp hug. 

“Was that okay?” you asked in a small voice as you curled into his chest. 

Catching your jaw, he tilted your head back enough for you to catch his eye before he uttered, “that was fucking perfect,” and he kissed you once again. As he drew back, his gaze lingered, eventually fluttering down towards your lips before he brought his fingers up towards them, still messy with both your nectar as well as his own load, “open up.”

“What?” your brows knit together as you blinked down at the sticky digits he ghosted against your lips, tilting your head back slightly in confusion. 

“Give it a taste.” 

“Why would I do that?” you nearly laughed. 

“Because it’s normal,” the older guy told you, “most people love cleaning up after their messes, so you probably do too.”

“Seriously?” 

“I shit you not,” he said, though you kept on staring back at him in doubt, “what, do you want me to prove it to you? Fine,” he then extended his thumb for him to suck it clean, “there,” he released the dinger from his lips with a pop, “now it’s your turn,” he twisted his hand back down towards your mouth. 

And hesitantly, you found yourself parting your lips for him, “there you go…” he groaned as he slipped two of his long fingers inside your mouth, “see? Tastes good, doesn’t it?” his gaze stayed transfixed upon your lips wrapped around his messy digits as he slowly let himself shift his fingers, greedily fucking your face for a bit, “shit…” he cursed as you licked them clean and he pulled them back out, a murmur swiftly slipping from his lips as he continued to stare, “I can’t wait to train this little mouth to do all sorts of tricks…” 

“What?” you asked as your mind began to scramble for the meaning. 

“Oh, nothing,” he sighed and ignored your naiveté before he pulled you back in for another hug, “nothing at all, sis…”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Save a Horse, Ride a Bob

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Taking someone to your hometown is a huge milestone for you, and seemingly Bob fits perfectly with everyone and everything, except for the fact the he managed to unknowingly place upon the “hat rule” on you. But hey? At least it works out in his favour.

A/N: This 100% was based on when John said “ride Bob into the sky”

WC: 2.7K

⸻

Bringing someone home had always felt… foreign.

Not because you weren’t proud of where you came from, quite the opposite. It was stitched into your bones, the red dirt roads, the smell of warm rain on fence posts, the summer nights heavy with fireflies and the distant lowing of cattle. But this town, with its long memory and watchful eyes, didn’t forget things easily. And it didn’t take kindly to people who didn’t understand its rhythm.

You’d never wanted to share it with anyone. Not really.

Until Bob.

It started small, the way he’d lean in to listen when you talked about riding horses at dawn, or how his lips quirked when you mentioned growing up in a place where the diner served pie before noon and the deputy coached Little League. He never interrupted, never made fun of it. Just listened like he was storing every word somewhere private.

And maybe that’s when you knew.

That if anyone was going to see where you came from, the soft underbelly of your story, the place where your heart had first learned how to beat… It should be him.

Bob Reynolds, with his soft voice and calloused hands, with his quiet smile and wide, storm wrecked heart. He was timid in the way kind people often are, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. But you knew, deep down, that this town would take one look at him and fold him into its patchwork soul like he’d always belonged.

⸻

You and Bob would drove up the winding roads in your beat-up truck, talking about your plans to show him the ranch, have dinner with your folks, maybe take him riding the next morning.

But then as the old house came into view, porch light already glowing golden against the falling sun, there were more than just your parents waiting. A half-dozen trucks were parked haphazardly near the barn, lawn chairs sprouting like dandelions around the fire pit, and you could hear laughter and screen doors slapping shut before you even killed the engine.

Bob looked at you, startled.

“…I thought it was just your family?”

You winced, a smile pulling at your mouth. “It was I guess, until I told my mama I was bringing someone home.”

He blinked. “You told her this morning.”

“Exactly.”

Bob’s brows lifted in slow, dawning realization.

⸻

When he stepped out of the truck, the warm twilight hit him first, that kind of golden dusk you only get in wide, open places. Crickets just beginning to chirp. The slow hum of cicadas. Dust kicking up around boots. The porch steps creaked under familiar weight as your mom came flying toward you, apron still dusted with flour, arms thrown wide. She hugged you like you’d been gone years instead of months.

And then she turned to Bob.

“You must be Robert.” she said, using his full name like she’d already claimed him.

He opened his mouth, but your father stepped up next, tall and sun-worn, giving Bob a long look before offering his hand. “You ride?” he asked, like it was a greeting.

“I… don’t think so?” Bob admitted sheepishly.

Your dad nodded once. “We’ll fix that.”

And just like that, it began.

Neighbors streamed in with casseroles and lemonade. Old classmates you hadn’t seen since graduation hugged you tight and gave Bob speculative, amused once-overs. Kids ran wild near the pasture fence, and someone’s dog had already claimed Bob’s shoes as a pillow. Your best friend from high school elbowed you with a grin, murmuring, “Damn, girl. You did good.”

Bob stood beside you, stiff at first. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Not like this. Not like someone’s person. But every time he reached for your hand, you gave it to him, steady and sure.

And slowly, he began to unfurl.

Someone offered him a cold sweet tea. Another told him he would look good in flannel. The neighbor’s teenage daughter asked him what he did, and when he gave her the world’s gentlest answer. “I’m just trying to be a good man” She sighed like she was about to write a love song about him.

You caught him later on the porch swing, ankles crossed, Henrietta the Chicken glaring at him from across the yard like she was sizing him up.

“Do I pass?” he asked you, voice low, amused.

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder.

“No one’s ever passed faster.”

⸻

That Friday night, you took him to The Spur, the town’s only bar-slash-dancehall, where the beer was cheap, the music was loud, and the wooden floor had seen generations of boots scuff it up with laughter and two-step.

You made sure Bob was dressed right. It took effort. He had the boots now, worn and scuffed. You made him wear jeans that actually fit. And a pearl-snap shirt in dark navy that made his shoulders look criminally good. The hat was the finishing touch, black, low-brimmed, rugged.

When he stepped out of your room, adjusting the collar and looking shy as hell, you damn near whistled.

“I feel like a theme park character.” he said.

“You look hot.” you corrected, walking a circle around him.

“Do people… wear this for real?”

“Every weekend,” you said. “Now c’mon, Reynolds. Let’s teach you how to dance.”

⸻

Inside the bar, it was all twang and laughter and the thick smell of fried food and whiskey. The band played fast and wild, and people hollered out each note. Bob stuck close to you like a lifeline, eyes wide as folks clapped him on the back, calling him “Hollywood” and “City Man” and asking how he landed you.

You taught Bob how to two-step.

Well, kind of.

“Left foot, then right. No- Bob. Other right.”

“I am using my right!”

“You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!”

You ended up just swaying with him in the middle of the dance floor, flushed from beer and embarrassment, his hands tentative as they found your waist. You tugged them tighter, grounding him, and that’s when something shifted. The tension in his shoulders loosened. His smile changed, real now.

He smelled like cedar and soap and just a trace of the cologne you told him to wear, the one with the little notes of vetiver and pepper that made your knees weak. The heat between you crackled with something unspoken, and for a few minutes, everything around you blurred into music and motion.

At some point during the night, after another dance, Bob tugged off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair. His face was shiny with sweat, his curls stuck to his forehead, and he looked dazed in that beautiful, happy way, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. Then, without thinking, he reached over and plopped the hat down onto your head, shaking his hair out to cool off…

It was a small, tired gesture.

But the moment it happened?

Electric.

The entire bar erupted.

Someone behind the bar bellowed, “WOOOOOO-EEE, RIDE THE COWBOY!”

“HOLY HELL!” someone else shouted. “BOBBY KNOWS THE HAT RULE!”

You stood very, very still.

More hooting. Boots stomping the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

Bob blinked, clearly lost, clearly panicking.

He looked at you, eyes wide. “I- uh- what did I just do?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear with a smirk. “You don’t know the hat rule, do you?”

“…No.”

You reached up, adjusted the brim so it sat just right on your head, and said sweetly, “If a cowboy puts his hat on someone else’s head, it means they’re going home together.”

Bob turned scarlet. You’d never seen a man blush that fast.

“Oh.” he said, voice tight. “That’s- uh. That’s a rule?”

You shrugged, already spinning away with a teasing smile. “Town doesn’t make the rules. We just enforce them.”

Bob watched you walk toward the bar like you’d just turned his whole world upside down.

And from behind him, someone slapped his shoulder and howled, “Better saddle up, Bobby boy! That hat rule’s legally binding!”

He just stood there for a long second, still blushing, mouth parted in that stunned little way he got when you caught him completely off guard. Then you glanced back, cocked your head, and gave him a wink.

⸻

You drank, you danced, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

The old dive bar buzzed with warmth and off-key covers from the town band playing on the makeshift stage. Sticky floors, half-priced beers, and a neon sign that flickered like it had a secret, it was the kind of place that didn’t care what time it was, only that you were having a good time. And you were. Maybe more than you had in months.

Bob didn’t stop smiling, not once. Not when someone spilled a drink down the back of his jeans, not when the bartender got your orders wrong three times, and definitely not when he nearly tripped over the jukebox cord trying to avoid Henrietta, who had somehow followed you to the bar like a bad penny . His cheeks flushed pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, and he mouthed a frantic “save me” before ducking behind you like you were his personal shield. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your beer.

The night wore on in golden, blurry edges. You danced like no one was watching, even though they definitely were. Arms loose around his shoulders, his big hands hovering just shy of your waist like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. But with every song, he drew in closer, more confident, until you were moving as one. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath near your ear when he leaned in to tell you something stupid or sweet or both.

And hours later, when the crowd thinned out and the music turned slow and drawling some old country love song that could’ve been from your parents’ wedding, Bob didn’t ask. He just offered his hand, gentle and sure, and you took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into a quiet dance, his movements tender and deliberate, as if he was afraid to break the moment. Not once did he step on your feet. Not once did he falter. His arms wrapped around you like a safety net, loose but strong, and for a long time, the world felt small, just you, him, and the soft hum of a steel guitar in the background.

The cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head the entire time. Bob gave it a reverent little tilt when he looked down at you, like it was some kind of crown, like you were someone special, someone he’d waited years to find. And under the dim bar lights, with your head resting against his chest and his heart beating a little too fast, it was then he decided you really were.

⸻

The night air was warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers and summer sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, earth still holding onto the day’s heat. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and fireflies blinked like they were keeping time with your footsteps.

You walked back to the ranch under a million stars, boots crunching gravel, Bob’s fingers twined with yours like he never wanted to let go. He kept glancing over at you, smile crooked, eyes glassy with just enough of a buzz to make him bold. You were both a little tipsy. The good kind. The kind that made everything shimmer around the edges, like the world had softened and spun itself into something just for the two of you.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as you neared the porch. “This was… a really good night.”

“Even with Henrietta managed to track you down into the bar?”

He laughed loud, boyish, real. “Especially because of that. I got to hide behind you like a damsel. Very dignified.”

You giggled, heart drumming somewhere in your throat. And then you were at the door, old, creaky, paint chipped from years of weather and wear, and the moment you pushed it open, something shifted in the air between you. Something quiet and charged, like static before a storm.

Bob kissed you before you’d even kicked your boots off.

It wasn’t tentative or careful, not anymore. His mouth was warm and insistent, and you gasped against him, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, tugging it loose. You stumbled backward into the hallway, knocking into a console table and nearly sending a mason jar of flowers tumbling.

“Door.” you murmured, laughing between kisses, trying to remember where your old bedroom even was.

“Where?” Bob’s voice was low and ragged, one hand splayed wide across your lower back, the other still cupping your cheek like you were breakable and sacred all at once.

“Left- no, other left- BOB-!”

You both slammed into the wall beside the staircase, right beneath your childhood photos, your third-grade rodeo ribbon nearly fell off its nail. You couldn’t stop giggling, and Bob kissed the sound right out of your mouth, breathing hard like he’d been waiting days to stop being so damn respectful.

He finally found the door, flinging it open with more enthusiasm than grace. You tripped over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing on the bed in a puff of quilted covers and heat. Bob followed, all long limbs and broad shoulders, kissing you like a man starved.

Clothes came off in messy, half-laughing pulls. His shirt over his head, your dress yanked down around your hips. Boots hit the floor with loud, lazy thuds. He paused to help you with the stubborn zipper, grinning when it caughtand you laughed so hard he had to hush you with another kiss, mouths brushing and breath mingling in the dark.

Then he pulled back, just for a second. Long enough to look at you.

To really look.

You were flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of your bra, his cowboy hat still perched crooked on your head. You blinked up at him, lips kiss swollen, eyes wide and a little wild.

Bob stood there like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Gotta live up to the hat rule, right?”

You bit your lip, reaching for him. “You better, Reynolds.”

And with a soft, reverent touch, he leaned forward and set the hat straight again. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there with him, beneath him, in every version of the life he hadn’t dared to picture before now.

And then he kissed you slow. Not the urgent kind from the hallway, but something deeper. Something that lingered. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask,it told. That you were wanted, worshiped, known.

The mattress creaked beneath you as he joined you, the old springs singing their familiar tune. You let your hands roam his back, mapping muscle and freckle and scar, and he whispered your name like a saying. Over and over. Until it was the only thing that mattered.

His fingers trailing down your spine, gentle but certain, pulling you closer until every breath you took was shared. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was like coming home, steady, real, grounding. His lips moved from your mouth, to your jaw, to the curve of your neck, leaving soft promises with every touch.

You tilted your head, exposing more of yourself to him, your breath hitching when his teeth grazed your skin just enough to stir a fire. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, steadying you in the sweet chaos of your shared desire.

You didn’t rush. You let the moment stretch, every heartbeat syncing between you. There was no need for haste, no need for words—just the quiet music of two people who had found something worth holding onto in a world that often felt too loud.

When his mouth finally met yours again, it was slow and deliberate, a dance of trust and tenderness. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to memorize every inch of him.

And outside, the stars burned on. Quiet witnesses to the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for just yet. Something real.

Something that felt a lot like home. He was home.

⸻

[marvelouslymarly]

After Midnight (Bob Reynolds x female superhero!reader)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Robert Reynolds/the Sentry/the Void x female superhero!reader

Part two out now!!! Read here

Summary: You're out with the team when some dude starts acting like an ass. Bob helps you get away and takes you home to show you how a lady should be treated...

Rated E for explicit - Minors do not interact!!

CW: physical violence (bar brawl); the void showing up for a second there; some hints at sexual harrassment/assault (no on page rape!); Bob dancing with reader; fluff; half of this is smut (first time reader and Bob sleep together; oral/female and male receiving; fingering, p in v sex (protected); multiple orgasms) [i think i need a pastor]; minor thunderbolts* spoiler warning bc this is set after the film

Word count: 10.6k words (and I thought the last one was a long one, LOL)

Masterlist

[A/N #1: Got the idea for this on the drive home from my parents' place while listening to After Midnight by Chappel Roan, so here you go]

[A/N #2: thank you to @scuttle-buttle for cheering me on and reading through this!!! Dedicating this to you, babes🫰🏻]

The music was blasting over the speakers, and you could feel the beat in every cell of your body. The team had decided to go out that night, needing a break from training and recon-missions and the same old day-in-and-day-out of the last few weeks. While the guys had stayed back at the bar, Ava and Yelena had pulled you into the center of the dance floor, telling you to put yourself out there and have some fun for once. You knew that they were right. It had been a while since you forgot about work and everything that came with first being one of Val's shadow ops and then becoming part of what Val intended to become the new Avengers.

Even after a few months, the title still didn't feel right. It was just too loaded with expectations, with ideas and opinions about who you should be, what you should or shouldn't do. You guys weren't shiny and new. You were rough around the edges, with problems and your own past full of mistakes and regrets. You all had things you'd like to forget or wished to have gone up in flames with every little detail Val put in that vault.

Being called the "new Avengers" felt like stepping into footsteps not only way too big to fill, but also just the wrong shape to begin with. It was like trying to match the tracks of bears with those of lions. You were a different species of heroes - and even calling yourself heroes felt wrong somehow. You were too familiar with being the bad guys, with having your stories twisted, being used for whatever wrong someone wanted done without getting their own hands dirty. But now, you were supposed to be the ones stopping the bad guys, to fight the guys you were made out to be before.

So, this night out felt like the right call for multiple reasons. It was good for forgetting about work, but also for getting to know each other outside of work settings. You'd lived with them for months and knew everything about who preferred what guns, who would do what whenever you were out on missions but whenever you came home, you'd retreat into your own spaces, resting and trying to figure out where you all fit into whatever Val had in mind when she called the press on you and announced her new team of superheroes come to save the world.

~~~

Earlier that evening, while putting on that one dress in the back of your wardrobe, you could hear your mother's voice in the back of your head, telling you not to dress this provocatively. To be a good girl and cover yourself before the Lord's eyes. You felt the anger you'd repressed for so long bubble back up inside of you. Images of the time before you ran away from home came rushing back in. 

The front lawns of the neighbourhood peppered with signs with psalms and verses written on them. Crosses in every room of the house you’d grown up in. The metal rods and mosquito nets outside the windows to “keep evil out” but, in all honesty, they were there to keep you from climbing out the windows in the middle of the night. Memories of everything your parents tried to make you believe about the virtues of life and how to be a pious girl and a good servant of the Lord. 

You could feel the bile rise, thinking back to the person they had tried to turn you into.Their attempts to marry you off to some boy from the community. Michael Dawson. A good boy, named after the archangel. A god-fearing boy just barely old enough to drive a car. In the year before your parents had told you about their plans, you had barely exchanged two sentences with him. But still, it was blatantly obvious to everyone who looked at him and at the way he looked at Paul for even a second, that this probably wouldn’t have been the happy and sacred marriage your parents had envisioned for you.

When the blip first happened, it felt like you were set free from everything you hated so much. With your family gone, there was nothing holding you back from leaving the community while the rest turned to prayers and service. Just having turned 18 a couple of weeks ago, you’d grabbed the keys to your father’s truck and never looked back.

You caught a look of yourself in the mirror and thought about how far you'd come in the last 8 years. How much distance you'd put between your old life and this new one - regardless of how lost you still felt sometimes. You thought about how you moved to the big city and took up self-defense classes after a close call on your way home from work one night. How powerful you felt once you’d realised you loved to fight and get stronger both physically and mentally. That now, there was very little that you couldn’t get through because you didn’t have to rely on prayers anymore.

You pulled the dress down in the front, revealing more cleavage, and adjusted how your breasts sat in the built-in cups. The thought of your mother’s jaw falling to the floor at the sight of you in this get up, her hands doing quick work to bless herself, sent a smirk to your lips. You smoothed out the dress, letting your hands dance over the sides of your body while you admired yourself. The tightness of the dress, hugging you in just the right places, the skirt just long enough to cover the ass that you trained so hard for. Reapplying the dark red lipstick, you smacked your lips in a playful manner and ran your hand through your locks before leaving your room and joining the others in the common area of your shared apartment.

You could still hear the whistles Walker had sent your way, adding an approving 'looking good, [y/l/n]' after standing up straighter and looking you up and down. You rolled your eyes at him while you put your purse over your shoulder, and then adjusted the leather jacket thrown over your am.

"You clean up nice, too, I guess," you retorted and looked around the group.

Ava and Yelena had put themselves into their best party outfits as well, wearing a knowing smirk while putting up both thumbs, respectively. When your eyes landed on Bob, you could see a faint pink tint to his cheeks, and he quickly averted your gaze, nodding vigorously.

"Yeah, you look really nice... Really... nice, yeah!" He cleared his throat, the blush deepening a few shades. His jaw clenched and you smiled to yourself, having secretly hoped he'd like the way you'd dressed up.

When you'd first met him in the vault those few months ago, in the scrubs that seemed three sizes too big for him, he looked like a helpless puppy, his blue eyes so big and excited at what he'd stumbled into - literally. But then, when you saw what he was capable of, both as the Sentry and the Void and your interest in him grew. He was no longer just the sad, helpless puppy but something more intriguing. Someone with layers that you wanted to uncover one at a time.

After first moving to New York and into the Watchtower with the others, there weren't many chances for you two to interact, to get to know each other better. But when it became more and more obvious that he wasn't ready to be sent out into missions with the rest of the team just yet, you came up with the idea of rotating who would stay at home with him. The rest of the team welcomed the idea of it and so, whenever someone wasn't needed for the mission, they'd try and help Bob figure out how to channel his inner Sentry without also summoning the Void with it. Or they'd bake cakes or make dinner for when the others came back.

You'd stayed back with him two times at that point but every time you asked if he wanted to join you for a gym session or for a swim in the new pool, he'd come up with excuses. Saying he'd sprained his ankle the last time he was working out with Bucky or that he'd just done his daily laps in the morning and was looking forward to reading that one book he didn't have the chance to get to yet. The first time around, you figured he was just a little anti-social and needed some more time to get comfortable but then you heard about how Yelena had gotten him to punch the punching bag so forcefully that it came off the hinges and flew to the other side of the gym and how even Walker could convince him to try some new technique to compartmentalise.

When he declined your invitation to watch a movie the second time you stayed behind, you grew weary, scared that you'd done something wrong or that he just simply didn't like you at all. That the interest you had in him wasn’t reciprocated. But, seeing him blush at the sight of you all dolled up set the tiny bit of hope you still had ablaze once more. On the way to the bar, you caught yourself disengaging from the conversation, coming up with ideas or ways to get him on his own, hoping that he’d be more forthcoming once he had a drink or two in him.

~~~

The feeling of arms slipping around your waist brought you back to the bar and to the song you were mindlessly singing along to. Hands were moving down to your waist, holding onto you as you swayed your hips from side to side. Your eyes travelled down your figure, thinking that maybe it was one of the guys playing a trick on you but then you didn't recognise the tattoos winding up the left forearm and into the rolled up sleeves. Your head turned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of you had come up behind you but you couldn’t quite make out who it was, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach.

Looking around for the girls, you saw that Ava and Yelena had gone back over to the bar, probably to get you guys some drinks. Also sitting at the bar, you made out Walker, Bob and Bucky - the latter engaged in a conversation with some girl desperately trying to get his number from the way she pushed her phone into his direction, a bright smile on her lips, despite the restrained expression on his face and him shaking his head repeatedly, pushing her phone back every time it made contact with his chest. 

Wildly gesticulating with every fiber of his being, Walker was talking to Bob, who was staring into the glass in front of him. You weren’t sure if he was just lost in thought or if he had one too many was getting overwhelmed by the loud music and people pushing past him in the crowded bar, his face inattentive to what Walker was talking about and his shoulders slumped. His gaze wandered over to you, as if he’d felt your eyes on him, and then to the guy behind you, his jaw clenching tightly. Just as quickly as his eyes had met yours, they were back on the remnants of whatever drink he had been musing before, his knuckles turning white in the dim light.

The arms around your hip pulled you back, bringing your attention back to the dancefloor, and you felt a very clammy shirt press into your shoulders before the smell of cheap alcohol mixed with even cheaper breath mints filled your nostrils. Your whole body tensed, when the guy’s right hand travelled back up your side and stopped just under your breast for a second, before moving to the front and up to your neck.

"Hey, Mama, you alone here," the voice slurred questioning, hot breath hitting your ear and neck, and sending goosebumps down your body. His hand was slowly wrapping around your neck and made you turn your head again. Out the corner of your eye, you could clock the name tag on his shirt, making out ‘Sam’ written in cursive stitches.

Feeling your throat close up from the stinging aroma of the cheap liquor he must've bathed in, you tried to push Sam’s arms off of your body, scratching at his skin. But his grip didn’t budge one bit, only growing tighter, his nails digging in through the fabric of your dress and into your neck.

Your desperate pleas for him to let go of you seemed to be useless, lost to the loud music coming from the speakers in every corner of the dance floor. But you couldn't get anything out above a feeble whisper, tears brimming in your eyes while snippets of the last time you went to a bar raced through your brain.

"Why are you so tense? Let's have some fun, baby," Sam pushed and started to grind into you from behind, his dick getting harder with every move, pressing into your behind.

Again, you looked around for the rest of the team, hoping someone would notice your struggle and come over to help. But Ava and Yelena were nowhere to be seen, and Walker must’ve gone out to get some fresh air with Bucky because they weren’t where you had last seen them either. The only team member you could still make out was Bob, sitting at the bar with his back turned to you, waving down the bartender for another drink.

Realising you were on your own in this one, you tried to turn around, to get some leverage on him and were just able to turn your face away when he leant down and tried to press a kiss to your lips. 

“I told you to leave me be,” you repeated forcefully, your flat hand landing on his cheek in a satisfying slap.

An urgent cry left your mouth, then, and the force behind your shove grew stronger, pushing Sam away from you and making him lose his balance. He stumbled back a step or two before he caught himself again, glaring at you.

He pushed up his sleeves again and started to come at you, an evil sneer on his face.

"What's your fucking problem, bitch,” he spat and looked you up and down, stepping closer slowly.

“You dress like that, and then you turn into a prude when -"

He was cut off short when a fist met his jaw and threw him into the people surrounding you, a tooth and a spray of blood flying from his mouth. You looked at who had landed that blow, still unable to fully comprehend what had just happened.

To your right, there stood Bob, his mouth hanging open a bit and his eyes glowing a dangerous golden colour. You hadn't noticed him getting up from the bar and coming over, but you were deeply grateful for him doing so, scared of what would've happened if he hadn't stepped in.

When he realised what he'd done, he shook his head slightly, the blue returning to his eyes once more, and he got ready to fight. With his fists raised in front of his face, he waited for the other guy to get back up again.

“What do you want, you limp noodle of a man, huh? You just got lucky with that one, fella.” The other guy pointed at Bob before spitting blood onto the light-up dance floor and cracking his neck, walking up to Bob. When he was still a few steps from him, Bob threw another punch, this time with even more force behind it and knocking Sam right out. There was a dark air around him, blackness enveloping his fist and travelling up his arm right before your eyes.

“She told you to leave her alone, asshat,” the Void growled, his voice several shades darker than that of Bob.

