#Split Hands Putter

[macrogolf12]

Enhance Your Putting Game with the Split Hands Putter from Macrogolf

When it comes to mastering the game of golf, putting can often make the difference between a good score and a great one. For golfers looking to refine their technique and improve their accuracy on the green, the split hands putter has emerged as a valuable tool. Offered by Macrogolf, the split hands putter is designed to help players achieve better control, alignment, and stability in their putting stroke.

What is a Split Hands Putter?

The split hands putter is a unique design that emphasizes a distinct hand placement on the grip to promote a more controlled and consistent putting stroke. Unlike traditional putters, where both hands grip the club in a more conventional fashion, the split hands putter requires the player to separate their hands along the grip. This change in positioning helps improve alignment, stability, and wrist control, which are essential elements for a successful putting stroke.

By spreading the hands apart on the grip, golfers can reduce the amount of wrist action during the stroke. This allows for a smoother, more fluid motion that reduces the likelihood of inconsistency. It also encourages the player to use their larger muscles, such as their arms and shoulders, for a more controlled and precise stroke.

Benefits of Using a Split Hands Putter

The split hands putter offers several advantages that can make a significant impact on your putting performance. One of the key benefits is its ability to reduce wrist movement, which can often lead to inconsistency and poor accuracy. When the wrists are allowed to move too much during the stroke, the putter face can become misaligned, causing off-target shots. The split hands grip minimizes this movement, allowing for a more consistent and straight stroke.

Another major benefit of the split hands putter is its ability to improve overall stability and control. The wider hand placement creates a more solid grip and gives golfers a better feel for the putter. This increased stability translates into better distance control and more accurate putts. With the added control over the putter, players are able to make adjustments to their stroke more easily, leading to a smoother, more natural putting motion.

Why Choose Macrogolf’s Split Hands Putter?

At Macrogolf, we understand the importance of having the right equipment to enhance your performance. Our split hands putter is crafted using high-quality materials and designed with the needs of golfers in mind. Whether you’re a beginner looking to improve your putting technique or an experienced player aiming for more consistency, the split hands putter is an excellent choice.

Macrogolf’s split hands putter is carefully engineered to help golfers achieve a more controlled, stable putting stroke. The design ensures that your hands and arms work together seamlessly, giving you better accuracy and more confidence on the green. The putter’s high-quality craftsmanship guarantees durability and reliability, ensuring it will be a trusted companion throughout your golfing journey.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, some small time jumps, Lando being the perfect BF, so much fluff (are we surprised?) Amelia’s fixation on Oscar continues.

Notes — I couldn’t fathom not giving you guys an update, so I decided to split this chapter in half, which actually makes it more enjoyable anyway!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

December 2021

Light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Amelia was sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Lando’s shirts, hair still mussed from sleep, watching him tear through wrapping paper like an overactive toddler.

He held up a pair of novelty socks. “These do not say ‘fastest fiancé’. Did you have these custom made?” He laughed. 

Amelia sipped her coffee. Smiled. “Yes.”

He laughed, leaned over to kiss her temple, and then spotted one last final, wrapped in silver paper with her usual precision. His name in sharp, all-caps handwriting. Pushed all the way at the back of the tree. 

“Wait, what’s that?” He asked, genuinely confused. “I thought we were done.”

“We are,” Amelia said. “That one doesn’t exist, technically. I bought it with my bonus money for winning Max the championship — so it was basically free.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Just open it.” She urged, her stomach fluttering. 

He went at it with a lack of any kind of decorum. 

Inside was a car key, nestled in a velvet-lined box. Lando stared at it. Blinking. Then he saw the envelope beneath. He opened it, slowly, and pulled out a photograph — glossy, high-res, obviously taken without him knowing. A sky-blue Fiat Jolly, sitting on a Monaco street. His dream car. “I’ve always wanted a jolly,” he’d said.

It was his now.

He didn’t say anything.

“Lando,” Amelia urged, eyes narrowing on him. Lando’s mouth opened. Closed. His hands went to his face. “Are you—”

“I’m not crying,” he said instantly, voice breaking, eyes suspiciously wet. “It’s the… sea air.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “We’re inside.”

He launched himself at her instead of arguing, arms wrapping around her waist as he half-tackled her backwards into the couch. “You bought me a Jolly,” he whispered, holding her like she was the one wrapped in a bow. “You got me a blue jolly.”

“It’s a good colour,” she said, tone clipped. “There was a white one, but that would’ve been a pain to keep clean.”

He kissed her, sloppily and repeatedly, laughing into her mouth, nose brushing hers. “You’re ridiculous. A ridiculous genius. I love you so much it might actual be a crime.”

“Lando,” she protested, giggling against his lips. “Merry Christmas.”

He held her tighter. “You’re never allowed to leave me. I’ll keep you tied up in the Jolly.”

“I’ll engineer my escape.” She warned. “And then I’ll run you over with it.” 

“God, you’re so hot.” He breathed, and then he was kissing her again. “I got you a cookbook.” He said, after a beat, sounding all upset. 

“You got me a diamond ring.” She reminded him. “And three Chanel dresses.” 

His eyes brightened again. “Oh yeah! We’re equal then?”

She decided never to tell him how much she’d spent on the car.  

Instead she just nodded and let him kiss her again. 

—

The little Fiat Jolly puttered along the winding road just above the Monaco coastline, its tiny engine buzzing like a contented bee. The sun was dipping low, washing the cliffs and water in warm light. 

Amelia had her bare feet on the dashboard, oversized hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a half-eaten gingerbread cookie resting in her lap. Her dark hair whipped gently in the wind, and her face was set in that rare, fully relaxed expression Lando had come to love.

He was at the wheel (obviously), winter scarf flapping around his neck. Sunglasses on. Driving like he was in a slow-motion Italian rom-com. He was also butchering Mariah Carey. “AAALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS—IS—YOUUUUUUU—!”

Amelia winced. “Not one since correct tune. Like, you’ve been aggressively wrong for the entire song.”

“It’s called passion, baby,” he shouted over the wind. “You wouldn’t understand. You sing like a metronome.”

“It’s called being in tune.” She argued. 

He reached over to squeeze her knee. “Still love you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” She glared at him. 

He glanced at her, just a quick look, and he was pouting. “I’m adorable.”

She rolled her eyes and let her head loll toward the window. The sea looked endless tonight. Peaceful. “I can't believe you’re allowed to drive this thing on public roads. Feels like a safety hazard. And sounds like a cheap hairdryer.”

“It’s completely safe,” Lando said cheerfully. “A sexy, blue, historic, safe little thing.” A beat passed. Then he added, quieter, “This is gonna be one of those memories, you know?”

She looked at him.

“In ten, twenty years. I’ll remember this. The Jolly. Us, Thelma and Louise’ing on Christmas Day because we were rebels and decided to snub both sets of parents. You, looking all pretty. Wearing a ring that means you’ll be mine forever. Proper core memory, innit?” 

“I’m not very sentimental,” she said, but her voice had gone soft.

“I know.” He said. “Don’t worry. I’ll remember it for both of us.”

She turned her head to him then, something gentle and fond settling in her chest. “You’re such a romantic.”

He leaned over at the next stop sign and kissed her quickly. “Yeah. Whatever. You love it.”

She sighed. “...Yeah. I do.”

And the Jolly carried them on, down the hills of Monaco, all the way home. 

January 2022

The January light filtered in pale and calm, exactly how she liked it. Amelia stirred in bed, already aware that something was… off. Not in a terrible, uncomfortable way. Just different.

Lando was gone. But in his place on the pillow beside her was a small stack of neatly folded paper, warm from the radiator.

Her name was written on the top in his handwriting, big, messy loops, the pen pressed down too hard on the edges.

She picked it up.

Hi, baby. Don’t panic. It’s your birthday so I have a surprise for you, but everything is going to be soft, quiet, and exactly how you like it.

Here’s what’s happening:

Step One: Breakfast. Check the kitchen. Step Two: Follow the yellow thread (yes, I taped it to the walls, no I can’t promise that the paint will survive) Step Three: I love you.

Amelia blinked, then got up slowly, grounding herself with a hand on the dresser. No loud music. No shouting. No sudden “SURPRISE!” the way people sometimes did and she hated. Just a yellow string, trailing from the doorknob like a breadcrumb trail.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and strawberries. Her usual breakfast, oat toast, berry compote, and the one tea blend she was currently hyper-fixating on, was laid out. Her iPad was already charging on the counter. Her stim toy was beside her mug. Everything… in its place.

The yellow thread led down the hall, looping gently through the apartment. Amelia followed it barefoot, her fresh baby-pink manicure sparkling prettily in the morning sunlight.

The thread ended at the den. Inside, the lights were low. A weighted blanket was spread across a pillow fort made of sofa cushions and chairs. The projector hummed gently, and paused on screen was a playlist of exactly her comfort movies — colour-graded and subtitled, just how she preferred.

Lando was sitting in the middle of it, wearing her favourite hoodie of his, criss-cross applesauce on the floor, nervously picking at the hem of a cushion.

“Hi,” he said softly, standing when she entered. “You okay?”

Her eyes were wide, her expression unreadable at first; and then she moved forward quickly and wrapped her arms around him, face tucked into his chest. He let out a breath, hugging her back tightly. “I just wanted you to feel… like, loved,” he mumbled into her hair. “And safe. Didn’t want to make anything too stressful.”

She didn’t cry. Not quite. But she went very still in his arms. “You did it perfectly,” she whispered. “Everything.”

“Okay, good.” He kissed the top of her head. “There’s also banana bread. And I got your mum to send me the birthday plate. It’s in the kitchen. Please don’t be mad.”

She pulled back, eyes slightly glassy now. “You stole the birthday plate?”

“I borrowed the birthday plate,” he said with a grin. “International shipping, for love.”

Amelia’s laugh was quiet but real.

“I also made you a visual schedule of the day,” Lando said, a bit too proud of himself. “I colour-coded it. I used tabs.”

She stared at him. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did. And there's an hour blocked out for ‘no talking, just decompressing.’ I figured you'd want it.”

She kissed him. Without overthinking it. Without preamble. Just reached up and kissed him full on the mouth, like gratitude in motion.

When she pulled away, she said simply, “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Lando’s grin went a little crooked. “Yeah? Better than the year your dad bought you the model McLaren MP4/4?”

“Marginally,” she said, with a tiny smile. “But only because of the yellow thread.”

February 2022

The office was quiet, save for the dull hum of the heating system and the rhythmic tapping of Amelia’s pen against her notepad. She sat across from Jos and Max, her expression unreadable, jaw set. The sea glimmered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows — too calm for the tension in the room.

Jos leaned forward, hands clasped on the table between them. “Five years,” he said simply. “You’ll have control over every technical arm of Verstappen Co. We’ll build the next era around you. You want to be a legacy name? This is it.”

Max sat beside him, less intense but no less focused. “We want to keep you. You know that. You made me better, helped me win my first championship.”

Amelia blinked, slow and deliberate. “I know what I’m worth.”

“Then stay,” Jos said, voice firm. “Let’s do this long-term. No games.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then, “I won’t sign anything past this season. Past 2022.”

Max blinked. Jos’s face twitched.

“Why?” Max asked, more confused than angry.

Amelia shifted in her seat, finally setting her pen down. Her voice didn’t waver. “Because. I think, in 2023, I’m going to go to McLaren. Officially.”

Jos exhaled sharply through his nose. “Is this about Lando? Your father? Are they pressuring you—”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “This has nothing to do with Lando. He doesn’t need me to win.” Her tone softened, just a fraction, as she turned to Max. “Neither do you. You’ve already proven that.”

“So what is it, then?” Max asked, frowning. “More money? I can give you more. We can… Anything you want, Amelia. Just name it.” He told her. 

Amelia didn’t look away. “You can’t give me Oscar.”

Jos blinked.

Max furrowed his brows. “Oscar… Piastri? The F2 driver?”

She nodded. “Alpine reserve in 2022. And then…“ She trailed off with a shrug. 

Jos was frowning. “What interest do you have in Piastri?” 

“I want to make him a champion,” Amelia said simply, as if it were already a fact. “I see what he’s capable of, and I want to build something from the ground up. I want to guide it all the way. That’s the only deal I’ll ever sign for five years.”

A long, tense silence fell over the room.

Jos shook his head in disbelief. Max, meanwhile, just leaned back slowly, watching her. There was no bitterness, there never could be between them. There was a quiet understanding though. He’d been there, of course. He’d been the one to drag her to that F3 race in 2020, the first time she set her sights on the Aussie. 

Finally, he smiled. “So,” Max said quietly. “You’re going to do for him what you did for me.”

She nodded. “Yeah. And I want to see it through.”

Jos grunted. “You’ll regret it — leaving Max.” 

She shook her head. Smiled. “No I won’t.” 

—

Their apartment was dimly lit, the soft blue glow of the kitchen light spilling into the living room. Lando sat on the floor, back resting against the couch, legs stretched out, a PlayStation controller loose in his hands. Amelia was curled in the corner of the sofa, barefoot, knees drawn to her chest, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fabric of her — well, his — joggers.

He watched her. She wasn’t avoiding his gaze, but she wasn’t quite meeting it either.

“So,” Lando said eventually, voice quiet, teasing on the surface — but not fully joking. “Why not me?”

Amelia blinked. “As opposed to Oscar?”

He nodded once.

She hesitated. “Because you don’t need me.”

He sat with that, chest rising and falling with a slow breath. “But I want you.”

“I know,” she replied softly. “And you have me. Every day. Every night. For everything that matters.” Her gaze flicked to his then, sharper, steadier. “But if I’m the one calling your tire strategy… watching your telemetry… telling you what lines to take, we cross a boundary we don’t get to come back from.”

Lando’s mouth twisted, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. He looked away.

“I want to be your wife,” she added, quieter now. “Not your race engineer.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Lando gave a breathless, slightly bitter laugh. “Lucky bastard.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Who?”

“Oscar.” Lando’s grin was small, lopsided, but genuine. “Kid’s fast. Quiet. Works hard. And now he’s about to get the cheat code of a lifetime.”

“You like him,” she observed.

He nodded. “I do. He’s good. Still figuring himself out, but… I think you’ll make him into something fucking class.”

She studied him for a moment; her Lando, all hoodie and messy curls and ridiculous socks, a little salty from their day at the harbour, skin a little tender from the sun, but entirely hers. And proud of her, even when it stung. “I’m still yours, Lando,” she murmured.

“I know.” He reached up and tugged her hand gently toward him. “Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be a little jealous that some 20-year-old Prema nerd is going to get your full genius mode while I’m over here fighting you for the last of the ketchup.”

She smiled, then climbed into his lap. He caught her easily, arms slipping around her waist as she tucked herself under his chin. “I’ll save some genius mode for you,” she promised. “You’ll still get the car. I’ve got plans — good plans. Might take a couple years to make them work, get the engineers to actually understand what I’m trying to do, but…” She looked up at him, grinning. “We’ll get there. And when we do, it’s yours.”

“You’re still Max’s for 2022,” Lando reminded her.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. “Maybe 2023 too. Depends on whether Oscar gets the Alpine seat or not.”

“You’re seriously not willing to come back for me and Daniel?” His voice was quieter, tinged with something close to hurt. “Not this year?”

She leaned in, kissed the freckle under his eye, and said, “No. When I come to McLaren, it’ll be for Oscar. Only Oscar. And everyone will know that. You understand why?”

Lando sighed. He didn’t answer right away. Then, “Yeah. I get it. No whispers. No accusations. No one saying I get preferential treatment because my wife’s in my ear.”

“Fiancée,” she corrected.

His lips twitched. “You’ll be my wife by the time you’re wearing papaya, baby. Trust me.”

— 

Amelia was halfway through untangling a knot in her headphones when she spoke. “We should tell people we’re engaged.”

Lando, sitting on the floor surrounded by half-open Amazon boxes, looked up from the chaos of bubble wrap and a suspicious number of USB-C cables. “I thought we were telling people.”

She blinked. “We haven’t told anyone.”

He squinted. “Babe, I’ve told, like, fifty people.”

Amelia’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Lando lifted his hands like it was obvious. “The Quadrant boys! Carlos knows. Daniel definitely knows. Charles asked if he was invited to the wedding even though we didn’t have a venue yet, and I panicked and said yes. Oh, and this girl at the bakery down the road—”

“Okay, okay, stop.” Amelia cut him off, eyes wide. “Then how the fuck has my dad not found out? Or Max? I’d know if they knew. Max would be blowing up my phone and my dad… Oh my god, my dad, Lando. If my dad found out we were engaged through somebody else—.”

Lando froze. “…Wait. Oh no. Oh no.”

“What?” she asked slowly, watching his face fall like a slow-motion disaster.

“I thought you were telling your dad. Like, had already told him! I was trying to be respectful and give him time to process, yanno! I was waiting for the all-clear to go and give him a handshake or something!” 

Amelia blinked at him. “Lando. You’re telling me that the woman at the bakery down the road knows that we’re getting married before my dad. And my mom. Max! Your parents!” 

“I didn’t think!” He flailed. 

She stared at him, slightly horrified. “We need to tell them now. Right now. Everyone.”

“Yes, agreed, immediately.” He scrambled to his feet, stepping over a pile of cardboard like a man preparing for battle. “Do we FaceTime your dad first or Max? Who's the bigger threat? What about my mum? Oh my god…” He moaned. 

“Max,” Amelia said without hesitation. “My dad will probably have a heart attack and pass out, but Max might threaten you with bodily harm.”

“Great,” Lando muttered, already reaching for his phone. “I love that I’m scared of one of my best friends because I want to marry his pseudo sister.” He paused. “Wait—can I not just say it in the group chat?”

“Not before Max knows.” She cried. 

He groaned. “Fine. But I’m posting on Instagram the second your dad gives us the green light. I need it on the record that I landed you.” He said. 

“Landed me,” she repeated. “I’m not a bloody plane, Lando.” 

—

Lando was pacing.

Well, it was more like bouncing, phone in one hand, the other tugging at the collar of his hoodie like it was suddenly too tight. Amelia was still sat on the couch, legs tucked under her. “You don’t have to be this nervous,” she said flatly.

“He’s a very intense guy,” Lando hissed. “He might want to kill me, Amelia.”

She arched an eyebrow. “No. He likes you. I think.”

Lando grimaced. “Great. That makes me feel way better.”

Before she could say anything else, the FaceTime call connected.

Max’s face filled the screen, a close-up angle that immediately suggested he hadn’t meant to answer that way. He grunted, adjusted it, and suddenly there he was, in a too-big t-shirt, hair slightly damp. “Why is Lando calling me? Are you okay?” He asked Amelia, completely ignoring the fact that Lando was holding the phone.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “But he has something to tell you.”

Max’s gaze sharpened. “What did you do.”

Lando blinked. “Why is that your default assumption?!”

“Because when you look that twitchy, you’ve usually done something dumb.”

Amelia sighed. “Max. We’re engaged.”

Max froze. “Like… for real?”

Lando, still holding the phone like it was radioactive, lifted Amelia’s left hand into frame. The ring, clearly chosen with painful care, glinted in the light.

“Oh,” Max said after a beat. His tone was unreadable. “Oh, fuck.” There was silence. Then Max grinned. “You absolute idiots,” he said fondly. “That’s amazing.”

Lando let out a breath that came out halfway to a squeak. “So you’re not going to kill me?”

“No,” Max shrugged. “Not unless you hurt her. Then I will, of course, murder you and ensure that nobody ever finds your body.”

“Okay,” Lando agreed quickly.

“I’m serious,” Max told him. “I’ll make it look like a freak disappearance.” 

Amelia rolled her eyes. “You done?”

Max’s grin widened as he turned his focus back to her. “You’re sure about this? I mean. It’s Lando.”

“I know,” she said dryly. “I picked him out myself.”

Max pointed at her through the screen. “Can I be your maid of honour?” 

“No,” she frowned. “Max, you are not a maid. I don’t understand—“ 

“We’re going to tell the rest of the grid now,” Lando cut her off, giving her leg a squeeze. “You’re officially the first.”

“Good,” Max said. “I can’t wait for you to tell Charles. He will owe me twenty euro.”

Amelia blinked. “You bet on us… getting engaged?”

Max just smiled at her. “Have you told Fernando yet?” 

Lando paled. 

Amelia grinned. “Nando completely slipped my mind! Oh, he’ll be so excited! He loves weddings.” 

Lando just kept getting paler. 

Max started laughing. 

— 

The terrace of a quiet little restaurant tucked above the harbour. Fernando was already halfway through a glass of red wine, sunglasses still perched on his head, even as the sun dipped behind the hills. He looked up as Amelia and Lando approached, his face brightening for her, and cooling a few degrees when he clocked who she was holding hands with.

“Mi niña,” Fernando said, standing to kiss Amelia on both cheeks. “You’re late.”

“She made me change shirts,” Lando muttered. “Four times.”

Fernando didn’t even glance at him. “Good. They were probably ugly.”

Amelia smiled faintly and sat. “We wanted to tell you in person.”

That made Fernando pause. He raised an eyebrow, slowly sitting again, eyes narrowing slightly. “Tell me what?”

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. Amelia glanced at him, then reached into her pocket and quietly placed her hand on the table, the ring catching the low light like a spark.

Fernando blinked once. Then again. “What is that?”

“It’s a ring,” Lando offered.

“Do not start with me.” Fernando’s voice was flat. His gaze snapped back to Amelia. “You are joking.”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “We’re engaged.”

Fernando leaned back in his chair, staring at the two of them like they’d started to speak a foreign language. “Engaged,” he repeated, deadpan. “To him.”

Lando shifted, trying to smile. “Yes. To me.”

There was a long pause.

Then Fernando looked at Amelia and said, with total sincerity, “You are too young. He is too stupid.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched. “He’s not stupid, Nando.”

“Well—”

Lando held up his hands. “I know I’m not, like, the best or anything. But I love her. Like… so much. Sometimes it’s scary, ‘cause, like, I love her more than my job, which is crazy and I didn’t think that would ever happen, but… It did, so.”

Fernando studied him, silent.

“And she loves me,” Lando added, quieter. “So that’s… that’s kind of it, right?”

Another beat passed.

Fernando finally reached for his wine, took a long sip, then exhaled. “Mi niña,” he said softly, turning to Amelia. “If you are happy, then I am happy.”

Amelia gave a little nod, calm and sure.

“But I will still be watching him,” Fernando added, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Lando’s.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Lando exhaled slowly.

“And if he hurts you,” Fernando continued, his voice still mild, but his eyes not. “I will make sure every brake marker disappears before Eau Rouge.”

Lando paled slightly. “Cool. Yeah. Good chat.”

Fernando finally cracked a small smile. “Good. Now. Tell me the story. Did she propose? Of course she did. You would’ve messed up halfway through, I imagine.”

Lando grunted. Amelia beamed.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2022 F1 Grid

Lando N. everyone shut up for a second me and amelia are engaged 😎💍

Checo P. Congratulations! Young love is beautiful! 🥂

Daniel R. For the record I knew before like anyone else also: called it in Bahrain, 2020

Esteban O. CONGRATULATIONS!!!! That’s amazing 💍🥳

Lewis H. I saw the ring. It’s very Amelia. Good job, mate @Lando

Max V. Very happy for you both!

Fernando A. Mi niña deserves only the best, but Lando is the best we have, so I digress.

Carlos S. Is this the part where I pretend to be surprised even though I called this at Silverstone in 2019

Mick S. You guys are adorable 🥺 Happy for you both!

Zhou G. I have so many questions. Mainly… aren’t you both literally 22

George R. Congrats! Big step But seriously, best wishes to you both 🙌

Yuki T. I WANT TO BE FLOWER BOY AND EAT CAKE

Sebastian V. Wishing you both a lifetime of balance, patience, and compostable confetti. 💚 Also Lando: remember marriage is a team sport. 

Pierre G. Wait are we invited

Alex A. Ok but is there an open bar And can Lily and I bring a karaoke machine?

Nicholas L. Congrats guys! Can’t wait to see what kind of ceremony Amelia plans

Valtteri B. Congratulations! Finland approves of this union. Also, Lando: do not mess this up. I’ve seen the way Amelia holds a torque wrench.

Kevin M. Congrats! Hope there’s beer at the reception.

Lance S. Woah wait you’re getting married?? Like… proper married? Omg congrats ig

Fernando A. I am still not convinced of this union. But I will tolerate this if she is happy. Call it… conditional support.

Charles L. I owe Max 20€

Daniel R. Let me officiate the wedding or I’ll cause problems on purpose.

Lando N. You’re all invited Except Fernando. Unless he stops calling me “this boy” in that tone

Fernando A. This boy.

Yuki T. I ALREADY BOUGHT A SUIT IT’S ORANGE

Alex A. you know what I’m so proud. Amelia saw that twitter troll saying "neurodivergent girl getting her himbo" and made it canon

— 

They hadn’t told their families yet.

Lando came in from the balcony, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, curls windblown and face sun-warmed from the morning light. He leaned down to kiss Amelia’s temple, pausing when he saw the tight set of her jaw, the rhythmic tapping of her thumb against her knuckles — not agitated, but bordering on it. “You’re spiralling,” he murmured.

“No, I’m… spiralling-adjacent,” she said flatly.

His brow quirked. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now. I have to call my parents today.”

“Okay,” Lando said gently. “After breakfast.”

She nodded, but didn’t look up.

“And yours too?” she asked, quieter now.

Lando grimaced, but only a little. “Yeah. Them too.”

They didn’t do it together.

Amelia needed quiet. Needed space to rehearse her cadence, choose her words, predict possible emotional responses and prep herself for them. The emotions of others were difficult terrain; especially when hers were already on high alert.

So she took her call into the bedroom, alone.

Lando stepped back onto the balcony, phone already in hand.

— 

She called their home landline, because that was the number saved in muscle memory. Her father answered, voice warm and brisk in that familiar, booming tone. “Hi, sweetheart!”

“Hey, Dad. Is Mom there too?”

A pause. “Let me grab her.”

She could hear his footsteps, the muffled exchange in the background. Then her mother’s softer voice — always a bit more cautious. “What’s going on, love?”

Amelia sat on the bed, toes curled into the edge of the comforter. “I’m engaged,” she said.

No preamble.

Just the truth.

The line was silent for half a second — and then her dad gave a low, choking cough. “To Lando?”

“Yes.” 

Her mother exhaled, not quite a gasp, more of a soft whoosh of air, as if bracing for something. “That’s… fast, Amelia.”

“I know,” she said simply. “But it’s not impulsive. I’m not impulsive. We planned it. We talked about it. We’re sure.”

Her dad spoke again, voice quieter this time. “You… Amelia, you’re both so young—?”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed. “But this is the safest I’ve ever felt with another person, and I love him, and we live together anyway, so… Why not marry him?” 

Another pause. Then, from her mother, gently, “Then we’re happy for you, honey. All we care about is that you’re happy.”

Amelia blinked quickly, her mouth tightening.

“So… You’ll be a Norris soon enough, then,” her dad said, still sounding like he’d had the wind punched out of his lungs. “Wow. Sorry, I think I need a second.” He wheezed, and she heard him stumble away from the phone. 

Her mom sighed. “He’ll be fine, honey.”

“I know,” she nodded, quieter now. “He likes Lando too much to hold a grudge.”

— 

Lando paced the length of the balcony twice before he hit the video call button.

His mum picked up first, her hair pulled back, makeup-free and warm-eyed in her kitchen. “Hi, darling.”

“Hey. Is Dad around too?”

She called for Adam, and a moment later, both parents were onscreen, side by side.

Lando grinned nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, so, um. Big news,” he said. “You ready?”

His mum narrowed her eyes. “You’re not switching teams, are you?”

“No!” he laughed. “No — nothing bad. Just, um… good.”

He lifted his left hand, turning the camera slightly to show Amelia’s engagement ring sitting neatly on the kitchen bench behind him, where she’d left it after taking it off to untangle her headphones.

His parents blinked.

“Me and Amelia,” he said, “we’re engaged.”

His mum covered her mouth with both hands.

Adam blinked, then broke into a tentative smile.

“I KNEW IT,” his mum said, voice muffled behind her palms. “I knew you two were heading that way. I told your grandmother at Christmas! She said you were both too young to be thinking about it, but I knew, Lando! I knew Amelia was the one!”

Lando laughed, loosening with the rush of their joy. “We decided in December, after Abu Dhabi. I just — we didn’t want to tell people too fast.”

“We are so proud of you,” his mum said. “She’s a brilliant girl. We love her.”

“She’s the best,” Lando said, meaning every word.

“And you didn’t cry when you proposed?” Adam added, mock skeptical.

Lando looked away, dramatically defensive. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

— 

Later, after both calls had been made, Amelia found Lando sitting on the couch with a bag of crisps and a smile on his face.

“How’d it go?” she asked, sitting beside him.

“My mum may have screamed. What about yours?”

“She was a bit worried, but happy for us. My dad, uh…”

Lando winced. “Did he go mad?”

Amelia leaned into his side. “No. Just, mentioned something about my last name becoming ‘Norris’ and then sent himself into a spiral, I think.”

“Like father like daughter,” he teased. Then leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek. “Amelia Norris. Sounds sexy.” 

She looked up at him, deadpan. “Sexy?”

He smirked, fangs flashing. “Very sexy.”

—

ameliabrown just posted . . .

ameliabrown My 2nd Instagram Post 👍🏻

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landonorris my gorgeous fiance 😍 ❤️ by ameliabrown

user29 naurrrrrrrrrr im crashing out im crashing out

user62 MIND YOU THEY ARE 22 YEARS OLD

user82 THIS IS INSANE I CANT BELIEVE THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING ARE THEY INSANE??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!

oscarpiastri Wow! Congratulations

ameliabrown Thank you, Oscar!

maxverstappen1 My biggest congratulations to you both!🤩

user39 IM SO JEALOUS IM ACTUALLY SHAKING BUT ALSO IM SO OBSESSED WITH THEM OTGETHER I DONT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE MYSELF RN AHHBHBHB

user54 oh girlllll same this is a valid crashout bc wtf ?????

fernandoalonso Congratulations!

ameliabrown Thank you!!!!!!!!!!

user81 HARD LAUNCHING YOUR ENGAGEMENT ON YOUR 2ND EVER INSTAGRAM POST AND IT GETTING OVER 2M LIKES IS INSANE

maxfewtrell this is absolute madness but im proper happy for you guys! 🧡

NEXT CHAPTER

[natalievoncatte]

1. Leaves

Lena was, in all honesty, having the time of her life. Since they’d arrived here, she had finally relaxed. Really relaxed. Lex was gone. Capital-G Gone. The last of Cadmus had been mopped up. The Conpany was no longer a problem- L-Corp was being sold off, from entire divisions down to sales of old office chairs. The Estate and nine-tenths of the family holdings were all being sold off, and the money quietly funneled into a holding company. Sam Arias would manage Lena’s wealth.

Lena had nothing to do anymore, and it was glorious. She’d done what she’d never done in her entire life: rest. She ate when was hungry, slept when she was tired. She stayed up late finishing a thriller novel she’d grabbed off one of Kara’s tables and slept it off the following day. She could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, so one day she said, “Let’s go watch the leaves change.”

“Not much of that in National City,” Kara had said, not looking up from her laptop.

Lena was flipping channels when she made the suggestion, another pedestrian activity that had been too far beneath her to ever indulge during her CEO days.

“I’m serious,” said Lena. “I’ll rent us a cabin, book a flight, and we’ll be there by tomorrow morning. Vermont, or maybe New Hampshire.”

Kara looked up. “I could just fly us.”

“Short distances only,” said Lena.

Kara weighed it for a moment. She looked at Lena for a drawn out instant, eyes darting this way and that. Lena knew she had a deadline; she had become privy to the details of Kara’s life ever since she started couch surfing at Kara’s place after dumping her chic penthouse on some petroleum heir from the Emirates.

She had been “crashing” at Kara’s place for three months and had her own key, but they weren’t talking about it. Lena had remained on the couch, falling asleep to YouTube videos of molten lava and cat purring sounds, while Kara puttered around the house.

There were moments of tension. Pauses during shared meals. Moments when they pressed closed on sofa, times when Kara got up to go to bed and Lena felt this yearning to follow that she never quite obeyed.

Kara was thinking. Hard.

“Rent a cabin?”

“Yeah, someplace remote. So you can take a break. You’ve been working harder than ever, Darling. It almost feels like you’re avoiding me.”

Kara swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll fly. The regular way.”

They did, arriving in Maine less than a day later. Lena rented a Land Rover (because they were on an Adventure) and did all the driving, three hours from the airport to the cabin.

Kara rode in silence, though Lena heard her gasp.

The trees were beautiful. They were alive with color, as if an impressionist master had made the world a canvas and run riot. It was more than a mass of reds and yellows and oranges. It was astonishing.

It was dark when they arrived at the cabin. Lena had chosen one with two bedrooms, though she hesitated when she did. It had a full kitchen with a gas stove and all the amenities but also a fire pit and picnic table and gazebo, and overlooked a private swath of a small lake. It was like something out of a Bob Ross painting.

They were both tired from the flight, or at least Lena was, and turned in right away. When she rose the next day, she cheerily told her cabin-mate she was headed into town to get some supplies.

Kara went out to chop wood. Lena, of course, watched a few swings before leaving. Kara didn’t really need an axe but Lena didn’t care; she was preoccupied watching the muscles of Kara’s shoulders and back as she swung the splitting maul.

Lena got back before noon and carried the groceries inside, enough for her to use the fancy kitchen to prepare a mighty feast for her companion.

She didn’t hear the sobs until she had most of it put away. Lena bolted to the back door and stopped.

Kara was sitting on the picnic table, feet resting on the long board that acted as a seat. She was holding a single golden leaf on her hand, studying it and sobbing softly to herself.

“Kara?”

She looked up, soft blue eyes wet with tears. Lena felt a wave of grief but also panic, rushing to the table.

“Kara, what’s wrong?”

“I,” Kara started. “Lena, I’m scared.”

Lena swallowed hard. “Why?”

Kara looked at the leaf. “Another year past. The leaves turn colors and fall, school starts, things change.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Alex is married now. They’ve got a kid to raise. Nia and Brainy will probably get married soon. We hadn’t had a game night in two months.”

Lena swallowed. Kara was right. When Lena had first joined, then rejoined, this wonderful found family had been aggressively social, and now they forgot to text as often as not. They all spent more time at home or at their real jobs than at the Tower. The world had just started moving on. Kara didn’t even wear the cape every day anymore.

“I know,” said Lena, her voice thick. “But you’ve got me.”

Lena felt her pulse start to race. Kara had been so distant, she couldn’t help wonder if she was enough. If boring, retired Lena wasn’t enough. Oh God, what if Kara was thinking about going to Argo? Or the future?

“Not forever,” said Kara, her voice cracking like glass. She let the leaf drop from her fingers. “Eventually you’ll go. All of you. Brainy, Nia, Alex, Clark if he doesn’t come back from Argo. You.”

“Oh,” Lena said, softly. “Oh, Kara.”

“I think I might be immortal,” Kara whispered. “I don’t feel any aches or pains. Nothing about me changes. I don’t forget things like people do. My body just keeps repairing itself and it never makes any mistakes. What if I’m just like this forever? Or even a thousand years? What if everyone is gone and their kids are gone and no one knows who I am anymore?!” she was frantic now, the words coming too fast.

Lena reached out, tentatively. She put her hands on Kara’s shoulders and pulled herself in, wrapping her best friend in a hug.

Birds chirped, the waters of the lake made soft glug-glugs, and all around them was the soft tapping sound of the leaves, already letting go.

“I won’t leave you,” Lena whispered. “Kara, I won’t. If I have to live forever I will. I’ll find a way. Tech, magic, fifth dimensional imps. I’ll find a way.”

Kara sighed, arms firmly around her.

“Do you need space?” Lena asked. “I could leave you alone for a bit. Look for a place when we get back, so I’m not on the couch all the time.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Kara blurted, almost cutting her off. “I know I’ve been distant, it’s just… I keep looking at you and thinking about all the time I’ve lost and all the mistakes I’ve made and how I’ll regret it forever. We have so little time and I’m so scared I’ll lose you.”

Lena pulled back to look at her. “We have a long time to make more memories. As many as we can.”

“I’ll lose you too,” said Kara. “I know you want more. A family, a partner. You’ll start to have less time for me. You’ll all just fall away and I’ll be stuck here alone.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“How can you say that?”

Kara started to pull away. Lena stopped her with a tug on her arms. It stunned her, sometimes, how she could overpower a god with her tiny human hands. How she could stun the other whirlwind or a touch.

“Kara,” said Lena. “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

“Me?” Kara squeaked.

Lena cleared her throat. “I wanted to tell you at the wedding. I mean, I didn’t dress like that and go stag for the hell of it. I just lost my nerve and you seemed so overwhelmed.”

Kara blinked a few times.

“You want me?” said Kara.

Lena felt a cold rush of terror. She’d just blurted it out, artlessly, unplanned.

“Like want me want me? Like kissing want me?”

Lena licked her lips. “Yes. I’d like to kiss you right now, if you let me.”

Kara settled back into the table, leaning forward. Lena leaned in, pushing her back slightly, moving her hands from shoulders to hips, scoring the way Kara tensed and trembled. She was hardly inexperienced, Lena knew, but something about this felt like a first kiss, even for her. It tasted like one, too, down to the quivery way their lips met.

Kissing quickly became something more. Lena didn’t know if she was pulling or Kara pushing. It didn’t much matter; the path led to the bed in Kara’s room, marked by a trail of shed clothing.

Years of anticipation overwhelmed them both; dinner was forgotten, and they didn’t even emerge until the next day.

It was in the morning sun, the light turning Kara’s skin gold, that Lena saw it. Twisted within one of the curling locks of hair, splayed around Kara’s head on the pillow, was a faintly visible thread of purest silver, chased through the gold like an engraver’s masterpiece. Lena couldn’t help but twirl the errant strands around her finger.

As Kara slept, she looked up through the window and watched the wind as it caressed the leaves.

[razrbladekiss]

GUILTY AS SIN? | Joel Miller

SUMMARY: your dad’s ex-best-friend explains just why your old-man no longer associates with the man whose blood once ran through his veins.

PAIRING: dads(ex)best friend!joel miller x afab!reader. joel is in his fifties, reader is early twenties.

WORD COUNT: no idea i raw-dogged this on tumblr dot com.

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, 18+ WORK BELOW THE CUT. kinda established friendship between reader and joel, despite not seeing one another for a few years. insinuated NSFW, nothing strictly dirty. just wordy shit.

PART TWO

He’s a lot grayer than you remember. Broader, too. He looks positively stacked beneath the faded red flannel he’s donning today. For an old-ish man, Joel looks good.

Too good.

Much, much too good for a man who has the audacity—the absolute temerity—to show his face in this town after all that he said about, and did to your father.

Apparently—though, you’ve never been too sure how true the tale of brotherly betrayal had been—Joel had broken the “sacred” pact between himself and your father, when you had moved out of state four years ago, and neither spoke a word to the other since.

Joel left Point Pleasant and took with him his shame for whatever it was that he’d done. But now he’s back—to the dismay of your father—and you’ve just so happened to cross paths with him.

And though you don’t understand—or care to learn about—just what happened between the two who’d been friends since childhood, you respect your old man and his desire to keep you from Joel.

That was, until today.

When you bumbled through town—hunting for a padlock to secure the gate in your backyard that keeps blowing open with the fucking wind—you didn’t think you’d come face to face with him.

You’d waltzed into the hardware store on St. John’s Road, roaming the aisles—feeling uncomfortable in the mundane—for the biggest, brassiest lock you could find and when you got your hands on it, a familiar—though not entirely expected—voice filled the space between you and the monotony of being back home.

He showed himself and you all but shit yourself. You hadn’t expected to see Joel God damn Miller in your town, but you did. And it knocked you for six.

The two of you made small talk for a few minutes—mindful of who could’ve been around—before Joel was inviting you out for drinks later that evening. And being the sweet—slightly intrigued as to what happened between him and your father—soul you are, you said “yes.”

And that’s how you wound up in this position.

Joel sits opposite to you, puttering with the beer mat between his pointer finger and thumb. He flashes you a smile whenever you speak, and you’re filled with a strange sense of warmth in his presence. Nostalgia, perhaps.

“And college was a drag.” You say honestly. “I dropped out after the second semester, but I didn’t tell my parents.”

He laughs in disbelief, not for one second thinking that your father would’ve let that slide.

“What’d dad say?” Joel cringes when he realizes the way he’s spoken about your old man, remembering that they were no longer on friendly terms. “Sorry, Mike.”

Tight lipped, you smile.

“I didn’t tell him for six months. Mom knew, but she never told him.” Breezing past that hiccup, you tell him. “But when he did find out, he kicked my ass. Didn’t speak to me for a year. Didn’t want me back at home for Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my Birthday. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with me, ‘til I re-enrolled.”

“And did you?”

You shake your head. “No, sir. I moved to Atlanta, instead. Got a job in marketing, worked my way up to a senior position, met a great guy and got engaged, built the best life I possibly could’ve.”

Proud of you—genuinely pleased—Joel smiles. “So what brings you back here?”

The wine glass in your hand is suddenly bone-dry, empty of it’s once fruity contents. You laugh wryly. “Got fired. Fiancé cheated on me with the CEO of my company. Lost my house in the split. So I came back here last summer.. taken me ‘til now to be able to move outta dad’s place.”

“Oh, sweetheart..” He sense that you don’t want his sympathy, but he can’t help it. “How did d—Mike take it?”

Again, you laugh.

“Badly. Didn’t speak to me for a while.” You smile tight-lipped. “Common theme, that. Dad not speaking to me.”

Joel whirls his whiskey around its tumbler, refusing eye contact. “I know how that feels. Been four years since he last said a word to me, and I kick myself for that everyday.”

It’s sad. Meditative. Almost makes you want to keep your nose out.

Almost.

“Yeah,” you put down your glass. “What happened there, then? ‘Cus nobody seems to tell me jack-shit here, anymore.”

Usually, Joel would say something along the lines of “darlin’, it’s best you don’t know,” or “none ‘a your damn business.” But he supposes that it is your business—what with it being your father.

And the fact that you’re the fucking reason for your dad wanting to murder Joel, and use his guts as drapes.

“Well.” He begins—feeling his chest constrict and heart pound wildly inside of its ribcage. Joel takes a deep, drawn out breath, and a swig of his liquor for some well-needed fucking courage.

But it doesn’t work.

He’s a trembling mess, now.

“Alright, you needa know…this ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of.”

You blink at him, feeling crimson bleed into your cheeks while simultaneously knowing that all color is draining from your face.

“And I’ve been on my own for years. Since Sarah’s mother died—“

“Joel.” You say, warningly. “Spit it out.”

He swallows thickly the residual bile on the tip of his tongue. Joel didn’t think he’d ever be in this position. Least of all today.

“Your father and I, we got drunk at a yacht party one night.” He begins. “Some hot-shot at his company invited us and I wasn’t gunna go, ‘til Mike convinced me.”

You can tell he’s trying to drag it out, and so you stare at him pointedly.

Joel clears his throat, continuing. “Anyway. We got hammered, told one another some shit and shared a few heart-to-hearts. And then I crossed a boundary that—darlin’—I know I never should’ve crossed.”

“Go on..” Apprehensive, you say.

He rubs his lips together, sending you a very apologetic gaze.

“I told your father that I had a crush on you.” Finally he admits, and your heart falls out of your fucking cunt. “Now—this ain’t somethin’ I ever wanted to act on—“

“You had a crush on me?” He nods, ignoring the venom in your tone. “Joel! That’s fucking—that’s—“

You can’t find it in yourself to be disgusted with him. In fact, you’re quite flattered, actually. Because for as long as you can remember, Joel Miller was desired by every single woman that he’d ever known, and yourself would’ve been included in that.

Despite being the father of one of your closest childhood friends, you often fantasized about what it’d be like to screw around with Joel. Because he was so handsome—so rough and rugged—and he made you squirm whenever he put a friendly hand to your shoulder or hugged you at a family event.

You’re completely dumbfounded, actually.

He says your name as you’re lost in your lascivious thoughts, hastily plummeting you back to reality.

“I’m sorry—“

“Don’t be.” Completely unfazed, now, you say. “My dad’s a drama queen. I should’ve known it’d be something stupid that split the two of you up.”

He stares blankly at you, brows fused together.

“If I’m being honest, Joel, I’ve wanted to fuck you for years.” Candid, you tell him. “So I guess that now you and my dad hate one another, I have nothing to feel bad about.”

“What the f—I mean—thanks? But, sweetheart, this is wrong.” He reasons. “Your father ground me into the sidewalk when he found out, and I can’t imagine what he’ll do to me if he finds out you’re sayin’ all these things—“

You wave, completely detached from reality. “Aw, fuck him. Never cared much for him, anyways. Was always tryna control my life.”

Joel actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s like some strange music to his ears, but it feels so wrong.

“And, y’know what? He can’t control me now.” You say matter of fact before you’re hopping off your bar stool, and shifting to stand in front of Joel. “I’d love to hear his thoughts on this.”

In a moment of completely blind, unadultered passion, you fuse your lips to Joel’s. His left hand comes up to take purchase on the skin of your neck while the right lands on your waist. He moans, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

You laud the sweetness of Honey on his tongue, and drink the lustrous flavor of him. He’s so steamy. So beautiful, for an older man.

And now that you’re back in the same town, then who knows what’ll happen?

“Joel?”

He hums against your lips, holding tightly your skin.

“Take me home with you.”

[missallanious]

Jojo’s Bizarre Viking AU

Okuyasu and Josuke Meet - Oneshot

Okuyasu Nijimura crouched in a tree, watching through the leaves as two figures approached the stream bank. His brother, Keicho, was on a different branch, also watching.

The two figures (one boy and one man, judging by their statures), were chatting quietly and split up, searching the plants in and around the stream, plucking some every now and then and calling out their discoveries to each other. Okuyasu turned to his brother, looking for a sign of any kind. Keicho, for his part, looked delighted, and held up a hand for Oku to wait. At least, that’s what Okuyasu hoped it meant. Sometimes he got Keicho’s hand signals wrong, and had the scars to show for it.

His brother quietly pulled out his bow and an arrow from his quiver, taking aim at the smaller figure below.

Oku knew this plan, and breathed an inward sigh of relief; his brother, using his prowess with long-range weapons, would take out one of their victims, and it would be up to Oku and his close-range fighting style to take out the other one. Then, they would steal all they could from their downed opponents. He glanced between the two people puttering around the burbling stream, and wondered briefly why his brother was choosing to aim at the smaller boy. The other man, taller and well built, seemed like the better one to be taken out first. Maybe his brother meant to fire a warning shot, scare away the smaller one?

That thought was quickly dashed as Keicho loosed his arrow, striking the boy and felling him instantly.

Oku squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away briefly. He wished they didn’t have to fight, to kill, but his brother was on a mission of some kind. And Oku was too stupid to fend for himself, so he stayed.

Oku shook himself and readied to jump down from his perch, to start what he knew to be his duty of fighting the other his brother hadn’t taken out. But Keicho’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, stopping him. Looking gleeful, Keicho pointed to the tall man on the ground, who Oku now noticed showed no signs of noticing his fallen comrade. Keicho practically slithered down the tree, creeping over to where the boy had collapsed, and quietly dragged the prone form into the woods behind the tree Oku as still perched on.

Okuyasu watched, confused, as his brother began to rifle through the body’s pockets and pouches, dumping things unceremoniously on the ground, searching. Then, a shout.

The man had finally noticed his missing companion and, judging by his frantic steps forward, had also seen the faint remains of blood swirling in the stream waters and smeared on the bank, leading back to where Keicho still crouched. Keicho glared briefly at his brother before turning back to his task, leaving Oku to do what he did best.

Fight.

Okuyasu leaped down from the tree, landing with a splash in the water, effectively blocking the path of the searching man. Who, now that he was closer, Oku realized was slightly taller than himself and had piercing blue eyes. Instinct, as it so rarely did, took over for Okuyasu, and he leapt forward instantly. His first punch landed, striking the other’s jaw and knocking him backwards, and then the fight was on.

His opponent, though taken by surprise and staggered by the first blow, gave as good as he got. Okuyasu found himself nearly being pushed back by the onslaught of blows, his own breaking through occasionally and striking the other’s face, chest, and stomach. The second he had to take a step back, nearly losing his balance on the slick rocks beneath his boots, and the other man made a move to go around him, Okuyasu pulled out his one weapon.

It was an odd weapon, made by himself for himself, and only he knew how to utilize it; a strong cord, with a fair amount of length and secured to his belt, and a strong iron hook at the end. The hook was blunt and scuffed from years of wear, but did it’s job as wonderfully as a worn bone leatherworking tool.

Grabbing the hook, he swung with terrifying accuracy and snagged his opponent’s arm, yanking the cord to pull the man back into his waiting fists. With his other hand he caught the hook as it swung back, ready for another use. The man he was fighting looked shocked (understandably so), and was clocked again as Okuyasu threw the hook again, hitting his forhead with a sickening whack. Okuyasu once again caught the hook as he pulled it back, taking a firm stance between the man and his objective. To Okuyasu’s surprise, the man started to speak.

“Please,” his voice wavered for a moment, and he spat some blood into the stream, “please, I’m a healer! I need to save my friend, he’s my apprentice, I can’t— why are you doing this?” Okuyasu wasn’t prepared for this. The man was staring at him, eyes piercing and pleading even under the blood pouring from his forehead. Oku wasn’t great with words; hell, he wasn’t even good with thoughts. But this man was looking at him so earnestly that he felt compelled to speak (and he could practically hear his brother screaming at him to just shut up, Okuyasu, you don’t know anything!).

“I—we—“ he stuttered, before finding his voice. “My brother’s looking for something. He thinks your friend has it.” He clenched his jaw and firmly avoided the other’s eyes as he finished. “He’s already dead. I….I’m sorry. You should go while you can, I’ll tell my brother you beat me,” Okuyasu turned back to the man and felt as if he was punched in the gut by the sheer despair in the other’s eyes. He lowered his arms and started pleading.

“Please, just go! I’ll—I’ll make sure we leave your friend’s body, you can come back for it later! Just get out of here now, before—“ and then he felt his stomach hit his boots as an arrow appeared to suddenly be growing out of his opponent’s shoulder. Okuyasu whirled to face his brother, standing now, another arrow already nocked and ready to fire. He distantly heard a splash as the man behind him must’ve fallen into the water, but his focus was on the arrow that appeared to be aimed at him. Even knowing that Keicho hated when he spoke, Okuyasu felt that he had to try.

“Keicho,” he held his hands out and low, shoulders starting to hunch with nerves, “Brother, please, we should let him go, he’s a healer—“ Okuyasu was cut off as an arrow whizzed past him, clipping his ear and slicing his cheek. His brother’s cold voice rang out, and a whirring sound could be heard as his brother switch from arrow to his sling. He liked top use his sling on Okuyasu; hurt him, but less blood to clean up, Keicho claimed.

“I knew i couldn’t count on you, brother mine,” Keicho sneered. “You’ve always been too kind for your own good.” Keicho took a step forward, and something flashed around his waist. Before Okuyasu could blink, he felt the CRACK echo in his skull as the stone fired from his brother’s sling caught his brow. Okuyasu fell to his knees, clutching his face in pain, eyes spinning as he tried to focus. He could faintly hear steps around him; in front? Or behind? The splashing steps echoed in his ears and he couldn’t pinpoint them.

He still valiantly attempted to get back on his feet, protesting even as his brother kept speaking.

“Keicho, they’re healers, we shouldn’t—“

“If you wanted to be this noble, you should have thought of that before you became so stupid.”

“I’m sorry, brother, I know I—“

“You don’t know anything!! You’ve always been an idiot, but at least you would do what I told you! You’ve always been a burden to me; I don’t even see you as w brother anymore!”

A strong hand gripped Okuyasu’s chin and forced him to look up, meeting his brother’s furious gaze.

“Who took care of you all these years!?”

“You,” Okuyasu replied weakly, tears staring to burn as his brother’s words continued to cut.

“Who taught you everything, who kept you alive!?”

“You, brother, but—”

“Stop sniveling! If you’re not even going to do as I say then I have no use for you.” His brother drew back, face impassive as Okuyasu began to cry in earnest, begging his brother to please don’t abandon me, please, I’ll be good, but Keicho merely let go of his brother and turned his attention to the man Okuyasu had been fighting. He wrapped his sling back around his waist and again pulled out his bow and arrow, taunting the man.

“Don’t worry, your friend died quickly. I’ll make sure to bury you next to him.” Keicho nocked his arrow and aimed at the glaring man, who had managed to pull the arrow out of his shoulder, but was still clutching it as it bled.

Okuyasu was a few things; stupid, strong, and, if his brother’s words were anything to go by, a burden. He was also incredibly stubborn. So, as soon as the thought to save the healer entered his head, he was as likely to let it go as a starving dog letting go of a steak.