Looking at the limp figure before him for a split second, the Void went back in, throwing punch after punch, the black hand glistening from what must have been even more blood. Scared of what he’d do to Sam, you tried pulling Bob off of him, whispering into his ear that it was enough and for him to come back to you.

“Bob, please. He’s down already”, you begged and finally got enough strength to drag him away. Cupping his face, you tried to get Bob to focus on you and the black started to recede from his arms, his bloody hand cradling your face in return. It took a moment for the blue to return to his eyes again, for his jaw to unclench and the deep frown to relax a little.

"Are you ok, [y/n]?” Bob’s voice had gotten softer, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lasting harm. 

"Yeah, I think I just need some fresh air," you murmured and held onto his shirt, your legs feeling like jell-o all of a sudden.

Bob wrapped a protective arm around your back when he felt you dip against his stature and pulled you closer, his eyes going to somewhere behind you. He gulped loudly and you looked over your shoulder at what he’d seen.

"You two!" The security guard pointed at you and Bob, and then motioned for you to get out of there.

"Congrats, you just earned yourself a no-return ticket out of this bar," the guard added, and Bob started sputtering, trying to argue about how Sam had started it, how he was just trying to protect you and that Sam should be the one getting kicked out of the bar instead. Picking up the bloody mess that the Void had turned Sam into, the security guard started for the door, looking over his shoulder as if waiting for us to follow him.

"Oh, don't worry, he's going with you!" The guard pushed Bob towards the back exit, Bob's shoulders slumping a little before making his way out of the group of onlookers, pulling you with him by the hand. You intertwined your fingers with his, trying not to lose him while pushing through the mass.

"Our friends are still inside," you tried when you got outside, but the security guard wouldn't have any of it, telling you 'life sucks' and 'better luck next time' while propping Sam up against the wall of the back alley. Without another word, he made for the back entrance before the door fell shut on him, and then disappeared into the turmoil inside the bar.

Looking around the dark alleyway, Bob scoffed before turning towards you, an angry look on his face.

"What a dick!"

You just shrugged your shoulders and felt tears well up in your eyes again, the shock of the situation wearing down and the fear taking over once more. When you tugged at his hand, Bob looked down, realising he was holding your hand, fingers intertwined, and let go before scratching the back of his head.

"Sorry, I didn't realise..."

He wiped his hands on his shirt, the blood staining the white shirt he was wearing under the flannel, and apologised again. When the first tears started to roll down your cheeks, a sob left your mouth and pulled his gaze back to you. His eyes widened in shock and his jaw went slack again, his brows knitting together in a regretful frown.

"Oh, no... I didn't mean to... [y/n], please don't cry..." He came up to you and cupped your cheeks, looking into your eyes deeply before wrapping his arms around you tightly. "I'm sorry... I just get really clammy hands whenever I feel... overwhelmed… And well, the blood and all…"

The embrace was warm, his arms feeling like a protective blanket wrapping around you, shielding you from any more harm. You sidled up to him, relishing in the comfort the hug offered against the cold air of night-time New York in early December. You stayed wrapped in his arms for a second, silent tears rolling down your cheeks while you tried to gather yourself, listening to the faint sound of his heart beating rapidly.

When you heard the groggy groans of the figure behind you, you tensed again and looked up at Bob, his face breaking further when he saw your tear-stained cheeks.

"Can you please get me out of here," you begged, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, and he nodded quickly before letting one arm fall down from its place around your frame and cupping your cheek.

"Yeah, sure. Just tell me where to," he affirmed, wiping away the latest tears with the pad of his thumb. When he realised that you were shivering, he shimmied out of his flannel, wrapping it around your shoulders and mumbling ‘here, this should keep you warm’ under his breath.

"Just take me home, please." You pulled the soft fabric around you tighter, the warm scent of cedarwood and vanilla mixed with his own warm smell enveloping your senses.

He nodded again and turned towards the exit of the alleyway, his right arm wrapping around your shoulder again while he led you towards the main street.

~~~

You guys spent the first few minutes of your walk in silence, not sure how to make conversation after what had happened.

That was until you were stood at a red light and Bob turned towards you, his arm having fallen from around you a few blocks ago.

"I'm sorry, I got us kicked out of the bar," he apologised and put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, the uneasy look from earlier making its way back onto his face, knitting his eyebrows together and making him pull his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You really seemed to have a good time until that fucker turned up," Bob went on and you shrugged, the fun from earlier already a distant memory in the racing tornado of thoughts wreaking havoc in your mind.

"It was alright", your voice was low and you kicked at the burger wrapping left behind on the sidewalk, hoping you'd be able to boot the haunting images of past trauma away with it.

"Maybe it's stupid, but I kinda wanted to dance with you up there", Bob admitted, looking off towards the traffic light on the other side of the crossing. 

His fingers were mindlessly fidgeting with the brand label at the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit you had observed so often when you were around him. When his gaze met yours, the small smile playing on his lips sent butterflies to your stomach, a warmth you hadn't felt in ages rushing up your arms and down your back.

"You looked really beautiful, you know. In the lights, lost to the music. Like you were somewhere else entirely and you didn't have a care in the world", he added, a chuckle at the end of his sentence, and his eyes sparkled, reflecting the cool light of the headlights lining the street.

"I would have liked that", you admitted, offering him a warm smile in return before turning your attention to the changing traffic light indicating you were allowed to cross the street.

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed that for long though,” he replied, chuckling to himself again, before looking over to where you were walking by his side. “I am a really terrible dancer. Like… I’ve totally got two left feet. Just the thought makes me feel sorry for your toes.”

He struck a pose and wiggled his butt to imaginary music when he reached the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder at you with his bottom lip between his teeth and trying his best to look seductive.

This had you laughing loudly then, holding onto his arm for support and putting your head against his shoulder, your eyes closing in appreciation.

“Thank you! I really needed that right now, Bob,” you got out between laughs and grinned up at him, the butterflies in your stomach making you feel like you were 14 all over again.

“Always at your service, m’lady.” He bowed and winked at you before continuing his way down the street, pulling you with him by the hand.

~~~

“Ok, so, I’m gonna hop in the shower real quick, but how about we put on some music after and have that dance party”, you suggested, walking through the elevator doors and looking over your shoulder at Bob, who had an easy smile on his face, his cheek a healthy shade of pink from all the laughing.

He put his arms out and grabbed a hold of the lapelles of the flannel you were still wearing, pulling you back closer to him before wrapping his arms around your frame in a tight hug. You snuggled up to him, ignoring the bloody streaks on his shirt and buried your head against his chest.

“What’s that for,” you asked, looking up at him from under your lashes and trying to keep yourself from blushing at the softness in his eyes.

“I just felt like hugging you, that’s all,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “You looked so cuddly in the dim light, wrapped up in my flannel.”

The words left his mouth quietly, barely above a whisper and when he realised he’d said it aloud, his eyes grew wide, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in a thick gulp. After trying to find the right words to reply to this and coming up empty, you pushed up on your tiptoes and put a quick kiss on his cheek. Scared you took it too far, you wriggled out of the embrace and turned to the general direction of your bedroom, leaving Bob standing near the elevator, his fingers repeatedly running over the spot that you had just kissed, his eyes glued to where you had just stood and his mouth opening and closing rapidly.