Before anyone could react, Okuyasu had swung his hook. It caught his brother’s arm and he yanked, managing to simultaneously aim the arrow away from the wounded healer… and make his brother fire. Which wouldn’t have been that bad, if Okuyasu wasn’t now in the line of fire.

The shot hit with a dull thwack, and Oku blinked at the arrow now settled firmly in his side. His brother started to scream at him while furiously nocking another shaft, the healer inexplicably also yelling at him? Okuyasu wasn’t sure why, exactly, but all thoughts were effeciantly overrun by the sudden ROAR from the treeline, just to the side of where the healer’s companion lay. All three men turned to the biggest bear any of them had ever seen, still belting out its roar as it pawed the ground. Keicho had time only to release two shots before the bear was upon him. Okuyasu, who was between the bear and healer, tried again to stand, yelling for the other to grab his friend’s body and run. He managed to get to his feet, albeit wobbly, and mobbed to take a step towards the bear and brother brawl ahead of him, when something tugged his arm and he fell back, landing firmly ion the grasp of the healer who quickly placed a vial of.. something, to Oku’s lips. He was too surprised to do anything but drink, and when the healer grabbed the arrow in his side and pulled, he let out a surprised yelp. He grabbed at his side, but was amazed to find that there was no pouring blood. No pain. And, amazingly, no hole in his side. The only sign that the arrow had, in fact, been inside his body, was the torn bloody clothing and bloody arrow now bobbing downstream. Okuyasu turned his scarred face to the healer, who seemed to be a bit pale.

“Why did you save me?” Oku couldn’t stop himself from asking. He has attacked the man, his brother had killed his friend! There was no reason Okuyasu could think of for the healer to, well. Heal him. The healer looked at him, something in his gaze that Okuyasu couldn’t place.

“You saved me first,” he replied. “You just…seemed to be a pretty great guy.”

Okuyasu didn’t have time to unpack all of that. So he didn’t.

Feeling much better than maybe he ever had, Okuyasu leapt into action. Grabbing the healer around the waist (ignoring the surprised grunt), he flung his hook at a tree branch and yanked with all his might, jumping at the same time. This effectively pulled them both out of the water and across, into the tree line. Still holding the healer, he flicked his wrist to free the hook as he sprinted past to the place he knew the healer’s apprentice to be. Gritting his teeth at the sight, he placed the healer down and briefly met his gaze.

“I’m sorry.” He said solemnly. “For everything.”

And before the other could respond, he turned and ran back to where his brother was fighting the bear.

The stream was now frothy and violent, the vicious swipes of the bear and stomps from both parties stirring up clouds of mud, mixing with the blood poring from various wounds and turning the water a dirty red. Okuyasu hesitated for only a second, before he saw an opening and jumped in. He flung his hook and yanked, stopping the bear from taking Keicho’s head off with its powerful paw, and splitting the attention between himself and his (wounded) brother. It roared again, enraged, and charged him. He pulled his hook back in time to hang it on his belt before the bear was on him, and he did his very best to keep it occupied. Punching its face, going for its eyes, grabbing the cheek skin to keep it semi-still as he went for its weak points. For the bear’s part, it clawed and bit and tried to disembowel him. He managed to dodge the worst strikes, but was still bleeding profusely by the time a shout rang out from behind the bear.

Keicho had righted himself, blood pouring from open gashes on his side and hairline. He took aim and fired an arrow right into the bear’s eye. It have an unearthly howl of pain and rounded on him. Keicho fired shaft after shaft into the charging behemoth, slowing but not stopping it. It reared up and roared again, another two arrows hitting the chest and throat area, before it stomped down, crushing Keicho with a sickening crunch.

Okuyasu would later swear he saw Keicho close his eyes as the bear fell on him, looking at peace for the first time in years.

The bear snuffled around a moment as its adversary stopped moving, then itself staggered and slumped into the water. Keicho’s arrow littered its body like porcupine quills, and it gave a last shuddering breath before it was still.

Okuyasu, now bleeding yet again from the bear’s claws and teeth marks on his skin, gave a broken sob and lurched forward. His brother’s body was still, half pinned under the monster bear, his head beneath the uncaring water. Oku splashed closer, hoarsely calling his brother’s name. He fell to his knees by his brother’s head, cradling it in his lap and trying to bring it above the water. He helplessly noticed that no bubbles were coming from his brother’s nose, no signs of life apparent, and clung to Keicho’s head, crying quietly.

The stream, now calm after the fight, burbled onwards, carrying away the blood and tears of the Nijimura brothers, and the lifeblood of the downed bear.

After what could have been an eternity, but equally could have been just a minute, Okuyasu began to hear voices nearing him. He raised his head, eyes and cheeks puffy from tears and head starting to throb with what he could only assume would be a terrible headache.

Maybe I used my brain to much today, he mused, then blinked as he saw the source of the voices round a big tree. It was the healer and — his companion? He was alive??

The taller healer saw Okuyasu and let out an excited yell, right as Okuyasu burst into fresh sobs. Both the tall healer and his small friend shared a concerned glance and rush to Okuyasu’s side; that only made him sob harder. When was the last time he had been comforted when he was crying? Keicho just used to smack him when he got too loud; at best, he would ignore Okuyasu and let him cry. But now, these two people were — and he had —

He faced the small boy (maybe man? He had boyish features, but some scratchy facial hair lead Okuyasu to think that maybe he wasn’t as young as originally thought), who looked alarmed at having a hulking, bawling, near-murderer give him any attention — and he started to apologize.

“I’m s-s-s-so sorry my brother almost killed you!! I should’ve stopped him, but I — I’m so stupid I couldn’t even tell him not to—!!” He lifted a hand off his brother’s chest and weakly reached out to the apprentice, who gracefully grasped it and tried to shush him, assuring him it was all right, he was fine now, and Josuke shouldn’t you do something about his bleeding?

Oku blinked, hiccuping as his tears slowed. “My name’s not Josuke, ‘m Oku?” He was, thankfully, observant enough to notice that the tall healer had moved to his other side, so he didn’t jump out of his skin when the other chuckled, shaking his head as he dug through a bag Okuyasu hadn’t noticed he was holding.

“My name is Josuke; that’s Koichi, my apprentice. And you’re… Oak-u, you said?” Okuyasu nodded, and as the two healers started discussing something with far bigger words than Okuyasu was used to, he suddenly found himself in a situation where he didn’t know what to do next. He had already apologized, the two— Josuke and Koichi, apparently— were fine, the bear was dead… and so was Keicho. He supposed he should bury him? He remembered, back when he and Keicho had lived with their old village, that there was some custom about…setting them on fire? He glanced around and, seeing all the trees around, firmly decided against it. Custom or not, he didn’t feel good about potentially setting the forest on fire.

He felt someone place a hand on his shoulder and turned, opening his mouth to ask what?, instead finding his lips occupied with another vial. Josuke’s fierce blue eyes brooked no argument and Okuyasu meekly drank the liquid. As before, he could feel an improvement as soon as he finished the draught, though not as intense as an arrow-wound healing completely. He was going to ask if Josuke was maybe a witch, or some other kind of magician, when the smallest among them spoke.

“Is it…dead?”

Oku saw Koichi glancing nervously at the bear, and gave a raspy chuckle. “Either it’s dead or playing the longest game of chicken I’ve ever seen,” he paused for a moment, before turning his head to face Josuke. “Oi, is… uh, do you know where I can bury my brother?”

The healer’s eyes then lit on the body under the water, Oku still cradling his head. His eyebrows jumped and he scrambled to his feet, once again reaching for his bag. Okuyasu waved him off, giving a mirthless laugh.

“No, no, don’t waste your supplies,” he traced his brother’s face lightly, brushing his eyelids more closed. “He’s been gone for a while.”

Oku sat up and began patting his body to check for wounds. Hmm, it felt like a rib or two was broken, and he didn’t like how his left ankle felt as he tested it, but aside from those all his other wounds didn’t feel too deep anymore. At least, not deep enough that he was lightheaded from blood loss. He got to his feet a little shakily, gently moving Keicho’s head to rest on the stream bed, and stuck his arm out to the taller healer, who was still crouched next to the bear and his brother. Josuke blinked his (really, amazingly blue) eyes in confusion, but just as Oku was beginning to feel like maybe he had overstepped and this healer might not want to touch the man who had been fighting him just a few minutes earlier, and his hand started to retract, the healer shot a hand out and grasped his.

Oku must have winced as he heaved the man upright, because suddenly the healer’s eyes narrowed and he stepped closer, starting the same patting routine Oku had just gone through himself. Okuyasu sucked in a breath as Josuke patted just a tad too fiercely on one of his (probably, definitely broken) ribs and the healer’s gaze shot up, scrutinizing him carefully. Oku gently brushed the hands away, giving a nervous little smile.

“I—I should get going. Got a brother to bury. And you guys should probably, uh, go back to your home.” he guestured to the bear. “You guys can have the bear? The fur’ll probably be nice to have, what with winter coming soon, and bear meat ain’t half bad if you cook it right…” Okuyasu trailed off in confusion, watching for a moment as Josuke’s hands continued to pat around his torso and arms. After a beat of silence, Josuke finally glanced up and met Oku’s eyes. The healer froze, then sheepishly drew back his hands.

“Sorry? Habit, I guess. Are you sure you don’t want me to…?” He guestured to Oku’s ribs.

Oku, in turn, shook his head and glanced away, sizing up the bear and its position pinning his brother below the water. He patted his ribs subconsciously, wondering how he would be able to move the behemoth if they really were broken. “No, thank you, I don’t think I should bother you any longer,” he shot a lopsided grin to Josuke, the scars on his face tightening and pulling with the movement, “you’ve already been nicer to me than I think anyone else I’ve ever met,”

The healer’s face did something, but the expression was gone before he could ask about it, and then he was talking again so Oku couldn’t be bothered to focus on a micro-expression.

“Can I at least get your name? Your full name?” Josuke asked.

Oku was too surprised to think of why that may be a bad idea, so instead he simply said “Okuyasu Nijimura,” and the healer nodded to himself, mouthing the name quietly, before he turned back and stuck out his hand.

“Josuke Higashikata, village healer, at your service.” Oku stuck his own hand out, starting to say that, as nice as Josuke had been and as wonderful as it was that he was offering his services, Oku really hoped they never met again because he had a bad taste in his mouth from attacking an innocent civilian and a healer, but he never finished his thought as Josuke yanked him within range as soon as their hands were clasped, and delivered a swift uppercut to his chin, effectively knocking him unconscious.

[tradgedyinwaves]

alternate ending of this

Being John's assistant and girlfriend was hard sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Holidays were missed. Special occasions put on back burners. But when he was home, John made every effort to make it up to you. At least, he usually did.

You took care of their paperwork for the most part, submitting their reports once they were turned in with details of their mission. You made a point never to read them. You'd made that mistake once and gotten a first-hand account of how Johnny had shoved a grenade down someone's throat and then stood back to watch.

They were your boys, but that didn't mean they were stable. Simon liked killing people with his bare hands. Johnny liked to watch them explode. Gaz liked to wittle them down to nothing during interrogation(torture).

But your John? Well, he made sure his shots provided the most suffering. Shooting out the knees first, then the elbows, shoulders, spine and then finally the head. He had no issues getting the headshot, but liked to take his time.

With you, though? Oh with you they are protective and gentle. Harm almost never befell you with them around. The worst that had happened since the beginning of your relationship with John (and your indoctrination into their group) was that you'd stubbed your own toe on a chair you hadn't pushed in. It was your own fault really, love.

The team had returned the day before your birthday. What a birthday present, right? Wrong. As you greeted them on the tarmac with warm meals waiting in the car, each one gave you one armed hugs. John was last, pulling you to his side but not saying anything.

You could tell they were exhausted and that something hadn't gone quite right on their mission. They were always extra quiet and morose on those days, usually breaking out of it with a good meal and a decent night of rest.

That wouldn't be the case when you woke up the next morning next to...an empty bed? Usually, the day after he returned, John would sleep in, catching up on the hours of sleep he hadn't been able to get.

And went you puttered out into the rest of the apartment, you would find it empty. Boots, keys, and wallet were gone. Boonie hat missing from it's spot on the hook by the door. Maybe he was just out getting things.

He'd never missed a birthday if he was home and always made it up to you if he wasn't. So you waited. Took a shower, pampered yourself with the new body scrub you'd purchased just for this day.

When John wasn't back even a couple hours later, you headed up to the base as you felt the first prickles of anger rising on the back of your neck. You brought a lunch with you, an excuse for being there on your day off.

"Oh, just bringing Captain Price is lunch. Silly man forgot it again."

And so they let you in. No one questioned you, giving you warm smiles and well wishes. Some even wishing you a happy birthday for which you thanked them.

Stepping into John's office always made you cringe. It was an organized person's nightmare. Papers strewn everywhere, dirty coffee mugs left around sporadically, cigar ash filling the tray but also filtered around it like he was in a hurry. He wasn't like this at home, so you let him have his space at work the way he wanted it.

Except he wasn't in there. Keys and wallet, sure. So you knew he was on base. Leaving the warm meal on his desk, you meandered out to find the gym where you thought maybe they were sparring, getting rid of excess adrenaline from their mission.

You could see from down the hall that the lights in the gym were off. Strange, it was the middle of the day and there was almost always someone in there.

When you pushed the door open, you were greeted by the lights flicking on and a small crowd of people screaming "Surprise!" in your face. Your hand came up to press against the center of your chest, face splitting open into a wide smile.

The room was decorated in balloons in different shades of your favorite color. Streamers connected bunches of balloons and there was even a cake and some presents set off to the side.

John approached you and wrapped those big burly arms around your waist, lifting you into the air and spinning you with a rough laugh. "Happy Birthday, dove! Did you like your surprise?" He set you back on your feet but didn't release you, giving you a crinkled smile.

"I loved it. Thank you!" You leaned up and kissed him, John meeting you midway and growling softly against your lips.

"Oi! Don't hog the birthday girl!" Kyle exclaimed, coming over to pull you from his Captain's arms to get his own hug. "Happy birthday, sweetheart! You're not too mad at us, I hope?" He stepped back and looked down at you with those warm eyes of his.

"Not at all. Just next time? Don't make me think you hate me," you turned back to John with a soft glare to which he had the decency to look ashamed.

You were quickly joined by Simon and Johnny, the latter of the two crushing you in a hug where Simon gave you a small nod and a smile (you think it's a smile based on the way his balaclava moves). Even Laswell and her wife are there and you couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

Everything was right again in your little world.

I hope that was a good apology for the angst of the other one. Just a super fluffy little thing for my little shrooms.

[achilles-rage]

thirteen crows: chapter five

summary: you’re still reeling from the past 48 hours, but you still have to go to work. buck and eddie come to check on you, and are filled with rage at what they find.

word count: 2.6k

previous chapter

series masterlist

a/n: this is more focused on buddie’s thoughts on the reader, but i like writing it lol. the start of this chapter was lowkey hard to write and idk why, but it’s fine. enjoy<3

warnings: murder (cute<3could be slightly graphic??), stalking, i make buck and eddie kiss again because it’s fun<3, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

Work is hard without Grace, although you can’t help the voice in the back of your brain that’s telling you that it was hard when she was here too, at least, towards the end. You just found out yesterday that she was dead, for God’s sake, but you still have to drag yourself to work today.

What makes matters worse, is she’s supposed to work with you tonight, and the silence is almost too loud with you and Isaac working quietly alongside each other. Plus, with what happened last night, your brain is all over the place.

There’s no football game tonight, and there’s far less people in the bar as usual. Probably because of the murder just down the street tying back to the Thirteen Crows, you think. While you’re usually a little frustrated during quiet nights because of the lack of tips, the silence tonight is increasingly frustrating, because your head is pounding, and your thoughts about Grace and your dream-not-dream is making you want to scream.

Buck and Eddie pick up on your demeanor immediately when they walk into the bar, their eyes focused on you as they walk towards the counter. You don’t even greet them with a smile, which you do even on your worst days, and for a moment, they almost feel bad. This thought is gone almost as soon as it arrives, however, as they know that it’ll be easier for them to get closer to you now.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t even notice they’re there until they’re sitting directly in front of you, and Isaac nudges your arm. You blink slowly, your eyes finally coming back into focus as you look at Eddie, and then at Buck. You smile a little as you greet them, but they see that the smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

Seeing you like this is hell. They don’t want you to be upset, especially about Grace. Sure, they want to see you afraid, just sometimes, but never sad.

They know their actions are justifiable, and that you’ll thank them one day for making you happier than ever, but right now, they know they should feel guilty about everything. The problem is, they don’t. They know that they should, yet somehow, all they can think about is making you theirs to touch, and mark, and make scream.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Eddie asks when you finally set their beers in front of them. Your eyes flutter as you inhale a shaky breath, your gaze going unfocused again as you stare at him. Within a second, you’re covering your mouth with your hand as you let out a sob and running to the back room.

Isaac’s eyes widen, and Buck and Eddie look at each other, not knowing what to do or how to feel. Seeing the tears in your eyes for a split second before you turn surprises Buck and Eddie; you were doing so good for them all day, puttering around your house, and Buck feels his heart clench at the sight. 

They don’t notice Isaac following your path a minute later, telling them he’ll be right back as he’s already halfway to the back. Their heads are turned to each other, staring intensely as they both rack their brains for what the hell they’re supposed to do. 

“Should we feel bad about this?” Buck asks, his leg starting to bounce as his heart hammers in his chest.

“Hell no. That bitch got what she deserved. She’s just confused. She knows she wanted her dead, and she doesn’t want to admit that yet. She’ll come running to us sooner or later, and we’ll make her feel better, just like last night.” Eddie reasons in a stern, hushed voice, and Buck nods, mumbling a “yeah, you’re right.” Buck turns to look ahead of him again as he takes a sip of his beer, hoping the alcohol will calm his nerves. 

Buck’s eyes narrow, however, when you come back out a few minutes later with Isaac’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, his lips dangerously close to your ear. He feels his blood pumping through him, but now, it’s not because he feels bad. Any hint of guilt evaporates from his body, and all he wants to do at this moment is rip Isaac’s arm from your shoulders, maybe even from the socket so he can hear him scream.

Eddie smirks when he sees Buck’s reaction, and he knows he’s back on track. He wants to leave right now and plan a gruesome, bloody death for Isaac right fucking now, but he stays in his seat. He lets out a low grunt as he feels Buck’s hand latch onto his thigh, fingers digging into the flesh. He nudges his arm, trying to snap him out of his rage as he looks over at him, and it helps a little; he can feel his grip easing up, but the look in his eyes still looks dangerous.

Eddie gives you a reassuring smile once you’re back in front of them, and when you give them both a soft, tear-filled apology, Buck seems to snap out of it, and his eyes soften.

“Don’t worry about it, baby. What’s up?” Buck asks, giving Eddie a quick, knowing look. Eddie smirks and focuses back on you, leaning forward as you babble your explanation of Grace’s death.

“We’re so sorry, sweetheart. Is there anything else? It seems like there’s more going on inside your pretty head.” Eddie says, and you bite the inside of your cheek before you shake your head adamantly. 

They’re trying to figure out if you’ll say anything about your encounter with them. Working their way up to it slowly to see if you’ll break, which means they’d have to come visit you again.

Of course there’s more going on in your head, you think. Your friend-not-friend just died, and you don’t know what to think about it. And to make matters worse, rather than mourning the loss, half your time today has been spent thinking about those masked men, and what they probably didn’t do to you. And why you liked it so much.

“I’m just so scared. I don’t know what to do. She worked with me; she lived in my building.” you speak finally. You are telling the truth; you can’t help but think that it could very well be you laying God knows where, cold and soulless, but instead, you’re still alive. Buck and Eddie are about to speak, when Isaac’s voice cuts them off, and they try to keep straight faces as they look over at him.

“You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll protect you if anything happens. I promise.” he tells you earnestly, as if he actually believes it. They almost chuckle at his confidence, but their eyelids are practically twitching as they stare him down. That’s their job. And besides, no one will be able to protect you better than they can. 

The laughs threatening to escape their mouths disappear when they look over at you, and you give him a small smile. This time, it’s a real one.

You feel slightly more relaxed at Isaac’s words, and you can’t help but bury your face into his neck as you wrap your arms firmly around his torso. He shushes you softly, kissing the top of your head as he gently rocks you both back and forth. You don’t see Buck and Eddie’s reactions, but their hands are twitching on the counter, just waiting for the perfect moment to rip you away from Isaac and into their embrace.

You know Isaac can’t really promise that you’ll stay safe, but it warms your heart anyway. He’s not exactly a small man; smaller than both Eddie and Buck, but he says it with so much conviction that you can’t help the way your cheeks heat up.

They continue to talk to you throughout your shift, and while you reply to them with ease, clearly not as on-edge as before, you can still feel the pit in your stomach. Something feels off. You know it must just be because Grace is dead, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else.

By the time Buck and Eddie leave, you’ve warmed up to Isaac, and it makes them seethe with rage. They follow you home that night, making sure Isaac keeps his filthy hands to himself and doesn’t try to take advantage of you in your fragile state. They make sure you’re safely behind your locked door by watching the grainy image on their phone screens, and then they make their way home. They know they could easily take advantage of Isaac walking back from your house alone at 2am, but they hold back. They have something better. Something that will take away their competition and make sure that you cling to them and no one else.

A few nights later, you’re walking home from work again with Isaac. He keeps close to you the entire time, hand brushing yours, and you can feel yourself slowly starting to calm down. 

Isaac has been the best form of calm in the storm for you for the past week, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes. You can’t help but feel safe around him. 

It made you giggle at first to see the way he puffs his chest out when he walks you home, almost as if daring anyone to mess with you, but now you find it endearing. He’s not nearly as vigilant as Eddie when he walked you home that one night a couple weeks ago, but it makes you smile nonetheless.

You let out a sharp gasp as two arms wrap around you from behind, one hand slapping over your mouth to muffle your screams and the other hand digging into the supple flesh of your tummy. Your eyes widen when you see the masked man beside you, grabbing Isaac by the back of his shirt and dragging him into the alley you’re passing by. 

You feel the cool mask against your cheek as the man behind you leans closer to your ear, a muffled voice being heard through the fabric.

“You think he can protect you, sweet girl?” Your blood runs cold. 

That name. You hadn’t been dreaming; they really were in your room that night. No one else has ever called you that, and if you really had dreamed it, this would be one hell of a coincidence. 

You try to scream as the smaller man starts to throw quick punches to Isaac. His nose is already bleeding, and judging by the crack you heard, you’re sure it’s broken. You try to fight against the grip of the larger man holding you hostage, but it’s no use. You try not to think about the sheer size of the man’s arms encasing you; how strong they are as Isaac falls to the ground and holds a hand up in surrender. 

You can barely see through your tears as the masked man pulls out the knife, identical to the one they dragged across your skin in your apartment, and you’re sure it’s the same one. 

You close your eyes before the knife is buried into Isaac’s chest, but the man behind you tuts, moving his hand off of your mouth and letting his fingers dig into your chubby cheeks.

“Watch, baby. Watch how easy it is for us to kill him. How easy it is to get to you.” he purrs, and you let out a quiet sob as you open your eyes. Isaac’s shirt is already covered in blood when you finally look at his crumpled form, and you watch as the knife is repeatedly driven into his torso.

Isaac’s eyes meet yours before they roll back, and you almost fall over, your knees buckling underneath you. The man behind you holds you up, shushing you softly as if trying to comfort you. You can’t help but lean back into his chest, closing your eyes as you silently sob. 

The man in front of you stands up and walks toward you, holding the bloody knife to your throat, the tip of it pressing uncomfortably against your skin.

“Look at me.” you hear, and you slowly lower your gaze to meet the black, empty eyes of the mask. 

“You’re a smart girl. What do you think I’m gonna say, sweet girl?” he rasps, and your lip quivers as you try not to look away.

“If I tell anyone, you’ll gut me.” you whisper, unable to raise your voice any louder as you quote what they said to you in your apartment. You hear both men chuckle, and you tilt your head away as the man behind you nuzzles his masked face against your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“Such a good girl, aren’t you? He was weak. He couldn’t protect you, isn’t that right?” the man in front of you asks in a condescending tone. You nod quickly, whimpering as you feel the tip of the blade press against your skin harder.

“Yes. Yes. He couldn’t protect me.” you sob, letting out a breath as the knife is finally removed from your neck.

“That’s right. Now, go home, sweet girl. Wouldn’t want anyone else to die for you, yeah?” the man in front of you speaks in a low tone, and you nod again. His head moves slightly as his gaze moves to his partner, and you can feel the man’s hesitancy to let you go. He does, though, but not before he brings a hand down to your ass, smacking it hard.

You yelp as you jump away from them, almost falling over now that his strong arms aren’t holding you up. They both stand beside each other in matching stances, their heads tilting in the same way, and it makes you shiver.

“Go. Now.” You don’t waste any more time. You turn and run out of the alley and down the street, not stopping until you’re inside your apartment. When they can no longer hear your footsteps, they pull their masks off and look back over at Isaac’s body, slowly bleeding out. They meet each other’s eyes again with smirks, and then Eddie pulls Buck in for a kiss by the back of his neck. 

“Good. You’re learning to control yourself.” Eddie rasps against his lips, and Bucks hums contently, feeling the tent in his pants grow.

You try to catch your breath as your back hits your door. Your knees finally give out, and without the man to catch you this time, you slide down the door to sit on your carpet, taking in large, shaky breaths as you try to quiet your sobs. 

You know you can’t call the police, their words swarm in your head as soon as you think about that option, and you throw that idea away. You can’t do anything. Either way, from what you hear, the cops have no leads. Telling them would be pointless, and they might not even believe you. 

Your skin is itching as you sit inside the entryway of your apartment, sobbing into your hands, and Buck and Eddie watch you through their phones intently. They’re smug with themselves; the fear in your eyes is everything they wanted, and they got to kill the motherfucker that tried to steal you away from them.

They don’t miss the way your skirt rides up your legs; their favourite of yours; the black miniskirt. When they’re finally sure that you’re not going to call anyone, their attention finally moves to the tent in their pants, cocks hard and leaking as they picture the fear in your eyes and the edge in your voice. 

next chapter

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[bitingdrivers]

new part of demon keep au. max tries to make sense of his new body (previous part)

The door closes with a thud after Daniel leaves. Footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by another sound of a door opening and closing.

Max sits on the bed, clutching the woolen blanket in his hands. He keeps running his fingers over the soft material, pinching it to feel its thickness. He can feel so much more in this body — roughness of the stones beneath his bare feet, the silky furs on his bed, the flickering warmth of the fire.