“Remember, dance party in the living room in ten minutes,” you yelled over your shoulder and vanished in your bedroom.

~~~

You connected your phone to the speakers in the living room, sneaking up to Bob sitting on the couch and wrapped your arms around his neck, a giant grin playing at your lips.

“Ready to dance, Bob,” you whispered in his ear cheekily, drawing out his name and letting your hands run down his chest while your towel dried hair fell around you.

He grabbed your wrists and pulled you over the back of the couch swiftly, making you land with your head in his lap, his hand quickly moving to your hip to keep you from rolling off the couch.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he joked and pulled you up with him, his arm wrapped around you and letting his hand rest on the small of your back.

“Well, if you dance anything like what you showed me down on that street corner, I’m in for a hell of a time.” You pulled your phone from the pocket of the shorts you had gotten into after the shower and looked through your playlist for a good song to start with.

“Here, I think this will be a good one,” you mumbled, choosing ‘Me because of You’ by the Faim, and wiggled your eyebrows at him playfully, when the song started playing over the speakers.

 “Ok, I think I can work with this,” he said, nodding his head and moving the coffee table off to the side to make more room for us to have fun. He stretched his arms and cracked his neck, starting with a simple step-touch and moving his shoulders to the beat of the song.

You studied him for a second, suddenly a little scared of what he might think of you if you just let loose and have fun. He motioned for you to come closer and you followed his request, stepping closer and trying to keep from laughing, when he faked licking his pointer and pinky and smoothing his eyebrows over.

“Come on, you can’t hold back now, [y/n],” he yelled over the music and pulled me closer right when the song said ‘dance with me, feel the beat, follow my lead’. He placed your hands on his shoulders and then put his hands on your waist again, starting to waltz with you for a whole two seconds before both of you burst out laughing.

“You wanted to dance with me. So, dance, love,” he added and moved his body to the beat again.

“I’m nervous,” you confessed, running your hands over the clean shirt he put on while you were in the shower, and looked at him, biting your lip restlessly.

“Close your eyes and just imagine I’m not here. You’re alone in your room where no one can see you. And then do what you do,” he tried, brushing a strand of towel dried hair out of your face.

“If it helps, I can close my eyes, too,” he offered and put his hands over his eyes, peeking through his fingers.

“Fine,” you grumbled and moved away from him a little, turning your back on him but then looking back over your shoulder to make sure he had his eyes covered.

When you saw that he really wasn’t peeking, you started to move and smiled to yourself, feeling the music take over your body and jumping up and down giddily. After a few seconds, you started to sing along and moved freely, turning around and shimmying your shoulders and nodding your head.

“Are you doing it? Are you dancing,” he asked, still covering his eyes but moving his hips to the beat.

You peeled his hands from his eyes and pulled him into the middle of the carpet, making him stumble over his own feet. He opened one eye, looking at your dancing figure, and you tried to hide the smirk playing at your lips. He joined in with dancing and pursed his lips, concentrating on his moves so as not to stumble over his own feet again.

When the chorus started to play for the last time, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer again, and started swaying with you, his head on top of yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours and then moved away from you, extending his arms before stepping in again. He threw your arms over his shoulders and stepped past you before turning around quickly, to repeat this spiel another time, though instead of simply stepping past you, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, swaying from side to side.

Bob sang along to the words, his voice in your ear as his head dipped down a little and then he spun you around and caught you in his arms again more masterfully than he had led on to believe before.

“Tonight, I’ve changed, yeah. I’m only me because of you.” He put his cheek against yours and hummed happily, picking you up and twirling you around.

When the song had ended, he held you in place, your forehead resting against his. His gaze was moving back and forth between your eyes and your lips, his breath having grown a little shallow. You could feel his hand travel up your side and then caress your cheek, his face coming closer until you could feel his shallow breath on your lips, the tips of your noses just millimeters away from each other.

Expecting him to close the last bit of distance, you closed your eyes and turned your head upwards a little, your heart beating rapidly inside your chest. The moments until he finally put his lips to yours felt like an eternity, millions of thoughts running through your brain, the anticipation of what it’d feel like to kiss him raising goosebumps across your body. When he finally closed the distance and kissed you, his lips were soft, moving against yours slowly at first and then you deepened the kiss, moving your hand to the back of his head. Your other hand ran up his chest, feeling his pecs flex under your touch. 

When your teeth sank into his bottom lip, he let out a soft moan and you slipped your tongue into his mouth, exploring it carefully and moving your tongue in sync with his. His hand grabbed a fistful of your shirt and he moved you back over to the couch, letting you drop into his lap when the couch hit the back of his legs and he sat down.

You straddled him, your left arm wrapping around him to hold onto the backrest to keep you from falling into him, while your right hand ran through the hair at the back of his head, pulling on it softly, when one of his hands moved up the outside of your thigh to your hip.

He pulled away from you for a second, trying to catch his breath, his mouth hanging open a little while he searched your eyes for any sign of regret. When he couldn’t find any but instead realised that your mouth had split into a bright smile, he chuckled cheerfully and kissed you again hungrily.

With the kisses getting more and more heated, you started grinding into him, the aching need for feeling him closer growing in the pit of your stomach. When you rolled your hips a little extra hard, he groaned deeply and the grip of his hand on your hip grew stronger, a pleasant pain running up your spine and making you throw your head back.

His lips went to your neck, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses on the soft skin and then he started sucking on the pulse point underneath your ear, biting and licking and driving you into overdrive. The fingers buried in his hair pulled on his locks and his growing bulge started to rub up against you just the right way when he bucked his hips in response.

“We… should probably…”, he started in between kisses and you nodded mindlessly, trying to get as much friction from grinding down into him harder. 

“Fuck, [y/n], ok, wait…” He stopped you from moving your hips by wrapping his arm around you and pulling you impossibly close, and then made you look him in the eyes before going on: “I can’t do it like this… If I have you, I want all of you.”

You gulped at this, realising he wasn’t joking and felt your jaw go slack.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but I will not let this be how I have you for the first time.” His thumb caressed your cheek and he kissed you softly, his forehead falling to yours, probably fighting the urge to just have you right then and there.

“Then take me to your room, Bob,” you mumbled breathlessly when he pulled away again, nuzzling your face with his in a love-drunken state. You placed soft kisses all over his face, earning a little chuckle from him, when you moved down to his neck, his head falling back to give you more room to work with.

“[y/n], god, you drive me crazy,” he moaned and let his hands slip underneath your shirt, sending shivers down your spine from the tiny sparks his touch left on your skin. Letting out a ‘mh-hm’ in response, you ran your thumb over his bottom lip and kissed him again, your tongue slipping into his mouth easily.

His hands went down your back and held onto your ass when he picked you up in one smooth motion, your legs wrapping around his hips to gain more stability. Your arms snaked around his neck and a chuckle escaped your mouth when he stumbled over the couch on his way out of the living room, holding you in space with one arm while he steadied himself.

“How about we stop kissing until we’re actually in your bedroom,” you joked and he nodded, telling you ‘that’s a good idea’ before making his way over to his bedroom, his steps quick and assertive.

“Wait, we still have to turn off the music,” you realised when you were halfway down the hallway and Bob stopped dead in his tracks, sighing heavily. He looked back over his shoulder and you could see the cogs work behind his eyes, trying to decide what to do.

“Ok, you go turn off the music and I’ll get everything ready?”

Setting you down on the floor, he pecked your lips and then slapped your ass, making you jump a little and hurry back to the living room. You made quick work of turning off the music and grabbing your phone, eager to get back to Bob and what you were doing, running back down the hallway to where his bedroom was. Sliding in through the door, you stopped when you saw that Bob was on the phone with someone, holding up a finger to you just as you wanted to ask what was wrong.

“Oh, no, y’all can stay out longer. No… No. [y/n] wasn’t feeling too hot, so I took her home.” He looked at the floor for a second, scratching his head while trying to understand Yelena over the thumping music on the other side of the line. “I think she’s sleeping already. No… I don’t think she’ll mind! Go have fun, you guys,” he added and then ended the call after telling Yelena goodbye.

“Is everything ok,” you enquired, walking up to him and putting your phone on his desk, the screen lighting up and showing you had a couple of missed calls from Yelena and Ava. He matched you and put his phone down next to yours, before turning back to you and searching your face for a second.

“Yeah, they were just worried where we went and because they couldn’t reach us earlier.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and brushing the hair from the slope of your neck, adding a ‘so, where were we’ before running his fingers over the soft skin under your chin.

“Are they coming back already?” You asked, your head falling back when Bob started to kiss your neck.

“No, there’s this party at another bar they wanna check out.” He bit your neck playfully and then nuzzled the side of your face, telling you that the two of you should be in the clear for the next few hours. He picked you up again and walked over to his bed, dropping you in the middle of the mattress before climbing onto the mattress and kneeling down between your legs.

“Next few hours? What do you have planned,” you asked cheekily, your hands working on taking off his shirt.

“I’m gonna take my time with you, love,” he replied, helping you to get him out of his shirt and kissing you passionately.

Your fingertips ran over his abs and up into his hair again and you pulled him down with you, moaning when his hips settled between yours like puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.

“God, you sound so good when you moan,” he whined desperately, his hand caressing your cheek and then running through your hair. “You sound so much better than I could ever imagine.”

“You imagined how I’d sound?” Your voice was barely a whisper, too much anticipation and desire clouding your brain already. The building tension in your core was painful at this point and you could feel your arousal gathering between your legs.

“More often than I’d like to admit, yes.” His kisses were growing hungrier with every passing second, his hands running down your sides, pulling at the fabric of your shirt and digging into the bare skin of your legs. He wanted to feel your skin and memorise every inch of it, having wanted to touch you for months now.

“What did you picture,” you asked, flipping you over and straddling his hips again, pulling your shirt over your head and grinding your hips into his rhythmically. His eyes were wandering over your torso, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip before he sat up and wrapped his arms around you to work on undoing your bra. When he’d opened the clasp in the back, he slipped the straps down your shoulders, kissing the freckles that dusted your skin there.

“The way you’d sound… How you’d taste…” He pulled your face closer, his fingers on your chin, and placed his lips on yours again, this time slow and deep. His other hand came up to your right breast and cupped it, running his thumb over your nipple hardening from the relative cold in the room. “How you’d look taking me. The way your face breaks when I make you cum…”

He bucked his hips, his clothed erection pushing up into your clit and you gasped, running your fingernails over his abs, your head falling forwards to rest on his shoulder. You moved your hips with his, the layered fabric of your shorts and panties rubbing up against your core with every thrust of his hips. It had been a while since you last were intimate with someone, so you could already feel the knot in your lower stomach begin to tighten, your breath hitching when Bob’s tongue licked over your sensitive nipple before taking your breast into his mouth.

Your hand travelled further south and you lifted your hips, dipping your fingers into the waistband of his joggers, realising he wasn’t wearing any boxers underneath when you made contact with his hot skin. Trying to meet his eyes, you lifted your eyebrows in surprise and he shrugged, letting go of your breast with a popping sound.

“Hey, a guy can hope, right,” he tried to defend himself and smirked at you, when you pushed him down onto the mattress, while your other hand slipped into his joggers fully and wrapped around his hard length. He was bigger than you’d imagined, thicker too, and at the thought of having him inside of you, your pussy started to ache deliciously and eager.

You pumped your hand up his length slowly and his eyes rolled up into his head, his jaw hanging open slightly, a string of curses and whines leaving his mouth. Seeing him enjoy your touch this much, sent you into overdrive, and you moved off his legs, pulling down his joggers with you, before throwing them to the other corner of his room. His erection sprang free and you took in the sight before you, Bob leaning on his elbows, completely naked and looking sexier than you ever dreamt up.

Running your hands through your hair, you felt your cheeks heat up and hid your face in your hands, chuckling to yourself for a second.

“What? [y/n], what’s wrong? Did I do something wrong,” he asked, worry evident in his voice while he moved to sit up a little, his hands on your shoulders.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you started and took a deep breath, letting your hands fall from your face and meeting his eyes. “It’s just been a while and I… Well, I didn’t think I’d ever end up in this situation,” you added, your eyes darting over the smile lines appearing around his eyes and the dimple in his right cheek. “I think, it just hit me that this is happening, you know?”

He nodded, understanding you perfectly well, his thumb caressing your cheek before he kissed you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders and he laid you down gently, settling between your legs. You deepened the kiss, running your left hand through his dark locks while your right hand travelled down his back and settled on his hips. You wrapped one of your legs around his hip and smiled into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of his skin on your own.

“Like I said, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And we can take our time, there’s no rush. Not tonight,” he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting on yours between soft kisses.

“I want you, Bob,” you whispered, searching his eyes, the blue of them having darkened by lust. “I want all of you.”

His face split into a bright grin and he let his head fall to the crook of your neck, hiding his own nervousness by peppering your skin with kisses again. His left hand moved down your side and to the leg wrapped around his hip as he angled his hip a little, his erection brushing up against your core again. You moaned softly and tried to meet him better, your leg snaking around him more tightly.

“If we’re really gonna do this, then we’re gonna do this right,” Bob said, his voice darker than before and sending shivers down your spine.

He pulled away from you, his fingertips moving to the waistband of your shorts and he pulled them down your legs, your panties coming off with them. Bob tossed them over to where his joggers had landed and spread your legs slowly, taking you in and biting on his bottom lip, his eyes sparkling in the dim light from his bedside lamp. He let his fingers dance over the inside of your legs, drawing loose shapes on your skin from your ankles up to your hips and then grabbed one of his pillows from above your head. You lifted your hips and he put the pillow under your ass, settling between your legs and looking at you intently from under his lashes.

“You sure you wanna do this? You can say no or stop me at any time,” he assured you and you nodded, biting down on the knuckle of your index finger in anticipation, butterflies making somersaults in your tummy. He lowered his head and blew on you, earning himself a low whimper from you, the air feeling cold against your wet pussy. He ran a finger up between your folds and chuckled, sending vibrations through your core from how close his mouth was to your center.

“God, you’re already so wet and I haven’t even done anything.”

His finger slipped into your vagina with ease and the squelching sound that was heard by him pulling it out again, made the blush on your cheeks deepen. He pushed his finger back in and then curled it, making you moan his name loudly as he brushed your g-spot. He repeated this a couple of times while his tongue ran along the outside of your folds, slowly making its way inwards. When he finally ran the tip of his tongue up your folds and flicked your clit, your hips bucked, another moan falling from your lips, having him hum in response.

“You taste so good, babe.” He lapped at you and then slowed down again, the tip of his tongue circling your clit and then flicking it with a masterful tab, sending sparks up your spine and making your toes curl. Your fingers buried into his locks again and you pulled on them, pulling him closer in an attempt to get even more friction.

“Mhm, do you like that,” he asked, meeting your gaze and smirking cheekily.

“Yeah, feels good, Bob,” you moaned, your head falling back down and your eyes rolling back when he removed his finger from your hole and circled your pussy with the tip of his tongue. Then, he added another finger up, running them through your folds and back down towards your vagina before thrusting them in, this time a little more forcefully.

You yelped in surprise and pulled on his hair, your legs going a little numb. He waited to move his fingers for a second, looking down at how his fingers had disappeared in you completely and then pulled them back out a bit, curling the same way he did before, brushing over your g-spot again. When he’d found a good rhythm that had you breathing heavily, the knot tightening in your stomach, he put his mouth on you again and pushed you over the edge, your toes curling while your legs tensed around his head. One of your hands left his head to move to the bedsheets, gripping it hard as pleasure rushed over your body like a tidal wave.

“Fuck, Bob, you feel so good.”

You were writhing under him, Bob relentlessly licking up your juices while you clawed at his shoulders and rode the highs of the orgasm coursing through your body. The wet noises of his fingers pumping in and out of you filled your ears and you felt another wave of the orgasm rain down on you when his teeth scraped over your sensitive nub before flicking it again with his tongue. You could feel your walls clamp down around his fingers and then heard him chuckle deeply, before his arm pushed down on your hips, keeping you in place.

He kept at it, fingering you and eating you out, only coming up from between your legs when you started to come down from the high, your breath still rushed and shallow. You ran your hand through your hair, and looked at him, moving up your body, his lips glistening from your arousal and his spit mixed together. He put his fingers into his mouth and sucked your juices off of them, closing his eyes in ecstasy and the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile, after he pulled his fingers out again.

“God, that was so hot,” he breathed, putting his lips to yours and kissing you hungrily. You nodded, deepening the kiss by slipping your tongue into his mouth and tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hand ran down his torso and wrapped around his length again, your thumb wiping over his tip and feeling the sticky precum leaking out of him. With your brain still hazy from your recent orgasm, you pushed him down onto the mattress and started peppering kisses on his neck, moving down to his clavicle and his chest, the nails of your free hands scratching over his chest, while the other one pumped his length slowly.

When you were on the same level with his dick, you looked up at him and opened your mouth, taking him in as far as you could, your hand still wrapped around the part of him that didn’t fit into your mouth anymore. You started bobbing your head up and down his length and his fingers ran through your hair, his hand cupping the back of your head and aiding you in keeping an enjoyable rhythm, while whines and moans fell from his lips.

“Oh, fuck. You’re better than I ever imagined,” he whined, his hips bucking and his dick hit the back of your throat. 

Your eyes travelled back up his figure and you opened your mouth a little further, trying to take more of him. Tears were brimming at the corners of your eyes and your own arousal started running down the inside of your leg, so you moved your free hand to your clit, rubbing yourself while sucking him off.

After a couple more bobs of your head, Bob groaned loudly, his hips tensing and his grip on your hair getting harder. His cum spilled onto your tongue and you swallowed it, humming in enjoyment, while continuing the motion of your hand pumping up and down his length. Feeling another orgasm approaching from your own fingers between your legs, you moaned, some residual cum of his running out the corner of your mouth and dripping on his length.

Biting down on your lips, you looked up at him, his mouth hanging open at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He motioned for you to come closer, pushing your hand away from between your legs to take over while pulling you into his lap again. You rested your head against his shoulder, while his fingers were drawing circles around your clit, pushing you ever closer to the edge. You could feel that you were getting overstimulated already and whined, wanting to get the release you so desperately needed. Pulling his lips to yours and kissing him hungrily, you moved your hips a little to meet his touch, his fingers slipping into you once more while the pad of thumb brushed up against your clitoris.

“Bob, don’t stop. Please, I’m so close,” you whined, your face falling at the pressure building in your core.

“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he whispered into your ear and nibbled on your earlobe, thrusting his fingers into you deeper and curling them on their way out.

Feeling his tongue lick over your pulse point was enough to make you fall over the edge again, his fingers brushing your g-spot again and again, sparks flying between your bodies. Your nails dug into his back and you rode his fingers, moaning his name at the top of your lungs.

“God, I love it when you moan my name like that.” 

He put you back down on the mattress, knowing you’d need the support of the bed beneath you, your legs having turned to jelly and shaking from all of the stimulation. Your chest was rising and falling quickly while you tried to catch your breath, absolutely exhausted from two big orgasms so close together.

“Do you need a little break,” he asked, laying down next to you and running his fingers up and down your sides. You turned your head toward his and the look on his face was so soft, caring and full of love, making your heart ache at being the object of his adoration. You nodded, still unable to form words, the last after waves of your orgasm having your ears ringing and your fingertips feeling numb.

Bob pulled you a little closer, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead, and placed soft kisses all over your face, telling you how beautiful you were. How lucky he was to be here with you at that moment. How he never thought this would actually happen.

“You know, I thought you didn’t like me,” you told him, your voice still barely a whisper, your fingers starting to draw circles on his chest while his fingertips did the same on your shoulder blade. “That you didn’t want to spend time with me when the others were gone because you secretly hated me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you,” he said softly, his hand cupping your face and making you look at him, before going on: “I’m sorry that I made you feel like I hated you, but it is clearly the very opposite.”

He kissed you then, softly and with all the love he felt for you. Your lips melted against his and a warmth spread in your chest, creeping up the back of your neck and rolling over your legs and into your tiptoes. This kiss was different, it wasn’t hungry or desperate but still intense in its own way. Even after everything the two of you just did, you felt closer to Bob now, his arms wrapping around you tighter and flipping you on your back again, your legs intertwined lazily and his broad chest like a shield keeping you safe.

You stayed like that for a little while then, making out and exploring each other’s body slowly, your touch soft and meaningful, as if you wanted to memorise every inch of the other’s figure. You couldn’t say how long you were just lying there, enjoying each other’s presence and forgetting everything around you. It could’ve been five minutes or it could’ve been an hour but it didn’t matter to you because you were right where you wanted to be. Wrapped in his arms, having his lips on yours and feeling his delicate touch on your body.

His lips ran over your shoulders, dusting the freckles with love, while your lips grazed his collarbone, your fingers gripping his ass cheeks and earning you a high pitched giggle from him.

“Are you ticklish,” you enquired, a cheeky smirk on your lips and he shook his head vigorously, trying to push your hands off of him.

“No, of course I’m not ticklish. What makes you think that?” He rolled his eyes and tried to put a little distance between you two, his hands swatting at you trying to poke his sides.

“I don’t know. That very manly giggle that just slipped past your lips, maybe,” you teased and his jaw dropped, so threw yourself at him playfully, making him lose his balance and taking you down with him.

“I don’t know what you're talking about. What giggle?” He grinned up at you and cupped your cheek, pulling you down to him and kissing you again passionately.

With your leg thrown over his hip, you could feel him getting hard again and you moved your hips, straddling him once more. You purred softly at his length pressing up against your folds and instinctively grinded down on him, coating the underside of his dick in your arousal. Bob’s hand gripped your hip and he stopped you from moving for a second.

“Wait, I’ve got condoms in the drawer over there,” he murmured, motioning to his bedside table, and his voice broke when you rolled your hips into his again.

“I’m on the pill, so,” you started, kissing him quickly and then added: “I’m good either way.”

He looked at you and for a second, his brows knitted together in a frown. He let his thumb run over your bottom lip and you stopped moving, lifting your hips a little before leaning over to his bedside table.

“I just wanna make sure nothing unexpected happens, you know,” he started to explain and you looked over your shoulder, opening the drawer slowly.

“Bob, hey. It’s ok, really!” Your hand looked for the packet of condoms and took one out when you found it, before turning back to him. “I’m glad you wanna be safe, love.” You cupped his cheek and smiled at him, placing a quick kiss on his lips. 

You opened the shiny packaging and took out the condom, turning it over in your fingers to have it the right way around. Pinching the tip of it, you looked at Bob and asked him if he was ready. When he nodded, inching closer to you, you grabbed his length and put the condom on, pushing the rubbery material down his length easily. His hand came up to caress your cheek and he kissed you softly, his fingers burying in the hair at the back of your head while you climbed onto him, straddling his hips again.

With your hand still wrapped around his length, you guided his dick along your folds and then lowered onto it, moaning at the burning sensation of his thickness stretching you slowly. Bob’s jaw dropped and he groaned at slipping into you, his teeth digging into your bottom lip. You stayed there for a second, trying to adjust to the feeling of him filling you up so well and held onto his shoulders before you lifted your hips again slowly. The delicious pain of his size slipping in and out of you made your brain go foggy and you sank down onto him with more ease this time. Picking up the pace, you threw your head back and rode Bob’s dick, his right hand on your breast, kneading the tissue while his tongue worked on the nipple of your other breast. His left hand was on your hip, guiding you as you took him.

“Mhm, you fill me up so well, Bob,” you mused and bounced on him, the pain having turned to pleasure a few thrusts ago. His mouth let go of your breast and he pulled your face down, kissing you hungrily and he bucked his hips into yours and slipping in deeper with the next thrust, bottoming out. You moaned into his mouth loudly and let a giggle fall over your lips as you noticed the familiar feeling of your orgasm nearing.

He stopped moving for a second and turned you around, so you were beneath him and then he grabbed your right leg and moved it from around his hips to have it over his shoulder instead, changing the angle at which he thrusted into you.

Bob groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out again, his balls slapping against your ass with the next thrust and you let out a moan of his name, your nails digging into his back.

“Ugh, you’re so tight, babe. Feel so good,” he slurred and went to town on you, thrusting in and pulling back out, his bed groaning under his movements.

“You gotta tell me if I’m too rough,” he whispered into your ear, enveloping you with his form and leaning on his elbow while his other hand held onto your leg.

“No, it’s good. So good, Bob,” you assured, relishing in the feeling of him filling you up to the brim and stretching you with every thrust. You knew that you were close again, the knot twisting and tightening and you reached between your bodies, your fingers working on your clit while his dick slipped in and out of you at an exquisite pace.

He looked down at where your bodies met and whined, his forehead falling to yours. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room and you were glad that the rest of the team was still out, fearing just how much they would’ve been able to hear of what you two were doing.

“[y/n], fuck, you feel so good. I don’t know how much longer I can…” The movement of his hips got a little sloppy and you kissed him again, steadying him with a hand on his ass while you tried to meet his thrusts with your hip.

“It’s ok, babe. Come, Bob. I’m right behind you,” you purred into his ear and his hips stuttered, a low groan falling from his lips. You moved your hips, helping him ride out his orgasm and kissed his closed lids, when he suddenly thrusted into you harder again, pushing you closer and over the edge.

You fell with him, your third orgasm of the night sending lighting through your whole body. You clung to his body, biting into his shoulder and scratching your nails over his back, earning a wince from him at the pain that seemed to send him into a flurry. Your walls clenched around him as your orgasm progressed and he put his lips on your neck, riding out your shared orgasm, his breathing quick and shallow.

When he came down from his high, he sighed, an exhausted but gratified look on his face, and laid down next to you. You curled up to him, throwing your arm over his chest and putting your head on his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart and his quick breath.

“Did I hurt you?” The question came suddenly and you looked at him, confused at where the concern was coming from.

“Why are you asking?”

“This was my first time since the medical trial,” he started and turned onto his side, wrapping his arm around your hip.

“No, you didn’t hurt me, Bob. Quite the opposite, actually.” You caressed his cheek and kissed him softly, before adding: “I enjoyed it very much, if you couldn’t tell.”

A proud smile pushed up the corners of his mouth and he shook his head, chuckling lightheaded.

“God, you’re an incredible woman, [y/n].”

[healthylifewithus]

The Only Book You Need to Become Self-Sufficient on a Quarter Acre.

With this book, you’ll probably never have to rely on anybody else in times of crisis. You’ll become truly independent from the government, grocery chains, pharmacies, water and energy companies, and even the entire grid as you’ll produce everything you need on your own land.And the truth is, you don’t need a big piece of land to do that, just a quarter of an acre or even less.The Only Book You Need to Become Self-Sufficient on a Quarter Acre .But to achieve this kind of self-sufficiency on a small plot, you need to make everything as efficient as possible and absolutely need the right kind of advice from the start. Ron Melchiore and his wife, Johanna, have been living completely off-grid for over 40 years.They are self-sufficient, and they’ve had decades to perfect the methods they will share with you inside their new book:

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader  word count: 2.4k notes: part 3 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack WAYYYYY fluffier than the prequel — a gift to me and all of you. Also I think this might be the last part??? unless any of you have questions or one shots you want to hear about these two 🥹

You’re late to Beau’s baseball game. Not wildly—just enough that your pulse is up, your hair’s a mess, and you feel that twist in your chest that only happens when Jack gets there first.

You scan the bleachers, hand shielding your eyes. He’s easy to spot. Legs stretched out, ball cap pulled low, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. One arm draped across the bench beside him, claiming space.

Of course he saved you a spot.

“Christ,” you mutter, flopping into the seat beside him. “It’s mid-April. Why is it still so cold?”

Without missing a beat, Jack tilts his head toward the parking lot but reaches down at his feet. “There’s a coat in the car, but I’ve got a blanket here.”

He pulls out a slightly-rumpled camping blanket and offers it without looking—like this is just what you do now. Like he’s still the guy who knows when you’re cold before you say it.

You shake your head, tugging the sweatshirt you’ve been holding over your head.

“I’m good. Just needed this.”

Jack turns. Looks. And comically blinks.

It’s the team hoodie. The one the team mom handed out last week. Big enough to swallow you whole. Team logo on the chest. But it’s the back that gets him—ABBOT in bold block letters, above Beau’s number: 4.

You pretend not to notice how he’s staring. Pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips when his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“God,” he finally breathes. “You could’ve warned a guy.”

You smirk, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, low and hoarse. “You realize that, right?”

“It’s not like I put your name on it for you, Jack. There’s no player with my last name. I’m supporting our kid.”

His eyes drag down your body again—slower this time. Less surprised. More… appreciative.

“Right,” he says, blinking slow. “Supporting Beau. Totally normal. Not suggestive at all.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. It’s a losing game—trying not to feel everything you’re feeling. Want. Nostalgia. The sharp edges of maybe.

“He’s almost up to bat.”

Jack lifts his phone like he’s just remembered he has it. “Gotta document the moment. Hold still.”

You hear the shutter click.

“Send that to Robby and I’m never wearing it again.”

He grins as he taps the screen. “Too late. It’s already in the group chat. Dana’s gonna combust.”

You groan, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. “You’re such a menace.”

But you feel his gaze still on you. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s remembering the nights he used to get to see you in nothing but one of his sweatshirts—and wondering if this counts.

He nudges your knee with his. “You know, it’s not too late to get one with your last name on the back.”

You glance sideways.

“I mean it.” His voice softens. The grin tugs at his mouth, but his eyes are steady. “You wear my name like that again, I might get ideas.”

Your breath catches—just for a second.

You look away, toward the field, voice deliberately casual. “Let’s just focus on the game, Romeo.”

But he leans in, not quite touching, his breath warm against your ear.

“Sure,” he murmurs. “For now.”

And when Beau steps up to the plate, Jack sits back with one arm stretched casually across the bench behind you, fingertips grazing the letters printed across your back.

–

The next weekend is Beau’s half-birthday—his idea, obviously—and while you and Jack didn’t plan a full-blown party, somehow it’s turned into one.

Robby’s manning the grill like he’s auditioning for Food Network.. A couple of interns are tossing a ball with Beau and his friends on the lawn. You’re watching from the shade with a drink in hand.

Jack sits beside you, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. And it kind of is.

“You need anything?” he asks.

You hum a soft no, your shoulder brushing his.

Across the yard, Dana lowers her sunglasses and stares you down as she approaches.

“Well, well, well.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Look at you two. Domestic as hell.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Jack mutters, sliding his arm around your waist.

Dana smirks. “No, I say that like I’m preparing a toast for the wedding.”

You roll your eyes.

“Not yet,” Robby calls from the grill. “But someone got tagged in a very cozy park bench photo last week.”

Jack winces. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” you say, leaning into him. “People were always going to talk. At least now it’s about something we’re proud of.”

He glances at you—really looks—and nods once.

Just then, one of the neighborhood moms hustles over, diaper bag slung low. “Do you mind watching the baby for a few? Would love to pee in peace for the first time in years.”

“Been there,” you say, arms already out. “Take all the time you need.”

You settle with the baby, Jack beside you, the baby nestled against your chest. Comfortable silence settles between you.

“Now is this grill a time machine?” Robby shouts. “Feels like we’ve turned back the clock five years.”

Jack chuckles, leaning in to nibble the baby’s socked foot. “Yeah. I miss this age.”

You hesitate, heart in your throat. You’ve been dealing with major baby fever lately—but you never thought you'd get to feel this again. Not with him. Not here.

You bite the bullet. “Always thought I’d have two or three, y’know?”

Jack hums. “Never even thought I’d have one. But after Beau, I figured we’d end up with a whole football team.”

A neighborhood kid runs up and squints at you. “Mrs. Abbot… is this your baby?”

You laugh. “Nope, this is Mrs. Turner’s baby. I’m just holding her. My only baby is Beau—and he’s all grown up now.”

The kid nods solemnly and runs off.

“Tough crowd,” you murmur.

You turn—and find Jack still watching you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a quiet look on his face, “...you didn’t correct her on the last name.”

“She’s four. It's a bit complex to explain that yes, my son’s last name is Abbot, but mine isn’t.”

His lip quirks. You nudge his shoulder gently with yours.

–

It’s Beau’s Pre-K graduation and he’s somewhere outside, bounding around in his paper cap with the usual crew.

Inside, you’re balancing a lukewarm coffee in one hand and a paper plate of grocery store cookies in the other. Someone’s mid-way through an impassioned pitch about why you should join the PTA next year.

Jack’s at your side—polished enough for a school event, sleeves rolled, one too many button undone, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Present in a way that feels new. Like he wants people to know he’s here, with you.

You barely even catch the name slip: “So nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s hand finds your hip, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze.

You smile without missing a beat.

The conversation wraps. You make polite excuses. You and Jack step out into the hallway toward the playground.

Behind you, the buzz of small talk fades.

“Felt kinda nice, didn’t it?” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I knew you were going to make a comment.”

You turn the corner—and he catches you. One arm braced against the wall, the other slipping around your waist, pinning you gently between him and the cinderblock.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “They called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t flinch.”

You shrug, breath hitching when he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” he says, lips skating down your jaw, “you keep playing this game, it’s gonna give me ideas.”

“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” you whisper, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

His mouth finds yours again—firmer this time. Slower.

Footsteps echo down the far end of the hallway.

You both break apart, laughing quietly.

“Down, boy” you say, smoothing your hair. “We’ve got a graduate to wrangle.”

Jack grins, still close. “For the record, Mrs. Abbot has a real nice ring to it.”

You laugh, “There are worse last names to be stuck with”.

But when he laces your fingers together and leads you out into the sun, you don’t let go.

–

It’s the last month of Beau’s summer break when you head out to the lake. Your parents will be there. Your sister and her kids. Jack’s brother and his family are driving in, too.

You’re panicking, of course. Jack is cool as a cucumber. Beau’s bouncing off the walls with excitement about a whole week of cousin chaos.

You gave your family a stern talk before you left. Be nice. You love him. Beau loves him. He’s doing the work. He’s different now. You’re making it work—and yeah, you’re scared—but you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been.

Naturally, you three are the last to arrive. Of course it’s your fault. One final Zoom dragged long and you left straight from Pittsburgh with your laptop still warm in your bag.

The cabin is palatial. Jack found it. He definitely went over budget, but you know he’d never charge your family. It’s just who he is now—present, generous, steady.

You send Jack and Beau to the backyard with the others while you start unpacking.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes you glance up. Your sister walks in and flops dramatically on the bed.

“Okay,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you replaced your ex with a well-adjusted clone. Where’d Dr. McBroody go?”

You laugh. “I know. It’s weird. You guys didn’t know him when we first started dating. He’s… back. The guy I fell in love with. I didn’t think I’d get that again.”

She hums, skeptical. “Then why are you still keeping him at arm’s length?”

“What?”

“Just trying to figure out why you’re still holding back when he keeps proving himself—over and over—from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes.”

You glance out the window. Jack’s lifting Beau to dunk over the older cousins, both of them laughing.

You sigh. “I’m scared. I can’t go through that again.”

She softens. “You can’t live like that. Cut the poor man some slack. Either go all in, or cut him loose. But don’t keep him in limbo. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you murmur, following her downstairs.

It’s a surprise when Jack books dinner for just the two of you on the last night of the trip. At the waterfront place you told him your parents went to every summer.

“You’ve got a house full of babysitters,” your dad says, shooing you out the door. “Go enjoy yourselves. Beau’ll be asleep before you’re back.”

It’s a quick drive, and Jack reaches for your hand over the console as soon as you hit the main road. His palm is a little clammy. Yours too.

“I think this might be the best week of my life,” you say, squeezing his hand.

He’s quieter than usual. But relaxed. Smiling.

At the restaurant, he rounds the car to open your door, hand warm on your lower back as he leads you in.

“Reservation for Abbot.”

“Ah yes—right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

You give him a look. “You paid them to say that.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says, smug as he pulls out your chair.

Dinner is easy. Familiar. Dreamy.

“Can I ruin the moment?” you ask.

“Nothing you say could ruin this.”

“I miss Beau. He’d hate it here—no kids menu. But I love our little unit.”

“I love our unit. I love Beau. I love you.” His fingers trace absentminded circles over your ring finger.

“I love you too.”

After dinner, you walk along the beach, your head resting against his shoulder. He leads you to the edge of a quiet pier.

“You know,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve been through a lot. And yeah, I’d change so much… but also nothing. Because it all got us here. And I know we’ve talked about this, kind of, but I still wanted it to feel a little traditional—”

You blink, heart racing. “Jack…”

“Just let me finish—before you turn me down, let me say this. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying. Really trying. And I think you’ve seen that. I think—” his voice catches. “I think we can do this. For real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears are already slipping down your cheeks. “Jack. Just ask me the question.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Oh—right. Okay.” He drops to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Your breath catches.

“Baby,” he says, eyes shining, “I know I don’t deserve you. But would you do me and Beau the honor of becoming an Abbot?”

You drop to your knees in front of him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” You kiss him between each word.

He slides the ring onto your finger. You kiss him again, a little breathless.

“Alright,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let’s get you home.”

In the car, you stare down at your hand.

“This ring is perfect. It looks just like my mom’s. It’s my dream ring.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s not like it. It is your mom’s.”

“What?”

“They knew how much you loved it. They gave it to me.”

You stare.

“We still can go ring shopping if it isn't what you want. But when I told them I was going to ask… they offered it. Thought it might mean more.”

“It does,” you whisper. “They know?”

“Of course they know. And Beau knows. And your sister. My brother. Robby. Half the ER. Even the grocery store checkout lady. I haven’t shut up about it.”

You laugh as he pulls into the driveway.

The house is dark, unusually quiet after a week of family chaos.

You lean across the console to kiss him, half-climbing into his lap. He grins against your lips but gently stops you.

“Let’s get inside first.”

You cock your head. “Since when are you the voice of reason?”

He rounds the car, opens your door, and leads you inside, where the lights flip on and the entire house bursts into shouts of “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Beau barrels into your legs and you scoop him up, laughing through tears as Jack presses a kiss to your temple.And for the first time, you don’t flinch when someone calls you Mrs. Abbot. You just smile, because it’s exactly who you are now.

[gracieheartspedro]

Lessons in Art History

my main masterlist - eddie munson masterlist

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 10.5k (tehe sorry not sorry)

description: eddie needs to graduate. a stupid summer art class is getting in his way. luckily for him, his neighbor and childhood crush is an art history major. and you're ready to make a deal.

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no use of y/n, reader is in college, both parties are 18+, mention of abusive parents, drug use, consumption of alcohol, mentions of relying on alcohol, mentions of body mutilation, eddie is a doesn't understand art and you really do, smut, lots of tension, no mention of specific body type, dubcon (both are under the influence, they are tipsy/high), oral (f recieving) unprotected p in v, body worship, dirty talk, eddie cums 'quickly', eddie finishes inside. eddie just really loves your body. aftercare.

authors note: this has been sitting in my docs forever. i finally finished it on a whim. enjoy me combining two things i really love! art history and eddie munson <3 if you guys want to see more of these two, pls don't hesitate to pop in my asks. also thank you to my beta's aka @pedgito and @amanitacowboy! kisses to the both of you! MUAHHH!!

how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune

Eddie did not understand art. 

The fact that he even had to take the stupid art history course in summer school aggravated him. When the teacher would blab on and on about different mediums and their importance to history, he found himself almost dozing off. Sure some of the paintings they were studying were cool, but it seemed very… pretentious. 

But he’s failing and he can not be failing. 

As soon as he saw your old Chevy pull into the driveway across from his, he knew he was in for a treat this summer. Seeing you again would only send his heart racing, he knew that for sure. When he sees you in passing, mainly when he’s heading to the school in the morning, you always offered a passive wave and pleasant smile. You had only gotten more beautiful since you left for college. 

Luckily for him, his childhood crush and next door neighbor was in college studying Fine Arts and she was home for the summer. Finally. 

You had just concluded your freshman year at Indiana State University. It had been a dream of yours since you were a kid to go to school for art. Saving all your money made from the diner downtown helped with a good chunk of your first semester and your second semester was proudly sponsored by your rich aunt. Lucky you. 

You had plans to spend your summer working on some art pieces to build your resume. Your preferred medium was watercolors and oil paints, so your small bedroom was littered with canvases and cold-pressed sheets. You have lived in this trailer your entire life and it was by far the messiest it’s ever been. Not just from you, but from your mom and younger sister. You spent most mornings picking up after them, and you soon realize that’s all you have ever done your entire life. The reason the house was this bad was because you were now gone and not slaving to keep the base boards dusted. 

You needed to get out of the house. 

So you started spending time outside, occupying some lawn chairs on your back porch. The shade was limited to one corner of the broken down rotted wood, so you positioned the chair there and set up your easel. 

There had been a couple occasions in the time you have been home where you had seen your neighbors and had very basic conversations with them. You said hello to Max Mayfield when she skateboarded past your driveway, but you do not believe she actually heard you. Wayne Munson had waved to you one day when he was leaving for work. And then of course the moments you saw Eddie. 

He had not changed one bit, that boy. You had a sneaky small crush on him when you two shared a couple classes together your senior year. You had lived right across from him for practically your whole life, yet when he sat next to you in English class, you felt yourself stealing glances and sharing hushed jokes together. You were not sure if the crush was loosely based because you two were always in close proximity to each other, but he was cute. 

One particularly hot afternoon, you hear the crunching of your dying grass on the side of the house. You glance up from your canvas only to see him.

Eddie was supposed to graduate alongside you but between all his absences, bad grades, and mischievous behaviors, he failed. Twice. 

You put your paint down on a rusted out table, wiping the excess colors on your shirt with your elementary school mascot on it. 

“Hey,” You say lightly, shooting him a gentle smile. You could not lie that your stomach did a bit of a flip when his eyes locked with yours. And just like that, Eddie is reminded why he used to like you so damn much. 

Your smile was enough to make a man halt in place, and that’s exactly what he did. 

You seemed disheveled, which Eddie found oddly attractive. Your shirt was covered in dry and wet paint, looking like you just wipe whatever paint you’re not using on yourself. It was an array of colors, but mainly different hues of blues and yellows.

He quickly starts to regret his initial plan. Originally he was going to catch you leaving your house one day, asking how college was going, and see if you were interested in helping him study for his next test. But you never left your house at the same time, and he could not just casually hang out outside 24/7 waiting for you. That would be weird. Stalkerish. 

So after one particularly bad quiz, he worked up enough courage to walk straight up to you while you sat and worked magic. Problem was, he did not plan what to say, only thinking of it as he approached you. And of course, when you say ‘hello’, he quickly realizes you stole his voice with your gaze.

You just look at him, sensing he must be lost or something. 

He finally finds his voice after clearing away some phlegm, “I need your help.”

Your eyes flicker to your canvas, inspecting your work from another angle as you hop off the edge of your deck. Eddie starts to get nervous as you approach him, your eyes still firmly planted on your art. 

Eddie used to ask you for the dumbest favors when you two were kids. He used to knock on your door and ask for random ingredients, to walk with him to the mini mart down the street, just anything to get you out of your house and talking to him. 

Looking back now, it was kind of sweet he even thought to invite you, but you were not interested in helping with housework or walking along the back roads of Hawkins with him.

You finally look at him, pursing your lips in faux contemplation, “Eddie… I’m not helping you mow the grass-” He waves his hands in the air, halting you from talking. “No… it’s not that. I am in summer school-”

It was your turn to cut him off, planting your hands on your hips, “Again!?”

He exhales, bringing his ringed fingers over his face and dragging his lower lids down in frustration. 

Eddie was a lot of things, but he was not stupid. You knew he was smart if he applied himself. Problem was that he was bad about caring about school. You remember the days of sitting behind him in 10th grade Algebra and you almost failed with how much he interrupted class to laugh with some friends in the last row. He was the very opposite of yourself. 

He crosses his arms over his Metallica shirt that he’s been wearing for two years, using his fingers to fold his lower lip as you stand like a scolding mother.

“I need to pass this Art History class and I failed the first quiz already. I need it to finish out my credits. Please-” You roll your eyes, matching his stance by crossing your arms. Art History was the easiest subject to you and you adored learning more about it. And Eddie knew that, too. You realize you’ll have wet paint all over your arms as soon as your arm sticks to the front of your shirt. 

“What’s in it for me?”

Eddie’s eyebrows raise, surprised that you are open to tutoring him so quickly. You watch him nod his head, dreaming up how he can repay you. “I’ll smoke you up whenever you want. And… whatever else you want, I guess.”

“Smoking me up whenever I want?”

You like the sound of that. You were just like every other art student at your college. Using substances to get you through each day. Lately, it’s been wine you get from the gas station down the road. But drunk painting is not as productive, so you mainly use it to numb all the other depressing things in your life at night. 

You missed smoking weed, but you have not had the budget to buy. 

But if tutoring Eddie Munson in your favorite subject would get you free weed, you could not say no. 

Eddie nods quickly at your response, desperate to pass. And if it meant hanging out with you, too, it was a win-win-win all around. “Yeah, I just need to pass this class-” You cut him off again, “Okay, fine. But we have to do it at your house.”

You did not need him seeing your hoard of paintings and messy house. And now you had an actual excuse to leave your house. 

Eddie shakes his head, blinking at you curiously. 

“Yeah, no problem,” He claps his hands in front of his body, twisting his foot a bit like a child would, “When can we start?” The wind picks up, and you watch his hair fly across his face. You giggle, watching him brush his locks away from his mouth. You could not deny how cute and endearing he could be occasionally. “What days do you have class?”

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

This would be a breeze, you think to yourself. You assume immediately that you would only need to see him two days a week. No big deal. 

You head back up to your deck, taking your canvas off the easel, “Then I’ll see you on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” You stop in movements as he simply states, “Today is Tuesday, sweetheart.”

Your head shoots around, seeing the cheeky smirk playing on his lips. The nickname he called you sends a slight shiver down your spine. It sounded nice coming from him. 

You roll your eyes, though, assuming he means you had to start today.

“Let me grab my notes and change,” His face brightens up at your words. “I’ll be over in 15 minutes.”

-

You soon realize two days a week was not going to help Eddie. You added Monday evenings to the equation pretty quickly when you realized he did not even have the proper textbook. 

“Emerson gave it to me! He told me it was the one he used last year!”

You just rolled your eyes and read his syllables to him, out loud, obnoxiously. He giggled the entire time, commenting about how you should have been a school teacher. 

You two would sit in his bedroom from five in the evening until 8 at night, mainly on his unmade bed, going over different texts and art pieces. Around 7, he would offer you to smoke, which you always agreed to. By 8:30, you were high as a kite and ready to go home. He would send you off with a ‘goodnight, sweetheart’ and watch you walk back over to your front door.

You notice pretty quickly he was always fiddling with his hands, tapping his pencils, biting his fingernails. He could not sit still and it drove you insane. You gave him one of your stress balls one day, hoping the silent squishing would ease his jitters, but instead he started throwing it up and the air. You took it from him soon after, scolding him. 

He was virtually impossible to teach.

You finally get him on track when they start studying Van Gogh. You would simply help Eddie interpret the art, as well as give him the basics information on the artist. 

He thinks it’s funny when you explain how Van Gogh cut off his ear, laughing hysterically when you show him the self portrait.

“Look at his goofy little hat! And the bandage around his head?”

You could not help yourself today. You roll your eyes and sit back against the edge of his bed, trying to redeem your resting easygoing expression. It was becoming too hard, but you distort your smile back on and pivot to him. His face is twisted in amusement, knowing his comment has you reeling.

It was only Monday and you had two more evenings explaining art to him. You could not get him to love the subject, but you try to place the ideas into his day to day life. It seems to stick better when you put it in those terms. It’s hard to do with Van Gogh, sadly, so you just listen to him cracking jokes until it’s time to smoke.

-

He hands you the joint, his lips pursed in contemplation as you take the hit. You are sitting back against his wall, crossing your legs vertically across his bed. You look more relaxed on his bed than he does. 

You exhale, handing him back back the roll. You really needed this high to bring the tension away from your shoulders.

“So, what did you learn today?” You probe, seeing if he actually learned anything. You would not be surprised if he said something about Van Gogh’s ear again. Instead, he just smirks at you, tilting his head back on his wooden headboard.

He takes a drag of the joint, his jaw ticking as he blows out the smoke. “That you’re very patient with me.”

You bite your cheek, preventing yourself for smiling. He could see right through you, no matter how hard you tried to disguise your annoyance with him. 

“You’re giving me free weed and all I have to do is explain basic concepts to you,” you explain, reaching over to him, brushing your arm across his knee and thigh. The physical touch leaves goosebumps all over your arm.

“Like 40 times, over and over again.”

You smirk at that, “Again. Free weed.”

“And the company, of course,” He says as he leans forward, poking your thigh with his pointer finger.

The comment makes your stomach flip, butterflies sprouting as you watch his smile get wider. 

You honestly would not have done this if it was any other guy from Hawkins High. You hated most of the people you graduated with, knowing they were all assholes or weird. Or both. 

And while Eddie was an oddball, he had manners and knew where to draw the line with you. He never made you feel unsafe or awkward. He was just so shamelessly himself and somehow that meshed well with your personality. 

“Yeah, you’re alright I guess,” You sneer, trying to act as coy as possible. You could feel the heat burning your cheeks and Eddie noticed it, too. He would not say anything though, just trying to rid his mind of the feeling of your arm brushing across his leg earlier.

-

“I just don’t get the point of big red squares on big black canvas.”

Week 4 proved to be the week where they throw high school summer school students into the deep end. You curse the teacher as soon as Eddie comes home with print outs of Mark Rothko’s abstract paintings.

You really enjoyed Rothko’s work, having seen it in person in Chicago on a school trip. You almost felt protective over his art. 

So when Eddie goes on his normal rambles about how silly art really is, you cannot help yourself.

You grab the print out of the unnamed yellow orange piece, “There’s nothing to get Eddie, it’s just…”

“You said this Rothko guy was this infamous artist and all he does is paint shapes,” He looks at the paper over your shoulder. He’s currently sprawled across his bed, while you sit on his floor with all the dust bunnies. His head is right next to yours and you can feel his curls laying on your bare shoulder. 

Why did you wear a tank top today?

You huff, sitting forward a bit, “Eddie, it’s not about what he wanted it to be, it’s what you interpret it as.” “Well it’s squares. That’s all I interpret, sweetheart.”

You inhale a deep breath, the anger rising within you turning quickly into how you could break down the kind-of pretentious pieces. You had to admit that Rothko’s ideas were pretty out there. You also knew that they seemed very grandiose to an average person, but he had his intentions in the right place.

“Can I explain it to you,” You look up at him, your faces inches away. It causes your breath to hitch in your throat. “Cause you’re just… so wrong.”

A smile crosses his face, waiting for you to go into detail. “Go on, princess.”

You look back at the print, cocking your head to the side. You had explained his art to other people before but you knew you would have to phase it down a bit for Eddie.

“Rothko is not telling you to feel one way or another,” You point at the orange part of the pieces, “You may see those squares, but it’s more about the colors. The paint strokes. You see them in person and they are like… all consuming. His point was not to make something for himself, it was so that observer could reflect inward and use his art to their advantage. To grieve. To be happy. To reminisce. So it’s not about the squares. It’s about what the colors evoke.”

His finger points right beside where yours sits on the page, “What does this one say to you?”

You smile as you reflect on the painting. It’s not exactly where it needs to be. Rothko does not need to be a printed flimsy piece of paper, it needs a huge canvas, but it still evokes something in you. With Eddie over your shoulder, the ideas flowing within you sends goosebumps across your neck and back. His closeness only adds to the slowing of your heart rate.

“The yellow and salmon color make me hopeful. Like I can actually get somewhere and be something. It reminds me of some beautiful sunrises I’ve had the privilege of watching. Makes me feel like I’ll be alright.”

Eddie’s eyes search your face, watching your lips twitch as you observe the piece. It kind of spilled out of you. You try not to get too into your perceptions of art with him, simply just giving him information and making him write and conclude his own opinions. But art is the only thing in the world you felt held by and on rare occasions, you had to bare your soul. Eddie was just the unlucky bastard to hear about it.

The gentle way you describe things, every word sounding so precious, made Eddie’s whole head explode with adoration. He spent so many evenings watching you, quietly admiring the way you moved, the way you spoke, and while he knew the crush he harbored was major, it only got worse spending these last few weeks with you. He got to see your little unique quirks up close and he was hopelessly in love with you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers, his voice a bit strained. You glance up at him, completely whiplashed by his response. 

The way he’s looking at you makes you believe he does not even realize he said that out loud. His eyes soften, as you scan his face. Your gaze falls to his lips before you finally speak up, your heartbeat in your ears.

“What?” 

His eyes widened, realizing his mistake. He sits back and snaps his gaze away from you. Your cheeks heat up as you come to realize you had read the situation correctly. He rubs his hand over his face in embarrassment, trying to gain his bearings.

“I’m.. I didn’t mean to… say that out loud.”

He’s fumbling over his words, which makes a smile creep across your face. You knew what it was to blunder like this, having done it one too many times with guys you liked. You wanted to reassure him without making it seem like too big of a deal. But boy, was it a big deal. 

“It’s okay,” You manage to say, trying not to giggle. You cannot help yourself, though. As soon as the breath leaves your mouth, he groans.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

He is standing up now, rolling off his bed. His tall frame starts to pace his bedroom, his hands never leaving his face. He could not bear to look at you.  

You pull your knees into your chest, trying to ease his nerves with a simple, “Don’t be sorry, it’s completely okay.”

He stops in his tracks, placing his hands on his hips. You cannot help but find him charming, his face all red, his hair untidy, his shirt twisted from the way he was laying. You had to admit, in a not-out-loud-way, that he was beautiful, too.

“You just got on that whole tangent and the passion you had for the art put me in a trance and…” He starts to pace again when he sees your lips curve up, “I just… yeah.”

You giggle, his words sending your heart racing even more, “I put you in a trance, huh?”

He slaps his hand over his forehead, realizing he can not stop saying stupid things. “Studying session over. ‘M rolling a joint.”

-

It was final day. 

The last couple weeks with Eddie consisted of a lot of him really diving in head first into the topics they were discussing in class. While he still needed your guidance on dissecting certain pieces and how they related back to the artists, he was coming home with quizzes that had red scribbled ‘B’s’ on the top of the paper. That’s all he needed to pass. 

You had settled with the fact that Eddie was never going to bring up what he said to you again. After that evening, he was hesitant to even sit a foot away from you, always residing on the opposite side of the room. 

It hurt a bit. You do not know if he actually meant it or not, and the mystery of it all was eating you alive. When you would let your eyes linger on him for longer than usual, you wanted to crawl out of your skin when he would intentionally look away from you. He was avoiding it, and you knew it.

But Eddie was not avoiding it. God, he wanted to. You were consuming every thought in his head. When he was in class he was thinking about you, because you were teaching him even more than the teacher was. When he was driving home, a song would play and he would somehow relate it to the way your eyes twinkled at him or how your smooth voice would send tingles down his spine. When he was home, trying to have some down time, he would catch himself staring out his bedroom window, wondering what you were doing in your room across the street. 

He was officially losing it. 

On final day, he got in his car, his fingers nervously tapping his steering wheel, hoping to the heavens and angels that he would pass so he could race over to your front door and leap into your arms in excitement. He just wanted to be near you, always.

-

When he gets the bubble sheet back and sees a 89/100, he jumps up out of his chair and hoots like a banshee. He could not believe his eyes as he gripped the paper with an iron fist, waving it around to all 4 of his classmates. “I’m graduating, fuckers!”

He could not get home fast enough. With the paper sitting on his dash, he flew over curbs, unable to maintain his excitement at passing the stupid class. 

When he pulls into Forest Hills and fails to see your car in your driveway, his heart skips. 

Had you left to go back to school early? Without saying goodbye? Were you just out? Maybe you had just gone to the grocery store?

As he parks the van, he snatches the sheet up and takes his time getting in the house. He glances back at your place a couple times, failing to see any signs of life through the slightly drawn open windows. His mind was spinning with all the possibilities, all of them equally making him spiral. He places his test down his record player, swipes up his rolling tray and starts to get as high as he possibly could. He would check your driveway practically every fice seconds, willing you to appear, but after an hour, he ashes out a joint and lays back on his bed, defeated.

-

You pulled into your driveway, noticing Eddie’s van haphazardly parked in his driveway. You were tempted to pull in front of his house and knock on his front door to ask how the test went, but you were up all night getting drunk and wallowing. A fight with your mother really took everything out of you and you had next-to-no energy. 

You waste no time getting inside and throwing on your comfiest pajamas. You cuddle up in your bed, soaking up the quietness of your trailer as you have it completely to yourself tonight. Sleep eventually finds you after a bit, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. You take your time getting up, wandering through the house to the front door. On your way there, you stop and grab the half drunk wine glass on the counter. You had left your current self a little gift last night, it seems.

You get to the front door, slamming the wine before you turn the handle. As you open it, you see his curls first. You wipe the dribble of red liquid away from the side of your mouth, puckering your lips. 

“Hey,” You say simply, trying to hide the wine glass behind your back. He knew you drank, but you did not want to look completely disheveled in his presence. You already had bed head. “Hey, uh… I passed,” Eddie mutters, his hands gripping onto his test sheet. He holds it up, a small smile expanding across his face, “I got a B on my final, so… I’m on track to graduate this year.”

He looks nervous, but your heart jumps in excitement for him. This is the best news you have heard all day. You put the wine glass down on the wooden entry table and fly out the door. You wrap your arms around his neck, jumping up and down as you congratulate him. “That’s awesome, Eddie!”

His hand gently graces your waist, shifting your oversized t-shirt up a bit, revealing that there are shorts underneath. You hear a small chuckle escape his throat, almost reflecting some sort of relief. 

You really knew how to make him feel special, practically throwing yourself at him. “All thanks to you,” He whispers as you pull away from his grasp. You still have your hand on his neck, pressing your fingers into the collar of his jean vest. “Oh please…” You shift back, dropping your arm to your side. You giggle, watching him crumble the test paper and stuff it into his pocket. You move back a step, “I’m happy though. Truly. You earned it.”

There’s a pause between you two, both just staring at one another. You want him to say something back, unsure if your celebration was a bit too much. His face drops as if he’s remembering something. He digs in his jean’s pocket, hissing as he searches for something. He pulls out a small joint, the rings on his fingers sparkling in the sun’s rays. The sun is finally going down, shadowing a golden hue over Forest Lawn. “I uh.. Have a celebratory joint.. Do you want to smoke?”