He feels new and raw, like a newborn creature that just emerged from the womb; but when he touches his own skin — his hands come off dry, no slick wetness of birth clinging to his fingers.

When Max opened his eyes and saw the inside of his own rib cage, he expected to lose the connection to his own body, but after brushing his hands on the cold stone floor, he felt relived as the soft touch of his hand echoed back on his skin.

He doesn't want to lose that part of him — his connection to the Keep. But he doesn't want to go back either. This body is new and strange, but he likes the warmth of it, how responsive it is, how alive he feels.

Max doesn't know why he got a new body, but this one makes more sense to him than the sprawling labyrinth of hallways and rooms he was before. And still is.

It's hard to describe. His mind feels split in half: one part living in his new body, and the other — in his old one.

He feels his new body — soft and warm and small; and he feels his old one — solid, cold and unmoving. The sensations are out of sync — he touches the brick wall near his bed, and it echoes somewhere on his back, in a place beneath his skin. The sensations feel amplified too, like all the nerve endings in his new skin work double for the dull and lifeless stone. Or maybe Max just isn't used to it yet.

Sitting here, without a task to focus on, his mind drifts back to his old body. He feels people walking in his halls — Yuki still puttering in the kitchen, GP looking through all the shelves in the library, Pierre walking down the North wing to Charles' room, Carlos and Oscar in the West wing with the rookies, Max sitting on the bed in his room, Daniel in the room near him, fighting sleep.

It's easier to see when Max has his eyes closed. He climbs under the covers and lays down in the bed — his new body feels better in this position. He closes his eyes again and focuses on the people inside.

—

When Max opens his eyes again, the sun is out and the room is bathed in light. The fire in the fireplace is gone, only charred ashes left behind.

Max's body feels lighter somehow. He sits up from under the furs and stretches his arms above himself on instinct — feels the new muscles and fragile bones move under his skin.

He saw all the men living in his insides go through the morning countless times, so he decides to do what they usually do. The idea sends a strange thrill — he gets to pretend to be one of them.

The clothes Charles gave him are soft: two pairs of pants, a pair of boots, and a few shirts. Max chooses a pair of dark trousers and a simple white shirt with little laces on the collar. The clothes together with boots makes him feel strange, the feeling of fabric on his new skin is not unpleasant, but distracting — another sensation added to his already overwhelmed mind. Max takes the blanket Charles gave him and drapes it over his shoulders. The added weight on his back feels weirdly familiar to him, and helps settle something in his chest.

The room has a mirror in the corner with a small basin of cold water. The figure Max sees in the reflection is a stranger to him — bright blue eyes with narrow pupils, light short hair and pointed ears. He lifts his palm up to his cheek, feels the sharp bone under the soft skin. He thinks his face is pleasant, but it's not pretty like Charles's, or handsome like Daniel's; it's too angular, with wide plains and sharp edges, and the more Max looks at it — at himself — the stranger it looks.

He moves his gaze lower, to his broad shoulders and chest. Beneath the scratchy material of his white shirt, there's a scar, he knows it. The edge of it peeks under the unlaced collar, but Max wishes it wasn't visible at all. He doesn't remember where the scar came from, but he hates looking at it — his mind itches when he does.

Max tears his eyes away from the scar and looks down at the water in the basin. The reflection is unstable, wobbling and warping. Max prefers this one more — it's uncertain and everchagning, can disapear with a simple movement of his hand.

When he splashes the water on his face, the cold bites his skin, and his eyes feel heavy with the droplets hanging off his eyelashes. He wipes away the water with a flannel cloth and goes to the small window carved into the wall of his room.

The North wing overlooks the mountain cliffs, covered in evergreen trees and pines. The sun hangs low in the clear blue sky. Max cracks the window and feels the cold breeze on his skin. The sensation of rushing wind on his face feels familiar — it threatens to unearth a memory buried deep in his mind, but Max is not sure he wants it to. He fixes the blanket on his shoulders and tries to avoid the feeling.

Almost immediately, a knock startles him.

"Max? Are you awake? Can I come in?" Daniel's voice comes muffled through the wooden door.

"Y-" Max coughs, "Yes, you can come in," he replies, but his voice sounds scratchy anyway.

Daniel gingerly opens the door and steps into the room. His eyes look around and land on Max.

"Um. We probably need to meet with GP, see if he found anything about…you," Daniel says, looking away from Max's face. GP was up in the library all night and more than once Max had to nudge his chair and not let him fall asleep.

Max isn't sure he wants to learn about himself right now, he's barely hanling what he already has, having more would be too much. But he doesn't think he can refuse either.

"It's time for breakfast. Do you want to come down with me or wait here while I'll bring you your food?" Daniel asks after Max is quiet for too long.

Breakfast and dinner are Max's favorite times of day, because all the people living inside of him would gather in his rib cage and share food cooked on his hearth. He likes to listen to them talk and sometimes nudges the benches they are sitting on — they would laugh and tap on his stones with their boots or brush them with their hands — it all made him feel like he belonged with them too.

Max nods before he even had the time to think this through. He wants it, to sit and eat and laugh with them. As long as nobody touches him, he wants it.

"I can come with you," he answers.

Daniel nods back. "Alright. We can go or do you need a minute?"

"No," Max shakes his head, "We can go."

Max fixes the blanket on his shoulders and follows Daniel out of the room.

[sungbeam]

nonidol!eric sohn x f!reader

you won't think golf is a boring sport after he's done with you! (but it's not about golf, and it's not about swings. just a young heir with money, love, and a thing for you.)

▷ genre, warnings. technically s2l, country club au, summer break au, starts with him already into you, slight pining? idk, fluff, humor, rich people™, golf lol, swearing, drinking, kissing, it gets like actually romantic, Eric Sohn bc he's so attractive someone help me.

▷ word count. 11.4k

▷ inspired by swing my way (cha cha malone & phe r.e.d.s)

a/n: my submission for the deoboyznet summer on you event! and @mosviqu who implanted the idea of country club rich boy eric into my brain @@

It wasn't like Eric Sohn, heir to his parents' multi-million dollar investment firm, prized shortstop of the UCLA baseball team, planned to spend his entire summer charming his parents' clients and partners. A summer spent at the Beverly Hills Country Club wasn't something new for the young heir either. The rolling, emerald green hills for golf; the clean cement tennis courts; the dim and classy bars were all ingrained in him since childhood. They were environments Eric had learned to thrive in, and when one had the advantage, one was always taught to wield it like a blade.

At least, that was what he was taught. Over the years, he'd also learned that his extroverted personality and charming smile were disarming—and his pretty boy appearance often resulted in others underestimating him. That was their mistake.

"...that trip to Taiwan will be such a great opportunity to explore the relationship between our companies."

Eric clasped Mr. Thomas Tsaur's hand in a firm shake as the two men stood at the final hole of the golf course. Eric beamed. "Yes, of course! I know my mom would love to see the night markets around Taipei; my parents have been looking forward to the trip all year," he said, as easy as breathing air. Of course, he didn't really know if his parents were looking forward to it. If he was the one on his way to Taiwan instead, he knew that he himself would be ecstatic.

During business meetings—and meetings that weren't officially classified as business, but were definitely about business—Eric tried to stay as true to himself as possible. Once in a while, some of the persona he'd built up slipped through the cracks, but there was a reason he liked baseball more than business.

Mr. Tsaur made a pleasant reply back about promising a fun-filled tour of the city with his wife, and the two of them were splitting up. There were offhanded comments about seeing each other for dinner when Eric's parents finally arrived, but that was all that was left of the interaction.

Eric jogged down the hill toward the conventional path where a white-topped golf cart sat waiting for him. His driver and caddy companion for the day was Jacob Bae, a regular worker here at the country club whom Eric had known for at least a couple years now.

But instead of just Jacob and the cart, Eric found that someone else had joined the group.

You sat in the second row of the golf cart with a circular serving tray pressed over your lap. Like some of the other staff members at the club, you wore the standard black, collared shirt and black skort. He'd seen you around this place plenty of times this summer and even greeted you once or twice, but he knew you were new.

Oh, trust that he knew a new face when he saw one, especially when said face was as pretty as yours. The only shame was that you were often assigned to areas where Eric didn't exactly frequent, but he never took himself as the type to give up easily.

You and Jacob were sharing a laugh as Eric approached the golf cart with his golf putter in hand. "Hey guys," Eric chirped.

All the attention flickered over to Eric, but he couldn't stop staring at the way the slight breeze this afternoon was making your hair fall in your face all pretty. Even in a braid, the little strands fell out to frame your face.

"Oh, hi Eric! How was the last round?" Jacob asked as he twisted around in his driver's seat to watch Eric round the back to put his putter away. You had shifted in your seat slightly to follow him with your eyes, as well.

Eric slid the stick into his bag and caught your eyes. His smile widened. "It went well. Same old, same old," he chuckled, bracing a gloves hand on the roof of the cart. "When'd you get here, Yn?" He asked you with a nod of his chin.

You perked up at the sound of your name. Cute. "Ah, just a few minutes ago," you said. You sheepishly gestured to your empty tray. "Haknyeon dropped me off a few holes over to deliver drinks, and then I saw Jacob over here and walked over to catch a ride back to the clubhouse."

"I can't believe he just ditched you," Jacob chortled.

Eric circled around the cart to take the seat in the front beside Jacob. "He ditched you?" He frowned, leaning his arm over the back of the seat to look at you.

As the cart began making its smooth return down the path and over a small bridge, you smoothed your braid over your shoulder. "No, no! He didn't ditch me; we were just headed in the same direction until we… weren't," you mused. "I mean, if Cobie wasn't here, a walk back wouldn't have been the worst thing anyways."

"I guess," Eric agreed, biting his lip. "So, uh… ever played golf before?"

"Golf? It's been a while, but yeah, I've driven the occasional golf ball across a green."

From the driver's seat, Jacob slapped his right hand down on Eric's shoulder. "Yn-ie! This guy's one of the best casual golf players you'll probably ever meet. His swing? So clean."

Eric chuckled, clasping a hand on the back of his neck, when he felt your attention flicker back to him again. "I'm no pro…"

"I'll have to see that for myself then," you said with a smile.

The golf cart slowed to a stop in front of the doors into the main kitchens of the clubhouse proper. Because this main kitchen was so large, they were given their own set of doors directly to the outdoor courts and beyond for easy access. While Jacob would drop you off here, he would have to continue onward for Eric's proper spot.

You clambered out of the golf cart, poking Jacob in the shoulder as you went. "Bye, guys! Thanks for the ride, Cobie."

"Bye, Yn!" Both boys chimed together. When you disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, Jacob pulled the cart back onto the main road to carry onward.

Eric settled into his seat to face forward once again. He lifted the cap off his head and carded a hand through his hair to let the strands, dampened with sweat, dry a bit. "I didn't know Yn was allowed to work the golf range," he commented as innocently as possible.

Jacob made a small humming noise. "Yeah, we're short a couple people out here because of the Ferndale event going on down by the gazebo."

"She wasn't sent there?"

"Did you want her to be sent there?" Jacob grinned slyly at the young heir, who turned his gaze elsewhere.

Eric coughed. "I didn't say that."

His companion still would not wipe that knowing smile off his face, even as he slowed the golf cart to a stop and Eric hopped out to collect his equipment from the back. "I didn't say you did," he snickered as Eric walked away.

He didn't give Jacob the satisfaction of an answer, instead, saying a "thank you" for driving him over his shoulder, before ducking inside the clubhouse locker room.

Jacob shook his head in amusement and began making his way further down the path to return the cart. Silly, silly kids.

You didn't realize country clubs were real until you were sitting in the office of the Beverly Hills Country Club's hiring manager and being hired. That was about a month ago, and no, you still didn't believe it was real. The entire training experience, in fact, had swept through like a fever dream.

The summer season had just begun, though, and they had taken you on in a rush of desperation. You hadn't failed to notice how relieved the hiring manager looked when you told him you'd worked as a waitress at an upscale wedding venue before you moved cross-country, and knew how to carry a drink platter and dirty dishes. That was part of the reason you'd been hired on the spot. You'd also mentioned your extensive knowledge of how to fold cloth napkins into swans, and you liked to think that was your true selling point. (Don't ask, the last part was because you had been very bored while waiting in the backroom during a wedding.)

And while you cared little about cleaning pools or catering to rich prick egos, you did care about the crisp green bills that graced your eyes with more frequency than a Superman actor on Hollywood Boulevard. There was also the possibility to gain some more experience in the dining and catering world; if you were lucky, you could butter up your manager to let you help out in the kitchen some.

After all, that was why you were here so far from home.

"Yn, you've got company at table five," Haknyeon said as he passed by you on his way into the kitchen.

You gave a nod out of instinct. You brushed your hands against your black waist apron, absentmindedly reaching up to also smooth out the black vest on your upper half. Usually when you worked at the club's restaurants and bars as wait staff, your uniform consisted of a white button down under a black vest, followed by a black skirt and apron. It was classy and chic, and definitely added to the expensive atmosphere.

You could see table five in your section up ahead. It was a little early into dinner service, but there were still people who came in. To your surprise, the company at table five was none other than Eric Sohn himself, along with two others you recognized as his parents. They were dressed casually—meaning semiformal. It was something out of a dinner cruise, with Eric's dark brunette waves styled effortlessly messy and the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal the slightly bronzed, toned skin beneath—

You cleared your throat, plastering a smile on your face as you approached the table. "Evening, everyone. Mr. and Mrs. Sohn," you gave a small greeting bow to his parents, then swiftly doled out little napkins for their drinks. "It's nice to see you on the grounds again today."

"Oh, Yn! It's very nice to see you this evening," said Mrs. Sohn with a delicate flourish of her wrist.

"Yes!" Mr. Sohn chimed in, "What have you been up to? Eric says he saw you on the golf range today."

Your eyes darted to Eric's, then went back to his parents when you realized his eyes were on you. You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and bracing the end of your serving tray against your waist. "Oh, uhm, yeah! I was just summoned down there to get some drinks to the Santos family—you know them, right?"

Recognition lit up in Eric's mother's eyes. "Yes, yes! Marina and her kids! Ah, well that sounds nice; I'll have to see if I can bump into her at the spa or something. Eric gave you a ride back in his cart, didn't he? The walk back is awfully far."

You nodded. "Yeah, of course. He was with Jacob, so I just hopped in the back and rode back with them here."

"I still owe you that golf date," Eric cut in smoothly, the hand with his Rolex draped over the back of his chair. His smile was casual, innocent, the kind that so easily could make anyone do his bidding.

"Golf date?" His parents glanced curiously between the two of you, and you felt heat rush up to your cheeks.

"It was just an offhand comment," you said sheepishly. "Jacob was telling me about how great of a golfer Eric is and I said I wanted to see his swing some time." Before anything else could be said on the matter, you tucked your tray under your arm and replaced it with your notepad and pen. "Can I get you anything to drink? An appetizer to start?"

That drew away the conversation promptly. It wasn't like you were uncomfortable with the idea of going on a date with Eric Sohn, it just wasn't that simple. Though the club officially encouraged good relationships between staff and club members, they didn't exactly encourage the romantic kind of relationship. Obviously, it would be impossible to enforce a no-entanglement policy completely, but you wanted to stay on your manager's good side.

You nearly folded in half over the counter of the tiki bar at the pool. Sweat streamed down the side of your face, and you were pretty sure your baby hairs looked akin to a lion's mane under your white baseball cap. Thank god the club didn't force you to wear a black colored hat instead; the black polo and skort were death enough.

Jacob chuckled as he passed you a clean, damp towel that had been soaking in ice water. "Before you get heat stroke," he said, then returned to preparing a tray of drinks someone had ordered at the hot tub.

You thanked him profusely, dabbing your face and neck with the cool blessing. "Sheesh," you groaned. "I think I need to reapply my sunscreen soon. How are you out here all the time, Cobie?"

He grinned with a half-hearted shrug. "Well, I work with cold drinks and I'm under the shade. And—" he tapped the handy little fan clipped to one of the structure poles of the tiki bar, "—this beautiful work of engineering."

"I need one of those umbrella hats and squirt bottles kids bring to Disneyland," you grumbled and plucked yourself up from the bar. You returned the towel to Jacob so he could toss it into the soiled towel bin on the other side of him. You watched as he finished up filling the tray and whistled at the pool waiter who had ordered it for the group at the hot tub.

As the waiter walked away with the drinks, you thought aloud, "How could they stand to be in the hot tub in this heat?" From here, you could see the group of girls gathered in the bubbling jets of the hot tub at the far end of the pool in their bikini tops and Gucci shades.

"They're not standing—they're sitting."

You sent Jacob an unimpressed look, to which he simply smiled wider.

"Hey guys!" Ji Changmin huffed and puffed as he collapsed onto the barstool next to you. He had a towel hanging around his shoulders and a white sweatband holding up his dark bangs dripping with sweat. "Can I get an ice water, hyung?"

"Yeah, man," Jacob said, already dumping a scoop of ice in a cup.

"You alright there, Changmin?" You glanced over at the club's dance instructor with barely concealed amusement.

Changmin took the corner of his towel to dry the dribble of sweat making its way down his forehead. "Whoever thought it was a good idea to do hot Zumba in the height of summer needs a reality check. I think I'm dying."

As one of the country club's primary dance instructors, not only did Changmin lead all of the dance activities on the grounds, he was also supposed to take over any dance aerobics classes like said hot Zumba. You knew it wasn't his favorite, but it was still funny to make faces at him through the window as he did can-can kicks in leg warmers with all of the rich moms.

You leaned down to check if he had the leg warmers on. He did not. At least he finally had the good sense to break uniform.

Jacob slid over an ice-cold glass of water, and Changmin drained it like a man who trekked through the desert for seven days. You glanced at Jacob's digital clock on the counter behind him—he kept it so he could be on time for all of his breaks.

"Oh shit," you said, quickly fixing your cap and adjusting your hair, "time for me to get back to work."

Changmin straightened. "Where are you stationed today, Yn-ie? Chanhee and I wanted to come pick you up later for dinner before we have to come back."

"That's right!" Jacob slapped his palm to his forehead. "We have to all be back here for the banquet. I almost forgot, damn it."

You cocked a brow at him. "Wow, you, Jacob Bae, almost forgot about the major event all of our jobs are riding on that's taking place tonight?"

A smile curled onto your face when Jacob narrowed his eyes at you. "Don't you have work to do?"

You let out a laugh and began backing away from the tiki bar and your friends. "Kim has me at the ice cream bar until the end of my shift, Changmin. I'll catch you boys later!"

Jacob and Changmin raised their hands in twin waves to you as you walked away. If you remembered the time on Jacob's clock correctly, you had about fifteen minutes to get up to the indoor ice cream bar for your shift.

Tonight, the country club was hosting a banquet for one of the business men here. It was supposedly one of the most important events for the club's reputation, so it was all hands on deck. Everyone from Chanhee at the spa to Haknyeon in the kitchen were called upon to clock into work once again tonight to help out. You were glad you weren't a part of the set-up and takedown committees, but you were expected to wait on the banquet. Jacob was supposed to be bartending tonight, as usual, and your other friends and coworkers would be waiting alongside you.

You glanced up on your walk out of the pool area and nearly tripped over the soles of your sneakers.

Coming in hot (literally) were none other than Eric Sohn, Lee Hyunjae, and Lee Juyeon—all of whom were very much shirtless. Swim trunks hung low on their waists, their stomachs carved like triplet Michaelangelos. Seeing shirtless guys at the pool wasn't new for you, but these guys were actually around your age.

Eric saw you first and waved. "Yn, hey!"

"Hi guys," you greeted back with a shallow nod of your head. "Nice day out for a swim."

"I know, right?" Hyunjae raised a hand to shield his eyes from the unforgiving summer sun. "You must be baking in that uniform, Yn." He raised his chin to gesture at the all black attire.

"I don't suppose you'd be able to join us?" Juyeon smiled. He knew you probably couldn't join them because you were clocked in, but he had always been pretty nice nonetheless. He and Hyunjae were cousins, and the Lee family was well-known around here for being big names in the legal sphere, as well as being one of the larger families. There was another cousin of theirs around their age running around here somewhere, too.

You gave a helpless shrug. "Duty calls, unfortunately."

"Yn, hey wait—" Eric caught your attention as you were about to continue walking up toward the main clubhouse. He flashed you that smile again, the one that made your stomach do flips and would convince you to do flips for him if only he asked. "You won't happen to be working at the banquet tonight, are you?"

"How'd you guess?" You replied good-naturedly. "Why do you ask?"

He began walking backwards toward the direction his friends had drifted off to, his smile tilting up slightly. "So I know which cologne I should wear."

And it definitely wasn't a trick of the summer sun that made you see him wink at you.

"He's into you."

"He is not—" you wrestled your sleeve up your forearm and made a frustrated noise when the button would not go through, "—into me."

Chanhee gave you a nice, slow eye roll just so you would see it, and he yanked the sleeve away from you so he could roll it up himself. "A lot of men around here like smelling nice, but no one pulls out the Acqua Di Gio just for the service girl or a business banquet," he hissed as a fellow waiter rushed past you two in the narrow corridor. "Jesus, why is this button such a bitch?"

"That's what I'm saying," you hissed back at him as the two of you both struggled to fix your sleeve. "Not the cologne thingy—I hate how you're able to just take a whiff and name the cologne. What kind of demon nose do you have?"

Chanhee sighed and collapsed against the wall opposite to you when he finally managed to get the sleeve right. The two of you were currently on break, not hiding, in this corridor. In T-minus two minutes, you would both have to be back out in the hustle and bustle of cleanup or after-party drinks in the lounge. Because the main course had finally been served, a lot of the waiters were allowed to go on break. The banquet thus far had gone relatively smoothly, other than the fact that when you had served Eric all of his courses, he'd made sure you practically melted on the smell of his cologne.

It wasn't your fault you had to bend down close to him to not spill the hot food. And it wasn't your fault that he chose to put his mouth right to your ear when he told you a joke, masking it as asking for more water.

You couldn't decide if you were going to giggle or let your knees buckle at that moment. Thank god you managed to laugh behind your hand and hustle away before anyone noticed.

But that was besides the point. The point was that Chanhee had also passed by Eric, caught the faint trail of Aqua De Whatever, and connected some dots.

"If you want a demon, you talk to Changmin," he said. "I just know my shit. And I also know that you only break out the Acqua Di Gio when you want to attract someone, and based on the fact he's currently seated around about fifty other businesspeople…" Chanhee made a wild, desperate gesture with his hands, eyes widened. Are you getting this? He seemed to ask. Because I will smack you if you aren't.

You fanned yourself, justifying it by thinking about how hot the back hallway was and this outfit was, rather than admitting that it was because Eric was hot. "Okay, okay. Come on, we have to get back out there," you said, already turning your heel toward the door.

"I'm just saying that clearly he's been trying to tell you something," Chanhee added as you both broke out of the hallway and into the kitchen. He grabbed a circular serving tray from a stack on the counter next to him to hand over to you.

"Well, what do you suppose I should do with that?"

He pressed his lips into a thin smile, taking hold of a small, empty cart and pushing it ahead of him. "Just keep an open mind, darling."

You and Chanhee separated at the kitchen doors out into the banquet hall. While he would be a part of cleaning up, you needed to head over to the next-door parlor where the party had moved post-dinner. Business would continue as usual, just with a few more drinks and pool involved.

The parlor room was arguably one of your favorite rooms in the club with its cozier atmosphere created by the evergreen walls, tiffany-shaded lamps, and dark oak furnishings. It was also outfitted with a hearth (unused during the summer and spring) and a billiards table. Most of those who had chosen to stay had migrated with a certain crowd of people they planned to continue chatting with. Your job, as well as the few others recruited to the parlor, was to be a fly on the wall until somebody needed something. If tips were passed around, you were free to pocket them.

You were probably standing and waiting for only five minutes before you saw Eric stand up from where he was on the far side of the room. He shouldered his suit jacket off and draped it over the back of his armchair, exposing the white dress shirt and black vest beneath. Whew, he was wearing a full suit to this event? You wondered how he even survived, but all conscious thought flew out the window when he caught you staring and started smirking to himself. The smug, little expression stayed etched into the sharp planes of his face even as he strolled over to the pool table and lined up his shot.

You wondered—and it was just a thought—what it'd be like (possibly) for him to lean over you—

"Excuse me, miss?" You shook out of your daze and remembered why you were here. Unfortunately, it was not to admire the young heir watching you from the other side of the room, but to serve guests.

For the next couple of hours, your job was exactly what you did. You had been so focused on running back and forth from the bar in the other room and back that you always seemed to have missed Eric trying to catch your eye again. If he wanted drinks, he had to suck it up and ask someone else who just happened to be near him instead.

As the evening dwindled into a sweet, humid night, the amount of guests also began to trickle down. You had grabbed a rag on your way back to the parlor room and said goodbye to your coworkers on their way out. Some still lingered for last minute clean up, and though you were technically done for the night, you wanted to wipe down anything you had missed. It was something simple that you could do to help out a colleague, and it wasn't like you were in a rush to go home.

When you walked back into the parlor room, however, you blinked—surprised—at the sight of an individual left. He leaned against the billiards table, one hand holding the edge of the suit jacket draped over his shoulder and the other scrolling through his phone.

Eric glanced up from his device and pocketed it at the sight of you. "Hey."

"Hi," you said back. "Uhm, can I get you anything—"

"Oh, no no. I'm good." He shook his head, pushing off from the table. He shot you that signature boyish smile of his and your heart began doing cartwheels. "I just wanted to ask if I could give you a lift home."

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Truthfully, you were caught off guard, stunned. This wasn't what you were expecting from him.

He saw your hesitation and let out a sheepish laugh, cupping the back of his head. "Sorry, this is so out of the blue. I… it's a little late out right now, and I didn't know if you had a ride or not. I know you're not usually scheduled to work so late."

"You know my schedule?" You blurted. Though, the thought did warm you and amuse you.

His eyes widened. "I mean, uhm, definitely not in the creepy, stalkerish sort of way! I uh, I like to think I pay a lot more attention when it comes to you." His admission didn't do much to slow the racing organ in your chest cavity. You always saw Eric Sohn as one of those smooth and collected young men who were born to charm. But seeing him flustered and tripping over his words because of you?

You ducked your head slightly, flattered and most definitely charmed still. "I'd really appreciate a lift home, Eric."

You both shared a smile in the slightly dimmed, slightly warmed lights of the parlor room.