Your smile gives away your answer. You push your elbow into the door, opening it wider for Eddie. Having the whole place to yourself would serve you some good tonight, but Eddie was not much of a bother. Plus, free weed.

“Yeah, I actually have the house to myself, if you want to hang here?”

His eyes light up, surprised that you are allowing him in your space, “Are you sure?”

You nod, gesturing him to join you inside, “Yeah, it’s cool. Mom’s working overnight, sister’s at Max’s.”

“Sure, yeah.”

-

Initially you decide to just hangout in the living room, but then you realize your mother would somehow smell the remnants of marijuana, so you offer Eddie the space of your room. He nods timidly, walking behind you through the kitchen. On your way through, you grab the already half drank wine bottle and walk to the end of the hallway. You push open your door, showing off your messy and cluttered room to Eddie.

“My room’s a mess, just a warning.”

You crack open the nearest window, before settling on your bed. Eddie stands there, taking in your room and art pieces. Stacked canvases take up most of the floor space, as well as a peeling easel. You pat your unmade bed, trying to get him to sit. He toes off his sneakers and plops down on your full-sized bed. 

He places the joint between his lips, something you hyperfixate on for a moment. Watching his mouth wrap around something so small makes you pause. His perfectly symmetrical pink lips were something that caught your attention often. 

You uncork your wine as he flicks his lighter and pulls some smoke. 

“You are gonna smoke, too, right,” He asks, handing over the rolled weed. You take a swig of the bottle, letting the cheap alcohol slide down your throat. 

You gesture him the bottle, offering him some of your own vice. He’s a guest, after all. “Yeah, I am. Want some?”

He shakes his head, scrunching his nose at the idea of drinking. “Not a wine guy. Thanks, though.”

You two sit there in a comfortable silence, passing the joint back and forth. When you feel enough of a buzz throughout your body, you stand up and decide to show off your newest pieces. 

You had never been one to show off your work. You did not mind if people looked or admired, but you’d rather not be in the room when it was happening. You were more afraid of failure, which to you, was someone not liking your work. Criticism. Such a scary thought. 

You grab a painting you created of the woods at the entrance of Forest Hills, a densely packed row of trees with the sun only slightly beaming through some breaks in the leaves. It took you a week to complete it, having spent most of your free time in the evenings with Eddie. 

You turn the canvas over with one hand as you grip your wine bottle at the same time. Eddie shifts on your bed, laying on his side and propping his body weight up on his elbow. 

The moment his eyes find the canvas, his jaw drops.

“Holy shit, sweetheart. That is incredible,” He sits up on his butt, his dark curls shifting around his shoulders as he does. “You could fill an entire museum with the amount of canvases in here.”

You beam at his words, a sense of unnerving weight that you carry around, suddenly lifting off your shoulders. You felt pride swirl in your stomach, watching him stand and approach one older stack of paintings. 

You place the piece of art down, feeling the tackiness of the clear coat on your fingertips. 

“That’s the dream, one day.”

He shifts some watercolors you did around, staring at them with the joint between his lips. He looks so focused and enamored with your work. It’s endearing seeing him able to admire art after dealing with him for weeks just poking fun at it. “Oh, you’ll get there,” he states with confidence, the bud wiggling between his teeth with his words. He takes it out of his mouth, finally looking back over to you. The rush of heat to your cheeks could be attributed to the alcohol, but he is sure it is because of his praise. “You’re incredible.”

And you can tell he means it. What you don’t know is he means it in every sense. Your artistic ability is just the tip of the iceberg. 

He swallows, letting the tension rise a bit as you muster up the courage to step closer to him. The joint is burnt out, now just a roach between his fingers. You place the almost empty wine bottle on your desk, practically invading Eddie’s space as you step one foot closer.

The weed has loosened him up a bit. His body feels weightless and his mouth is one of the muscles that has relaxed with the rest of his limbs.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers, looking down at you with a lopsided grin. The moment is reminiscent of the first time he told you that, but the energy in the room is more charged than last time. 

The whites of his eyes are red, his lids drooping a bit more. You can feel the heat flush your cheeks as his gaze falls down over your face and to your lips. 

“Thanks, Eds,” your voice not crawling over a whisper. This time when you acknowledge his compliment, he does not backpedal. His eyes don’t stray away, nervously finding a way to bring up a new conversation. No, this time, he’s confident and sure fire about telling you how he felt. 

He had been holding onto it for so long, and soon, you would be back at school. He knew your mind would stray to other places, other things, other guys. And he knew he would not be able to live with himself if he did not express his feelings for you. 

“Truly, I mean it,” He mutters, shifting on his other leg. You can tell by the way he’s fiddling with his rings, he is nervous. The only thing you can think of is his lips, especially when he licks them, “You are… probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

The statement catches you off guard at first. Maybe it’s the alcohol distorting your confidence, or maybe it’s the nerves of him getting an inch closer. You clear your throat, finally darting your eyes away from his mouth. “You are high.”

A smile spreads across his face which warms your skin, prickling tiny bumps scattering down your arms. “And right,” He emphasizes, placing the roach down by your wine bottle. Instead of putting his arm down, his hand inches towards the curve of your cheek. There’s a glint in his eye, something hinting at you to lean towards him. And you do. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

Your eyes flicker away, your vision falling onto your bedroom door. You had hung up a mirror there when you were 12 and became hyper aware of your appearance. Your mom was very good at making you feel inferior, so you would spend hours sitting on your bed and staring into your mirror with contempt. You had learned how to love yourself a bit more since you were not living at home, but coming back has only reminded you of all the things you hate about yourself. But the characteristics you did like about yourself seemed to shine a bit more as you stood next to Eddie.

“I think I have pretty traits,” You muster up, looking away from your own reflection. Eddie does not accept that. The moment your head snaps back in his direction, his fingers drifting down to your jawline, “No, baby, you are the whole package. Not just a couple things. You’re perfect.”

Perfect. You had never been appreciated by any guy like this. You did not know Eddie had it in him.

“Eddie, you’re just saying that-” He somehow forces you to look in his eyes. He levels with you, his eyes looking serious and bloodshot, “I’m truly not just saying it to say it. I… I have thought like this since like 8th grade, sweetheart.”

It feels like all the air has been pushed out of your chest. You choke out two words, “You what?”

And then Eddie cannot help himself. It’s like he had been gearing up his entire life for this moment. He just needed the push. And the way you are looking at him right now is enough for him. 

“The moment I realized I was completely beside myself into you was when you pushed that girl on the school bus for saying I was a freak for having longer hair. You literally pushed her into the aisle and stepped over her to get off the bus with me. I knew then I was a goner. You were all I could see.”

The day is so vivid in your mind. You even remember the t-shirt you were wearing that day. It was a memory that stuck with you, too. You did not realize you had made such an impact on him. It’s endearing to know he thought about you in that way. Endearing and… reassuring?

You try to break the tension, clearing your throat, “Well, she was being a bitch.” But he does not laugh, he just stares down at you. The rise and fall of his chest insinuates that he’s on the verge of panicking if you do not respond positively. “Yeah, she was.”

The silence eats away at you. The last part of his statement bounces around in your brain. 

“A goner?”

Your nose wiggles and Eddie cannot deny how much he just wants to lift you off your feet and ravish you in that moment. You did not know the effect you had on him just by changing your facial impression to something so disgustingly cute. But it was the way you shifted under his gaze, your hand trailing up to his side, toying with the hem of his raggedy band t-shirt.

He returns the touch, his other hand propping up on your waist. The warmth moves around to your lower back, pulling you closer to him. 

“Yes, princess. A goner.”

His eyes droop and his mouth stays ajar as you too creep closer and closer together. The energy is surging off the ways, striking you in the back and leaving goosebumps in their wake. His hand trails down to your neck, the coldness of his rings shocking your system further the moment they touch your collarbones.

You lick your lips, slowly. It’s enough to make Eddie groan.

“You still feel that way?”

He shakes his head, almost to say ‘duh’. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely. You sticking by me all summer and puttin’ up with me only confirmed that I am practically in love with you.”

Your heart could hammer out of your chest at any moment. You feel the chills only further drive your nerves. You shake your head, your hand now balling up his shirt. It’s almost like a threat. “I don’t believe you-” He cuts you off before you can continue. “Let me prove it to you.”

You watch his hands carefully drift down your chest, his fingers resting right on your breast bone. Your breath hitches and you slowly release the fabric between your fingers. You cannot help but trail your eyes back up to his lips, watching him teasingly lick them before leaning in further to you. 

His pupils are huge and you are almost positive it’s because of the weed. 

But it is not just that. Your scent alone is enough to make his cock swell in his tight black jeans. You have yet to notice, but once you do, Eddie knows his cheeks will go bright red. 

The smell of weed is slowly being pulled out of your room by the crisp evening air pouring in from your window. It brings in a chill that has you shifting closer to feel his hot breath on your face. He is suddenly your heat source. 

His head cowers down, his wet lips pressing hesitantly against your jaw. Your voice quivers as he drags his lips all the way to your chin. Your lips are so close, he could just press them together. But somehow that seems more intimate. 

“Is this okay?” He ponders, millimeters from your mouth. You swallow back a hasty hum. 

“Mhm.”

You were never shy of making the first move in situations like this, but your body has completely locked up. You are at his mercy and you are almost positive you would let him do anything to you right now. 

His hands move quickly, sliding down your curves and committing them to memory. 

You just close your eyes and wait. You feel it coming and seeing him get closer is going to send your heart beating out of your chest. When his lips finally grace yours, you two move slowly. Dragging out each movement, tongues slowly slipping past teeth. 

Your brain draws a blank for a beat, not fully digesting the fact that you are kissing him. After weeks of getting high with him, teaching him about a subject you're passionate about, and that slight tension in the air. Especially after he first called you beautiful. That night you went home and tossed and turned in your bed. 

Now he’s gently backing you up to the edge of the mattress, causing you to drop onto your bed with a bounce. He does not waste any time, connecting lips again and giggling as you lay on your back. 

Eddie cannot believe you are below him, so willing to do something like this with him. The moment he starts to get in his head about it, he slowly pulls away from you, almost not to alarm you in any way. 

But the way you look at him. He feels this pull in his chest, like a gravitational drift back to you. He hovers above you, eyes searching your face. 

“God, you couldn’t get any more perfect.”

The heat returns to your entire body. “Stop.”

“Never, sweetheart.”

It seems like he’s going back in for another kiss, but instead he’s pressing his lips against your cheeks. You cannot help the smile that takes over your face. Your hands find a good spot, raking your nails gently through his scalp. The groans that escape him send pulsating need to your core. 

The moment you wrap your leg around his, it’s like a signal for him to further his exploration. His mouth drags across your skin, leaving his saliva in its wake. When he stops at the base of your throat, your hips jolt forward. You feel his jeans straining to keep his cock in one spot.

“More,” You mewl, your shorts riding up with your t-shirt, revealing your thighs and hips to him. He cannot help the strangled chuckling that comes out when you start to beg for him. As if he could not get any harder. 

“More, huh?” His digits spread out, dragging up your oversized shirt and kneading your flesh. The motion has you grinding against his leg even more. He’s dragging it out and it’s so painful. You wish he would just rip the bandaid off and completely unravel you. 

He spares you the pleading and pushes up the fabric to reveal your bare chest. You had not planned to have guests and to be quite frank, you completely forgot you had no bra on. You thought he would have to fumble around to get the full display. He puts his weight on his one knee, admiring you for a moment. You get a bit nervous when he pulls away, only to quickly realize he’s brushing his hair up into a bun.

It gives you a better look at the beautiful smile on his face and his lust blown brown eyes. 

“Can’t let the hair get in the way of all the things I’m about to do to you,” He admits, pecking you over and over again until you are laughing. “I can’t believe we are doing this.”

“I can,” You quip up, watching him unhinge his jaw right above your right nipple, “I see the way you look at me.”

Eddie shakes his head, his stubble brushing your flesh. His giggles subsiding the moment his lips wrap around your areola. You knew you were sensitive but you never felt so overstimulated in your life. The way his hands feel scooping your flesh. The way he is practically trying to fit your entire tit in his mouth. His guttural groans bouncing off your walls and canvases. 

He consumes every one of your senses. 

“Been dying to see you like this. You have the prettiest titties I’ve ever seen,” His voice is so gravelly and dripping with desire. Eddie needs to break the tension in his jeans, so while you are slipping your shirt off entirely, he pops the button on his pants. The zipper practically unfastens itself when he presses into you again, ravishing every inch of your chest. One hand on your waist, the other kneading your boob, all the while your hips are gyrating against his thigh. 

“Need more of you, Eds,” You plead, hoping to whatever god existed that he would litter your floor with all of his clothes. You watch him free his hand from fondling you to pull his t-shirt off from the collar, only briefly coming up for air from feasting on your chest. “Take off my shorts.”

The moment you say that, his eyes bore into yours. “You sure?”

“Eddie,” You press, pushing stray hairs away from his face, “I need you so bad, I may explode.”

“Jesus, say that again.”

You cannot help but scoff, your reaction making your boobs jiggle in front of his face. You lean up to his level, pressing a long drawn out kiss to his neck before bringing your lips to his earlobe, “I need you. So bad.”

The animalistic groan that leaves his throat even takes him by surprise. He stands up, grabbing the waistband of your shorts and practically ripping them in half. You squeak, adjusting how your panties sit on your hips. 

“Listen here, pretty girl, I am going to eat your pussy until you cum at least two times. And I’m gonna take my time. Then, if I don’t cum from doing that alone, I’m filling you up and fucking you exactly how I’ve wanted to for the last… I don’t know how many years.”

His game plan makes your stomach do gymnastics. His confidence in his words is simply derived from his primal need to please you. 

Sure, he wants to get his rocks off, but he could live the rest of his days with blue balls, if it meant seeing you cum all over his mouth over and over again.

The creak of the bed makes Eddie giggle. You have had this bed since you were 11, it has seen better days. 

He positions himself on his stomach, throwing your legs over his shoulder. Your panties were perfectly disguising the wetness that’s been pooling since Eddie started touching you. It was the only article of clothing left on your body. You want to feel insecure, but all of Eddie’s reassuring words wash over you. He sucks in a deep inhale, taking in your essence. 

“Can I take these off?” He tuts, pressing his fingers perfectly between your fabric-covered folds. The pressure is almost enough to send you over the edge. The craving you have for him is borderline embarrassing.

“Please,” You whimper, shifting your hips a bit trying to feel any friction you can. He pulls his fingers away, lacing them around the hem of your blue panties. Instead of locking his eyes on your glistening core, his gaze follows the panties being pulled from your legs. Once they are discarded, he presses wet kisses against the inner part of your legs.

“You look like a dream, all spread out for me,” He admits, his face now hovering over your core, “You know I dreamt this before?” 

He had. Countless times. Last summer when he watched you pack up your car for college, you were wearing these dangerously short daisy dukes and he stroked his cock about it for two months straight. Late at night, when he needed a release, he thought of you. He did not get much actual action in his day-to-day life, so his mind was consumed by his soul shattering crush on you.

“Eddie, I need you to do something.”

He ignores your pleas, dragging his lips across the skin right above your slit. He slowly drifts down, running his tongue through your folds, tasting every bit of you. 

“Just me having my face buried between your thighs,” He slaps them gently before digging his nails into the meat of your thighs. “God, these thighs… just so perfect.”

You jut your hips down, practically forcing his mouth on you. As much as you loved his dirty talk, you needed action. “Eddie.”

He chuckles, pulling his arm from underneath you. He takes his own fingers in his mouth, lacing his own spit between his digits, “You are so pretty when you say my name, baby. You want me to touch this beautiful pussy, hm? She’s just leaking for me, huh?”

You grit your teeth, watching him spread your pussy lips apart and drag his fingers all along your weeping hole. “I swear to God-” “I’m gonna fuck you with my tongue, don’t worry baby,” He pushes your thighs open wider, “Just painting my own little picture first.”

Truth be told, he was trying to drag this out so he could commit everything to memory. You would be leaving for school again soon, so who knows if this will ever happen again?

In your head, with the way he’s treating your body like a canvas in the finest art museum in New York City, he would be packed in your suitcase and dragged back to school with you. You needed this, always. 

You are pulled out of your thoughts when his mouth returns to your pussy, his tongue vibrating against your swollen clit. His fingers make work at fucking your hole, all the while his loose-lips occupy themselves making you feel good. Sure, you got head by guys before, but Eddie creates a whole different category in your brain. Maybe it is because you liked him so much and your body moved in sync with his. You were consumed by his very being.

His hips grind against his underwear and your bed sheets with every movement of his mouth. As he’s dragging your first orgasm out of you, he completely halts his lower body before he’s cumming in his jeans watching your body jolt forward and thighs clench around his ears. The sounds that pour out of you is music to his ears. Just enough to send him so close to the edge. 

The mixture of your cum and his saliva on his lips is something you wish to harness in a painting one day. His loose curls falling around his profile as his tongue sweeps across his lips to gather everything onto his taste buds. 

“God, this pussy is heaven. Fuckin’ divine.” He rubs his fingers up and down your slit, giving it a quick swat before he peppers some kitten licks across your already sensitive clit. 

“You are so good at that, my God,” You breathe out, your hands raking down the sides of your body, meeting his right hand on your thigh.

“Yeah?” he giggles, shifting up onto his elbows to get a better view of your body from above, “I really want to make you cum again.”

You don’t hide how desperate you are, “Can you just fuck me already?”

He laughs even harder, crawling up onto your lower stomach. He kisses right below your belly button, “Can I be honest?”

“No, I want you to lie to me,” You joke, your nails drifting around his forearm. His eyebrows raise, questioning your response silently. You roll your eyes, swatting him, “Yes, of course.”

“If I fuck you right now, I will cum almost immediately,” He admits, his voice gravelly. 

“Well, we can go another round if you do.”

It’s like all the air leaves his lungs when you say that. He did not expect you to want to do this again. As much as he wanted to, he did not truly know where your mind was. You just drove the nail right into the coffin. 

He pulls himself further up your body, his hand shifting to cup your mound as his mouth latched on your nipple. Your body instantly reacts to him, practically holding onto him for dear life, moaning his name like it was the only word you knew.

“Fine, I’ll fuck you now,” He mocks, dragging his lower lip up to your neck, “Since you’re just begging.”

You scoff, your hands finally reaching the waist of his jeans and yanking them down with his boxers. You would ignore the fact that he’s wearing Batman boxers. It was fitting, but also hilarious. You are more focused on the fact that he was huge. 

Definitely the biggest you’ve ever held in your hand. 

He looks between your bodies, smiling at the way your hand cradles his length. “Are you sure I’m not dreaming right now?”

This only happened in his dreams. It was about to consume your dreams, too, when you were done.

“All real,” You say, languidly pumping him, “I’m not sure how you’re gonna make it fit.”

You are feeding his ego. You knew that. 

You are one of the prettiest girls to come out of Hawkins and you are saying he’s too big. He’s never going to shut up to Gareth and the guys about it. With your permission of course.

“Don’t you worry about that, princess. I’ll make sure it fits.”

He shifts onto his knees, propping your knees up on his waist. You gawk at it for a moment longer. His tip is glistening with precum, which only adds to the silkiness of it's appearance. You also have the perfect angle to feel up his chest, touching each of his tattoos with your pointer finger, as if to map each of them out. You offer a cheeky grin as he appreciates the swell of your breasts. 

“Do you need me to get a condom?” He whispers, his cock probing at your inner thigh. 

“I’m on the pill. And I’m… I haven’t slept with any guys without one.”

His jaw drops a bit, “And you are okay with me going in raw?”

You are not sure why you are so sure about Eddie, but you just are. All of this felt just right. 

“Yeah. Only if you want to.”

Air escapes his nose dramatically as he uses his thumb to press down his shaft closer to your weeping hole. “Have I mentioned that you are perfect?”

“A million times now.”

“Gonna make it a hundred million by the end of this,” He sinks closer to you, his dripping tip diving between your lips, “And a trillion more times after.”

He drags himself over you, propping himself up right beside your head. The stretch starts to get more intense the more he slides into you. It is not a bad feeling, just something you would have to adjust to. 

And he would have to adjust, too. The way your spongy walls squeeze him is so overwhelming, before he’s half way in, he twitches. “You’re squeezing me so good.”

“I’ll try to relax,” You manage, the quick snap forward he does taking you off guard, “Fuck, Eddie!”

“I’m sorry! I-” He tries to explain, but you shut him up by propping yourself up to meet his lips. He stills inside you, filling you to the brim but not moving. You were eager to shut him up before he made things awkward, because they simply did not need to be. He felt incredible. And with his lips slotted between yours, you feel as if you may have died and gone to heaven. You take his bottom lip between your teeth playfully as you pull away, eyes locked onto his, “Do it again.”

He experimentally pulls back, the lack of resistance as he fucks into you only possible because of how soaked you are. He repositions himself so he’s back on his knees, eyes locked on the way your pussy just sucks him in. 

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last,” He reminds you, pushing himself in deeper. He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling for a bit. You cannot help but smirk at him, looking down as his hips snap to yours sluggishly. 

“Yeah? Pussy’s too good for you?” You pose, trying your very best to drive him even more insane. There was something about his eyes when he got all worked up. They become this deeper shade of brown that causes chills to spread over your arms. When he finally looks back at you, a cheshire grin spreading across his face, you knew you were in for it. 

He picks up his pace a bit, holding your upper thighs down. If he looks down at what’s happening below the waist, he will surely lose it. So instead, his almost carbon-black eyes bore into yours. With every moan and jolt against the bed, you are inching towards your own climax. “Yes, don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.”

His smile droops a bit, his teeth clenching as the pace he’s at is causing the headboard to slam against your wall, “Yeah? I want to hear you. Tell me how good it feels, sweetheart. You know how much I love hearing you talk.”

The words send you babbling. Your pussy is practically gushing around him, but your body has yet to explode. “You feel so fuckin’ good, Eddie. Why didn’t we do this sooner? Knew you’d treat me good. So fuckin’ good.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, baby. Gonna fuck you every day just to make it up to you. I promise,” He accidentally steals a glance at your messy cunt and his dick twitches, “Ah shit, fuck.”

He knows he’s a goner. The way you squeeze him when he says that makes him take action to put you out of your pleasurable misery. He presses his thumb against your practically pulsating clit. The mixture of his pistoning hips and his frantic fingers makes your orgasm slam into you like a freight train. You grab onto whatever is close and curl your fingers around it. It just happens to be his t-shirt and your bed comforter. 

With your mouth wide open, you keen endless curse words, trying your best not to alarm the nearby neighbors.

As your come down starts to soothe your buzzing nerves, Eddie’s hips still completely inside you. 

You had never seen him so ethereal. His curls wild, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pale stomach muscles tense, jaw slack. He was surely your next muse. 

“My god, princess,” He sighs, his body practically going limp over yours. 

His hair falls around your mouth and nose as his head rests perfectly between your boobs. The curls tickle your nostrils, causing you to blow out aggressively. 

“I love you, but please get your little hairs out of my nose,” You joke, pushing his hair down. The bun he put at the base of his head is practically completely undone, leaving his dark locks pooling all around you. 

While you are too focused on his hair, Eddie’s ears are ringing at the first half of the sentence. His head slowly shifts to look up at you, his eyes now that beautiful warm hue. “You love me?”

His voice is shaking, nervous over the possibility you did not mean to say that. But it was one of those things. Instinctual. You knew you did love Eddie, so those words leaving your mouth seemed natural. You felt no need to retract them. 

You nod, pushing some bangs away from his view, “Is that surprising? I don’t spend my precious summers with people I hate. I especially do not let them into my bedroom and let them look at all my paintings.”

The revelation is enough to make Eddie crawl up to your lips, pressing a chaste, eager kiss. His hand cradles your cheek as he pulls away, “I’m just that special.”

“You could say that.”

He laughs softly, “For the record, and I know we are keeping one, I love you, too.”

-

The goodbye always sucks. 

You did not love being home, but this trailer was truly all you knew. You secretly did not despise Hawkins. It was home. 

And now it was even more like home because it’s where Eddie was. So this goodbye is even worse than it was before. 

He pulls your last suitcase into your Ford, closing the hitch for you as you hug your sister goodbye at the door. You walk down your creaking steps, eyes glued to the way Eddie stands at the back of your car. You practically fall into his arms, squeezing him so tight that you swear he may just mold to your body. 

His hands do not want to leave your waist as his nose tucks into your neck. 

“I’ll come visit you in a few weeks, I promise,” He hums, kissing the spot right below your ear. A slight chill runs up your spine. You will never get sick of his kisses. You have gotten very familiar with them lately.

“And I’ll come to visit in October for that Battle of the Bands,” You say as you pull away to get a good look at his face. His sweet, blushing face. “I’ll join your hoard of groupies.”

He scoffs, shifting back as if he’s appalled, “Hoard? That’s a bit dramatic. We have like… maybe 2.”

You roll your eyes, pinching his bicep. “Yeah, me and that girl Jeff drags around.”

“Jennifer is his cousin.”

You shake your head, completely dumbfounded, “Even worse.”

He laughs dryly in his throat, “I think she has a crush on Gareth or something.”

From the few times you have hung out with his group of friends in the last two weeks of your summer vacation, you did not get that impression from the girl. She seems very into her cousin. 

“Right on,” You laugh, pulling him towards the driver’s side so you can get in, “Give me a grand kiss in front of the neighbors and let me go on my merry way.”

His hands lace around your back, groping your ass, “I’ll give ‘em an even better show if you want.”

You bring him down to your height, pressing a longing kiss to his lips. He deepens it, his groping now turning into him kneading your ass cheeks. You pull away the moment he does that, knowing your mom is probably watching from the kitchen window. 

“You are a devious one, Munson,” You snicker, weaving your way out of his arms and into your driver’s seat. You start the car, letting it warm up as Eddie leans his hands on the very top of the car doorframe. His entire body blocks out the blistering sunlight, his shadow casting over your eyes. 

“Yeah, maybe, but you love me.”

Your eyes flicker back up to him. God, you really did love him. 

He slants more towards you, placing one more kiss on your mouth. Your stomach starts to roll when it hits you that you will not get to see him for the next few weeks. It makes your chest tighten the more you thought about it. 

“I sure do.”

His nose crinkles, his eyes getting weepy, “I love you, too, sweetheart. Now, get on the road and call me sometime tonight? Let me know you made it safely?”

You lift your hand in a salute, “Of course, my art apprentice.”

np tags (love u guys and i gotta tag some of my fav eddie/steve writers): @mediocredreams @hockeyhughes @votel4dybird @minamoomoo @disabilitymissunderstood @the-unforgivenn @punkrockmlchael @keeryhours

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch9. counting sheep

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 9/x

ᰔ words. 20k

a/n. hellooo my lovely ihm readers!! thank you so much for tuning into another chapter of ihm :'') it means sm to me. as always i don't have much to say here lol but i'll see you at the bottom for some notes!!! hope you enjoyy. apologies for any typos or mistakes i was in a bit of a rush editing this lol

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Counting sheep.

It was the only thing that helps you sleep now.

For as long as you can remember, it was how you ended every night.

You’re not exactly sure when the habit started. Was it when you graduated nursing school and began to work the night shift? And you were awake at 3am, feeling stranded at sea in your own home on your days off, with 15mg of melatonin in your bloodstream yet it still was never enough to put your thoughts at ease or your bones to rest. 

Or was it ever since your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? How about cancer? Was that when it became too terrifying to close your eyes at night because you feared you’d miss something that wasn’t meant to be missed?

There are days where you do feel tired. You feel sluggish, wearisome, somewhat feverish. Tonight was one of those nights. Wearing a white lace nightgown, one far too big on you as the hem drags across the fabric of the upstairs loft, you cross your arms across your chest to keep yourself warm as your fingers soothingly rub the taut skin over your elbows. 

It was the dead of night, no light other than the pale moon casting its glow onto the surface beneath your feet through the windows as you put one step in front of the other, meandering towards the master bedroom.

Gojo isn’t home tonight. He’s away for the weekend for some conference for work that his brokerage firm sent him on. Something about new foreign sales techniques and investment strategies. He shared the brochure with you so that you didn’t have to ask too many questions, but you would’ve preferred the conversation with him over lines of text to read. Two months ago, you would’ve preferred the former. It’s funny how fast things can change. 

You almost wish you worked every night. At least when you’re at the emergency department, you’re surrounded by life, even in the face of death. There’s fluorescent lighting above you, the beeping noises of machinery, the airy sound of the overhead announcements at every hospitalist callback, code call, and triage update. Your coworkers were there along with you, that sense of camaraderie making it easier on you.

But on your nights off, you often find yourself wafting around the halls and rooms of the house, almost like a ghost haunting every corner, finally coming out of hiding in the safety of silence. There are nights where you do this for hours. Seriously, hours. Until your calves hurt and you’re starving but can’t bring yourself to do anything other than the routine foot in front of the other. 

You finally push into the master bedroom with a weak palm on the door, the inside air chilly to your senses, and you figure that you’re not truly a ghost if you know what cold feels like. 

The bed is neatly made up, as Gojo had tidied it up before he left, and as it always is in the hours where he’s not resting in it. You wonder if he sets it up right after waking up, if it’s some sort of ritual for him.

Without thinking, without glancing at any other corner of the room as if you’d find something waiting in one of them that would frighten you, you slip into the heavy covers that are foreign to you, but the familiar scent of him envelopes you in its entirety, relaxing every bone in your body.

The warmth is welcome. Head heavy on the pillow, you close your eyes.

You wonder what sort of sights your mother is seeing right now. Is she also asleep? Is she peacefully dreaming? You wonder if she remembers you in her dreams, at the very least.

One sheep, two sheep.

You wonder what sort of sights Choso sees right now. You’re scared to find out. He would always be a phone call away for you on nights like this, where you couldn’t sleep. And on some, he would be right there with you. How does he spend these hours of the night now if not to comfort you? Does he feel it as less of a burden now?

Three sheep, four sheep, five. 

You wonder what sort of sights Gojo is seeing right now. And when you can’t picture anything at all, besides the dusty fan of a hotel room hanging from the ceiling, you realize you don’t know him. Even laying in his bed, surrounded by the ghost of his presence, surrounded by the proof of his life in this room, you realize you don’t even know what his favorite color is or how he likes his eggs in the morning. Or if he ever thinks of you sometimes, too. 

Six sheep, seven. Eight. Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve sheep.