Once you had finished glossing over the surfaces of the parlor room with your rag to catch any rings made by perspiring liquids, your manager dismissed you for the night. Eric told you he would meet you out front where he would bring his car around for you. You found yourself standing at the edge of the curb with a gentle, yet rare summer breeze wafting through your hair. You had your bag slung over your shoulder, and you grasped the strap and fidgeted with the material.

A car pulled up to the circular driveway—it was a sports car. The Corvette, sleek and aerodynamic, was doused in a shiny orange coat of paint that glimmered even in the night. The passenger side window rolled down so you could see Eric leaning over the center console and waving to you.

"Hey, hop in!" He said to you with a grin, lowering the music he was playing.

Gingerly, you walked up to the car and managed to maneuver yourself inside. The passenger seat was lined in soft black leather, and the inside of the car made it all the more easy to suffocate on that delicious cologne of his.

Eric had ditched his suit jacket and vest in the backseat of the car, leaving him in just his white dress shirt and slacks.

"Nice car," you whistled lowly as you buckled yourself in.

His mouth tilted upward. "Thanks," he said. He fussed around with his phone for a second before passing the device to you. "If you wouldn't mind putting your number and address in."

"Oh." It was a brand new contact page. You didn't question it, swiftly inputting all of the necessary information before returning his phone to him.

Eric took a peek at the address, then pulled out of the country club's driveway. You didn't live too far away from the club, luckily. It was only a few minute's drive, but the walk sometimes felt a bit longer. California didn't exactly have the most convenient public transportation system, and in an area like Beverly Hills, it was near impossible to find a reliable bus or train service.

"Any music preferences?" He asked you quietly.

You shook your head. "I'm not super picky. What you have on is all good with me."

"I have to confess, Yn," he said with a half smile, eyes darting toward you, "that I was trying to steal your attention all night."

Your stomach flipped and you suppressed the smile that threatened to crawl onto your mouth. "Really?"

He laughed. "Yeah, but obviously, your work ethic beat me out, as well as my own luck."

"Any reason for seeking me out?" He'd technically had your attention all throughout the banquet, but he had also needed to entertain and chat with the other people around him. While the after party was sometimes used for business discussion, too, the banquet dinner itself was the main event.

"I mean, besides wanting to talk to the cute girl eating up all my thoughts?"

He was turning onto your apartment complex's street all too soon. The car slid into a parking spot along the curb, and he twisted in his seat to face you. "I really want to take you out, show you a good time. It doesn't have to be something fancy if that's not your vibe; we can always start with golf."

You let the smile bloom on your face at the reference to the "golf date" you both had yet to schedule. You still wanted to see his swing, after all. "Then it's a date," you said, "I should have a free day two days from now, if that works for you."

Eric bit his lip. "I'm all yours, hon."

Before you could start doing somersaults from excitement, you resolved yourself to getting into your apartment first. "Well, thank you again for the lift, Eric. You have my number?"

He nodded. "Never losing it."

You grinned something fond. He grinned right back at you. "Get home safe."

"I will. Good night, cutie."

You slammed the car door shut and left Eric to his lonesome. Through the passenger side window, Eric watched as you disappeared into your apartment complex, safe and sound. He had almost given into the urge to ask if he could walk you up, but it was a miracle you had even taken him up on his offer to drive you home.

He pulled up your contact and sent you a text so you could have his number, too, as soon as possible. He deposited his phone into the cup holder, then punched the roof of his car with a shit-eating grin on his face. He'd scored your number and a date in one night—damn right, he did.

You had reasoned with yourself that this was okay based on the fact that you weren't on company time.

"Shoooooot," you whistled with a slight arch in your brows and applause. You tracked the distance Eric's driving shot sent the golf ball flying, and in the early morning sunlight, the white sphere disappeared over the crest of green hill.

You figured being courted by a club member during your own free time was a loophole you could live with. Especially when such a loophole looked so good swinging a golf club.

His follow through was just as beautiful as he was, his arms lifting the golf club over behind him from the arc. When he lowered the club to turn back to you, he was beaming. "What's the verdict?"

Your golf club was currently acting as your arm rest as you staked the head against the grass. "I don't know, Eric," you sucked in a breath, teasingly. "I think you could've gone pro."

He laughed then, eyes narrowed into glorious upturned crescent moons. "Thanks, cutie." He made a gesture to the tee. "All yours."

"Let me preface this by saying that it's been awhile," you were quick to say as the nerves suddenly bubbled up into your chest and made you wanna do a jittery shuffle. You should not have let Eric go first.

"No worries," he chirped. "Why don't we practice first?"

Yes, practice. Thank god he knew where your head was at.

You eagerly agreed, and set your golf ball up on the tee. Nervously, you smoothed your gloves down the front of your pleated golf skirt. You lined up the face of the golf club with the ball and pulled it back a millimeter—

Then chickened out.

"Performance anxiety," you grimaced to your date.

"Oh, well, that's okay!" Eric set his golf club down on the field and made his way over to you. "Can I help?"

Yes. "Please do," you chuckled, leaving room for him to take your club.

But instead, he shook his head. "No, no. You won't learn anything from just watching, silly goose."

He grabbed the golf club over your hands and lined both of your bodies up correctly. Your breath hitched at the feeling of his front pressed against your back. His mouth was so close to your ear again, and there was that damned cologne making you see hearts.

"Sorry, is this okay?" He asked softly.

You gulped, nodding. "Yeah. Perfectly okay." You wondered if he could feel your heartbeat quicken like a drum crescendoing. If he wasn't careful, your heart might just fall out and run to his arms.

From this position, Eric smoothly guided you through the steps of a perfect swing. The pullback was cranked over your shoulder, then the club would swing straight through, followed by the arc back over your other shoulder and the appropriate turn of your body. As he had explained to you, getting the perfect swing or shot in sports mostly came down to the follow through. If one could not back up their initial movement, then why make the shot?

"—and you turn your body—yeah, just like that," he praised as you automatically rotated yourself from the side to the front, the toe of your foot digging into the ground and turning with you. "That's beautiful."

He backed up from you then, giving you some space. It suddenly felt like you were missing something with him gone. "You should try it now!"

You took a deep breath in as you lined your golf club up with the ball again. Cranking the club back over your shoulder, you swung it down and back up again. When the face of the club met the ball, it did so with a resounding PING!, and the ball went sailing.

(That sound… mwah. The sweet, sweet sound of triumph.)

"You did it!"

"I did it!"

It hadn't gone as far as Eric's had, but it had definitely traveled farther than it would have without his help. You whirled to him, clasping his hand with yours as you both shared equally radiant smiles. A giddiness flooded into you, and no doubt into the glow of your face.

"See? Not too bad," he said, squeezing your hand.

"All thanks to you," you pointed out.

He shook his head, using your linked hands to lead you back to where your golf bags were waiting a little ways back by the cart. "Nah, you had it in you, Yn. It was just performance anxiety, as you said."

The two of you each grabbed your own bags and hiked them over your shoulder to head down the hill and find your respective golf balls. From this view, you could see that the other patrons of the club were slowly trickling out onto the acres surrounding. It felt strange to be here as not a staff member, but as a guest instead.

Eric piped up, "Is it weird that I was hoping you would ask for my help?"

"Not really," you mused, then meekly added, "'cause I was kind of hoping you would offer your help."

He looked about as happy as you felt, and he swung your hands together between you.

It hit you, then, that you were still holding hands. But you didn't let go, and Eric didn't say anything. He just helped you find your golf ball, line up another shot, and hugged you from behind like it was nothing.

From across the pond, Jacob, Changmin, Chanhee, and Haknyeon pulled up over the bridge. The four of them were all piled into a golf cart, and Jacob stopped it just over the crest. They all knew about where you were today and why you were dressed in proper golf attire rather than the country club uniform. They watched with wide eyes (and maybe a camera or two) as you and Eric had a good time.

"Young love," Jacob sighed fondly from his spot in the driver's seat.

"I think it's gross," Changmin giggled. He yelped, furiously rubbing the place on his shoulder that Chanhee had whacked. "Hey! I was kidding!"

Chanhee rolled his eyes. "Let them have their moment. I'm glad Yn-ie let herself have fun with him."

"They look like they're having quite the time," Haknyeon said. "They're cute."

Changmin poked his head in between Jacob and Haknyeon from the backseat. "Just a thought, but what if we turned on the sprinklers like in High School Musical 2?"

An exchange of looks, a deep consideration… "No," they all chorused. They would get their asses kicked for that.

You were on lunch break when Changmin practically crashed onto the bench next to you with a crazed look in his eyes. "You. Me. Spa. Now."

You couldn't even say goodbye to the sandwich you were eating before Changmin grabbed your arm and dragged you across the club.

"Changmin! What the hell—"

"I'll explain in a second!" He hissed back at you while ducking into the service entrance of the spa.

The backdoor led to a staff break room, where Chanhee was currently (coincidentally) seated on a stool eating a box of Pepero while watching a cartoon on his phone. The man glanced up from his phone at the loud commotion, one cheek full of his snack, and he blinked. "You're lucky I'm not with a client right now."

"Yeah, yeah," Changmin said, dragging you and a stool over to Chanhee at the same time. He pushed your shoulders so you would take a seat. Changmin placed his hands on his hips as he stood before the two of you. "You're never gonna guess what I just overheard."

"What?" You and Chanhee asked at the same time.

"Well, you know Clara?"

Chanhee jumped right in. "The one fooling around with that Brian Yang guy. He's the heir to that one corporation monopolizing SIM cards or some shit."

How the hell…?

Changmin's head bobbed vigorously. "Yes, yes! That's the one. Anyways—I was walking past the manager's office and they were talking loud enough to hear with headphones on. Apparently, Clara and Brian had a nasty, nasty split, and Brian got her fired."

Silence.

Chanhee's eyebrows flew up. "Like… fired-fired?"

A grave nod. "Fired-fired."

You held your head in your hands. "Just because of a break up?" You asked. "Clara is such a nice girl."

Your friend's lips were pressed into a line. "Doesn't mean he's a nice guy. I dunno—" he threw his hands in the air and let them flop back against his legs, "—it's fucked, man. He said it was, like, too awkward to be around her all the time since he was here all the time. And because his father is one of the stockholders of the country club, Manager Kim could do little but do his bidding."

Your heart had fallen into the pit of your stomach. Drama like this didn't really happen often here, but there was always something going on.

You always thought there were assholes here, but sometimes they just kept on reminding you of it.

"And now I'm fooling around with one of the club members," you thought aloud. The realization hit you, a golf ball to the face. "Oh my god."

Chanhee's hand came up to your shoulder and gave you a soothing, warm squeeze. "Eric seems like a good guy, Yn-ie. You never know."

"But you really never know," you murmured. There was a reason why the club discouraged romantic relations between club members and staff. Perhaps this time, it wasn't about work productivity, but about keeping your damn jobs. You needed this job. You needed it so desperately because of the money, the opportunities, the connections. Not to mention all of the people you'd befriended here… it didn't seem right that you were scared of what Eric could do to you, but reality was settling in fast.

The Sohns were a major shareholder in the club, which meant they could pull strings like tying a shoelace.

But Eric is good. He's been good, you reasoned.

Changmin crossed his arms as he leaned back against the wall behind him. "You should talk to him. At the very least, you only went on one date, so it's not like you're completely involved yet."

That was a good point. You were going to run with it.

When Eric invited you over to his house, you should have known you were about to drive your beat up sedan into the driveway of a palace, not a house. A house was for normal people, not whoever the Sohns were, you knew that much. To say you were intimidated by the massive front lawn, iron gates, and limestone arches and columns would be an understatement. Maybe you should have worn something nicer.

You pulled up to the curb of the roundabout—he'd mentioned to you that you could just park there. Apparently the garage was a little inconvenient for guests, but you weren't complaining. The front of the house was a marvel to look at, and wherever that garage was would have left you unable to fully soak in this modern wonder. Plus, you had some time to pull yourself together before seeing Eric.

The plan was… no plan, really. He wanted to hang out with you, and you'd mentioned your love for cooking. Thus, he proposed a miniature cooking class in his kitchen, along with dinner on the patio. It sounded nice. It also sounded great when you remembered what you needed to talk to him about. (Yay.)

It's not a big deal. Eric's cool.

You finally managed to trek your way up to the front door and you booped the doorbell. It was one of those loud bells that must have echoed throughout the house, because you could clearly hear it from the outside.

A couple minutes later, you heard the locking mechanism come undone. The door opened after; you swore that every time you saw this guy, you became speechless.

You had seen him in a dress shirt before, but this tank top and over-shirt thing was new. It was casual and comfortable, yet chic. His hair was styled in the same manner his clothing was—simple and so attractive. A silver chain and matching silver rings added the subtle touch of elegance to pull everything together.

"Hi," he grinned—he was always smiling, you realized. It was such a pretty smile. He stepped aside and gave you room in the doorway. "Come on in, cutie."

"Thanks for having me over," you said pleasantly, trying not to openly gawk at the front foyer with the sky-high ceiling, chandelier dripping with crystals, and grand staircase wrapping around the walls up to the indoor balcony.

He closed the door behind you as you deposited your shoes by the small rack. Eric wrapped a loose arm around your shoulder to guide you through the foyer. "Of course! I'm so excited you're here; I went out—actually no, I…" he scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "ordered it off that grocery app. I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for."

"Grocery app?" You laughed. "Are you talking about the stuff for dinner?"

"Yeah!"

The two of you entered the kitchen. It was a wide, open space that flowed straight into the living room. The cabinets were smooth and snow white, accented with countertops marbled with black and hints of gold. Though clean, it was a space well-loved with a recipe book left open to a lobster risotto; little candies left in a jar on the island labeled with chalk; barstools that weren't quite aligned, like they'd actually been sat on. The living room, too, was beautiful. Massive, but beautiful, with a wraparound couch sectional and a flat screen with family photos hung above it. It was framed by shelves filled to the brim with CD and DVD cases, more family photos, books, and little baubles.

And the lighting. Oh man, the natural lighting from the windows making up the entire back wall… it led out onto the acres of land his family owned, as well as a patio that overlooked the valley.

Eric had mentioned dinner on the patio. If your math was right, that meant you would probably be dining at sunset, all while overlooking a splendid view—how romantic. God, you hated how giddy you were starting to get. Those butterflies in your stomach would not cease.

"You have a really, really beautiful home," you murmured, letting him take your bag from you to place on one of the barstools.

You had always thought that big houses like this would be so difficult to fill. What was one supposed to do with so much space anyway? From the pictures on the wall, you could see Eric's parents, himself, as well as a sister who must have been out making her own mark on the world in that special Sohn kind of way. Even with just four people in this place… they still managed to make it feel like a home and not a house. It was like your own house back in your hometown, across the country. It was lived-in and warm and yours, and that was the beauty of it. And you were certain by just looking at this place that the Sohns were a family who loved each other.

How could you not believe in Eric? Not with all of this to vouch for him? He had grown up loved.

"Thank you," he said. "It's one of my favorite places to be. That's why I still haunt it like a ghost," he joked. He placed a warm hand on the small of your back and led you over to the fridge where he had put all of the grocery delivery bags in. Even the fridge was relatively stocked. "Not sure if everything I got was right, but hopefully it'll all turn out delicious anyway."

You helped him unload the bags onto the kitchen island, raising a brow at the labels on the groceries. They were on the higher end of price and quality, which definitely wasn't a problem, but holding a hundred dollar bottle of red wine just for sauce was making your anxiety levels spike. "Oh, no. It all looks great, Eric. Thanks for getting these, by the way. I would have gone out and brought them here, but—"

He waved away your worries. "You're busy and you're working. Plus, it lets me technically pay for dinner," he said with a cheeky look on his face and gesturing with a finger gun. It was cute. He was cute.

"Smooth, Sohn. I see you."

"That's what they called me in high school," he played along, dancing on his toes behind you to fiddle with his phone and turn on a speaker somewhere (you didn't know where). "Smooth Sohn."

You snorted, slapping a hand over your mouth. Eric's eyes glittered with a mutual mirth. "Whatever you say, honey."

He waltzed back over to you, tongue in cheek. "I like that better though—honey." He leaned back against the counter next to you and watched as you sorted out the ingredients in different piles depending on how they should be prepped. "So what's the plan, chef? You're the boss."

"I'd love to know where your knives and cutting boards are," you said.

He leapt into action. "Say no more!"

In reality, you did have to say more. It wasn't that Eric didn't know where everything was in the kitchen, he just wasn't as well versed in using the kitchen. He'd told you while teaching him how to hold a knife properly that he really only came in here for ramen. Good news was he could crack an egg with one hand; bad news was that was about all he could do. It was still charming, nonetheless. And the cute cooking lesson gave him plenty of opportunity to get close to you.

He had even insisted on you teaching him how to chop carrots like how he had taught you how to swing a golf club—over and around him—with your hands over his and your body wrapped around his, your chin on his shoulder.

But with dinner well past done, the two of you made your way out onto the patio just as the sun was sinking into the embrace of the valley below. It melted into the sky like a broken yolk, saturated and golden. He let you have the seat staring out into the valley. The way he looked at you though, made you feel like you were his million dollar valley view.

The table was set with twin glasses of red wine (amazing what a good wine paired with beef stew could do for the soul), plates separated by a hot stew pot, and a couple of candles for ambiance.

"Wow," he moaned as the beef melted on his tongue. "This is so good. And you're telling me you're pretty, smart, and can cook?"

You held back a giggle so you could swallow your bite. "And I'm single," you jested.

"And you're single!" He leaned his head back, eyes closed. "Thank god for that."

Eric leaned his cheek on his fist, his head cocked slightly and his eyes on you with a swoon-worthy admiration. "Thanks for coming out tonight and hanging out with me."

You could kiss him. "Please, I should be the one thanking you. It's been really fun hanging out with you." It was surreal, actually. The fact that this young heir had deemed you "worthy" or whatever to court and entertain—it wasn't like you defined your self worth by his attention and affection, but this felt nice. Your conversation with Changmin and Chanhee the other day came to the forefront of your mind.

"I, uhm, think this is a good time to ask if you wanted to do this more often? Hanging out with me, I mean."

You weren't sure if this was what you thought he was asking you. He reached for his wine glass, and in the fading sunlight and the candlelight illuminating the bashful expression on his face, your heart pounded.

"What I mean to say," he tried again after a small sip of wine, "is would you be my—"

"I think we should talk!" You cut in before you heard anymore. You were getting jittery, unable to figure out when was the right time to bring up the thing, but also, you wanted him to say his thing, and it was just a mess. But when you saw Eric's wide eyes, mouth zipped up, you repeated in a much calmer tone, "I think we should talk about something. It's not… it's not super serious or anything. I could just be overthinking."

Oh, you felt bad. He looked like a kicked puppy, but you saw him pull himself together for you. "It's—you're probably not overthinking, Yn. What's on your mind?"

The wine glass was put down. He even put his fork down.

Were you making a big deal out of this? Probably not, right? This was important, you reminded yourself. You pursed your lips. "So one of my coworkers—former coworkers," you amended, "Clara. Her name's Clara. She and this guy you might know, Brian Yang…"

He nodded. "Yeah, I know of him."

"Well, they kind of had this thing going on between them. And the other day, she was fired because they broke up and he thought it was too weird that she was working where he was hanging out all the time," you rambled on. "And I uhm, I just wanted to make sure from the get-go that… you know… it's stupid, I don't know. But it's my job, y'know? And—and I need this job, but I like you a lot, Eric. Am I making any sense?"

Neither of you were eating anymore.

You looked at him, hopelessly, searching for signs of understanding.

He leaned in slightly and reached for your hands over the table. "Yn, sweetheart," he said, lacing his fingers with yours over the pot of beef stew, "that is a valid point to bring up, and I can understand what you're probably thinking. That—that news must have been scary, or at least nerve-racking, and Brian's a dick for that—"

You nodded, swallowing.

"—and I don't want you to risk your job because of me," he said earnestly. "But I really want to see where this goes, you know? If anything happens and you don't feel the same way, then no harm, no foul. I'm not gonna take my emotions out on you like that asshole; that's not right."

The breath you had been holding in fell from your mouth, a wave of relief. A sappy, grateful sort of smile worked its way onto your mouth and you met Eric's own kind expression. "You are actually perfect," you let out a breathy laugh. "Where have you been all my life?"

He grinned. "Funny, that's what I've been thinking about you." Eric set your laced hands on the side of the table as he raised his glass to you. "So what do you say? Can we try this?"

You lifted your glass to gently clink it with his. "Let's do it."

"So he's perfect, but he hasn't kissed you yet?" Chanhee's gasp of incredulity hit you in a gust of air. His lips pursed like a penguin's beak. "Figures."

You sent him a look. "Oh, please. Figures what? He's just being… I dunno, chivalrous!"

"Chivalry is dead," Haknyeon snickered as he waltzed by you with fresh towels to lay out by the pool. "You should make the move, Yn."

"So you two are, like, dating now?" Asked Changmin as he hopped onto the tiki bar stool next to you and Chanhee. He kept on glancing down at his watch; he must have only a small break in between his dance classes today.

"They're 'seeing where things go,'" mocked Jacob with a shake of his head. He swirled a rag around the innards of a glass to dry it.

You sent them all dirty looks now. "Cobie, out of all the times you choose to be an imp—"

"An imp," Chanhee muttered, glancing away as he took a sip of his piña colada, "I'm dead."

"If it makes you feel better, Yn, I'm supervising a tennis match with him and the Lee cousins later today. I can get a feel of where his mind's at," Jacob offered.

You drummed your fingers against the bar. The offer was tempting… "It's fine," you insisted. "We don't have to rush things. We go to the same university and we live in the same city now. It's not like we don't have time… right?"

"Riiiight," Changmin drawled with an over exaggerated wink. He frowned at his watch, hopping off his stool. "Damn it, salsa class time. Catch you losers later!"

As he darted off into the distance, Chanhee sniffed. "Says the loser." He plucked the pink umbrella out of his drink and set the decoration down on his napkin. "You're not wrong, Yn-ie. Taking it slow isn't a bad thing. From what you told us, it seems like you're both on the same page now anyway."

"Thank you," you said.

"Maybe he's trying to plan a romantic moment." Haknyeon rejoined the conversation now that he had done his towel delivery.

Jacob nodded with an approving turn of his lips. "You might be onto something. He seems the type."

Your heart was fluttering as if it sprouted butterfly wings. Oh, the thought of kissing Eric Sohn in romantic lighting…

"I think you should take her back to her job before she drifts fully into La La Land." When you snapped back to reality, Jacob's eyes were twinkling, eyebrows wagging.

Haknyeon nudged you with the back of his hand and nodded up to the clubhouse. "C'mon, Yn-ie. I think Manager Kim wants to brief us on dinner service anyway."

Hours later, Jacob found himself on the tennis courts, overseeing a match between the three Lee cousins—Sangyeon, Hyunjae, and Juyeon—and Eric. He often thought it was luck that got him to land this job where all he did to pass the day was make drinks, drive golf carts, and occasionally play doubles with club members. For all that it was, he considered himself very content.

"—that was a foul," Jacob declared, jogging to go catch the tennis ball before it bounded into the bushes.

Hyunjae let out a groan. "Nooo! It hit the line. Jacob, please, I thought we were cool!"

Sangyeon shook his head, smiling as he caught the tennis ball from Jacob with his free hand. "Hyunjae, we all know your eyesight is shit."

Hyunjae wrinkled his nose. "Hey! No one asked."

"Can we take a break?" Juyeon asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I think I need some water."

The boys all murmured their agreement, and Jacob reached down into the mini cooler he'd lugged out to toss them ice cold bottles of water. It was just one of the few perks that came with the club membership.

While Sangyeon and Hyunjae were bickering about eyesight and foul lines, Juyeon settled into a seat by them to referee. Eric sidled up next to Jacob as they both absentmindedly watched the chaos unfold from afar.

Jacob whistled. "So… Yn said she had a really good time with you the other night."

Eric perked up at the sound of your name. "She did? Well that's a relief to hear."

"It wasn't clear?" Jacob asked, face tilted in question. "I mean, not to completely expose her or anything, but she's been gushing about you all day, man."

A giddy smile took over the youngest Sohn's face. "She was?" He licked his lips, drawing the pad of his thumb over the corner of his mouth to catch the water that had dribbled from the bottle. "She's—she's so cute, hyung. Like, I don't know if this is weird for you because you're friends—"

Jacob coughed in amusement. "It's fine. Think of me as your guardian angel."

"Right," Eric piped up. "I think… I think we really hit it off, y'know? And I mean, she probably told you we just kind of had dinner and she had to leave, but she'd come after work, so she was probably tired and—"

Ohhh. Jacob understood exactly what was going on now. His heart warmed at the thought that Eric was being so considerate and not forcing you to stay. He was thinking about your long day, and didn't wish to prolong it anymore. Little did he know, you probably wouldn't have minded hanging around a tad longer.

"—I wanted to kiss her—"

Wait huh. Jacob tuned back in. "When?"

Eric blinked. "Uhm, at dinner. Or at least, when I was walking her out to her car." He glanced away and his smile softened at the thought. "I wish I had, actually. The moment was right there, and the lighting was perfect, and her smile—oh my god, her smile."

Jacob's eyebrows flew up to his hairline. So this was where Eric's mind was at; good to know. "Then do it—kiss her."

"Right now?"

"No! Not right now—"

"Hey, you guys ready to play again?" Juyeon called. The three Lees had already maneuvered themselves back to court.

Eric and Jacob exchanged glances. This conversation wasn't over, Jacob's look seemed to say.

They nodded to their companions, though. "Yeah, we're ready."

It did not come as a surprise to you when you found out Eric had a home theater in his basement. It was something like you'd pictured from the movies, the ones with the rows of dark leather armchairs, deep cup holders, and a giant screen and surround sound system. The foot of the theater room even had a little snack station to make popcorn, and a mini fridge stocked with drinks.

You and Eric shared the couch on the bottom floor that was big enough for the two of you. It was a random Tuesday, and you didn't have work today, so he'd suggested swinging by and hanging out with him for the day. You couldn't possibly refuse.

Eric scrolled through the movie options on the screen with the remote. "Are you sure you don't want any popcorn?" He asked you.

You shook your head. "I'm good, really. But it sounds like you want popcorn, Eric."

He caught his tongue in his smile. "Maybe."

If you weren't supposed to be watching a movie, you would have gladly curled up on that couch and stared at him for the rest of time. His jawline was enough to make a girl go mad, and the fact that he was just so sweet, too—

"How about this one?"

You snapped out of it, barely flicking your gaze back over to the screen in time to avoid him finding out that you were just blatantly staring. "Uhh, sure. I haven't seen this one, actually."

"Really? Oh my god, we have to watch it then." And so you did.

It was about halfway into the movie that you realized there was a draft coming down on you—the air conditioning in this room was awfully high, but you didn't want to say anything. You hiked your legs up onto the couch and hugged your arms, leaning back slightly against the quilt draped over the back of the couch. (How conveniently placed…)

Eric saw your movement from the corner of his eye. "You cold? We can share the blanket."

"My hero," you joked as he removed the quilt from behind your heads and draped it over your laps.

Because the article wasn't exactly miles long, you and Eric had to shift over closer to each other. Not that you were complaining. The arm and leg pressed against yours were warm, and it gave him the perfect opportunity to raise his arm and place it over the back of the couch behind you.

As you both watched the rest of the movie, you gradually let yourself lean into him, and his arm eventually fell to rest directly around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

"I always liked the ending of this movie," Eric murmured softly to you as the credits rolled. He brushed his fingers along your arm in a warm, soothing manner. "What'd you think?"

You stayed with your head tucked onto his shoulder. "Hmm, not bad. I think they could have cut the romance though."

"Ah, I see your point," he said. "Sometimes directors just like to force it for the sake of a subplot."

"Wholeheartedly agree."

His fingers danced up to your shoulder and began playing with your hair. He pursed his lips. "Are you a fan of romance movies? That's kind of a random question, I guess."

"Not really—a random question, I mean," you said, and pulled your head off of his shoulder to face him. The thought occurred to you of how close your bodies and your faces were, sharing warmth and skin. You saw his eyes dart down away from yours for a split second. "I like romance movies. I think they restore my faith in humanity," you mused. "You?"

"I like 'em, too." He released a small exhale, an almost-shy smile etching itself onto his face. "Most of them are just… feel-good movies. They're really sweet, and I've always kind of wanted something like that."

"High standards," you whispered, though playfully. "Wouldn't we all like something from the movies?" To you, this was what the movies were like—"handsome guy sweeps girl off her feet, and he's perfect and she's happy." You were already living out your too-good-to-be-true dreams.

He laughed. "True. I think it's just a matter of waiting for the right person to come along, maybe. And following through."

You bit the bait. "Following through?"

"Backing up your initial swing," he clarified. "Something to drive the ball home and make sure you mean it. I feel like maybe that's what people forget about romance—that there's still an after, beyond happily ever after."

Wow. "Your brain," you praised. "That was actual poetry, I think. Is this how you get girls?"

He bit his lip through a smile, leaning closer. "Only one girl. I hope it's working."

"I think it's working a little too well," you admitted, voice barely audible now.

You could feel the warmth of his breath fan over your lips as he came closer, about ninety-percent of the way; the other ten percent was left for you to either push forward or pull back. He was giving you the decision on a gold platter.

And who could deny something served so beautifully?

You closed the gap between you and pressed your lips against his. It was soft, at first, as the nerves in your brain and your vital organs threatened to go haywire. You breathed him in, your noses slotting against each other. He cupped the back of your head with his free hand, the other curling around your waist.

When you broke apart, it was for a split second, until he was kissing you again. You were half in his lap at this point, your legs draped over his, your side pressed to his chest.

Foreheads pressed together, you shared a breath of air with him. He nuzzled his nose against you as if unable to be so far from you. "Be mine," he said, simple at first. Then, "Please."

You smiled against him and felt his mouth do the same. "Only if you'll be mine, too."

"As if I would say no," he laughed, leaning in again, and crushing his mouth to yours. The theater room filled with both of your giggles as you fell backward.

If this was the happily ever after, then you would gladly follow through.

a/n: to anyone who read flight risk, i just redeemed myself from valentine's day

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @justalildumpling @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @outrologist @vernonburger @maessseongs @kflixnet

[macrogolf12]

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[whisperingmidnights]

Chasing Starlight: Chapter 20

Pairing: Poly!Feysand x female!Reader

Summary: After Nyx’s birth, Feyre is seeking to ease her way back into her duties as High Lady and balance her time at the gallery with being a new mother. To ease her mind, she and Rhys have decided to hire a new nanny, who turns out to be far more than either of them had bargained for.

A/N: I decided to split this chapter into two separate chapters, so you're not waiting nearly as long for an update as you would be otherwise. Happy birthday to me means happy birthday to YOU. I hope you all enjoy it.

     I don’t need a healer to tell me how bad the poisoning is. I feel it to the very marrow of my bones, in the way my muscles burn and the endless exhaustion that plagues me like a phantom. It takes days to get out of bed on my own, and over a week before I’m able to walk the River House without assistance. All the while, healers buzz in and out of our rooms so quickly, I don’t have time to learn their names…not that I truly need to. Rhys and Feyre oversee everything, from the various potions and tonics and salves I use to manage the ongoing symptoms to the amount of movement I should be getting every day. I let them, and I still can’t decide if it is truly a betrayal of myself to allow anyone else to have that sort of control over my existence, or if it merely feels like one.

     From my seat in the window of this little corner sitting room, I can see Elain puttering around the garden, her golden brown hair tied back from her face. She had mentioned starting the process of preparing the flowerbeds for winter, but I hadn’t truly thought about it until I noticed the frost glistening on the ground and realized how much time has passed. Time I’ve lost. My gaze flicks to Lucien following dutifully behind her, ever the gentleman, but his eyes aren’t on his mate. Instead, his focus is on the bundled up, winged babe she’d deposited in his arms. To his credit, Nyx seems just as entranced as his chubby fists grab at the ends of Lucien’s crimson hair.

     ‘You’re drifting again.’ Feyre’s soft voice drifts through my wafer-thin shields with ease. She’s little more than a wisp at the edge of my mind, as far as she or Rhys dare to go these days, but I can tell she’s getting a peek at what’s captured my attention. ‘I promise he’s fine.’

     “It’s cold,” I murmur, and the Dawn Court healer seated across from my mates makes some startled noise, like she’d forgotten her patient was in the room. I glance over my shoulder to see her begin to rise, only to be stilled by Rhys’s hand raising in silent command. I feel him, too, slipping around the edge of the fragile shield I’d been holding that I finally allow to crumple. There’s no point in maintaining it if it’s not actually functional. Rhysand’s disapproval is thick as he settles a shield of his own around my mind: a barrier of strong, dark adamant I could not hope to penetrate on my own.

     ‘This feels unnecessary, no one is reading my mind here besides the two of you.’

     ‘I would have put a shield in place regardless, we’re leaving after this.’ The detached formality of his tone draws my attention back to him, and I narrow my eyes as he meets my gaze. He’s been distant since the morning after I regained consciousness, and I still can’t decide why. Fear? Trauma? Feyre says to give him time, but I’m not sure how much time it’s going to take for us to move past this, or if that’s even truly the answer. I know we will move past it, whatever it is, I just wish I knew how to help.

     ‘Where are you going?’ I ask, anxious at the idea of either of them leaving me so soon, even if it’s only for a meeting. We haven’t been apart since I woke, and I selfishly want all of the time I have to spend with them while I can.

     ‘We, Dove, you’re going, too. Helion has agreed to meet with us to see if he can break this spell,’ Feyre’s gentle response breaks through the tension beginning to bubble between us. ‘And you wanted to speak to Eris, which we’ve arranged for this afternoon.’

     ‘And we have to leave to do that?’

     ‘We prefer to hold meetings in less personal territory. Our official court residence is not in Velaris.’

     ‘Oh.’ It makes sense, truly, to not wish to host political allies or potential rivals in a previously hidden city. It also explains why they both look dressed for a more formal appointment than meeting with this healer. Speaking of, the healer clears her throat and my mates’ full attention shifts to her, but I turn to look out of the window once more.

     After weeks of testing, no one has been able to say anything beyond what we already know: there is some sort of spell surrounding the magical core in my mind that seems to have been constructed as a sort of barrier. Many decades of trapped magical power seems to have finally breached the confines of a spell degraded by time and the death of the original caster. The migraines and the reproductive issues that had seemed unrelated at the time, the draining, sometimes painful backlash I’d feel if I used too much of the little healing magic available to me…all turned out to be symptoms of a much larger issue that I’ve been shrugging off for most of my life.

     Because I’d assumed my problems were insignificant. That I simply had been born wrong. Less powerful than my family, a daughter who had grown to be a burden, someone meant to go unnoticed. It had never occurred to me that I might not have access to all of my power. I had overlooked myself for my entire life and now…now, after so many years of searching for purpose and love and finally finding it, I might not survive the year. I have no one to blame but myself.

     A shadow lingering at the edge of the window seat’s cushion curls towards me and I slowly turn my palm to the ceiling, allowing it to slither into my hand. My last memories of Azriel are of his boots appearing on the floor of the hall the day I fell ill, but Feyre says this shadow has not left my side. Our friendship is a strange one, but I’ve missed his quiet presence the days I’ve spent wandering this house. The shadow slithers through my fingers, then up the sleeve of my dress to settle in the cool darkness there.

     The seed of anger beginning to bloom in my heart stills with it. Blaming myself won’t do anyone any good now.

     ‘If we’re going to speak with Helion about my condition,’ I muse, prodding at the bond until I’m sure at least one of my mates is paying attention, ‘why are we meeting with this healer?’

     ‘To see if she had anything useful to say,’ Rhys responds, his voice rumbling with impatience. ‘Apparently she does not.’

     ‘Rhys.’ Feyre’s admonishment is sharp, but he doesn’t seem remotely chastened by it. I shake my head and glance out the window to see Lucien entertaining Nyx with a little, dancing figure crafted out of flame. The babe’s small, black wings flutter happily against his back and I press my tattooed hand against my heart at the sight. Elain glances up from the flowerbed she’s tending and a delicate pink flush lights her face as she watches them together. Feyre’s middle sister has always had a way with the babe, and it warms something in me to witness the delight on her face at the sight of her mate bonding with her nephew.

     Some people possess power, but others seem to be made of it. Elain is one of those people, something about her makes happy endings seem a little more possible. Even for someone like me.

     The click of a door closing pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see Feyre at my side stretching out a tattooed hand. I press my hand into hers and allow her to help me stand, wincing at the way my joints and muscles burn as they bear my weight. The pain is more exhausting than the actual illness, and I think it will need to be an early night for me if I hope to feel remotely rested by tomorrow.

     “Are you all right?” Feyre asks, wrapping an arm around my waist as we begin our slow walk to the door. “If you need to rest-”

     “I’m fine,” I say with a sigh, leaning into her side for support. “Truly. I’ll need a little more rest tonight, but it’s not so bad I can’t handle it.”

     “You’ll tell us when you need to rest.” An order, not a question, but I nod anyway to appease the thread of worry hiding beneath her authoritative tone. I suppose she’s entitled to fuss a little. By the time we make it to Rhys, who has been watching us cross the room with an unnerving sort of focus, I hear the sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the hall and perk up a little. That can only be Morrigan, home from a short trip to Rask. Rhys shifts my weight from Feyre’s arm to his in time for the door to open and his cousin to bustle through it, her long coat a cloud of blue swirling around her as she first gathers Feyre into her arms in a warm hug.

     “Hello, my dears,” she says warmly, kissing both of Feyre’s cheeks before she turns to us, hovering awkwardly while she sizes up how best to greet us both without jostling me unnecessarily. In the end, she settles for a kiss on each cheek and a hand smoothed over my hair as her brown eyes sweep over me. “How are you feeling, Dove? You look much better.”

     “I’m fine,” I assure her with a smile as I feel Rhys’s hand flex against my waist. “Tired, but fine…well, mostly fine.”

     “Did the healer have good news?” she asks, her wide eyes narrowing a little as she studies Rhys. Over five hundred years of friendship has given her an insight to my mate’s moods that I don’t ever hope to possess, I wonder what she’s seeing that I don’t.

     “We’ll be seeking another opinion,” is all the response the male at my side gives her. “Are you coming with us to speak with Helion? Amren has already declined.”

     “Oh, no, not tonight. I have…a few things to talk to you about regarding my trip.”

     “Speak with Amren first, then you and I will talk when we return in the morning.” I start at the implication that we’ll be away for the night. I hadn’t thought these meetings would take more than an afternoon. I haven’t been beyond the walls of this house since I fell ill, and suddenly this afternoon jaunt is becoming an overnight stay? I look to Rhys, whose eyes remain fixed on Mor, then to Feyre who only gives me a small, supportive smile. “Are you able to stay with Elain and Nyx tonight?”

     “Yes, of course. Where is my darling boy?”

     “In the rose garden with Elain and Lucien,” Feyre says, gesturing towards the window. “You’ll let us know if he begins crawling with any real enthusiasm, won’t you?”

     “You won’t miss it,” Mor promises with a small sigh, slipping her hands into the pocket of her coat. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you, then, since it seems you’re on your way out. Breakfast tomorrow?”

     “You know where to find us if you need anything.” Rhys tells her with a brief nod, his violet eyes flicking to the clock on the mantle. “We should be going.”

     “I haven’t packed-” I stutter, digging in my heels a little, but Feyre shakes her head.

     “We’ve taken care of everything,” Feyre says, slipping her hand into mine. “I promise.”

     Of course they have. Of course they have. Knowing this does nothing to smother the flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but I nod in acquiescence and watch Rhys tuck her against his opposite side. I hate the feeling of the world dropping away from me like so much falling water, only to reform into somewhere else moments later. It’s disconcerting on a good day, but today my knees give way beneath me the moment solid ground is beneath my feet and I begin to pant, desperate to calm my roiling stomach before it spills its contents all over the pristine marble floor.

     “Breathe,” Rhysand’s voice is a strong, steady lifeline I cling to while my vision blurs and an ache begins to build behind my eyes. I can feel him rubbing slow, soothing circles between my shoulderblades, but it does little to settle my stomach. “You need to breathe.”

     The long, artistic fingers that smooth over my forehead and cheeks are delightfully cold, sparkling with frost, and I glance up to see Feyre’s starlight blue eyes focused on me with so much concern I feel I might crumble beneath the weight of it. Over and over, she runs her thumb along my brow bone and beneath my eyes until the ache subsides and it’s easier to breathe again.

     “I’m okay,” I mumble, sitting back on my heels as I finally get a good look at where we’re at. It’s a bedroom twice the size of most of the apartments I’ve lived in, constructed of moonstone pillars instead of walls. Gauzy azure curtains lend some illusion of privacy. The cold marble floor is covered with an assortment of complimentary rugs, the likes of which I’ve certainly seen hanging in a shop’s display window in the Rainbow. There’s a sitting area with plush sofas and chairs, each of which is covered with heavy throws in a variety of knits and furs. Beyond it is a large, heated pool that overlooks a scene of beautiful, snow capped mountain peaks. We’re so high up that even the clouds seem to drift around us. When I glance over my shoulder, I catch sight of a large bed covered in thick, comfortable blankets and the hanging lanterns that dot the room, gently glowing with faelight. An equally impressive wardrobe stands beside an arched doorway, beyond which I assume is a toilet and sink. “Oh, wow.”

     “Wait until you see the rest of it,” Feyre says, and I turn to see a wide, warm smile on her face that makes my heart stutter at the sight of it. I always want her to smile that way, carefree in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen her. Even Rhys has shed the distance that’s haunted his features for a warm, content smile I haven’t seen in quite some time. I run my clammy hand along his cheek and watch him turn to kiss my palm, his hand catching my own to hold it there. A small, nervous laugh bubbles from my lips, filled with remnants of the anxiety that had previously plagued me. One of them should probably kiss me before it devolves into hysterical giggles borne of weeks of pain and worry.

     Luckily, Feyre seems to catch that absent thought and catches my chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her lips are soft and warm against mine, and I sigh against them as I melt into her kiss, returning it with all of the heat I can muster. My free hand curves around her thin shoulder, and I feel Rhysand’s lips against the tender skin of my wrist as he peppers kisses up to the cuff of my sleeve. ‘We’re okay,’ I think as Feyre pulls my lower lip between her teeth, not caring if either of them are still rattling around inside my mind as inadvertent witnesses to my thoughts. ‘We’ll be okay if we can get through this.’

     “We are more than okay,” Rhys murmurs as Feyre presses me back against his chest and trails kisses from the corner of my mouth and along my jaw to the pulse fluttering in my throat. I’d selected this dress for its loose fit and the flowy, breathable fabric, but the bodice suddenly feels much too tight, the skirts too much fabric between myself and the two people I want more than air. We’ve shared cuddles and a few chaste kisses here and there, mostly before bed, nothing of this intensity in so long I’ve almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost. “We’re going to get through this.”

     I want to tell him not to make promises he can’t keep, but there’s a conviction in his voice that grounds me. There is no hint of doubt, no room for it, only the certainty that he will find the solution to this problem. I want to believe him, more than anything. I want to trust him to find a cure, but he’s no healer. Neither of them are. If the healers can’t find a solution…no, no I won’t think of it now. I won’t ruin this moment with the sort of thoughts best saved for midnight wandering. Instead I lean up to kiss him and thread my fingers through the silky, dark hair at the back of his head.

     The warm press of his lips against mine is far too brief, interrupted by the cool slide of a shadow against my skin. I pull away to watch it slide from my arm onto the floor and melt into the darkness at the edge of the room. Rhysand’s long, dark eyelashes flutter for a moment like he’s waking from a dream, before his eyes clear and he seems to come back to himself. Together, we find our way off of the floor, but I feel the moment the mask slides back into place and the best of him is tucked behind a wall I cannot scale. A spark of intuition lights a cold fire in Feyre’s eyes and, though she’s straightening my dress and her own, it feels like she’s a thousand miles away.

     Arguing with him, if I had to guess, in a dark corner of his mind.

     “We’re staying here tonight?” I ask, though it’s more statement than question. I can’t imagine any of us wanting to find out how I’d react to winnowing twice in one day after such an unpleasant arrival the first time.

     “We’ll dress more comfortably for dinner,” Feyre promises with a distracted nod. “It will be just us, maybe Azriel-”

     “No,” Rhys says, and I turn to watch him slipping his hand into his pockets as the door opens with a wave of his hand. “He won’t be joining us tonight, I’m afraid. He’ll be looking after our guest.”

     “Which one? You have so many.” My tone is drier than I’d intended, but his lips quirk at the bite and Feyre reaches up to tug at my hair. It hadn’t liked that much in the past, but with her? My cheeks heat as vague memories of our night in the Day Court flood my mind and I wave a hand in front of my face, like that will clear them or, moreover, my reaction to them away on the breeze. “Why isn’t it cold here? This place doesn’t have many real walls to speak of.”

     “I like to think I’m above keeping my mates in a lofty palace that isn’t heated.”

     “Don’t listen to him,” Feyre murmurs, threading my arm through hers as she leads me from the room. “I asked the same question the first time he brought me here.”

     “You also threw a shoe at my head the first time I brought you here.”

     “Shoes.”

     “The second one doesn’t count, it didn’t land.”

     “Shall we try it again, Rhys? I think you’ll find my aim has significantly improved.”

     “Your aim has always been impeccable, darling.”

     “He maintains the enchantments so it is always available for use should we need it,” Feyre says, continuing our conversation as she rolls her eyes at his smug tone. I lean my head against her shoulder for a moment as we walk, wanting nothing more than the brush of her body against my own. I don’t know if it’s the mating bond driving me closer, making me crave them both with a growing sense of desperation, or if it’s the feeling of time closing in around us. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I want so much more of them and this life we might have.

     The palace is beautiful, to be sure. I catch glimpses of several spiraling, moonstone towers with arched windows jutting out of the mountaintop as we move through the halls and up a short flight of stairs to the main floor, and each room I pass is beautifully, comfortably decorated. But it feels empty, more akin to a museum than a place one would raise a family. Had the previous High Lords been in residence here, or is it only opened for formal occasions? Unlike the River House in Velaris, I don’t notice any staff wandering the halls or dusting furniture. It feels like we’re the only people alive up here.

     “Why a palace on a remote mountain though?”

     “It sits above the other half of our court,” Rhys says, settling a hand on my lower back as he lengthens his strides to walk beside us. “The Hewn City was carved into this mountain a long, long time ago. There are natural springs that feed the river running through the city-”

     “Like a dark reflection of Velaris.”

     “Yes, actually. The court is more formal and the culture is vastly different from what we’ve built in Velaris. The citizens of the Hewn City largely govern themselves, and I interfere as little as possible.”

     “Why?” I ask, tilting my chin up to meet those lovely, star-flecked eyes. Shadows are beginning to swirl in them, a darkness I haven’t truly seen in him before, but I’m starting to wonder how many aspects there are of my mates that I’ve never witnessed. We’ve been rather insulated in their home in Velaris, where Rhys and Feyre are the benevolent, adored High Lord and Lady. I’ve not stopped to think about the rest of their territory and the faeries that inhabit these lands before, but perhaps I should. If we complete this mating bond, I will be…something more than a nanny, won’t I? Something formal, surely I would have duties or a title of my own, wouldn’t I? “Are they not your people, too?”

     “They are under my rule and my protection, yes. But no, they’ve never felt like my people. There’s a violence and cruelty to the High Fae living beneath this mountain that chafes against everything I stand for, and I won’t lie and say they’ve ever wanted me for a High Lord. I assure you, they have not, but they aren’t brave enough to attempt a coup.”

     “It would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?” I glance over at Feyre to see her looking at me with a contemplative sort of interest, and I press on. “I mean, the two of you are obscenely powerful, right? You have power from seven High Lords, Feyre, that’s no small feat. And Rhys is the most powerful of them all, everyone knows that. I think it would be well acknowledged that any effort to truly stand against you both would be a death sentence. If they wanted to make a bid for total independence, that wouldn’t be the way to do it.”

     “I don’t know that they would want it, anyway. There’s a strict hierarchy within their society that requires the presence of a High Lord to satisfy, without that they would have to find a new way to govern themselves. I think they’re too set in their ways to attempt something new at this point.”

     “Perhaps with the older fae, yes, but what about the younger ones? Surely they have children who may want something different.”

     “It’s one thing to want something different, Dove, and another entirely to take a chance on it. I think you would know that better than most.”

     “I ran out of necessity, not because I wanted to.” I murmur as we step into what seems to be a main hallway with high arches and a ceiling glittering with dark, beautiful mosaic tilework. The tiles range from midnight blue and pale moonstone to chips of abyssal onyx that must have come from the mountain below, arranged in a flowing pattern that echoes the sky at midnight. Right above our heads is a decorative window looking directly into the overcast sky. There’s a cold sort of beauty to it that’s striking, but deeply lonely. I wonder if the Hewn City feels the same way.

     “What do you think?” Feyre asks, squeezing my hand to draw my attention back to her. I smile and brush my lips against her clothed shoulder, enjoying the way her own breath catches in her throat. More, more, I want so much more of that. Of her, of them. “You can’t keep having those thoughts if you expect us to get through meetings with Helion and Eris.”

     “Really, Helion is the one that matters,” Rhys says lowly, and I glance over my shoulder to see the darkness gathering in his gaze as he looks at us, suddenly every inch the predator taking in his next meal. When I look back to Feyre, she’s no better: a pale, beautiful wolf eyeing a prize doe, and I don’t think I mind being their prey. “Say the word and I’ll send Eris away-”

     “No,” I interject, swallowing hard against the need building within me. “No. I need to talk to him, I have questions that won’t wait. It took time to arrange this meeting, didn’t it?” Neither of them bother to confirm an answer I already know. “Who knows when we’ll have the opportunity again. Let’s just get through this and retire early.”

     “Very early,” Feyre warns and I nod, eager to please her. Rhysand seems satisfied by her response, if not enthused by it, and trails his hand up my spine to thread through my hair, pulling my face back to his with a sort of possession that feels more like slipping control. He kisses me with a bruising, vicious sort of need. With the way his teeth scrape across my already swollen lips, it feels like a sort of claiming. There will be no doubt in anyone’s mind what we were doing before we walked into that room and I want, no, need more of it. Our blossoming relationship has been such a private thing between the three of us, but I don’t want that anymore.

     I want everyone to know who I belong to and, in turn, that they are wholly mine.

     The unwelcome sound of boots echoing through the hall pulls Rhysand’s lips from mine, but his hand remains in my hair holding me against his chest as he turns my body to shield me from view, giving me a moment to collect myself. Feyre’s hand ghosts over my ribs before she steps away to greet the new arrival.

     “Azriel,” she says warmly, and I release a shuddering breath as I grip the front of Rhys’s black jacket, needing a moment more to truly steady myself. The pads of his fingers rub lightly at my scalp before he disentangles his hand from my hair and wraps the arm protectively around my shoulders. I hear Azriel greeting Feyre with equal warmth, though the low growl in my mate’s chest draws a derisive snort from the both of them while I just shake my head. Territorial fae male nonsense, but I don’t think he can help himself at this point if he’s feeling the pull of the mating bond the way that I am.

     “Has Helion arrived?” Rhys asks, clearing his throat as he turns us both to face his brother. Azriel’s face is stormy when gives a brief nod, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “And our guest has been contained?”

     “For now. She’s still too unstable to be alone for long, but I wanted to be the one to tell you that Eris isn’t coming.”

     “Why?” the High Lord asks too softly as I stiffen against his side. I have questions I need him to answer, I can’t…I can’t die without asking them-

     ‘Don’t go there,’ Feyre warns, her voice swirling through my mind like cold autumn mist settling over an orchard, blanketing every dark thought threatening to break through the haze of want clouding my mind. ‘We’re not going to let anything more happen to you, my love. You will not suffer any more than necessary. There is a cure for this and we will not stop until we find it.’

     I want to believe she’s right, that her conviction alone is enough to save me from this. I just don’t know if it’s true. I hope so.

     “Beron required his presence.”

     “For what?”

     “An execution.” The memory of fire and popping flesh rails against the prison I’d stuffed it in within the depths of my mind. A dark presence swiftly snuffs it out like the night closing in on a guttering candle flame, and the mist descends there as well. I suppose they’ve both decided that memory would bring unnecessary suffering, but the suppression of it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should.

     “How interesting.”

     “I don’t have details yet, but I’ve sent someone to get them.”

     “I expect we should not keep Helion waiting, then.” Rhys drawls, smoothing a hand over the back of my dress. “Thank you, Azriel.”

     It’s then that the spymaster looks at me, and his hazel eyes warm a little at the sight. I think there will always be a sort of coldness to Azriel that feels as natural as the ever-circling shadows at his back, but there’s something about him that feels like home. Seeing him now reminds me how much I’ve missed him.

     “You look better,” he notes with a small smile as his gaze trails my form from head to toe with a trained precision. “Not well, but better.”