You’ll be better tomorrow.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen sheep.

Happier. You’ll be happier.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Tomorrow will be better. 

Nineteen, twenty.

Tomorrow, you’ll be a better person.

Twenty one, twenty two.

Someone new.

Someone you’re happy to be.

Twenty three. 

It’s a promise.

.

.

.

.

.

——————

“Hey. Did you sleep in my bed while I was gone?”

You glance up from where you’re leaning your hip against the kitchen island, completing this morning’s crossword puzzle because of course Gojo is the only person in the neighborhood that actually picks the newspaper up from his driveway.

“Five letter word for communications device? Any ideas?”

“Phone. Now answer me.”

“Mmm….nope, starts with an r.” You tap the eraser end of the pencil to your bottom lip, deep in thought.

“Radio.”

“Oh! Thank you,” you say before you set the paper down on the table and scribble in the letters. “And no, I didn’t. It’s the same way you left it, no?”

“I always tuck the corners.”

“Of fucking course you do.”

He sighs, turning around to face you, leaning back on the kitchen island as his espresso machine rumbles quietly before slowly dripping out a shot. “Just be honest with me, y/n. Because if it wasn’t you, I’m going to need to get cameras installed everywhere around the house.”

You sigh. “Yes…I slept in your bed.”

“How come?”

“Change of scenery.”

“Really? That’s it?”

You let out a slow exhale.

You know what sucked about having slept in Gojo’s bed?

Is that you slept like a baby.

For the first time in such a long time, you slept just fine.

And the slightest dusting of a blush brushes across your cheeks when you realize it’s probably because the scent of him on those sheets was in some way comforting to you.

You wish you could write it off as some weird pheromone biological response,

But you had a professor in college who told you that humans have no such thing as pheromonal responses.

You simply like the way he smells. 

You glance up at him again. He’s stirring something into his cup of coffee now. 

“I don’t know. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately,” you say, and by lately, you mean years, “and just…felt like trying something different would help.”

“And did it?”

“What?”

“Did sleeping in my bed help?”

Your eyes widen, not expecting the direct question.

“I–...” you start, “...yes, actually. It helped a lot.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Just sleep in the master then.”

“What–...but–”

“I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s all the same to me.”

You blink at him, confused because you thought he meant sleep…together. As in, in the same bed. And even if that wasn’t exactly what he meant, he still one-hundred percent would’ve at least tried to tease you about it. So you’re surprised that he didn’t.

You straighten your spine up, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, contemplating his words and his offer, and push your hand into your hair and scratch at your scalp. And scratch. And scratch a little bit more.

Gojo watches you the whole time. 

“Uh,” he starts, “I mean this in the nicest way possible…but don’t you think you should wash your hair? It looks a little…”

“Mm?” you look at him, wide-eyed, “a little what?” You ask with innocence as you continue to scratch your scalp.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

He sighs. “It looks a little greasy.”

A soft, offended gasp leaves your lips.

“Wh—......What?!?!?”

You hate him with a burning passion (most of the time), yes, it’s true.

But, and it’s torturous to admit this to yourself, he’s right.

You do have a tendency, and a somewhat misfortunate habit, of neglecting washing your hair when you’re busy.

You’ve worked five night shifts this week, ran back and forth between your mom’s hospice because she had a UTI and became septic again, you’ve been running around trying to get everything in order in your house so that you can sell it as soon as possible, and every night when you get home, you sit down at your desk only to be reminded of how much debt you’re in. You’ve barely had enough time to think about yourself, and although you never neglect a daily shower, it’s possible that you may have forgotten to wash your hair while you’re in there. 

You let out a huff of hair, narrowing a glare at Gojo before crossing your arms across your chest. “I seriously cannot believe you’re insinuating that I look ugly.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” he says, setting his mug down in order to put his hands out in front of him in vindication, “I never said you were ugly.”

“You just said my hair looks greasy.”

“You still look nice, just…. a little greasy. Like a french fry. But who doesn’t love french fries?”

“Satoru!”

“I’m joking,” he laughs, “well, not about your hair being greasy. But, what I’m saying is, you still look hot. In your own…weird way.”

“I seriously want to slap you.”

He crosses the distance between the two of you in one stride to where he’s now standing in front of you, and you blink up at him in a panic when his hands slide across the island countertop on either side of you, caging you into it. 

“Go ahead,” he says with a boyish grin on his face, dangerously close to you as his gaze flickers down to your lips. 

“Has this weird attraction of yours towards me only begun simply because I threaten to physically injure you all the time?” you ask him, narrowing your gaze further as you look up into piercing blue eyes that look darker to you somehow, more dilated.

“No, I’ve always thought you were hot,” he says, his gaze moving up to make eye contact with you, as if he really wants you to know he’s being honest, “since the day I met you.”

Your heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute in your chest. “Then why do you always roast the hell out of me?”

“Because I like to,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips again, and this time his tongue passes over his own, “and because I know you can take it.” He leans further into you, that scent of his that you like so much sending your head into a dizzy haze to where you can’t even think, the heat from his body felt against your own. “Not a lot of women can.”

Your blush doesn’t just reach your cheeks, it’s a heat that you feel spread across your entire body. “Th–...That’s offensive to women.”

He tilts his head at you, now studying the slight sheen to your lips. “Can we just skip the part where you rant about the patriarchy so I can kiss you already?”

You push your palm up against his chin, entirely swerving the kiss, making sure his face is looking straight up towards the sky so he knows exactly where you’re going to send him if he ever calls you a french fry ever again, and then say, “go fuck yourself.”

“What–”

You duck underneath his arm that was still caging you into the kitchen counter, swiftly moving past him as he stays still in his confining position, blinking at you with dumb blue eyes as you stomp across the living room towards the front entrance.

“I’m leaving,” you shout out, “and I’m taking your car,” you grab his keys, “And I’m–” You see his wallet at the foyer table, flip it open, and pull out some bills, “and I’m taking a hundred-and-twenty bucks. Don’t ask questions.” And before you could even give him a chance to verbally express any confusion, you’re out the door, and slamming it shut behind you. 

.

.

.

.

.

——————

“Hana, please, I’m begging you. I’ll even pay for brunch!” you say into the receiver of your phone as you stroll the ashy paved sidewalks of Dayton county’s downtown during a rather busy Saturday afternoon. “Your French boyfriend’s uncircumcised penis can’t be that fuckin’ good for you to blow me off like this when we’ve had these plans for weeks!”

You hush your voice towards the end of the sentence because you remember that you are quite literally in public.

“I know, I know, I’m so, so, so sorry,” Hana’s voice comes off somewhat distant in the phone, “he just looks so pale, and he’s been running an insane fever, I’d hate to leave him like this.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever happened to hoes before sexy Frenchmen, I’ll never know,” you sigh into the phone and then hang up on her, but right as you pull the phone from your ear, you trip over a crookedly lined cement panel on the ground, gasping as you stumble forward, barely able to steady your feet but at the expense of your phone slipping out of your hand and devastatingly towards the hard, rocky ground–

Before it gets caught about six inches above the surface by a rather large, masculine hand.

You blink at the sight, then trace the hand up into the arm, and eventually up into the face of the person that was sitting at this outdoor cafe’s table, and just so happened to have enough arm wingspan to prevent you from having to sell your kidney in order to buy a new phone.

He blinks at you with deep purple eyes, his lashes splaying over his upper cheeks as he glances down at your phone again, as if he himself is surprised by his own reflexes, before his gaze flickers up to yours again.

You straighten your spine, now looking down at him. He looks painfully familiar. Glossy long black hair underneath a sun high in the sky, half of it tied up and out of his face, but with some strands that have escaped the confinement, tendrils that frame his sharp jaw and complement his complexion. He sits cross-legged, dressed in all black with some sort of sophistication that makes him easily look like an outcast in a run-down town like this, but he doesn’t seem to even remotely hide the fact that he doesn’t belong.

And that’s when you remember.

That he doesn’t belong here.

“Ah! It’s you,” you exclaim.

His eyes widen slightly as the recognition of you flashes across his face as well.

“The mysterious man who drinks pulp-free orange juice made for kids,” you continue.

He blinks a couple times before his face relaxes into an easy smile. “Weren’t you eyeing the same carton?”

“That–” you stutter, “……...it’s very possible.”

He lets out a short exhale through his nose, somewhat reminiscent of a laugh. 

“Here,” the man says, stretching his arm out towards you to hand you your phone, “I would really put a case on that, though.”

You take the device from him somewhat hesitantly, the pads of your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. You notice he doesn’t really let go of the phone until he’s sure that it’s in your hand.

“I know…” you say, assessing your phone for scratches, which you hope he doesn’t take as an insult to the efficacy of his reflexes, “they’re just kind of expensive,” you blurt out, immediately regretting it. Because what kind of cheap-ass do you look like, now?

“More expensive than having to get a new phone?” he questions.

“That’s fair. Although, I don’t enjoy being lectured about the wellbeing of my belongings by strangers,” you say.

“Sit, then,” he offers, gesturing to the chair in front of him across the grated black round cafe table, “let’s get acquainted.” 

Slightly stunned by the proposal, yet weirdly inclined to oblige, you breathe in deeply, and then let the air out slowly as you slip into the chair across from him. Well, your plans got cancelled anyways, might as well take this opportunity to better understand this mysterious entity that has arrived in your town. 

“I’m Suguru,” he says, extending his hand out to shake, and you accept it, “Suguru Geto.” The handshake is firm but you can’t help but notice that his hand feels cold to the touch. 

“I’m y/n,” you say, “it’s nice to meet you. Well, formally, I guess.”

He presses his lips into a thin smile. “Likewise.” He leans forward a little, uncrossing his legs, then points towards the inside of the cafe. “Want a coffee? On me.”

“You know what, yes. I’ll have an iced vanilla latte,” you say.

It was at least somewhat of a courtesy that you ordered a quick drink to make, and one that was cheap. It really shouldn’t matter, since you would’ve just used one of the twenties that you stole out of Gojo’s wallet before you left, but it was merely a polite gesture, anyways.

“So, y/n, do you live nearby?” he asks as he takes a sip of whatever he was drinking, all you know is that he ordered it hot. 

“Yes, just a few miles away,” you say, “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Yup! Dayton county, born and raised,” you chirp.

“Hmm,” he hums pleasantly, “don’t tell me you’ve lived in the same house your whole life too.”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

He laughs. “You’ll have to show me around town.”

You tilt your head at him. “You’re just visiting, right? From…” You search your mind for the memory, or if he had ever told you at all. 

“New York,” he says before taking another sip. You entertain a sip from your own coffee too, wanting to match his pace.

“Oh, right, and were you able to visit those old friends you were here for?” you ask him, the memory of the conversation coming back to you somewhat.

“Ah, not really. I’m…well, I guess I’m searching for someone.”

“Searching for someone?” you snort, “what are you, Christopher Columbus? It’s the 21st century, you can’t just call them?”

He laughs again, fuller this time, coming from his chest. It’s a smooth sound, stable and sturdy. “You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.”

“Oh, I–...” you blink at him, your shoulders dropping slightly, “...I just like to get to the point.”

He laughs again, more of a close-mouthed chuckle as he glances down through the grates of the table’s surface towards the ground. 

“What?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. 

He shakes his head, the motion swaying some of the tendrils of dark hair that frame his face, and he brings his cup of coffee to his lips again. “Oh, nothing,” he says softly before taking a sip, “you just remind me of someone I know.”

You swallow gently, the furrow to your brow relaxing slightly. His eyes don’t meet yours, just continue to cast his gaze at the ground, but he has a rather melancholic look on his face. You love to get answers, and you love to be nosey, but you also know when a question shouldn’t be asked.

“As for why I don’t just call them,” he says suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair, crossing his legs, pushing his shoulders back and settling into his chair more, “I don’t really think they want anything to do with me anymore.” He answers candidly.

“Why look for them then?”

His gaze flickers up towards you. “y/n, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can change?”

“That’s a rather cryptic question to change the topic of conversation to.”

“Just humor me for now.”

“Well, I think it goes without saying. Of course people can change.”

“Right?” he says, as if he didn’t ask the question out of skepticism, but rather to affirm his own belief. “Well, anyways, let’s just say I’m here to make amends. Tie up loose ends.”

Closure. This man wants closure.

“I don’t necessarily want to bore you with the details,” he says, “but it’s likely I won’t be leaving town until my business here is resolved.”

“What if it takes forever?”

“It won’t,” he says.

“But what if?”

As his eyes bore into you, they look muddy. Less of that purple-ish hue that you see when light reflects off of his pupils, and you notice that it has nothing to do with the light, but rather the yellow that has sunk into the irises of his eyes.

“It won’t,” he says, barely above a whisper, his smile dampening as he sees right through you.

You feel the need to change the subject.

“You know,” you say, “you’re, like, the fourth person I’ve met in the past couple of years that has come here from New York City. What’s up with that?”

“There’s a mass exodus,” he says, “out of there.”

“Really?”

“No. My lame attempt at a joke.”

“Oh,” you say dryly, “let’s, um, let’s not attempt those anymore.”

He smiles at you, like he knew that would be your exact reaction to a sloppy joke thrown into the song and dance of a first-time conversation. You dislike how well he reads you. 

He leans forward on the table, setting his elbows up onto it, gaze boring into yours. “Not a huge fan of pulp-free, by the way. Just thought I’d try it.”

“So you like it with the pulp?” you ask.

He nods his head.

“I knew it. I knew you were a sociopath. Totally have the face for it.”

You find a strange pleasure in your ribs at the genuine laugh that evokes out of him.

.

.

.

.

.

——————

You let out a soft sigh of relief as you stroll down the streets of downtown, swinging the bag you were carrying around with the rather jovial pep to your step. You’ve been needing new shoes for a very long time, especially since being on your feet for twelve hours straight during shifts does hardly anything good for your early onset plantar fasciitis. And with the little pocket change you stole from Gojo, you now had a new pair of New Balances as well as…..four dollars and fifty-two cents left in your pocket.

It’s a bit of a windy but rather sunny day, the breeze rustling the branches of the trees that lace the otherwise nicer part of town. The part that houses all domestic tourism, likely a grand total of fifty people a year if the county was lucky. It was safe to say Dayton Council doesn’t place a lot of emphasis on hospitality towards outsiders, or tax dollars for that matter, but if you were to ever show someone new around the place, it would be to this particular more well-kept street downtown. 

As you walk past a coffee shop, you catch a waft of jalapeno cream cheese bagel, the fresh scent of carbohydrates rousing a grumble from the pit of your stomach, making you aware of the fact that you were hungry. Despite the fact that you just recently parted ways from the mysterious Pulp-Free Orange Juice man hardly an hour ago, and that lemon loaf you ended up getting on your way out was still metabolizing in your bloodstream. But you realized you still wouldn’t be opposed to a cream cheese bagel at the moment.

The jingle of the little bells above the cafe’s entrance ring in your ear as you step inside, the A/C unit blowing a harsh puff down on you as it attempts to keep the heat of late August away from the cool interior. The place didn’t appear busy, but as you approached the register to place an order, a woman who was standing in line caught your eye.

She was dressed in a black suit from head to toe, with a feminine flare at the seams of her sleeves and silver silk lines running down her pants, elongating what was a very flattering figure, making her appear taller than the lift that the three inch heels of her shoes already do. And a closer look has you realize they’re Louboutins. She was easily taller than you, even without the heels. Her shoulders appear angular from the blazer of her suit, but you can tell they’re frail underneath the fabric. She has pin-straight mid-length hair that falls just past the curve of them. The ends of her hair look healthy, as if freshly cut, and she lifts her hand to toss some of it back with a delicate flick of her wrist, the gold-plating of her small watch catching your eyes. Her gaze is set upwards towards the menu, a small crinkle to her brow as she studies the words. Sophisticated and feminine were the words that came to mind as you looked at her. But the more you stare…the more you trace the feline lift of her eyes…the more you notice the slight pout of her lips…you just swear that you know her from somewhere. But–...but where?

“Excuse me, are you waiting in line?” some dude from behind you calls out.

“Ah.” You glance over your shoulder at him, “no, sorry, go ahead.” You step aside for the guy to get into line, directly behind the woman in the suit. 

After taking a couple of seconds to look at the menu, you decide on what you had already decided on before you had even entered the premises–a jalapeno cream cheese bagel. You wonder if you should get something to drink too, but wait patiently in line as the old couple at the register finish ordering.

The guy who had lined up just ahead of you had sparked up a conversation with the woman in the suit. You can tell he’s trying to make friendly, if not flirty, conversation with her, and you roll your eyes. Really? Dude’s ass-crack is peeping out from the low hang of his washed out blue jeans, and his turned-backwards baseball cap on his head makes him look like that creepy middle aged guy that loiters around a skate park to sell some kids some crappy weed. What on God’s Green Earth has given him the bravado to flirt with a woman like that? Out of his league wasn’t enough to admonish the audacity.  But you witness the disaster regardless. 

“You from ‘round here?” you can hear him ask her.

She doesn’t even turn a single degree to look at him, just continues to stare forward with her hands folded in front of her, a chic black clutch dangling from her shoulder. “Ahh, no, just visiting.” Her voice is soothing, a little soft, one that makes it hard to eavesdrop, but you were determined.

The man looks over his shoulder behind himself towards a group of guys seated at one of the tables, and he flashes them a grin, before he turns back forward and takes a step towards the woman. 

“Damn, they’re takin’ kinda long, huh?” he says to her, directly behind her ear.

“I suppose,” she says, shifting her feet forward a little to create distance.

“Well, I always say the wait’s better with a pretty view,” the dude practically purrs, dipping his nose towards the crown of her head, but far enough to where she wouldn’t get a sense of just how close he was to her. “Which is you, by the way. If it wasn’t already obvious.”

You see her shoulders rise and drop with the sigh she releases before she shifts her weight towards her right leg, crossing her left one over the other, balancing on one heel as she attempts to contain her composure. Your blood starts to boil on her behalf.

You hear the table of men off to the side laughing loudly in witness. As if in slow motion, the man’s hand lifts from his side and reaches out to grab her by the waist, “c’mon sweetheart, gimme something to work with here–”

Before you can even step in to yank him off of her, to your surprise, and likely the surprise of everyone else in the cafe, the woman elbows the man in his ribcage, making him recoil with a hurt gasp backwards, and then she swiftly spins on her heel, lifting her leg to kick the dude straight in the face, the pointy toe of her shoe digging straight into his cheek before she sends him flying off towards the left and crashing right into the table of men that had been watching this entire time. 

You blink in awe, staring at the woman who gently places her foot back down onto the ground with a level of balance only a ballerina would possess, and she dusts off her hands with a disappointed look on her face. Then she turns back around to continue looking up at the menu as if the whole cafe wasn’t staring at her.

You hear the growl of one of the other men at the table, offended by the emasculation his buddy just faced, and he lunges towards the woman while her back is facing him, and in a moment of no higher-thinking, you lift your bag of New Balances and swing it so that it smacks the guy right across the face to attempt stopping him from getting any further. But all it does is smack against his cheek rather ungracefully, and then now he’s glaring at you instead.

“Uh-oh,” you say, sheepishly staring up at this tall, burly, bald man that looks like he could powder steel to dust if he wanted to.

He makes a move to grab your shoulder, and you can see the woman in your periphery reach out to try to pull you away from him, but then you remember–

You’re an ED nurse.

How many times have you had to tackle a patient because security wasn’t doing their job?

How many times have you had to roll over a patient by yourself because the techs were too busy playing hooky in the break room?

You pull your fist backwards, winding up a punch with a white-knuckled grip, fingernails digging into the skin of your palm, and it all happens in slow-motion–the moment where you slam your knuckles right into the man’s jaw with all the force you can muster, and it seems enough to where you knock out a tooth and mutilate the cartilage of the bridge of his nose.

“Oh–” you stutter, blinking with wide eyes as the man entirely recoils, hunching over, screaming a strain of profanities to himself as he holds his nose which was now bleeding all over the cafe’s floors. You glance at your hand and see blood on it as well, then up at the woman who was now staring at you with wide eyes too. Along with the rest of the cafe. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the man screams over and over again, and when he lifts his head to look at you, he’s crying. Straight up tears streaming down his face with a quivering lip.

Another one of the men lunges towards you to avenge the second man who was trying to avenge the first man, and this time, you flinch backwards, tripping slightly over your ankle, giving the man enough time to almost grab your arm but in the blink of an eye, you see the woman step in front of you and she knees him straight in the sternum, making him fall backwards.

It’s at this point where the rest of the residents in the cafe finally intervene, grabbing and pinning down all of the men in the midst of this cafe altercation, so that they can’t try to hurt the two of you anymore.

You turn to the woman, eyes wide, ears ringing slightly from the adrenaline, and then you say– “thank you.”

“Gosh, no, thank you,” she says with a small laugh, politely shaking her hand in front of her as if your gratitude was the last thing necessary. 

“No but seriously,” you say to her, blinking with wide eyes in awe as the chaos of pinning the men down in the background continued, hearing people shout threats to call the police, “I mean, your reflexes–...and that crazy kick! That was black-belt level of self defense.”

“Ahhh thank you,” she says, hanging her head a little in modesty before nodding, and you notice not a single one of her hairs is out of place, “I am actually a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”

“Wow,” you say, “that’s really amazing.”

She smiles at you, then neatly tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

And she still looks so familiar.

So uncannily familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it.

Never someone you’ve met…but just someone you know somehow.

Like you’ve seen her somewhere. 

But the feeling in the pit of your stomach was an unwelcome one, and not a curious one. 

“Is your hand okay?” she asks you, her brows furrowing with worry as she glances down at it. You see the men being carried outside the cafe by a bunch of the other patrons. 

“Oh! Yes. It’s the other guy’s blood, not mine.”

She grins at you. “You’re the cool one.” She glances over to the right at the register where the guy who was manning it was staring at her in awe. “Here, hold on one sec.” She then crosses the distance with flawless balance on her heels and a swaying set of silky hair as she makes her way up to it.

You awkwardly stand where you are before she comes back out with a small cup of water and some napkins. She grabs your hand in hers and gently starts dabbing a wet napkin to your hand to wipe the blood off of it. The gesture is somewhat tender to you with the way that she takes care in doing so. Gentle swipes of wet napkin over the valleys of bone, meticulous enough to where no red pigment dares to threaten the pearly french manicure that adorns her nails. When she’s close to you, you catch a waft of the delicate lavender perfume on her clothes.

“There! Lovely, all better,” she says, then reaches into her purse for some hand sanitizer. “But seriously, thank you,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting that other guy to lunge at me. If it wasn’t for you, that would’ve ended badly.”

“Oh, of course,” you say, “it was actually really satisfying getting to punch the shit out of someone.”

She laughs. It’s contained. “I’m glad.”

“Excuse me, ladies?” a voice towards the right calls out, and you both turn your heads to see a police officer standing there. And when he makes eye contact with you, your eyes widen. “Oh. It’s y/n.”

“Ah,” you say to him, “Leon.”

Leon was Choso’s patrol partner for most shifts, and his right-hand-man more or less. They were good friends, and have been coworkers for the past three years or so. Given you were Choso’s girlfriend for the entirety of his career as a cop so far, you’ve gotten to know a lot of his fellow deputies. From being his plus-one at Christmas parties, and BBQ picnics, and dropping into the Police Department for lunch with him on his grueling weekend shifts. Y’know. The typical girlfriend stuff. 

“You’re the one that punched that guy?” Leon says with disbelief as he points his thumb over this shoulder behind him. You glance through the glass panes of the cafe and see a police car outside and another cop placing those men in handcuffs.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Damn. Would hate to see what the place looked like when Choso dumped you.”

“I’m the one that dumped him!!!!” you shout a little too loudly to vindicate yourself.

He pulls a spiral notebook out of the velcro pocket of his black vest, then clicks the pen to his chest before placing his wrist on the paper. You’re almost surprised he knows how to read and write. 

“I’m going to need some testimony from you two,” he says.

The woman’s phone starts ringing in her pocket, and she says softly, “yes, just excuse me for one moment,” before she steps off to the side to take the call.

Leon glances at her over his shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Huh?

He jerks his chin towards her general direction.

“The woman you’re with. She single?”

You roll your eyes. “Out. Of. Your. League. Seriously! What the fuck is up with you penis-havers?!”

You didn’t understand why you were being particularly protective over this woman against the sloppy men of your hometown, but it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You’ve spent most of your life knowing that you live in one of the most forgettable, unsophisticated, lame and unheard of places in the entire country. You felt it was a duty to at least protect the visitors to this town against any of its regular bullshittery, including its residents, of whom you know very well.

Leon sighs, as if this behavior from you was no surprise, likely because it wasn’t, and then he presses his pen to paper again. “Alright. Just give me the story.”

You finishing recounting the incident to Leon, and when the woman comes back, she finishes telling her side as well, then Leon walks the two of you outside to get assessed for any injuries by the paramedic he brought with him on stand-by, and aside from a small band-aid the paramedic places over your knuckle, the two of you had left unscathed, and then the place becomes vacant of any lawful authorities.

“Um,” the woman says, wincing a little, then points towards the ice cream shop next to the cafe. “Please? As a thanks? I feel bad.”

You give her a soft smile. “Sure.”

The two of you entered the store, and you stand near the back of the store as the man behind the glass scoops together two cones of ice cream for the woman, and even though she tried to pay for them, she ended up getting them for free by the starry-eyed college student working behind the counter. Pretty privilege, you thought to yourself. 

“Here,” she says, “this one is yours.” And she extends her arm out to give you your ice cream cone as the two of you leave the store.

“Ah! Thank you,” you say, graciously accepting it, somewhat awkwardly, but it felt like a reward.

“It’s dripping,” she says, voice soft in a slight panic as she sees that her cone is dripping too.

You both lick off whatever cream was threatening to roll down into your hands, and just as you taste sweet sugar on your tongue, you hear a loud engine rumble next to you, along with the crunch of tires underneath rough road as a man in a truck drives by the curb, rolling his window down to yell, “DAAAAAAAMNNNN SLUTS!!!!! Y’all make that ice cream look gooooooood, fuck!”

Your jaw drops. Pure rage fills your every bone and you start chasing the car down the road, yelling “IT’LL LOOK EVEN BETTER SHOVED UP YOUR FUCKING NOSE YOU DIRTY FUCKING FREAK!!!”, then hurl the ice cream cone at his car, aim perfectly hitting his passenger side mirror, covering it in vanilla, before the cone bounces off, falls to the ground, and you hear the kick of his engine again as he speeds away.

You’re huffing and puffing, panting even, as you stand at the edge of the curb and notice that there are quite a few townsfolk staring at you with amused looks and wide eyes.

The woman in the suit appears in your periphery, and she’s laughing. “You’re so–” she’s hunching over a little now, “you’re so funny, oh my god.” The laugh was hearty, full of spirit, unlike the prim and curated one she has given you so far. 

You exhale a puff of air and stand up straight. “I’m so sorry. Some of the men in this town are so degenerate and fucked in the brain.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” she says, letting out some more laughs as she swipes under her eye to collect a laughter-induced tear from the corner of it, and she checks her finger for any smudge of makeup underneath it before she smiles and gleefully swats a hand at you. “I’m used to catcalling.”

You blink at her. 

“Oh! I mean–...because I’m from the city!” she clarifies, suddenly stiffening. “Gosh, not because I’m beautiful. I just realized that was a little self-centered to say…And now I feel self centered again for clarifying that it wasn’t self centered. Oh gosh. I promise that I am not self centered.” She lets out an awkward laugh then tosses her hair over her shoulder rather elegantly.

You awkwardly smile at her. “No, um, I mean, I don’t think it was self-centered to say. And besides, you are very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she smiles. It’s a pretty one, rounding out her eyes into crescents. “You as well.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Ah, I just realized I never introduced myself. I’m Sylvie,” she says, stretching her hand out for you to shake it. You’re a little surprised by the gesture but you accept it. She gently squeezes your hand. “And you?”

“y/n,” you say.

As a group of men walk by down the street, you notice that a few of them glance Sylvie’s way, gazes lingering for a moment, but she doesn’t seem privy to it at all, even when those gazes turn into blatant staring before they’re no longer in proximity to stare for any longer. And you can see why. She’s insanely pretty, and in that way where it’s something she was simply born with and never taught to question. Classically beautiful, rather than the trendy or posed kind. And the men in this town aren’t exactly used to seeing a woman like her in a place like this. Like locals who can sniff an outsider from a mile away. Or a vintage birkin. Like the one hung over her shoulder. 

“Would you like to sit down?” she asks.

You blink at her. “Sure.”

For the second time today, you find yourself sitting across a stranger in outdoor shop seating on a rather sunny Saturday afternoon. The person that is seated across from you also feels familiar to you in the same way that Mysterious Pulp-Free OJ man did to you as well, but you still can’t quite place where you’ve seen her before. 

She uses a spoon to scoop up the ice cream from her cone, bringing it to her lips, somewhat dainty when she pulls the spoon out of her mouth, now clean of any cream. “So, y/n, what do you do for work?” she asks you, eyes flitting up to yours. 

“I’m a nurse,” you tell her simply, “what about you?”

“I’m in investment property management for high-profile clients.”

You blink at her, gently scooping up some ice cream from your cup. “Oh.” It sounded like an elevator pitch that rolls off her tongue with the ease of a million past recitations. “Kinda like real estate?”

“Yes, I mean, my line of work is a little adjacent to that, but yeah! I started off in general real estate and then moved into more of the investment property space as opposed to primary residence.”

You nod slowly, wondering if she always speaks about her job with buzz words like she’s constantly at a job interview. “My husb–...uh, my neighbor is a realtor,” you say in an attempt to connect.

“Oh!” she chirps, tilting her head at you, “that’s interesting.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m actually here because I heard there was a bit of a realtor shortage in the area.”

“Oh? So you’re looking to move here?”

“Ahh, maybe.”

“I see. Just a heads up, you won’t find any high-profile clients here. The last celebrity that visited this town was Adam Sandler, and he was only here because he got lost on his way to Seattle.” You wave your spoon around in the air. “I only know that because the local news covered it for like a week.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I’m…I’m still thinking. Still deciding. It’s nice being in New York, but…” She glances off towards the street in thought, her eyes lidding ever so slightly, lashes briefly dusting her high cheeks, “there’s a future for me here in this town.”

“Mm,” you hum before placing your spoon on your tongue, briefly questioning why someone would choose a small town like this over one of the biggest metropolitan cities in the country, especially when she looks and acts and talks like a city girl through and through, but you suppose to each their own. “You know, you’re the second person I’ve met today that’s visiting here from New York. Strange phenomenon.” Maybe there really is a mass exodus as Mr. Pulp-Free OJ so poorly joked about. 