     “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I tease, suppressing a giggle at the way Rhys twitches at my side. The corner of the spymaster’s mouth twitches and he shakes his head, a warning if I’ve ever seen one. Feyre shoots Rhys a look of long-suffering exasperation and I train my eyes on my friend, afraid that if I look at either of my mates I won’t be able to stop laughing. “You’ll have to join us for dinner soon, if only to see your nephew. I swear he grows every time I look at him.”

     “Soon,” he replies with a nod. “I promise. I won’t keep you any longer, have a good night.”

     “You too.”

     “Goodbye, Az,” Feyre says, leaning in for a brief hug. “Thank you.”

     “Of course, Fey.” His words to her are gentle, significantly less formal. A brother giving an affectionate goodbye to a beloved sister. I don’t know that we’ll ever have a relationship like theirs, but I’m not sure I’d want that. I had brothers once and I’d loved them deeply, I don’t know if I would want to replicate that bond with anyone else. But knowing the way Feyre grew up, I don’t blame her for seeking the easy, familial affection she’d lacked most of her life. Once they part, Azriel turns to leave and one of the shadows at his heel breaks away to swirl briefly at my feet before it darts towards a door. He’s gone in a flash of darkness and Rhys rolls his shoulders before he tucks my hand into his elbow and gestures towards that door.

     “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

     “Then to bed,” Feyre purrs, her blue eyes darting between us as a feline smile tugs at her lips. I swear for a moment I feel Rhys shiver at my side. When I open my mouth to tease him, she looks at me and I get the briefest glimpse of her head between my thighs and the words die on my tongue as I fight to keep my own breathing steady.

     “Yes, darling, then we’re going to bed.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Second Best 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lee Bodecker

Summary: The newly-single sheriff sets his eye on an unexpected match.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

‘Really. Ur gonna ignore me.’

The latest in Greta’s endless texts pops up. Thankfully, the shitty reception blocks out most of them and they dump in bunches you can easily swipe away. You ignore her shallow pleas for the carnation badge you’ve been diligently stitching away at.

Your eyes are bleary from squinting and the fatigue tugging at the corners. Another day at the hotel leaves you with barely enough energy to enjoy your time off the clock. You pick away at the pink petals until your head threatens to split from the deep furrow in your brows.

You sigh and pack up your kit, setting it aside and pushing yourself off the floor. Ugh, you’re too young to be this achy. You yawn and stagger out of your room, puttering through the house lazily. It isn’t until you get to the kitchen that you notice the silence.

There’s an unbaked meatloaf on the counter, the oven preheated, and potatoes half-peeled. What the hell? You take a bottle of orange cream soda from the fridge, the special ones your mom gets you, and set off in search of your parents.

Your father’s voice is the crumb trail that leads you to your quarry. Your dad’s on the front porch, hands on the railing as your mother stands at his shoulder. The screen door snaps shut behind you, announcing your arrival abruptly. You follow their gaze to the police cruiser pull across the driveway.

“What’s going on?” You ask as you twist the cap off the bottle.

“We should be asking you,” your mother turns with arms crossed.

“What do you–”

“Taught you better than to steal,” your father hisses as he shifts back to glare at you.

“What are you talking about?” You shake your head.

“Now, now, we ain’t laying any charges…yet,” Bodecker comes up to the steps, previously obscured by the tall post, “just some questions.”

“Questions? About?” You hold the cream soda, untasted. “Mom, dad?”

“Go on,” your dad sneers, “talk to him.”

“Honey,” your mother turns on you, “so disappointed.”

“I didn’t do anything…” you murmur.

“Maybe ya didn’t but I still needa ask ya some stuff,” Bodecker insists, a sneaky wink behind your parents’ back.

You huff. What do you do? You could refuse and tell them how he tried to chase you down in his cruiser but you really don’t think it’s any more believable than it was yesterday. You tramp across the porch and descend the steps, staring at the sheriff.

He beckons you away from the porch. You follow warily. You don’t trust him but you know refusing will only make you look worse. It’s grade school all over again. Your parents always believed the principal over you.

“How ya doin’, darlin’?” He asks as he puts a hand on his hip, kicking out one foot as his stance pushes out his stomach further.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ain’t no way to speak to an officer,” he girds, “ah, ya know, we gotta call from the grocer… says someone snatched some gummy bears on their way out with a cone.”

“Huh?” 

“It’s just candy but it’s still a crime,” he tuts.

“I wouldn’t– I didn’t–” You sputter.

He smirks. Is he lying? Or did Greta swipe something? You wouldn’t put it past either of them.

“I’m not accusin’ you, I just wanted to give you the chance to clear your name,” he taunts.

“You know it wasn’t me,” you utter.

“Do I? I barely know ya,” he scoffs, “and it ain’t for lack of trying.”

“The store has cameras, doesn’t it?” 

“Mm, I thought so but turns out they’re decorative. Deterrent more than functional,” he snickers as he reaches to adjust the bolo tie at his collar, “so all I got to go on is eye witnesses. Supposed I could ask Grety girl.”

The pet name makes your stomach churn. Greta will already be pissed at you for snubbing her, you don’t doubt she’ll happily throw you under the bus, or the police cruiser, for a two dollar bag of candy.

“And if I tell you the truth, that it wasn’t me,” you challenge.

“Your word against hers,” he shrugs, “isn’t it?”

You look at him. His eyes gleam victoriously. He’s got you in a corner. You glance over as your dad sits on the porch, your mother’s shadow behind the screen door.

“What do you want?” You ask as you face him again.

“Just a ride along, darling,” he says, “won’t take long at all.”

You frown, your tongue bitter. You shudder and blow through your lips. What choice do you have?

“I’ll have you back by curfew, don’t you worry,” he chuckles.

“Fine,” you sniff, “fine, I… just need to grab some shoes.”

“Good girl,” he praises and reaches for the bottle in your hand. He takes it and sucks on the neck, downing nearly half of it, “sweet…” he muses, “bet you’re sweeter.”

You scowl and turn away from him. He can have the damn cane soda. You stomp towards the porch as he strides coolly behind you. Your mother opens the door as you approach.

“She’s just gonna come make a statement at the station,” Bodecker explains, “ain’t nothing wrong. Just to clear her name.”

“Oh,” your mother touches her chest daintily.

“We’re not paying no fines for you, girl,” your father growls.

You sidle past your mom and grab your slip-ons. You toss them on the porch and step into them before stomping back to the steps. You don’t say a word. You don’t need the sheriff digging you a bigger hole.

“Shouldn’t be none of that,” Bodecker says, “but she might wanna get better friends.”

You march towards the cruiser defiantly. He’s right. You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for Greta. But she isn’t your biggest problem. No, he’s got your soda and a smirk on his face.

[kangshxrtie]

ch. 31 ⤍ just for me

the evening air is warm, with just a light breeze. the glow of the waterpark surrounding you reflects in the shallow pools. the mini-golf course wraps around the park's water features. 

you step up to the tee. the first hole looks simple enough: a straight path to a hole behind a small hill.

you tap the ball, but you give it a little too much force. it zooms straight past the hole, barely missing the edge of the course. you and kazuha burst into laughter, realizing just how off your aim was.

kazuha covers her mouth with her hand, giggling. "damn, i fully thought you were lying when you said you were bad."

"shut up," you grin. "you’re about to do the same thing."

kazuha steps up confidently, pretending to stretch dramatically as if she’s about to tee off at a professional golf tournament. she taps the ball gently, but it veers to the side, bumping against the edge of the course before rolling back toward the starting line. you both burst out laughing, realizing that this night is going to be less about who wins and more about who messes up the least.

as you move through the next few holes, your technique doesn’t exactly improve. the third hole has a water hazard, which is pretty on-brand considering you’re basically in the middle of a waterpark. the goal is to hit the ball over a small stream running through the course, but when you take your shot, it doesn’t quite make it. instead, the ball rolls right into the stream, before drifting towards a nearby fountain.

you watch in dismay as your ball floats away.

"that’s so fucked up" you groan, shaking your head.

kazuha steps forward, already pulling her club back. "i got you," she says confidently.

she crouches down near the water and skillfully uses the handle of her putter to drag the ball closer. once it's within reach, she scoops it out and tosses it back onto the course.

you sigh in relief and give her a sheepish smile. "my hero."

kazuha grins, her eyes sparkling in the soft lighting. "anytime."

moving on to the next set of holes, you manage to do slightly better, but still find yourself accidentally hitting the ball too hard or in completely the wrong direction. on the fifth hole, you're aiming for a narrow pathway, butyour ball refuses to go straight. it veers off to the left, and you frown down at it in frustration.

you roll your eyes playfully. "i can't shoot straight to save my life."

kazuha raises an eyebrow, then smirks. "well, i guess it fits, considering you're not exactly straight either."

you laugh at her remark, but before you can respond, she steps behind you. "let me help."

kazuha’s arms wrap around you gently as she adjusts your grip on the putter. her presence making you forget about the game entirely. you can feel her breath against your ear as she leans in closer.

“just... like this,” she whispers, guiding your hands. together, you pull the putter back and hit the ball, sending it in a smooth, straight line toward the hole. it rolls in easily, and you both watch it drop in with satisfaction.

“easy,” she says, still standing close behind you.

you turn to look at her, and for a split second, everything seems to slow down. her face is just inches from yours, and the playful smirk on her lips softens into something sweeter. but before either of you can linger on the moment, she steps back with a grin.

“guess we’re just better together,” she jokes.

you laugh and shake your head. “guess so.”

a few more holes go by, and at this point, you’ve stopped even pretending to take the game seriously. neither of you is keeping score, which kazuha insists is for the best since you’ve probably shot your ball out of bounds more times than you’ve actually made it into a hole.

on the twelfth hole, you encounter a log swinging back and forth, a seemingly impossible obstacle to get through without some crazy luck. you hesitate for a moment, lining up your shot, but kazuha just steps up confidently. she swings her club in a smooth arc, and the ball sails perfectly between the swinging log, landing right in the hole.

"there’s no fucking way!" you exclaim.

kazuha grins and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “i guess i’m just that good.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help but admire her skill.

by the fifteenth hole, you’re feeling a bit better about your game, but still managing to hit the ball into the most inconvenient spots. you shoot too hard on one of the more straightforward holes, sending your ball flying off the course and into a ditch just off to the side, hidden by some bushes. it’s dark out now, the lights around the course casting long shadows, and you groan when you realize where your ball has landed.

“ugh, not again.”

kazuha gives you a teasing look. "what is it with you and losing your ball?”

you shrug dramatically. “it’s a talent.”

without a word, she grabs a flashlight from her phone and heads toward the bushes where your ball disappeared. you watch as she crouches down, vanishing briefly into the darkness before emerging a few seconds later, holding up your ball triumphantly.

"got it!"

you flash her a grateful smile as she walks back over to hand it to you. “you’re seriously a hero tonight.”

she waves it off casually, though you catch the slight blush on her cheeks. "anything for you."

finally, as you wrap up the eighteenth and last hole, kazuha laughs and puts her arm around your shoulders. "i think we can both agree that you won.”

you scoff, "i really don’t believe that."

kazuha shrugs. “doesn’t matter. i wasn’t keeping score, so let’s just say you win.”

"whatever you say."

kazuha gives you a playful nudge. "we play indoors next time though.”

laughing, you give her a light shove as you both walk to return your clubs. the night air feels a little cooler now, the soft glow of the waterpark fading behind you as you make your way back to the car.

the drive back is peaceful, filled with a conversation about the game and ideas for another date, and before you know it, you’re pulling into your driveway.

once inside, you head to your room. as you sit down beside kazuha, you notice the way she’s looking at you, soft, but there’s something more behind her eyes.

you turn toward kazuha, leaning closer. “why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

her gaze drops to your mouth, her lips parting as she whispers, “what? i can’t look at my beautiful girlfriend.” her voice is soft, but the intensity in her eyes makes your heart race.

“you can but i feel like you have other intentions,” you reply, leaning in just enough to tempt her.

“mmm,” kazuha nods, her eyes flicking back to your lips as she licks her own, the action slow and deliberate. “you know me so well,” she rasps lowly.

that’s all you needed to hear. you grab her face with both hands, pulling her lips to yours in one swift motion. her mouth meets yours with a sense of urgency—her lips soft but slightly chapped, adding to the rawness of the moment. her hands grip at your shirt, tugging you closer as the kisses grow desperate, and messy, both of you fighting for control.

you shift onto your knees, shrugging off your jacket without breaking the kiss, your lips locked in a heated exchange. kazuha’s hands find their way under your shirt, her fingers tracing your waist before tugging at the waistband of your jeans.

you pull back suddenly, just enough to break the kiss, and look down at her from your position above, a smirk playing on your lips. “nuh-uh. me first,” you whisper, your voice dripping with confidence. you push her gently, guiding her back onto the bed until she’s lying beneath you.

you shift to her right side, leaning down to kiss up the length of her neck, your breath hot against her skin. “how long have you wanted this?” you murmur, your fingers deftly unbuttoning her jeans.

“so long,” she breathes out, her voice barely audible, her eyes fluttering closed in anticipation.

you let out a quiet, breathy laugh, your lips trailing to the other side of her neck. as your hand slips into her underwear, your fingers brush lightly over her, teasing. “so wet already,” you tease, your voice laced with amusement.

kazuha lets out a soft moan, her body tensing as one of her arms wraps around you, her grip tight. “please,” she whispers, the need in her voice evident.

you kiss up the curve of her neck, your lips brushing against her ear as you apply the slightest pressure over her clit. “is this why we couldn’t stay longer?” you whisper, teasing her as your fingers move slowly. “needed me to take care of you, huh?”

her eyes meet yours, cheeks flushed with the familiar heat of desire, and she shoots you a playful look, biting back a smirk. “fuck you,” she teases, her voice breathless but full of challenge.

you smirk right back, your fingers moving with more purpose now. "we'll see about that."

you release the pressure from her clit, and kazuha's reaction is immediate. “no—please,” she whimpers, her hand moving toward yours in desperation. but before she can reach you, you grab her wrist, pinning it down with your free hand.

your lips graze her neck as you continue kissing her slowly. your other hand caresses her slit, spreading her wetness over her aching core, teasing her without giving her what she wants. her hips buck up instinctively, seeking more, but you pull your hand away, a wicked glint in your eye.

“needed me to fuck you?” you repeat, your voice low and commanding.

kazuha squirms beneath you, her body betraying her impatience. “yeah, okay,” she groans, her frustration apparent.

you hover your palm just above her pussy, watching her squirm as her need intensifies. “please,” she gasps, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking toward your hand.

leaning down, your lips brush her ear, your voice barely a whisper. “please what?”

“i need you to—” she stammers, her breath catching, a sharp exhale interrupting her words.

“to what?” you ask, pulling back to look at her. one of your fingers now circles her clit, teasing it, but still refusing to apply any real pressure. her hips buck upward again, craving more, but you withdraw your hand once more.

“i need you to fuck me,” she whispers, her voice shaky as she bites her bottom lip. her hips keep moving, slow and desperate, silently begging for relief.

“so needy,” you chuckle, leaning down to kiss her lips softly.

you pull back slightly, your voice firm. “take this off.” you tug at the waistband of her underwear, watching her eagerly lift her hips to help you remove both her jeans and underwear. once she’s bare before you, you shift, positioning yourself between her legs.

you drape one of her legs over your shoulder as you lower yourself onto your stomach. your hand reaches up under her hoodie, cupping one of her breasts, your fingers kneading gently as your lips descend to her clit. you start with slow licks, teasing her with the tip of your tongue.

at the same time, your other hand slips two fingers inside her, her slick heat welcoming you instantly. you push in slowly, savoring the way her body responds to your touch.

“oh fuck,” kazuha groans, her back arching off the bed as the sensations overwhelm her.

you start slowly pumping your fingers in and out of kazuha, your tongue swirling over her clit with expert precision. kazuha props herself up on her elbows, her eyes glued to you, watching the way you’re working her body. her lips part slightly, brows furrowing in pure bliss.

“holy fuck,” she whispers, her voice breathless as your pace quickens, your fingers plunging deeper, faster.

just as your mouth momentarily leaves her clit, she swiftly moves her leg off your shoulder and grabs the back of your head, forcing your mouth back between her legs. “don’t fucking stop,” she growls through gritted teeth, desperate for the release only you can give her.

a moan rumbles through your throat against her clit, and kazuha collapses back fully onto the bed, her back arching as you slide a third finger inside her. the sensation making a groan slip past her lips as your free hand presses down firmly on her lower abdomen, intensifying the pleasure.

“you could’ve just asked if you needed it this bad,” you tease, pulling your lips back slightly from her sensitive bundle of nerves.

“shut up,” kazuha chokes out, her voice thick with need.

“mmm, are you gonna come? just for me?” you taunt, the sight of her unraveling beneath you almost too much to believe. her thighs tremble with each stroke of your fingers, and you can feel her clenching tighter around them.

“mhm,” she breathes, her eyes shut tight, barely able to focus on anything but the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her. sensing her getting closer, you curl your fingers inside her, hitting that spot as you suck on her clit with renewed intensity.

kazuha gasps, her body completely surrendering to the sensations. both of her hands grip your hair as the tension in her core tightens, bringing her right to the brink.

“i’m gonn—oh fuck—i’m fucking cumming,” she moans loudly, her head thrown back as she finally lets go. you feel the warm gush of liquid coating your fingers and lips as she squirts, her body convulsing beneath you.

you pull back slightly, withdrawing your fingers as you sit up on your knees. her pussy is glistening, soaking wet, the sound of your fingers pumping in and out of her still echoing in your ears.

“fuck~,” you drawl, your palm resting against her pulsating core. your eyes flick up to kazuha’s face, watching her chest rise and fall rapidly as she catches her breath.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

kazuha nods, still too breathless to speak, her eyes closed in blissful exhaustion.

“where the fuck did you—” kazuha's voice is shaky, her breathing still uneven as she tries to gather herself.

she takes a moment, catching her breath, and then chuckles softly between breaths. “where did you learn how to do all that?”

you shrug casually, a small smirk forming on your lips as you lay down beside her. “i guess i’ve had enough practice to know what i’m doing,” you say.

the room is now enveloped in soft darkness, the sun almost completely set, casting shadows across the walls. you hear kazuha pulling up her jeans as you stare up at the ceiling. before you know it, her face hovers above yours, her expression a mix of playful curiosity and lingering desire.

her hand slips under your shirt, fingertips brushing the waistband of your jeans as she leans in to press her lips softly against yours. the kiss is tender but laced with intention.

“my turn?” she whispers against your lips, her voice low and teasing, her fingers tracing the edge of your jeans. the suggestion sends a new rush of excitement through you, and you can’t help but smile, anticipation building once again.

ALL CHAPTERS !!! | NEXT CH !!!

an ⤍ soo this seems like a good point to say next chapter might be the last

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 9 (Part 1)

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, Din Djarin POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, unresolved sexual tension, pining, light angst, implications of nudity

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

A/N: I see this chapter as the first half of a two-parter. I split it in half for ease of consumption and because when I originally wrote it, I hadn't been able to post in ages. Enjoy these two little vignettes! You will get two more in the next "half."

___

The Refresher

After your conversation in the cockpit on your way to Trandosha, life aboard the Razor Crest returned to normal almost startlingly quickly. Mando permitted the ship to travel on autopilot for once, allowing the flight computer to calculate your path, and spent hours researching the last known locations, backgrounds, and crimes of the newest batch of bounties he had received from Karga. You fell right back into your routine of splitting your time between ship maintenance and occupying Grogu; the boy seemed positively thrilled to be back in his leather carrier strapped to your back as you puttered around the cargo hold. He was full of chatter, cooing and babbling and squealing more than you had ever heard. Not for the first time, you wondered whether he might eventually speak Basic or if perhaps his species simply didn’t communicate that way, but you decided that regardless, you liked the extra noise. You could almost imagine what he might be saying, and you found yourself filling in his half of your conversations in your mind as you went about your work. It passed the time, and it made you smile.

Now that you felt confident that you would be spending the foreseeable future in this way, with the Razor Crest as your home, it took you less than a week to come up with a draft for your largest improvement project to date.

“Hey, Mando – do you have a minute?” you asked, poking your head into the cockpit where the Mandalorian sat, bent over one of the computer consoles in concentration.

“What is it?” he replied distractedly. He did not meet your gaze and instead remained focused on the screen before him, which appeared to be a topical map of a dense, verdant forest.

You tucked the datapad you were holding close to your chest, rubbing your thumbs over the edge nervously. Stepping fully into the cockpit, you said, “I have a proposition for you. I’d like your support to start on…kind of a big project in the cargo hold.”

That was enough to get his attention. Pausing his perusal of the map, he turned in his chair to face you, planting his hands on his widespread knees. “What kind of project?”

His voice sounded cautious, and you could understand why. Most of the work you had done on the Razor Crest up until this point you had done without his involvement. He had purchased supplies for you when you requested, and he was always happy to review the reports you generated to demonstrate any efficiency gains you had achieved, but otherwise, you each had kept to your own activities. This was the first time you were asking for his blessing on something before simply doing it.

You took a steadying breath and explained, “With both of us living here for the long term, I really think we should invest in installing a fully functioning refresher.” You paused for a moment then added, “And an additional bunk, if I can figure out how to make one fit in the space we have.”

Mando was silent at first, appearing to consider the idea. “Is that possible?” he asked, his helmet cocked to the side skeptically. “The water storage and recycling systems on ST-70s weren’t designed to support full ‘freshers.”

You nodded in agreement. You had thought of this. “Yes. With the size of the water tank we have right now, you’re right – we could maybe support a running water sink and a privy, but never a shower. But I’ve been taking a look at the schematics, and I feel like there’s a better way to organize the forward space in the cargo hold.” You tapped through a few controls on your datapad and pulled up your sketch of the design, which you had laid over a copy of the Razor Crest’s blueprints. You held it out to him to examine. “It would be tight,” you added, “but I think, if you’re comfortable with it, I should be able to rearrange the hardware that is currently there in such a way that would allow us just enough space for a water tank one size larger than our current one and a ‘fresher.”

You watched, your lower lip between your teeth, as Mando zoomed in on your sketch, silently making note of all of the proposed changes. “Sounds…cramped,” he said after a moment.

You shrugged reluctantly. “It would be, a bit. But it would have a fully functioning door, instead of a curtain,” you argued. “We’d have somewhere to actually brush our teeth instead of using those chalky cleaning tabs. We’d have somewhere to store our toiletries. And we could take showers.��� You almost groaned aloud at the thought. How long had it been since you had experienced such a luxury? “Actual, real, hot showers.”

On the space station that orbited Chardaan where the workers’ barracks resided, rows of sonic showers in communal bathrooms had been the norm. Sonic showers were efficient and generally more practical for space living, as they required very few resources to power, and at the very least, they removed dirt and oil and kept everyone from smelling like they had been living in a metal sphere with recycled air for months at a time. However, to you, something about sonic showers never left you feeling fully clean, and after months without access to even that, you were starting to feel truly uncomfortable in your own body. You yearned for the sensation of hot, soapy water sluicing down your skin and foaming up your hair, and if that was your experience, you could hardly imagine how Mando felt, wearing that suit of armor all day every day.

The bounty hunter nodded slowly as he silently reviewed your plans. “And the bunk?” he asked.

You grimaced. “That one I haven’t quite figured out yet,” you replied hesitantly. “I’m still sketching some ideas. I feel much more confident about the ‘fresher.”

“Hm,” he hummed, passing the datapad back to you. “Well, I approve of the refresher idea. Your design looks sound. Make a list of the materials you’ll need. I’ll see what I can do about getting them during our next stop.”

“Ugh, thank you, Mando!” You sighed heavily with relief, excitement buzzing in your chest. “You won’t regret it!”

A week later, after a successful first hunt, the Mandalorian returned to the Razor Crest with a large, male Trandoshan in binder cuffs and a repulsorlift sled laden with bins of supplies dragging behind him. It was all you could do not to fly down the gangplank and fling your arms around him at the sight. Instead, you managed to funnel that energy into just bouncing in place on your tiptoes as you began unloading the sled, your fingers positively itching to wrap themselves around your new toys.

You could have sworn you heard a rasping chuckle filter through your companion’s helmet as he watched your unbridled enthusiasm, and although it made your cheeks burn, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

From the time you took your plasma torch to the first piece of durasteel bulkhead to the time the refresher was complete and ready for use ended up being about two weeks of constant labor. But Maker, if it wasn’t a labor of love.

Piece by piece, inch by painstaking inch, you systematically disassembled everything to the left of the bunk, starting with that heinous multi-species vacuum ship head (which you had despised since your first day on board) and going all the way to the forward end of the hull. Water filtration? Enhanced. Clean water tank? Replaced entirely with one of a larger size. Scanners, jamming devices, antennae, even the ship’s headlights – all of it got taken apart down to its components, condensed, rewired, and fit back together to make room for the new space. Aside from the work you had done with Peli on the carbonite unit, it was easily the most challenging work you had ever done on a ship of this age, and you relished every second of it. You had always enjoyed puzzles, ever since you were a small child, and fitting each one of these systems back into the reduced space while still ensuring that everything functioned as it was designed was an especially rewarding puzzle.

Once you felt confident with your modifications, you began installing the refresher itself. Mando had been correct in his assessment when he evaluated your plans – the space was cramped, and due to budget constraints, it was almost excessively utilitarian. You had selected plain durasteel for the walls, privy, and running water sink. A single pane of transparisteel separated the shower from the rest of the room, left open on the far end to allow for easy entry without needing the space to accommodate a swinging door. You had managed to convince Mando to spring for a box of tiles of industrial, anti-slip flooring that would keep you both from sliding around in there, particularly when you were in flight, but other than that minor upgrade, everything you requested was about as economical as you could find.

It was far from glamorous, but by the time you finished waterproofing all of your seals and stepped back to admire your handiwork, you felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight. The Razor Crest was Mando’s ship, Mando’s home, but for the first time, you thought that perhaps one day, she might feel like yours, too.

When you finally felt ready to give everything a true test, Mando was out on a hunt. He had landed the Razor Crest on a remote planet in the middle of a humid forest, well-hidden by a copse of trees hung heavily with vines and moss, and you had neither seen nor heard from him in several days. You and Grogu had just finished your dinner for the evening, and the boy’s wide, dark eyes were heavy with fatigue. Seizing the opportunity, you tucked your little green charge into his hammock above the bunk, gave him a couple of gentle rocks until he began to nod off, and then eagerly dove into the newly-finished ‘fresher.

It was even better than you had expected.