Her interest is piqued. “Oh, really? Who was the other person?”

“Well, I originally met the guy at a grocery store. But I ran into him again today and actually had a chat with him, but now he’s only become even more mysterious to me than the first time I met him.” You sigh. “He’s kinda hot, though. And by ‘kinda’, I mean really.”

“Ohhh,” she coos, setting her napkin down on the table and setting her chin in the palm of her hand held up by her elbow, “if you’re single, you should ask him out the next time you see him.”

You let out a girlish laugh, shaking your head somewhat bashfully as your gaze flits downward, like you’re a teenager talking about boys with your friends at a sleepover. Sylvie’s eyes twinkle at hearing the sound. “Maybe I will.”

Your eyes flit up to the sky briefly.

Are you single? I mean, you are fake-married. But what does that mean if you were to hit it off with someone while you were in this diplomatic arrangement? Is there exclusivity in this situation? Or was there room to see other people? You have no idea. And you don’t really know how Gojo would feel about it, either. 

You two continue to chat, suddenly moving into a conversation about how shitty of an ex-boyfriend Choso was, and Sylvie is entirely enthralled by all the drama, but you realize she doesn’t really give up much info of her own. Nothing above the surface level & vague “one of my friends” this or “hahaha same” that. But either way, you kind of feel like you’ve made a new friend today, and the feeling is nice.

As you listen to Sylvie talk about what the weather's like in New York City, you twirl your hair around your finger, and then Gojo’s words from earlier this morning flash through your mind, making you instantly grimace with anger.

Sylvie blinks at you. “Oh, sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you quickly clarify, “sorry, I was just thinking about my hair.”

“Your…hair?”

You sigh. “Yes.”

“What about it?” She tilts her head. “Looking to get it cut?”

“Well, yes, that too, but also–” You pause. She’s a woman. Surely she could at least relate to the feeling of forgetting to wash your hair every now and then, and then feeling somewhat embarrassed by it. But given that her own hair looks like she just stepped out of a salon, along with every other inch of her body looking prim and perfect, you become more and more doubtful as the seconds pass that she could relate to you on that front at all. But you decide to give it a shot, anyways. Friendships are built on vulnerability, are they not? “I’m just a bit bothered by something my…neighbor said to me this morning.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“He said my hair looks greasy. Like a french fry.”

“Seriously?” she says with disbelief, “what a jerk!”

Your face lights up and you lean forwards towards her, delighted in for once finally sharing in the same distaste for Gojo that no one else seem to have. “I know, right?! Like, what the actual fuck.”

She shakes her head. “Men.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What?”

“Shall we go get you that haircut?”

You blink at her. “R…Right now?”

“Yes!” she chirps. “What better thing to do on a Saturday than a haircut and a fresh blowout?”

There’s a feeling that swells in your chest. It’s a mixture of excitement and a mixture of fear. Where you’re thrilled to indulge in some of the finer things in life, but also worried that you’ve never come to deserve any of it.

“Come onnnnn, y/n,” Sylvie says as she leans further onto the table, both of her elbows on the surface with her hand folded over the knuckles of the other, both holding her chin up as she narrows those sharp eyes at you. “I can tell that you want to.”

You breathe in deep, then let it out slowly.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

.

.

.

.

.

——————

The golf course was the kind of place that almost felt sterile in its perfection. One thing about a small semi-suburban town bordered by rural farmland properties was that they got their golf courses right. Lush green rolled out onto the hills in laminar waves, trimmed and tamed along its borders. Instead of metal fences that gate the area, there were pine trees that lined the edges, and made the place feel more natural.

Gojo adjusted the glove on his left hand, more for performance than any real need, and he squinted his eyes out into the green hilly distance. The visor of his hat was barely sufficient to block the rays of sunshine, and he tucks the handle of his golf club under his arm so that he can lift his hat off and push back some of his hair that had escaped from it.

Choso stood a few feet away, watching him. His posture was rigid, entirely contrary to Gojo’s lax state, and he had his arms crossed, hands tucked underneath his armpits as if he was still on duty and in uniform. Gojo shifts a glance his way, and he’s not sure what sort of intel Choso intends to collect with a glare like that.

Gojo steps up to the ball, exhales a puff of air, draws his club back, and swings. The ball shoots off in a clean arc, and he watches its trajectory, but barely looks where it lands before he turns his back to it and stretches his neck from side to side.

“You always swing like you’re tryna impress someone?” Choso asks.

“Am I? That felt pretty relaxed to me.”

“Explains the finish.”

“Bummer. Still ahead, though.”

Choso grumbles something underneath his breath that Gojo doesn’t quite catch, then steps up to his ball, his shoulders stiff as he lets out some disgruntled noise as if the ball personally offended him by its existence. 

He tightens his grip around the club, flexing his hands open and close a few times, shuffles his feet as he gets into stance, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Definitely more practiced and curated than whatever Gojo was used to seeing out on the field, and a lot less leisurely chatty. He lines his shot up in silence, head down, eyes forward, and then swings.

The ball takes off, high and fast, but veers slightly right on the descent. It lands with a solid thud in the rough, not far off the fairway, but certainly further than Choso probably wanted.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, at least not at first. He’s still watching the ball settle into the grass, arms folded, a sorely pleased smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Not bad but,” he says, “a little stiff.”

“Shut up.”

“You wanna drive this time?” Gojo asks, but is tossing the keys to Choso before he can even respond with—

“Fine.”

As the game goes on, and the heat starts to get to the both of them, conversation begins to fray open a bit more than it was at the beginning. A lot of it was just Choso quizzing the hell out of Gojo regarding his new wife, as if him not knowing what your favorite color is would be anything intensely incriminating in court. But even if it was, it’s fine, because he did end up knowing what your favorite color was. And also when your birthday is. And, surprisingly, which middle school you went to (your mother once showed him your 7th grade portrait on the fridge when he went over to fix the A/C).

“I just don’t get it. I mean, she hated you,” Choso says as Gojo walks up to his ball, “seriously. You know how many times I heard her cuss out your entire ancestry over that boat you leave out on your driveway? Like, I’m pretty sure she’s cast some nasty ass spell on you by now.” Gojo tightens his glove with his teeth and then grips the handle before drawing his club back in preparation to swing as Choso keeps talking. “She told me that she thinks you’re pretentious, and obnoxious, and self-absorbed, and difficult, and entitled, and sleazy, and—”

“Okay, man, I get it,” Gojo grumbles, trying to sound detached from the insults and your poor opinion of him, but when he swings, it’s way too flat.

“Damn, what the hell was that?” Choso asks, raising a hand up over his eyes to watch the arc of Gojo’s ball in disappointment. About a half hour ago, the two men would’ve taken great satisfaction in seeing the other completely shank a shot. But now, they’re rooting for at least some good competition. 

Gojo sighs with irritation, then makes an excuse. “Something in my eye.”

He wonders for a moment if he should just fess up. Tell Choso, yes, the marriage is a scam. Was it not incredibly obvious for all the aforementioned reasons? But also, to urge Choso to just leave it alone. To not let some blinded rage get in the way of this little marriage scheme because, ultimately, it really benefited your financial situation. There’s no way Choso would be that petty about your alleged and swift moving on from him to where he’d genuinely put you in any real legal danger, right? 

But he keeps his mouth shut, as his gut instinct insists. 

“We—” He starts, unsure of how to continue, but he felt like he needed to at least address it. “We’ve got that whole, you know, opposites attract thing.”

Choso squints his eyes at Gojo, then his shoulders slump before walking up to his ball. 

“What?” Gojo asks.

“Nothing,” Choso says, his tone even as he shuffles his feet apart to get into a swinging stance. “Opposites attract.” He echoes Gojo’s words. “She always used to tell me she hated that kinda stuff.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything in response, just watches as Choso’s eyes flicker with something heavy, maybe confusion or regret or irritation, but he shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of it. Gojo clears his throat, a question formulating in his head that he wants to ask so bad, but tries to stall it by poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek, until Choso draws the club back to swing, and there’s this weird strain he feels in his chest when he finally decides to just blurt it out and ask the guy—

“Are you still in love with her?”

The choke in Choso’s form would’ve been visible from a mile away, but he carries through the swing on pure momentum alone, hurling the ball up into the air along with a stunted patch of dirt and grass which cuts the trajectory short by about half of what he was likely aiming for it to be, and he watches with a frozen frame as it lands disgracefully on sand.

Gojo blinks ahead at it.

“Damn,” he says, “that’s gotta be one of the worst shots I’ve ever seen.”

Choso huffs an exhale, his shoulders sulking as he stares ahead into the grassy hills. Gojo glances at the back of his head, and lets out a sigh after a voice in his head tells him to just drop it.

He ruffles in his pocket for the golf cart keys, but then stares up at the distance between them and their rather disappointing shots. “Let’s just walk this one.”

Choso nods.

The heat is borderline sweltering, evident in the way Choso’s wiping the sweat off his forehead with the ball of his shoulder and Gojo’s tugging at the collar of his polo to get a bit of breeze onto his chest. And there was a weird sense of solidarity in their decision to torture themselves with eachother’s company over a game of golf. It was a bit humbling, too.

“How did the two of you meet?” Gojo asks Choso as they make their way up a hill.

“She didn’t tell you?” Choso asks, offended, as if he’s surprised that he wasn’t a topic of their pillow talk.

“Nope,” Gojo says, probably because there was no real pillow talk. You two quite literally sleep in different bedrooms.

Choso sighs, a little out of breath when he responds. “We met in college. I was also a nursing major, until I flunked out of organic chemistry. So I dropped out and went to the Police Academy. We stayed together, though.”

“Ah,” Gojo responds.

“Y’know,” Choso randomly speaks up, “I would think she cheated on me.” He wipes at a bead of sweat that perspirates on his chin. “With the way the two of you got married so fast after we broke up.”

Gojo’s brow furrows as he just stares straight ahead, despite Choso layering a testing glance his way, to see his reaction to that statement, and see if it was in any way incriminating. “Nah,” Gojo says, “she’s not the type to do something like that.”

He can see in his periphery that Choso raised a brow at that. “That’s the testament? A personality trait? And not a first-hand account from you?” 

It irritates Gojo. The assumption that you would do something like that. And he knows Choso wants to hear it from Gojo himself—the reassurance that he wasn’t messing around with his girlfriend while they were still together, ironically as if they were in some alternate universe where this marriage was anything other than business…but instead, he doubles down. 

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s just not that kind of person.”

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——————

“Alrighty,” the hairstylist behind your chair says to you as he drags the wet ends of your hair to the front of your shoulders, eyeing them in the mirror. He ruffles up some of the overgrown layers in the back, the scent of sweet apple arousing your senses as you revel in the pleasure of the cleanest your scalp has ever felt in probably ever given the intensity in which the hairstylist scrubbed it out when he was washing it.

You have never been to a wet salon. Ever. You had always just resorted to SuperCuts or anything that was less than a twenty-minute wait and a twenty-dollar bill. But when Sylvie told you she did a drive-by of this place on her way to Dayton County from the SeaTac airport, she had sworn one of her high-class celebrity clients had endorsed it to her once and so she really wanted to go. You were reluctant, probably because just stepping inside the place already made you feel like you owed them some money, given the sheer luxury that surrounded you, but it was okay. I mean, how much could a single haircut cost?

“So, what are we doing today?” the hairstylist asks as he continues to pointlessly ruffle up your wet hair. He had silver grey hair and was wearing a rather tight grey vest with a turtle neck snug to his skin layered underneath, with matching grey trousers. He smelled just as expensive as the products he put in your hair to get the oil out of it. You no longer felt like a French Fry. You felt like some crisp iceberg lettuce. 

You open your mouth to answer him, but Sylvie cuts you off first.

“Ray, if you could just fix up the layers,” she says, speaking to him as if he were a lifelong friend despite the fact that she had also just met him, but the man seems to be thrilled by the friendliness from her, “and maybe some curtain bangs? Have them end here though, I think that would flatter her face.” She pulls some of your strands forward onto your face, and they tickle your nose.

You’ve never known what specifically flatters your face shape. You have been getting the same exact haircut since you were just a wee little lad. It was the one your mother used to do for you out in the backyard as you sat on a stool and felt the crunch of her scissors behind you while locks fell to the concrete of the patio. There was no further style or personality you asked of any of the hairdressers in your adulthood life, but only the small desire that they wouldn’t change too much about the shape your mother always left your hair in. It was just another small way that you felt you could cling onto the happy memories you have of her.

But you couldn’t even dwell on the sentiment for longer than two seconds before Ray was taking Sylvie’s suggestions and instruction to heart, immediately snipping away at your hair. He was sectioning your hair out into such small layers, almost microscopic, as if he didn’t want more than 100 strands in each before he made them all subject to his shears, and the process felt like hours. You couldn’t always see Sylvie in the mirror because Ray would often flip your hair over and into your face, but when you could peak at her through the strands of your hair, you could see she was watching Ray’s every move with her arms crossed over her chest as if you were some sculpture she couldn’t bear to see ruined. 

By the time Ray gets around to cutting your curtain bangs, you feel like an entirely different person. Your hair was still a little damp from the wash, but you could already see the gorgeous shape in which your hair was sitting in. The layers were stunning. And you could only imagine what it would look like once he–

“Alrighty, let’s blow this out,” Ray says, grabbing a round brush and a precision hair dryer. 

You could’ve fallen asleep in the chair, despite the loud volume of the hair dryer, from how lovely the gentle tug of each section of your hair against the brush felt as Ray continued to create tension throughout the strands of your freshly-cut hair. He curled the ends gently, slightly inwards, setting them with spray, all the way up to the fringe of your hair which he corrected with a hair straightener so that it all sits smoothly. And then, he turns you in the chair to face the mirror, and you’re shocked.

You seriously could not have imagined yourself looking the way you do right now. Your hair was stunning, each layer had personality, with the soft curls that have now gently fallen out but in a way that felt intentional, voluminous and alluring. You touch the ends of your hair and they feel so ridiculously soft, and pillowy, and smell so nice. And Sylvie was right. The curtain bangs at that specific length entirely flattered your face, and it almost made you look more youthful. After years and years and years of working nights, stressing out over bills, taking care of your sick mother, and having hardly any time to take care of yourself, you didn’t even know you still had the capacity to look this…pretty?

“Wow, stunning,” Sylvie says with a smile, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “You’re a wizard, Ray.”

Ray helps you out of your seat, the three of you making smalltalk as he walks you over to the lady running the register. She asks Ray some questions about which tools he used and which products he applied, and then Ray leaves the three of you to it as he goes to clean up his station. You’re staring at the lady at the register in slight anticipation, but it was hard to stay anxious about the bill when you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror hung up on the wall behind the register.

“Alright, that’ll be three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars,” the lady says, not even lifting her eyes once to tell you the damage as she continues to type away with long acrylics on the keyboard in front of her.

Your gaze is RIPPED away from your reflection in front of you,

And you guffaw at the register lady.

“I–...I’m–…excuse me?!” you exclaim.

Sylvie tilts her head at you, as if the cost was no surprise to her. 

“T-Three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars for a haircut?” you exhale in disbelief, “I–oh my god, I cannot afford that!”

The lady behind the register nods her head slowly. “No worries! We have a six month financing plan with a low APR.”

You cannot fathom that there are people out there who would finance a haircut.

“That…I can’t do that, I’m sorry.” God knows what your credit score looks like right now with all of your unpaid debt. And you don’t want to face the humiliation of getting rejected from a three-hundred-dollar loan in front of Sylvie. “I, um, you know what? I’ll pay it back with hard work. I’ll—um, I actually make for a really great receptionist, and social media advertiser, and I used to cut a little bit of hair in college, and I could—”

Sylvie lets out a laugh from beside you. “Oh my gosh, y/n, you’re hilarious. It’s fine. I’ll pay for it!”

You blink at her. “I–...I’m sorry, what?”

She takes a step towards the register and pulls her black credit card out of her wallet. “I said that I’ll pay for it.” She inserts her chip into the machine.

“But–...I can’t accept that–”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” she says, “I have a feeling we’ll be friends, so, we’ll just open up a friendship tab!”

You look at her with an equal amount of worry because you’re not going to be able to pay it forward anytime in the near future.

She smiles at you. “Or…just let me do something nice for you. No questions asked. As a thanks for what you did back in the cafe.” She pulls her credit card out from the machine. “And in fairness, I am the one who dragged you to this salon.” She tucks her card back in her wallet. “Let’s leave now? I’m starving.”

“I–...” you almost feel like you could cry from the kindness, “...sure.”

She gives you a smile, hooks her arm around yours, and pulls you towards her, and then you both head out onto the street with in-tune gleeful laughter in the air.

“Any good patisseries in the area?” Sylvie asks, stumbling a little, taking you along with the sway of her body as she continues to anchor you to her by her hold of your arm, but she continues to strut forward down the street as you attempt to catch up. And you realize maybe there’s a bit of strategy to a stride like this, given the speed is just enough to cause a gentle breeze to tousle the curls of your hair, making you feel like a supermodel with a fan pointed right at you. Walk at this speed more often, you make a mental note to yourself. 

You glance up at the sky. Patisserie was quite the word, like something Hana would say to pretend she knows a lick of French after two months of her little fling with Jean Pierre, of whom is currently white with a fever back at her place. Normally, you would offer a belittling snort at the pretentious noun, but you find yourself matching Sylvie’s level. “There’s a suuuuuper cute one on Wisteria Street. Doucers de France!” you exclaim, and Sylvie laughs, picking up the pep to her walk as you do the same.

As you two stroll down the streets of downtown, engaging in nonsensical chatter, you’ve noticed you’re getting stared at a lot, mostly by men, and it’s starting to make you suspicious.

You turn to Sylvie, “Do I have something on my face?”

“Hm?” She tilts her head at you. “No?”

“Weird, I feel like a lot of people have been staring at me.”

“Because you look gorgeous with your new hair, silly!”

“Hmnnn???” you furrow your brow at her, but lift your gaze up to glance at two men who were walking by, both of whom had their gazes locked directly on you, even as you stared them down, all the way down the curb until they both ran into a trashcan.

Sylvie laughs, covering her mouth with a hand. “See?”

“Interesting…” you say, tucking soft strands behind your ear, “hm.” You push your shoulders back a little and toss some hair over your shoulders in a new-found confidence. 

Sylvie is privy to the attitude shift, and squeezes your arm tighter, “shall we continue to Doucers de France?”

“Why yes. Yes we shall.”

The power you felt you held, courtesy of the hair on your head, was unmatched. You haven’t felt this hunted down by stares since you were in your early twenties club era. In a sense, you felt you had gained your novelty back. And you were eating it up. Well, eating up the opportunity to glare down men who stare with no shame. But at least you had quite a substantial amount of them to indignantly dissolve with a well-practiced glare. Like some game of pacman strolling down 183rd Street. 

As you two approach the cafe, you nearly run into a cop that circles around the alleyway in front of the block, and the two of you come to an abrupt halt. When you glance at the cop’s face, you realize it’s Leon again, except this time he has a coffee and a sourdough donut in his hand.

“Hello again, ladies,” he says with a gaze towards Sylvie, and when his gaze shifts to you, he says, “woah.”

“What?”

“You look real nice, y/n. How come you don’t wear your hair like that more often?”

“Time and resources, mainly.”

“I see,” he says as he one-ups you with his eyes, makes some linear conclusion in his head by the state of your appearance, then leans against the brick wall. “Hey, listen, so, I know you and Choso have some crazy history, but,” he runs a hand through his hair in a way that he clearly thinks is enticing, “do you think he’d be okay if we…” He points back and forth to gesture between the two of you.

Sylvie lets out a short exhale of a laugh through her nose and glances down towards the ground, and you narrow your eyes at the cop in front of you with disgust before you hold up a hand in front of his face. “Your desperation to get laid is so very entirely unsexy to me, so shut it.” And at your words, Sylvie lets out a more audible laugh, and it’s your turn to wrap your arm around hers and pull her towards you as you two strut past a wide-eyed, indignant Leon who seems more confused than offended by your words.

Once Sylvie’s giggling fit has calmed down, she manages to say, “seriously, you’re so funny, y/n.”

“Mm?” you hum, slowing down in pace a little when you see she’s having a hard time keeping up, either because of her heels or the laughter-induced intoxication she seems to possess now, a type of giddiness that was starting to rub off on you too.

“Ahh, I don’t know, I just love the way you say exactly what you’re thinking,” she smiles, “I wish I could do that.”

Your mind flashes back to what Pulp-Free OJ man said to you earlier today. You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.

“Is…” you start, suddenly feeling slightly self conscious, and you gently tuck some strands behind your ear as if to preserve some femininity in the face of this so-called brazenness of yours, “is that a bad thing?”

“Nooooo,” she coos, like she can tell you’re taking it the wrong way, “it’s fun! It’s entertaining. It’s refreshing.” She pulls you along with her to start walking. “Makes you seem kinda foxy. Which is an attractive thing.”

“Oh.”

She smiles, something that looks a little foxy herself, and glances at you as her sleek hair flares with the wind of her pace, “Maybe we should go see if we can find that hot mysterious New York man and you can ask him out on a daaaaaaateee.” She nudges your arm with her elbow teasingly. 

Your cheeks feel slightly flush at her words, and you blink at her a couple of times in consideration, but seeing how round her face is from pure glee, you’d feel awkward to show too much hesitation towards the idea of a good time, and so your shoulders settle down and your expression softens, before you return her smile and say, “mm, maybe.”

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——————

“I’ve learned,” Gojo says, sitting back in his chair as he sets his feet up on the cushion in front of him, picking his bottle of beer up off the outdoor patio table in front of the country club’s recreational bar, “in my experience with women, that’s it’s better to just be honest about where you’re going or what you’re doing and let her be mad,” he sloshes the beer around by the bottleneck, “than to lie to her about it and then she finds out later and she gets pissed off more reasons than one.”

“Reaaaalllyyyyy???” Choso slurs from next to him, leaning over the frosty glass surface underneath the overhead umbrella tent of the table, “I dunno man. I’ve lied to a lot of past girlfriends and I hev–nev–... ‘scuse me, have never gotten in trouble for it.”

“Seriously?” Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the blue sky in thought. “Shit. Maybe I’m just a bad liar then.”

Choso snorts and tips the top of his bottle towards Gojo like a salute. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” And then he takes a swig.

Something bothers Gojo, and his brow furrows before glancing over to the man next to him. “Wait. Why’d you lie to them so much anyway? Is it pathological?”

Choso shakes his head, tendrils of his hair that were stuck to his forehead still slick by the sweat from the earlier sun out in the grass. His head tilts off to the side a little in a daze before he casts his gaze off towards the golf course. “Nah, nah, nah. Just the usual stuff, yaknow? ‘Cause, like, she doesn’t need to know I blew off going to brunch with her and her mom on a Sunday because I wanted to go check out McClarens at the auto strip instead. ‘Cause who’s that gonna help?” He swipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. “Instead I just tell her I took her car to get a much needed oil change. And then bam. She thinks I’m a man who knows my priorities, I'm living within my means, and I’m helpful.” Choso snaps his fingers at Gojo. “She wins, I win.”

Gojo narrows his eyes at him. “A McClaren? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Choso groans, slumping in his chair, his arms dangling over the rests as he peers up at the sky past the visor of his hat, bottle of beer threatening to slip down the loose grip of his hand. “When I was twenty, I thought I’d be rich by the time I was twenty-five. I’m thirty-one now, and I still drive a Honda Civic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a Honda Civic, man.”

Choso sits up suddenly in his chair, leaning to the side towards Gojo as he squints at him. Gojo keeps his gaze set forward, taking a reasonable drink of burnt amber as he anticipates being asked some sort of intrusive question.

“Well, what about you?” Choso asks. “You’ve got a boat, a couple of nice cars. I’ve seen the suits you wear–they’re not off-the-rack. What are you doing out here in bumfuck nowhere?”

The convoluted question starts to weigh heavy on Gojo’s tipsy mind, and he’s running out of the ability to navigate it, even though he’s the one that suggested three bottles of beer at 1pm on a Saturday on an empty stomach after two hours of golfing out in the sun, as if heat-soaked lethargy wasn’t enough. Sometimes he forgets he’s not twenty-two anymore, and there are certain things his body just can’t seem to handle at this age.

“I used to work in downtown Manhattan,” Gojo says, slightly deflecting the question, “I moved here about a year ago.”

“Yeahhhhhh, I remember when you moved here,” Choso says, slumping back into his lawn chair, “I fuckin’ hated you.”

Gojo glances over at him and quirks a brow. “Huh? Why?”

“Good-lookin’ guy moving in right next door to my girlfriend?” Choso says, “terrifying. But at least she hated you, too. Well, until she married you. And I still don’t know what the fuck you did to accomplish that, but fuck you anyways.” He holds a middle finger up at him, and then sets his bottle of beer down onto the glass tablet to hold the other one up as well. As if he at least still had the decency to know he wouldn’t have the dexterity to multi-task a grip and a flip-off at the same time. 

Gojo’s gaze dampens slightly, even at the hostility from Choso. It dips to where he’s glancing at the hot pavement in front of the two of them, right where the grass is pristinely cut at the border. He wonders if Choso truly believes that this whole marriage thing is real, or if he was just pretending. But why? Why would he pretend to this extent? It doesn’t make sense. But it has to look strange from the outside, right? He breaks up with his girlfriend of seven years, and then three weeks later, she gets married to her next-door-neighbor? Someone who she allegedly hates. At least Gojo hopes it’s only alleged. But that’s a discussion for another time.

Point is, there’s no way that Choso believes all of this. There’s just no way. But at the same time, he acts the part so convincingly like he does. Like he’s really distraught over his ex-girlfriend moving on with the guy sitting next to him. And if he really was distraught about it, then why the hell is Gojo the one that is sitting right next to him? Choso’s a cop. He could easily shoot Gojo if he wanted to. At the very least, that would make things a bit more interesting. 

Gojo opens his mouth to speak, but Choso cuts him off,

“Why did you move out here, though?”

Gojo glances down at his hand that’s been turning the glass bottle of beer at the base as it sits on the table. He breathes in deep, catching the scent of lavender in the distance, a fragrance he finds a little too familiar, then exhales slowly. 

Not a great liar, but he can manage a half-truth. 

“To be closer to my family,” he says.

The heat begins to slowly dwindle in the late afternoon in passing, despite the fact that it was still a ridiculously sunny day, and it only takes one more beer from Choso before he’s got an even looser mouth and is practically trauma dumping all of the absolutely insane cop cases he’s had to deal with within the past few years, ranging from having to track down the hyena that escaped from the local zoo, to closing out a twenty year cold kidnapping case. There’s a comfort at the base of Gojo’s ribs when he realizes the biggest emergency he’ll ever face at his job is…running out of Open House flyers.

“That’s something I—” Choso takes a pause to make sure he doesn’t slur his words, “loved about dating y/n. I ever had a crazy story? Oh trrruuussttt me she had a crazier one from the hospital.” He shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s reminiscing on all of them. “And y’know, she’s stone cold emotionally so she would share it all without a bat of an eye, too.” He pretends to shiver. “She scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Really? I thought all of that was a defense tactic or something.” Gojo feels strange talking about you in the absence of you but he wasn’t above the buzz of a few beers either.

Choso raises an eyebrow at him mid-sip. “Huh?”

“Like, you know, she’s got a lot of stuff going on…but has a hard time talking about it…so she deflects. Or acts tough to get through it.”

Choso’s eyes widen briefly, but then he starts to shake his head vehemently in denial. “Nahhh that’s just her personality. She just doesn’t really care about most things, especially the sappy and sentimental stuff. She’s very practical. That’s why dating her was so easy when things were right between us. I didn’t have to overthink things. Like flowers or spontaneous dates or cheesy compliments and whatnot.” Choso shudders at the thought. “Because I guarantee you she’d just be bored by it.”

Gojo shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a little concerned about the derailment of this conversation, and he wonders if Choso’s had a few too many from how detached he seems to speak about you. Didn’t you guys date for seven years? He doesn’t exactly know the details since you refused to tell him, and he wouldn’t feel right getting that story from Choso instead, but his curiosity is really starting to itch at him. He barely knows you in comparison to Choso, but he knows that everything Choso is saying about you is just plain wrong. Sure, you seem to be generally irritated and weary by most things in life, but he knows it’s not because that’s just how you are as a person. It’s because of what you’ve been through as a person. 

He thinks about the look on your face when you ran out of your mother’s hospice room, tears streaming dow your cheeks, at the mere mention of someone promising to look after you. And he’s supposed to believe that you don’t care about sentiments? Or that you aren’t hoping to have a shoulder to lean on?

But, who knows, maybe Gojo is overestimating how well he thinks he knows you. At least, that sounds like something you’d say to him with a look of irritation across your face if you heard what he was thinking right now.

But he hates that Choso’s making him question it—this idea he has of you. It’s that same I know her…don’t I? dilemma he feels the entire time he’s talking to your ex. He's not thrilled by the idea that he could be projecting a softer version of you that doesn’t exist just because he hopes that it does.

“Wait, hold up, you’re married to her. And you don’t know this about her?” Choso remarks as he sits up in his chair.

Gojo brings his bottle of beer to his mouth. “Just doesn’t sound like the version of her that I know.”

“That’s suspicious,” Choso says, swirling around the bottle in his hand as he stares out onto the grass.

Gojo sighs. “People can change in short periods of time. I’ve always been surprised by it, too.”

“Yeah?” Choso responds, intrigued by the statement. “You’ve got any insane emotional baggage you’d like to share?”

Gojo sets his bottle of beer down on the table, and watches as a cold droplet of water makes its way down the condensing surface. “Can’t say I want to share any of it.”

“That’s fair. I’m just glad I know that you do have some. Makes me feel better.”

“Hm,” Gojo hums the acknowledgement.

“You know a lot of these guys?” Choso asks, pointing his index finger to a group of men walking to their golf cart in the distance, his other four fingers wrapped around his drink. “You kept getting stopped between shots.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah. A lot of them are clients of mine. Or their ex-wives are.”

Choso rolls his eyes. “Self-important pricks. I don’t know how you deal.”

“My client base in New York was way worse than this.”

“Really?” Choso asks, turning his torso to look at Gojo. 

“Mhm,” Gojo affirms before taking a swig, “I made better money out there, though.” Not that it bothered him much. He’d rather be homeless in Dayton County than spend another day in that city.

“Huh,” Choso huffs in consideration, “I still think it’s really strange you moved to Dayton County from New York City.”

“What’s that phrase?” Gojo says, glancing up towards the blue sky. “You’ve gotta leave the city to love the city, or something like that.”

“Well go back to the fuckin’ city and leave my girl while you’re at it,” Choso drawls, unable to fight the drag of his words this time, or keep his head up straight, really. And it occurs to Gojo that Choso’s not a very responsible drinker.

“If anything, I’d take her with me,” Gojo says, almost like he can’t help pissing Choso off.

“Fuck you. Hope that spell she cast on you bites you when you least expect it.”

“Shit. I hope so too.”

Choso is decent enough to nod a salute at that, and the two move to clink the neck of their beer bottles together, but just before contact, Choso says—

“May divorce be with you, dude.”

And Gojo curves his bottle away from contact at the last second, leaving Choso hanging, then brings it to his mouth to tip it back until it’s empty.

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——————

By the time you come home from your many morning escapades, it’s close to late afternoon, and you notice your car is parked inside Gojo’s garage, as opposed to parked out on the street where you had left it earlier.

You walk inside the house to find Gojo standing at the foyer table, looking through piles of mail. It mildly annoys you that he doesn’t even so much as lift his gaze from all the paper to look at you when you close the front door behind you. 

“Hey, why did you move my car into your garage?” you asked.

“I just washed it, and it’s supposed to rain overnight,” he says, ripping up one of the bills before tossing it into a pile of other shredded paper. 

Your eyes widen slightly. You had been wanting to get around to washing your car for weeks, it had been, admittedly, quite dirty on the outside. But it was just one of those things that kept getting away from you…and away from you…and away from you…

“You didn’t have to do that…” you mumble, slipping your shoes off at the door. 

“Yeah, I know, but–” He finally lifts his gaze off of light blue paper and drifts it over to you, and when he doesn’t finish his sentence, you glance up at him too, only to find he’s staring at you with wide eyes.

You blink back at him, wiping your cheek gently with your hand as some reflex, and then pet down the hair at the top of your head with self consciousness. “W-What?” Forgive yourself for being fussy with your appearance around him now given he literally called you a French Fry this morning.

He’s still staring at you, big blue eyes blinking with no particular rhythm, just pure surprise, and his mouth is even slightly agape. 

“What?” You practically snap at him.

You see his chest sink with the exhale he releases. “Nice hair,” he says finally.

“Oh.” You totally forgot about that. “Thank you,” you say, scooping all of it to the front of one of your shoulders, twirling the delicately curled ends around a finger, “just, uh…took a quick trip to the salon today…” you continue to twirl it, “in which they gave me a quick little style…of which costed a very reasonable amount.”

He snorts. “I’m not even gonna ask.”

“Three-hundred-and-seventy-two bucks.”

“What. The. Fuck?”

“Mhm,” you cross your arms over your chest.

“Where did you even get that kinda money?” he asks with disbelief.

“That’s irrelevant,” you quickly deflect, and even though you weren’t the one that paid for it, you were still going to give him hell for it, “this should teach you not to comment about people’s appearances. I was so distraught by your rude comment this morning that I ran to the nearest wet salon and ended up being scammed into this hairstyle because of you.”

“Okay well you look hot as fuck so the only thing I’ve learned from this is that bullying works.”

“You will not be getting out of this by complimenting me, mister!!!”

The corner of Gojo’s mouth ticks up slightly, and to provide some insight into his perspective, he was simply too distracted by how nice you looked and your choice to call him mister to really focus on anything else. As much as he should probably repent for admitting it, he liked pissing you off sometimes, purely because he likes how prissy and most of all hot you were when you looked at him like you wanted to choke him to death. But he’s also not sure if you really would strangle him in his sleep, and since he can’t necessarily put you above it, a shiver runs down his spine to where he figures he probably shouldn’t push it.

“Understood. No more calling you greasy,” he says, and holds his palm up to swear on it. 

You roll your eyes, but it still feels like an acceptance of the promise, until your gaze hardens with a different type of annoyance. “And where have you been all day?” you ask, trying to suppress the irritation in your voice, tapping your foot on the wood with impatience, “with Choso, I presume?”

He had half hoped you forgot about his admission to you about his plans for this weekend. 

“Yes,” he sighs, “I was.” And with the same demeanor of a dog guilty of tearing up a couch while its owner was away from home, he continues, “we went golfing.”

You breathe in deep, and exhale with shaky rage. 

You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. 

“Screw you,” you say, and then brush past him, storm up the stairs to the master bedroom, and then slam the door behind you.

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——————

It’s rare that Gojo will go for a late night run. He really prefers the mornings—rise of dawn, that crisp fresh air, sparkle of dew in the front of his lawn from the sprinkler spray of the night before, bonus points if he got around to mowing the lawn and it ends up looking neater because of it. There’s also just the right amount of people out on the sidewalks, and they’re usually elderly couples or other fellow morning runners like him, and in his experience, those sorts of people tend to be the friendliest. The weather’s best at that time, too. Feel a little bit of heat on your back to help warm you up but it’s not any sort of abrasive kind that would have you itching to get rid of layers that you don’t have. And maybe, as with most things in life, the ego was involved. Waking up at 5am to go for a run? It just screamed put-together, and more often than not, tended to set the day up for success.

But instead, tonight, he finds himself outside in the pitch black, past 10pm actually, for his second jog of the day. Clad in black sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, it felt unnecessarily incognito but he can’t lie that it felt nice to run without feeling like a single soul is around you.

And also, it was strange. This feeling that something was calling him into the night. He’s not incredibly superstitious, but he definitely felt thickness in the air.

About a mile into his run, he turns a corner of the park, onto a slimmer brick-laid road surrounded by hundreds of trees that cut visibility of the parameters to a fraction, and slows down to a stop. He checks his Apple watch for the time, but when the small screen of it doesn’t light up, he’s annoyed.

Through barely bated breath, he grumbles as he pulls on the strap and says, “did I not charge this thing?”

After a few more seconds of messing with it, he sighs and shrugs, figures he’ll just run laps around the park and head back the same way he came, but when he jogs forward for less than three seconds, his feet come to a halt.

But it’s a quicker one, a more alarmed stop.

Because he sees a figure looming off to the side within the trees.

He huffs a breath, cranes his neck towards what almost looks like a statue in his periphery, until he confirms that it’s a person, and the recognition of who it is draws all the color out from his face, and rounds his eyes wide with pure shock.

He isn’t even given the courtesy of a few moments before he hears the most painfully familiar voice say—

“Hey.”

Gojo nearly feels his heart stop—no, sink—he feels his heart sink in his chest with a feeling he can’t discern. It’s a mixture of a lot of feelings, actually. Surprise, anger, confusion, disbelief. He just stands there, his chest swelling with faster breaths than when he was running, as he stares at the brooding figure in front of him.

Eventually the shock tapers off, and his shoulders drop, and he presses his lips into a thin line before exhaling slowly through his nose. His brow furrows, eyes squinting slightly to verify once and for all that the person in front of him is really who he thinks it is, and he finds that he’s not mistaken.

The figure steps out from near the trees and into the light, and Gojo acknowledges him with a simple say of his name.

“Suguru.”

The dark-haired man smiles in response to his name, it’s a forced one, one that Gojo would argue is borderline sinister but he knows that it’s not. It’s just the way he’s learned to see it now.

“It’s been a while,” Suguru says, stopping his movements to get closer when he’s satisfied with the distance.

Gojo swallows hard. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Suguru nods. “Thought I’d go for a late night stroll.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now.”

Suguru’s smile drops into a frown, acknowledging the hostility, and Gojo finds that he’s clenching fists at his sides.

Suguru sighs. “I understand the last time we saw each other, it was under unsavory circumstances, but I hope you’ll forgive me for showing up like th—”

“Just tell me what you want.”

To justify Gojo’s short temper towards the man across from him to any spectator witnessing this would require a hell of an explanation, one that doesn’t just date back to a year ago, or a few years ago, a decade ago or even two. It wouldn’t be enough, not unless he started from the beginning. But he doesn’t want to give it the time of day. He doesn’t even want to give it any more than the short-tempered rage he’s been offering so far.

Suguru hangs his head a little, studying the brick underneath him, then glances up again. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Make amends?” Gojo finds himself mocking those words the second he hears them. “Who the fuck asked for that?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t be happy that I showed up like this—”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“But—” Suguru sighs again, and it makes Gojo’s skin crawl. The way he acts like the inconvenience of him showing up was anything other than his own fault. “I mean it. I really am here to make things right.”

“What makes you think flying all the way here and showing your face to me was going to make things right?” Gojo snarled.

“When you left,” he says, “it was so abrupt. I had expected you to be angry. To cuss me out, yell at me, punch me in the face, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you pulled out a gun.”

It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time.

“I’m not saying that I know what you need to move on from this,” Suguru continues, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man even further, “but I thought I’d at least give you the chance. The chance to get your frustrations out.”

Gojo quirks an irritated brow. 

“A pass to punch the shit out of me with no consequence or witness,” Suguru says, and the words made Gojo feel like he was some pity project.

“You…” Gojo trails off, more with confusion this time rather than anger, “…want me to punch you?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Suguru says, “ever since that night. But you held back.”

“What I want is for you to never show your face to me ever again.”

“And I won’t,” he says, “I promise. I promise that after today, it’s done.” He takes a step forward. “But that’s why I offer this closure to you. Because—” He hesitates. “It’ll be the last time you have the chance.”

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly when Suguru steps into the light, illuminating some of his features, and it’s the first time he sees his old best friend fully in the flesh ever since that night. He noticed what used to be evenly toned olive skin now has a sandalwood tint, a hue that matches the dull one in the whites of his eyes, yet the bloodshot to them still shows through. He’s lost weight, with sunken cheekbones, there’s exhaustion visible all over his face. It was like Gojo was cognitively cleansed of the memory he had retained of him since the last time he saw him, now replaced with the version in front of him.

It’ll be the last time you have the chance.

All this nonsense about finally honoring Gojo’s wish to stay the fuck away from him,

It felt like a red herring to that statement.

What kind of cryptic bullshit was he alluding to?

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” Gojo says, “but I’m not going to punch you. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly, as if surprised by the restraint, before he relaxes and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It was too pleased of an expression for Gojo’s liking, that is until it morphs into something eerily fake when that smile only widens and he takes a step towards him.

“And if I told you I don’t regret any of it?” Suguru says, and Gojo can physically feel the muscle in his jaw tic with rage, “if I told you I stand here in front of you with no remorse at all?” He continues to take steps towards Gojo in provocation, less than three feet away now, and Gojo’s hands further condense into white-knuckled fists when Suguru makes his final stride and is now right in front of Gojo, “if I told you that I enjoyed every,” he sneeringly enunciates each word, “Single. Second of it?”

The sound of knuckle harshly colliding with bone reverberates down through the echoing pavement of the park, which was the medium for the sting of Gojo’s fist released through his best friend’s jaw, cracked so hard that the dark-haired man entirely recoils from the blow, hurled off to the side out onto an out-stretched hand to brace fall onto brick ground.

Gojo’s breathing heavy, fast, stuck still in the aftermath, his vision almost spotted white with pure rage, and yet of all the feelings coursing through his body, the most physical one of all—the one centered to the rounded bones of his knuckles—only felt numb. And soon, every other emotion followed.

Suguru exhales a shaky laugh, stumbling slightly on the ground before he pushes himself up and back onto his feet. “Wow,” he breathes out, brushing tendrils of his hair out from his face, rubbing the back of his hand down the line of his red jaw, dabbing at the blood dripping from his nose and the top gums of his mouth, and he pulls his hand away to take a look at the red pigment dipping into the valleys of his trembling hand. “Honestly, I thought I could handle provoking a couple more out of you, but,” he lets out a half-stunned laugh, “I think we’ll have to leave it at one.”

Gojo watches as Suguru tips his head back and shakes his head, that same borderline amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his shoulders slump. There was no glory in the sight, nor the feeling. No satisfaction. No release or closure. For fucks sake, he just felt worse. He felt even worse now than he did a minute ago when he wasn’t staring at Suguru’s bloody face.

He just felt numb.

“I really am sorry, Satoru,” Suguru breathes out as he tips his head back, sniffles viscous blood, and wipes away whatever had already dried above his lip, “for everything. And I hope that—” He takes a deep breath, “whatever life you build for yourself from here on out is better than the one I took from you.” He tightly shuts his eyes close. “That’s the only thing that will bring me peace in all of this.”

Gojo hears the words, but he doesn’t feel them. It’s that same dull ache throughout his body, the same one that haunts him in those moments when the nights are too still, and the mornings are too quiet. Mostly numbness, with the slightest tracing of pain as if to remind him that he was still alive.

“Whatever, man,” Gojo mutters, not even able to lift his gaze to look at the person he once called his best friend as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and his voice is a broken shudder when he speaks again, “whatever.”

He turns on his heel, away from this scene he can’t bear witness to anymore, and he feels as if there are anchors tied to his ankles as he drags his feet away. And away. And away. And away. And away. He couldn’t tell you for how long or how far he just dragged the soles of his shoes across brick, then concrete, then gravel, then grass. It could’ve been two minutes, it could’ve been two hours, but it couldn’t have felt any more torturous. And the whole time, he feels that enigma that he left behind at the park behind him, somewhere in the distance.

The same one he desperately tries to ignore,

One he desperately wants to hate,

One he desperately wants to despise with all his being,

But he just can’t.

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——————

The clock strikes midnight as you pace around the floor of the master bedroom, the hem of your floor-length satin nightgown brushing across the flooring with each back-and-forth pivot and stride that you make, and you switch between irritatingly tucking your hair behind your ears and crossing your arms across your chest and letting out annoyed puffs of air at every other minute as your mind races an hour a minute.

You’ve been trapped up here (by your own doing) like some princess in a tower ever since Gojo admitted to you that he hung out with Choso today, just bubbling with a sense of rage that you so badly want to unleash on him but when you stepped out of the room a couple hours ago, you realized he wasn’t home, and his Apple watch was missing from the little paper crochet bowl on the foyer table, so you assumed he had went for a run. As for why he still isn’t home, you don’t know, but you feel like you simply cannot be put to rest until you tell his ear off about something as a way to release your frustration.

You know that Gojo is a social whore. And that he likes to be liked. Perhaps you just can’t relate, because you’ve never extended yourself so far to be liked by the likes of strangers. Sure, when you’re committed to having a person in your life, you do what you can to make them pleased by you, but people who you don’t even really know? Why on Earth would you choose them over yourself?

And so your lack of sympathy towards Gojo’s desire to be buddy-buddy, friendly-friendly, and innately curious about the people around him is foundational to your rage at the moment. 

Why does he need to be friends with your freakin’ ex??? Is his desire to be liked by everyone he comes across really THAT large??? 

And, in a thought that makes you a little sad, you ask yourself—

Why can’t he add you to that list of people to please?

You stop pacing the room with the sobering thought, and glance over at the reflection of yourself in the window. You hate how defeated you look. 

You know that you give him a hard time. You’re snarky and defensive and lose your temper with him perhaps a little too fast. And also fail to show any real gratitude for most things he has done for you. But it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help acting that way around him. And maybe it’s because you know, you just know, that if you ever harbor any semblance of affection for him, and he decides to never return any of it at all, you would be ruined. It would ruin you.

He just has that effect on people,

And you just didn’t want to admit that you wouldn’t be any sort of exception.

You let out a frustrated noise from your throat and plop down on the bed.

Ew, gross. Feelings? Were you trying to gaslight yourself into thinking that you would have feelings for him if your stubborn heart gave you the chance?

As if.

It’s so silly to even picture.

…Or was it?

You don’t know.

You just don’t know.

It’s too many emotions, all at once, and as per usual, the anger is the one that decides to stick around, and you hop back up onto your feet.

“Frickin’ golfing…” You mumble to yourself, “they went golfing together…” You pace to the foot of the bed and then up to the headboard, “I bet they talked shit about me too…”

You hear some noises downstairs, gasp a little and run out into the hallway and peer over the staircase railing to see some mysteriously dressed man at the front entrance close the door behind him. You can’t see his face since he was dressed in a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head, but when the man pulls his sleeve back and releases the strap of his watch, you realize it’s Gojo.

Well, that was a relief. But also, eye roll, it’s Gojo. Perhaps a serial killer would’ve been more preferable.

You quickly run back into the master bedroom, push the door wide open in the process, turn on your heel so that you have a perfect view of the entrance, and cross your arms over your chest. Tapping your foot impatiently, you try to display the most annoyed expression you can manage, and you hear the third to last creak of the stairs as you see Gojo make it to the second floor and into the loft, then approaches the master bedroom.

“Good, you’re home,” you say to him with your gaze narrow in a glare, and you try to think of ways to chastise him for his actions but the best punishment you can come up with is a list of annoying housekeeping tasks, “as soon as possible, I’m going to need you to mow the lawn,” you list them off with the fingers of your hand, “fix the leaking fridge again, install that shelf in the kitchen that you promised me you’d do over two weeks ago, fix the tilted leg of the dining table, finish the—”

You didn’t notice in your yapping that he was closing distance towards you, his expression hard to read under his hood and the fringe of his hair, but before you could tell him about the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, you feel his arms slip past your waist, crossing behind you, and he pulls you in towards him.

“Eh?” you squeak out in surprise, tripping slightly over the hem of your nightgown and straight towards his chest, your cheek pressing against the soft cotton of his hoodie, and you feel him tuck your head underneath his chin in an embrace.

There’s just a brief moment of silence as you stand still in his arms amid moonlight shining through the windows of the room, and when he seems to realize that you aren’t going to push him away, he breathes a sigh of relief and pulls you in tighter, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head. 

“Satoru—” you try to protest. 

“You can hate me in the morning,” he says into your hair, his voice deep near your ear as you feel the rumble of it in his chest, “but just let me hold you for now.”

Your arms, that had been otherwise stiffly raised as if to not want to make contact with him, relax slowly as they drop, and a small puff of air leaves your lips.

He sounds exhausted, numb, drained. There was no mirth, or ignorance, or sarcasm or amusement in his voice like you were so used to hearing.

You lift your arms once again, meekly swallowing, and this time, you gently wrap them around his torso, and press your cheek against his chest even more as you settle yourself into him. He smelled so nice, that same scent of his that was so comforting to you, one that could soothe you to sleep. And you feel his heartbeat in his chest, and how it seems to be faster now than it was just one second before.

He shakily releases a breath when you hug him back, and if you thought he was holding onto you tighter before, you realize that it wasn’t enough for him. He holds you to him so closely to where you can’t even move, like you were a real life teddy bear for him, and the warmth of his body makes you realize how painfully human he is.

You lift your cheek away from his chest, the movement making him pull his chin away from the top of yours, and you crane your neck up to look at him, and he looks down at you too. Beautiful blue eyes meet your gaze, dull in the nighttime compared to the daylight, but still sparkling. You swear there were constellations in those eyes, millions of stars, and gazing into them was enough to take your breath away.

You can see that his chest is heaving slightly as he looks at you, and your eyes lid gently, maybe in a daze or maybe it was the softness of the moment that was gently lulling you closer to sleep. He releases an arm from your waist, his hand lifting to your forehead where he gently brushes some of your hair out of your face in a movement so tender it sends a shiver through your body, and with a strong arm still anchoring your waist, he slowly walks you backwards, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it together in a clumsy tangle. His hands catch himself on either side of you as he holds himself up, hovering over you, and you bring your balled up hands to your heart to see if you can quiet the pace in which it’s beating.

Gojo’s eyes dart across your face, his brow furrowing deeply as if he’s caught in a thought—or maybe a million. It flickers across his expression, whatever the emotion was. Considering…questioning…maybe even afraid. You feel as if you can’t breathe under the weight of his thoughts.

But then he exhales. Runs a hand down his face. Whatever thought he was mulling over, he just lets it go. Drags it away with the rough of his palm and the tight shut of his eyes, before he disappears from your sight when he falls onto his back on the bed with a small grunt next to you, then stares up at the ceiling.

You blink at the ceiling now, too, a little stunned to even move or think or breathe or exist. And you feel like this moment, whatever it was, was over.

But then his hand finds your waist, palm smoothing over satin before you feel his arm curl around you, the weight of his muscle against your skin as he gently pulls you toward him and nestled up against him, your back to his chest on soft linen sheets. Firm and certain, that was the way he held you to him, and his nose nuzzles at the soft hair tucked behind your ear.

He says nothing. He almost doesn’t need to. Because you understand.

You’ll hate him in the morning. The anger tax is what you’ll call it. He’ll pay interest. But for now, you just let him hold you.

And for once, you don’t have to count sheep to fall asleep.

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[end of ch9. 'counting sheep']

song of the chapter: 'quiet, the winter harbor' by mazzy star

a/n. ahhhh thank u so very much for reading :'') i truly hope you enjoyed this chapter!! it was kind of intense to write bc of all the split scenes and also all the character dynamics being explored. lot of hmm i guess nuances to juggle?? also this is the longest chapter of anything i've ever posted...so much for trying to make these chapters smaller hahah. but i loved writing the little scene in the end……….i just wanna be held by gojo until i fall sleep how hard is that to ask big shout out to my ihm beta readers leni n josie for helping me out with parts of this chapter n giving me some wonderful suggestions <3 i really appreciate and adore you guys. ahhhh ihm is 100k+ words now!!! that’s crazy!!! yippeeeeeeee also, i did mention this briefly in another post, but because of the length of ihm, i'm planning to split it into "seasons"! so the next chapter (ch10) will be the last chapter for this first part of the series, where i'll put the fic on a bit of a break as i focus more on kinda wrapping up kickoff, before i start the second part of ihm. i anticipate there will be three total parts! and i'll make a new masterlist for each of the new seasons. idk i just feel like it's kinda better to consolidate the chapters like this, so yea! hope to see you in the next oneee!! tysm to everyone who supports my fics w likes, reblogs, n comments <3 it truly means a lot to me

➸ take me to chapter ten!

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[sp0o0kylights]

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.” 

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning. 

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.  

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her. 

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder. 

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out. 

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.” 

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through. 

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully. 

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.” 

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them. 

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?” 

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword. 

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head. 

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce. 

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…) 

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it. 

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee. 

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits. 

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.  

“Callahan, get to work, would you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.” 

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in. 

Well.

Sort of. 

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.” 

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm. 

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind. 

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.” 

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious. 

That they are being paid to look the other way. 

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.) 

xXx 

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.”  Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him. 

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother. 

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” 

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools. 

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home. 

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve. 

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside. 

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” 

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul. 

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve  jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house. 

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him. 

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.) 

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?” 

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?” 

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected. 

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties. 

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--” 

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.) 

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help. 

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--” 

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum;  untouched and unlived in. 

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway. 

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s. 

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house. 

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP. 

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’ 

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin. 

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much. 

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th. 

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’ 

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’ 

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve. 

No parents. 

Big house. 

Always down for a good time. 

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had. 

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.” 

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back. 

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” ) 

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note. 

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill. 

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.) 

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager. 

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering. 

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it. 

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy. 

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.” 

“Okay. And when are they coming back?” 

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here. 

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions. 

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little. 

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.  

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough 

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.” 

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss. 

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh. 

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in. 

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by. 

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face. 

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way. 

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t. 

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down. 

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.) 

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster. 

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.” 

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?” 

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food. 

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled. 

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas,  I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly. 

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either. 

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--” 

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.” 

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this. 

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.” 

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.” 

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles. 

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm. 

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry,  is this yours?” 

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed. 

Grumbles; “No, sir.” 

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,” 

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.” 

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there. 

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match. 

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there. 

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.” 

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not. 

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.” 

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him. 

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it. 

He already offered, he’s not taking it back. 

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds;  “No one should be.”  

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before. 

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too. 

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.” 

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him. 

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.” 

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.”  He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does. 

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.) 

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something. 

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.) 

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings. 

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it. 

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not… 

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.” 

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW. 

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one. 

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos. 

“He really doesn’t?” 

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud. 

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it. 

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.) 

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t. 

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid. 

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying. 

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.” 

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone. 

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood. 

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come. 

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop. 

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself. 

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it. 

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs. 

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him. 

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?” 

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it. 

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?” 

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!” 

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked. 

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”  

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.” 

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside. 

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender. 

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch. 

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face. 

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.” 

He comes over, looking over Steve once again 

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else. 

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is. 

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird. 

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.” 

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little. 

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve. 

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. ) 

Part Two