The water from the shower was hot on your skin, almost shockingly so, and steam collected quickly in the cramped space, the fan you had fabricated working overtime to draw the excess moisture out of the room and into the exhaust vents. You had come across a lone bar of soap and a singular bottle of shampoo at the bottom of a storage bin one afternoon, and you used them both liberally. With how long it had been since you had last done so, it took multiple washes of both your hair and your body before you felt fully clean, but you couldn’t say you minded the extra time. It was an unspeakable luxury, to be able to stand under running water like this in a pre-Empire gunship that spent most of her time in hyperspace, and you found you couldn’t begrudge yourself the opportunity to bask in it.

Besides, the soap was clearly Mando’s. It was rich with the warm, spicy, masculine fragrance that you had first smelled in his bunk, and surrounding yourself with it like this had your skin flushing and your nerve endings buzzing. Perhaps you ought to have been embarrassed by your body’s reaction to nothing but a scent, but something about being tucked away in this tiny, little room, with its close walls and its own door that locked, knowing that Grogu was fast asleep and Mando wasn’t on board, had you feeling a bit bold. A bit shameless.

So caught up were you in your own enjoyment that you completely missed the sound of your comm link going off in your jumpsuit pocket, left crumpled in a pile on the bunk. On the other side of the door.

It was several more minutes before you found the motivation to turn off the water and step out of the shower. The prolonged heat (and perhaps also the arousal burning between your legs) had left you feeling a bit light-headed, so you toweled yourself off only briefly before wrapping the soft black material around your body and sliding open the door to get some cooler air.

However, to your great surprise, rather than being greeted by an empty cargo hold, you instead immediately met the impassive gaze of the Mandalorian.

His beskar was caked with mud, though he appeared uninjured, and he was in the process of freezing what looked to be an unconscious female Zabrack in carbonite. The gases were just beginning to dissipate and reveal her serene face outlined in matte gray, and although his body was facing her, his visor was fixed intently on you.

“Mando!” you gasped, your hands flying to your chest to grip your towel.

Silence, dense and significant, hovered between you. The bounty hunter continued to stare in your direction, and you could feel your throat begin to dry out and your heart speed up as you suddenly became acutely aware of your state of undress. Your towel was a little thing, a maintenance rag hardly meant for this purpose, and although it managed to cover from your breasts to the very tops of your thighs, that was hardly comparable to your typical boilersuit. And you had barely taken the time to dry yourself off. Your exposed skin shone in the dim cargo hold lighting; your long, unbound hair dripped a puddle onto the deck near your bare feet.

You felt strangely caught out, almost ashamed, as though the Mandalorian had discovered you in some compromising position.

A familiar, ill-timed wave of arousal flashed through you, raising goosebumps across your body and tightening your nipples as you caught a whiff of the scent that now clung to your damp skin. His scent.

Perhaps he had caught you.

Just when you thought you couldn’t bear the weight of this silence anymore, Mando replied simply, “Apologies.” Even through his vocoder, his voice sounded dry and deep, as though he had pulled the word from the depths of his chest, as though it had been a struggle to do so.

You swallowed thickly and shifted on your feet. “The, uh…” You cleared your throat, awkward and positively burning up from the inside. “The ‘fresher’s done. And the shower’s perfect. You should, uh…you should really give it a try.”

He offered you a single nod. “I will.”

You nodded, too. Your head felt loose on your neck, your mind spinning. “Okay. Good.”

Another silence, and you chewed on your lower lip as you cast your eyes around the room, searching for something, anything to look at that wasn’t Mando’s piercing gaze. Eventually, you landed upon your work boots, stacked neatly at the foot of the bunk, and the rumpled mess of your clothes spilling out of recess in the wall.

“Um. If…if I could just – ” you began, gesturing toward the pile of clothing with a little jerk of your head.

That, it seemed, was finally enough to pull the bounty hunter out of whatever shocked trance your appearance had seemed to inspire. He physically startled, turning away from the bounty in the carbonite chamber and drawing himself up straighter, and he dropped his satchel to the floor with a thud.

“Of course. Yes,” he said curtly, already moving toward the ladder up to the cockpit. “I’ll…start the take-off sequence. Let me know when you’re – ”

You found yourself nodding again. “Yeah, for sure. I’ll meet you up there in a bit,” you replied. Your voice sounded overly bright and forced even to your own ears, desperately eager to move past the heart-racing, thigh-clenching self-consciousness of the last few minutes.  

You watched then as Mando retreated up the ladder with a speed that you had never seen before. Tightening your hold on your towel, you slumped back against the ‘fresher doorframe, weak-kneed, and let the durasteel cool your flushed skin.

You weren’t ignorant to the tension that had been building between you and the Mandalorian over the last weeks, but it had never felt like…that. Like his gaze had been a physical touch on your skin, like your core had melted into liquid heat.

Like the delicious, warm slickness now coating the insides of your thighs.

Nothing had ever felt like that.

___

The Bazaar

Din supposed he ought to have known the question was coming sooner or later, but he still found himself somewhat taken aback the first time you asked to leave the Razor Crest during a hunt.

He had been guiding the ship in a steady descent through the atmosphere of Trevi IV, aiming for the spaceport port outside of Trevi City, when you broached the subject.

“I…really desperately need of some new clothes. And hygiene things. Now that we have the ‘fresher, you know,” you had explained haltingly, a charming flush burning high on your cheeks at the mention of your most recent project. “If you’d be willing to give me an advance on my pay, that is. I won’t need much – promise.”

The Mandalorian had found himself almost needing to bite back a groan at the mention of the ‘fresher. You had been correct, of course – the addition of that space had been a marked improvement to the quality of life on the Razor Crest since its completion, but no matter how many times either of you managed to use it without incident, he couldn’t help but recall the sight of you standing in the doorway – cloaked in steam, clothed in nothing but the mere suggestion of a towel, miles of soaking wet skin on display, and smelling unmistakably of him. The vision had nearly unmanned him in the moment, and still it continued to haunt him, even many days later.

It was entirely unprecedented, the way you had come to affect him. The lilt of your laughter at Grogu’s antics, the scent of your hair on the pillow in his bunk, the strong, capable grip of your hands on your hydrospanner, the dark, glossy shine of your eyes as you ran your gaze over his body when you thought he wasn’t looking. All of it had burrowed into the very depths of him, nestled itself near his heart, immoveable. He had never experienced anything like it in his life.

However, rather than confessing any of that, Din had instead simply nodded.

“Sure,” he had agreed. “I need to go to the bazaar district first on a lead anyway. You and the child can join me when we land, get what you need.”

The grateful smile you had sent his way had the Mandalorian feeling his face heat up even under his helmet.

It looked to be around midday local time when the Razor Crest finally landed, and by the time Din was ready to depart, he found you already waiting by the rear blast doors, Grogu strapped to your back in his favorite leather carrier and an eager expression on your face. You had dug an old satchel of his, threadbare and dusty, out of one of the storage compartments, and it hung limply across your body, empty and ready to be put to use. With a wordless nod and a hidden smile, he gestured in the direction of the doors. After you.

It occurred to him as he watched you descend the gangplank that this would be the first opportunity you had had to explore any of the planets he had taken you to thus far. Of course, your time with Peli had certainly been a change of pace from daily life aboard the Razor Crest, but that had been months ago now, and you hadn’t been permitted to leave the hangar at the time. And since then, he had all but insisted that you stay on the ship when he left to hunt. For your safety, and for the child’s, but regardless of how well-intentioned the reason, it wasn’t lost on him how little of the galaxy you had been allowed to see in your life.

Din resolved himself then that although today you would only be visiting a market, only purchasing some necessities, and although he was technically in Trevi City on a hunt, he would not allow you to return to the Crest until you had had your fill of the experience. He was on your timetable today. He would ensure you made the most of it.  

It had been some time since the bounty hunter had made his way to Trevi City, but he found it mostly unchanged as he led you and Grogu out of the spaceport’s docking yards and into the city proper. Trevi IV was a desert world, featuring miles of dusty plains and dramatic plateaus, but Trevi City was an oasis. Nestled against the craggy shores of the largest body of water on the planet, cooling, salty breezes wound their way through flagstone streets and buffeted against sundried brick buildings. Shops, stalls, carts, and tents of all shapes and sizes stretched in every direction, around every corner, and the crush of people was truly remarkable. Merchants – both local and traveling, customers of every age and walk of life, street performers in bright costumes, children and small animals darting in and out of the throng. At first glance, it seemed incomprehensible – the epitome of chaos.

And although Din had never been particularly fond of crowds, he couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction at the look of pure joy that spread across your face as you took in the bazaar.

First on your list, he knew, was clothing, so with a gentle nudge to your lower back, the Mandalorian steered you in the direction of the textile district – a few blocks down and to the left. The stalls there were draped in sumptuous fabrics, decorated with gold tassels, and staffed by women with sun-worn skin and friendly, welcoming smiles. You looked back at him then, uncertain, but Din gave you a wordless nod and scooped Grogu up and out of his carrier without preamble.

“Go on. I’ll keep an eye on the child. Just explain to one of them what you need, and they will help you,” he said, inclining his helmet toward the line of vendors. He wanted you to feel free to browse, to mingle unencumbered.

After a few halting introductions and some hesitant questions on your part, you did just that. From several yards away, the bounty hunter listened to you describe your needs to one of the women. He watched you tug self-consciously on the collar of your well-worn boilersuit, the olive green fabric now heavily stained with blood and engine oil and Maker knew what else, and he watched as the merchant woman nodded along, kindness in her eyes. Before long, she was looping your arm through hers and leading you deeper into the line of covered stalls, pulling items from racks and tables as she went.

Din kept his distance as you shopped, tracking the top of your head as you wound through the merchandise but never following. Only when you ducked behind a heavily embroidered curtain with an armload of items to try on did he look away, instead finding his attention captured by a display of colorful scarves and handkerchiefs fluttering in the ocean breeze. Before he could consider it further, he found himself in front of the display, running his gloved fingers over assortments of linen, cotton, and silk.

Mere moments later, he left the booth, a cotton scarf decorated with a delicate floral pattern in his pocket and a few credits less in his purse.

By the time you were ready to move on to the next items on your list, your borrowed, threadbare satchel was nearly full to bursting. Your face glowed with pride as you showed him your selections – a brand-new boilersuit (this one in a fetching deep blue), a pair of brown cargo pants and a matching jacket, a stack of undershirts, and two sets of soft, black sleep clothes. Din also tried desperately not to notice the new sets of undergarments hidden at the bottom of your bag as he dutifully handed the total payment over to the vendor.  

He, of course, was unsuccessful. The images of those scraps of fabric, revealed accidentally as you dug through your sack, were now burned onto the backs of his eyelids, ever-present whenever he closed his eyes.

“Hygiene next?” you asked eagerly, rocking back and forth on your feet like a small child. Grogu giggled from his perch in the bounty hunter’s arms, and the latter nodded, clearing his throat.

“Hygiene is this way,” he replied with a gesture to the east.

His voice sounded suspiciously strained even to his own ears.

Your time perusing the toiletry stalls was much briefer than your time with the textiles, but it left Din perhaps even more disquieted. Your first purchase was a pair of full-sized terry cloth towels, which in turn called to mind the image of the miniscule one you had clutched over your breasts in the doorway of the ‘fresher and caused his brain to short-circuit. You also picked up a wide-toothed, wooden comb for your hair, saying casually, “I don’t know if you have hair under that helmet, Mando, but if you do, you’re welcome to borrow it if you need to! You must get awful tangles,” which left him utterly speechless.

However, perhaps the most taxing of all was the booth boasting hand-made soaps and haircare products. The Mandalorian watched, his throat dry, as your capable, calloused fingers floated gently over the many colorful bars and bottles, occasionally picking one up and lifting it to your nose to give a delicate sniff. Without fail, you would always then extend the item to him, placing it directly below the edge of his helmet.

“What do you think of this one?” you asked. “Or how about this? Too fruity? That one’s too much for me, I think. Oh, this one smells like nightblossoms!”

And on and on.

It wasn’t really that he minded being asked for his opinion. On the contrary, he found your enthusiastic chatter pleasant, and something inside him warmed at the idea that you might actually care about his preferences when it came to your body products. However, there was a singular thought that refused to leave him alone every time you asked for his input, one he dared not voice.

On perhaps the tenth bottle of shampoo that provoked a noncommittal response, you sighed heavily.

“Come on, Mando, give me something here,” you whined, clearly exasperated. “You’re the one who has to be cooped up with me on the Crest every day, the one who has to share a ‘fresher with me. I’d think you might care about whether the shampoo I buy gives you a headache or not.”

Din cocked his head, considering. He thought of the dark, blown-pupil looks you sent his way when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the burning flush that extended down your chest coming out of the ‘fresher, the way you leaned into his touch the few times he had dared run the back of his fingers across your cheek.

Perhaps…perhaps you might welcome him being a bit more candid with you than he had been previously.

“Well?” you pressed. Irritation crept into the edge of your voice then, and the Mandalorian found himself nodding.

“Very well,” he murmured, soft and gruff through his vocoder. “Follow me.”

Without another word, he led you to another stall, this one carrying similar products as the previous but with an aesthetic that clearly intended to be marketed toward men. The stall was draped in tactical netting with wares hanging from the ropes, and the tables were dressed with simple black cloths. The various bars and bottles were fashioned in more neutral colors, earthy and cool, and the merchant manning the till was dressed in an austere black suit. He nodded in your direction once but said nothing.

It did not matter. Din knew precisely what he was looking for.

Barely a moment later, before you could give voice to the questions that were clearly in your eyes, the bounty hunter plucked a single bar of soap and single bottle of hair wash off the table and extended them both to you.

You glanced from the proffered toiletries to Din’s face and then back again, your eyebrows raised quizzically. “These? You think I should buy these?” you asked dubiously.

He inclined his helmet in the affirmative. “Yes.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What are they?”

He simply continued to stare at you, silent, willing you to reach out and take them. Eventually, you did. Your fingers brushed his as you took the bar and the bottle into your hands, and if Din did not know better, he would have been certain that he could feel the warmth of your skin through his gloves.

Skepticism still apparent in your expression, you raised the bar of soap to your nose and sniffed lightly. Instantly, your eyes widened, and Din watched with liquid heat in his gut as your pupils expanded.

“This – ” you started, then paused and cleared your throat loudly. “This is your soap.” Your cheeks darkened, your lower lip disappearing between your teeth.

“Yes,” the Mandalorian confirmed.

“You – you think I should buy the same thing? The same as you?” You were stammering, seemingly struggling to maintain eye contact.

“It suits you,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie. As much as he enjoyed the scent on himself, it somehow was only enhanced on your skin, your hair. It was comforting, warm and inviting.

It spoke to a primeval part of his psyche, something that purred at the thought of you being marked as belonging to him. Only him.  

“Well, it’s all I’ve had ‘til now. You don’t think it makes me smell like a man?” you asked with a forced chuckle, a clear attempt to inject some levity into what had suddenly become a very weighted conversation.

At that, Din could not stop himself from taking a step closer, invading your space, forcing you to tilt your head back on your neck to keep looking in his eyes. His breath came short in his chest at the proximity, and his voice crackled through his helmet modulator as he replied, “Trust me. There is nothing about you that could be mistaken for a man.”

An almost bashful expression came over you then, and you dropped your gaze. “That a good thing?” you murmured.

The bounty hunter could only manage a nod in response.

You left the booth with three new bars of soap and three bottles of hair wash in his favorite scent, the haul quickly added to your satchel with a secret smile and a heavy blush.

At that point, Grogu began to fuss in Din’s arms, whining softly and smacking his lips in the way that you both had learned meant that he was getting hungry, so the three of you ended the afternoon hopping from vendor to vendor sampling a variety of Trevi street foods. Well, perhaps more accurately, the Mandalorian watched as you and Grogu enjoyed the local fare – he packaged up his own to take back to the Razor Crest.

First, you selected an almost comically large wrap from a stall run by a male Bith – a pillow-soft flatbread wrapped around some variety of savory meat, a relish of pickled vegetables, and a bright orange sauce with a heavily spiced aroma. The sauce left broad, messy streaks across your nose and cheeks as you ate, but you paid it no mind. Instead, you simply laughed and plucked a few choice bits of meat out of the flatbread and passed them over your shoulder to Grogu, who was once again strapped to your back in his carrier. The boy babbled and munched happily, and Din took it upon himself to go back to the stall and request a handful of napkins.

Next, you followed the unctuous scent of fry oil to a tiny cart staffed by a Truishii woman. This one was peddling small paper bags filled to the brim with an assortment of deep-fried vegetables, coated in a thin golden batter and soaking the bag with grease. You groaned under your breath at the first bite, and Din immediately purchased a second bag.

Finally, after a bit of leisurely meandering and browsing, you stumbled across an open-air cantina just as the sun was beginning to set. A hired band played a lively tune from one corner of the cantina’s patio, and barmaids wove gracefully between rickety tables carrying trays laden with tankards. The Mandalorian looked on as you watched the band, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips, your body swaying unconsciously to the beat.

Before he could think better of it, he placed a gentle hand at the base of your spine to get your attention. “Would you like to sit down? Have a drink?” he asked, bringing his helmet down close so you could hear him better over the music.

You startled slightly under his touch, but Din could not ignore the way you seemed to lean into it, or the deep breath you took at the sound of his vocoder in your ear. You nodded silently in response, and the Mandalorian took that as his cue to lead you a table, flagging down a barmaid on the way.

He ordered you a tankard and Grogu a cup of bone broth as you settled into your seat, and the wide-eyed look of overwhelm as you took in the tankard’s contents made Din laugh out loud.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice tinged with awe.

He smirked. “I’m not sure what it’s called. It’s a local brew, made with honey.”

You swallowed heavily, giving the cup one more once-over before taking it in both hands. “Well. Bottoms up!” You inclined the tankard in his direction then brought it to your lips, drinking deeply.

In mere minutes, it was empty, and you were ordering a second, eyes glossy and cheeks flushed.

It was well past sundown by the time Din helped you stand from your seat at the cantina and led you back through the winding flagstone streets to the spaceport. Grogu had long since fallen asleep in his carrier, his little head resting on the back of your shoulder as he snored gently, and you had polished off nearly three full tankards of that honeyed beverage, leaving you giggly and wobbling on your feet. You were singing softly to yourself, humming one of the songs the band had been playing and grinning from ear to ear, and the effect was so charming, it was all the Mandalorian could do to keep himself from joining in.

When you arrived back at the Razor Crest, however, you seemed to have finally burned out all of your energy. You stumbled and lurched up the gangplank the moment it touched the ground, pausing only briefly once inside the ship to drop the bag full of your purchases unceremoniously onto the deck floor. Din called out your name like a question, but rather than answering, you simply removed Grogu’s carrier from your back, still holding the sleeping child, and passed it into the Mandalorian’s waiting arms.

“I have to lay down,” you said softly, almost to yourself.

Din nodded and gently steered you in the direction of the bunk. “This way,” he replied, just as softly.

At the entrance to the bunk alcove, you toed off your boots and then, to Din’s great surprise, stripped off your boilersuit, leaving you clad in nothing but a black breast band, a worn pair of gray undershorts, and a pair of crew-length socks. Everything else was left haphazardly piled on the deck, sure to be a tripping hazard when you woke, but you clearly couldn’t be bothered. Muttering to yourself, eyes half closed, you clambered into the bunk.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked after a moment.

“‘M fine,” you murmured, your voice thick and muffled by the pillow. “Never drank that much before. Not allowed in the barracks. Couldn’t afford it when I ran away.”

Din nodded even though he knew you couldn’t really see it. “I understand. Alcohol was discouraged during my training in the Fighting Corps. It…takes some getting used to.”

You hummed in response, snuggling deeper into the bunk’s barren mattress. Something inside him warmed, and he smiled softly at the sight.

The bounty hunter took a moment then to carefully extract the sleeping Grogu from his carrier, settling him in the little hammock he had fashioned for the boy that stretched across the bunk alcove. It was only when he was preparing to walk away and settle himself in the cockpit for the night that he heard you speak again.

“Mando?” you called softly.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For today,” you whispered. You were nearly asleep, your words slurred and slow. “It was wonderful. You’re wonderful. Best day of my life.”

[hardlyinteresting]

Sympathy For The Devil

Day Four of the #MarchHotchness event. Find the other days HERE Thank you to @hotchfiles for creating this event 💕

As always Request here! | Masterlist

Warnings: mention of damnation, mention canon typical violence, misplaced guilt, allusions to childhood abuse, mention of childhood injury

"But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most" Mark Twain

He's ill-deserving of the affection you show him. Every day you wake up and go to sleep loving him. He struggles to fathom the odds; occasionally entertaining the possibility that this is just some kind of dream state. Surely it is nothing more than a vivid vagary. 

Tonight despite his best efforts to be silent as he puts his bags down his go bag, his puttering around the room wakes you up. You call to him from where you lay, asking him to come to bed. Lately, you've grown wise to his tendency to force insomnia after a bad case. You won't tolerate it, not when he should be sleeping next to you. 

Your touch alone could heal him. Showered and changed, he settles into bed beside you. Your thumb traces a cut on his jawline, the action is a silent question. 

“The unsub got a good punch in,” he explains.

He doesn't tell you that his brawl with the man was all for nothing. He'd been unable to subdue him, and moments later Morgan took the man out with a shot to the chest. 

In the shower he had spent more than a reasonable amount of time scrubbing his hands and face to rid himself of blood splatter he had wiped away hours earlier. He has the life of another on his hands. He was a bad man, sure, but a fellow human being nonetheless.

Ending a life no matter how evil doesn't sit right with him. One of the most difficult and least considered parts of his job. 

He was once told he was wicked. He was hot-headed, stubborn, and insubordinate. His school teacher had rapped his knuckles as punishment for his behaviour. His fingers stayed bruised for more than a week; hands stained and marked by his damned soul. 

If he clenches his fists now, he can still feel the sting of split skin the same way he feels that familiar simmering rage is boiling just beneath the surface. He keeps his anger in check and the devil on his shoulder. 

He wonders how much really separates him from the killer he hunts. He steps into their shoes to find them-- feigns empathy to talk them down. He's taken more than one life in his career. And yet, he comes home at the end of it all to lay beside you; to hold his son. 

“You are not the devil you think you are, Aaron,” your voice is only a whisper, but it cuts through the layers of his thoughts.

[mags6422]

It Happened One November - Part 22

A/N: Super NSFW this chapter - my under 18 readers please seek Jesus before/after reading.

Part 21 | 0 | Part 23

Going back to school after two weeks of sleeping in and lazing about is a wake up call, but seeing Billy strutting down the hall in his coat is at least one thing to look forward to. The bruises have faded by now and he looks hot as hell in those jeans. The sparkle of silver in his left ear makes Steve grin as he lifts his fist to meet Billy's in passing on the way to class. 

It takes two weeks before Billy comes knocking on his door in the middle of the night with a split lip. And it's a burn on his arm the week after that. Steve’s heart breaks a little to see him in pain and he thanks Billy for coming to him. For letting him help. 

They don't talk much on those nights. Steve just patches him up as best he can and holds him until the early hours of the morning when Billy has to leave to sneak back into his own room.

Steve never goes to sleep after those nights, same as the nights he wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares. He just putters around the house,  does homework if he can, and is the first student on campus, right after the janitors to leave a new note in Billy's locker to hopefully make him smile.

..............

The last weekend in January sees the basketball team loading up on the team bus in the dim light of early morning to go to their annual away tournament in Indianapolis where they get to play against all the best teams in the district. 

Steve is a nervous wreck the whole drive up, his leg bouncing away as he picks at his nails and stares out the window. 

“Dude, chill.” Billy admonishes, laying a hand on his thigh to force him to stop bouncing. “What's got you all jumpy? I know it's not the game. You haven't given a shit about this in a year.” Not since demogorgons and government conspiracies is what he doesn't say. 

“It's nothing, dude.” He mutters, rubbing at his face, playing with his hair, needing somewhere for the nervous energy to go. 

“Steve, dude, what is it?” And man, how does he manage to pack so much emotion and caring into a word like ‘dude’?

“This is… the first time I've left town since shit hit the fan.” He grudgingly admits, “and we're out of range for the walkies out here… and shit, I'm worried about the kids ok?” 

He’s expecting Billy to laugh at him, he knows he sounds like a new mom leaving her baby with the sitter for the first time. So he's surprised when Billy turns to face him fully and plant a hand on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. 

“Hey, the kids are fine, dude. They have Nancy and Hop and the others with them. And we can call when we get to the hotel tonight, right?” 

“I know! I know, you're right, I'm just worried is all.” 

“I know dude, I know.” Billy turned back to sit normally. “Hey, I ever tell you about the time…” and he was off, recounting some outlandish tale that Steve is about 50% sure is made up, but he appreciates what he's trying to do and allows Billy to distract him for the rest of the drive. 

It's a two day tournament with three games on the first day, then three on the second if they make it past the round robin. They've never made it past game 1 of the second day before. The other teams always stack their lines with higher level players for the weekend. Steve is sure Hawkins would do the same except they don't have any ringers. 

The tournament takes place at a couple different community centres and schools around the city and it's a grueling day of play, eat, drive, repeat. It's also fun as hell. 

In all his worry about the kids, he had forgotten how much of a blast this tournament was. Hawkins never won and honestly, they didn't really try to. 

This tournament was outside the regular season standings and so the coach used it to practice new plays and the boys used it to try out cool moves they had seen the pros do on TV, work off some of their aggression and generally do things they wouldn't in a normal game. 

Steve tried out a few new plays that had been floating around in his head. One worked ok but the rest didn't quite pan out. Didn't help that the guys had other plans. 

Billy was an absolute menace on the court. He had his crazy eyes on, and tongue sticking out pretty much the whole time, getting right under the other team's skin. He started four scuffles and one full on fight. Luckily the refs broke it up before anything could really happen.

They held a dunk contest to see who could make the coolest one. Troy Johnson won, he won every year, he was 6’4” and had been since he was a freshman. He was also the only guy on the team with a full beard by sophomore year. That meant he was their go to guy for getting beers for the party in their rooms that night.

Coach always paired them up alphabetically by last name and historically, he was always with Tommy Hagan and that's where all 10 of them would cram in to drink themselves stupid at the end of the day. 

Now he thought about, this tradition might also be part of the reason Hawkins never made it past game 1 of day 2. 

But neither of those things would be a problem this year because they had not made it to day 2 (which was kind of nice, now they could sleep in) and this year he was not rooming with Tommy. 

“Harrington, you're with Hargrove, room 209!” Coach tossed them the key and Billy shot him a smirk. Well then.

Steve calls the kids while Billy pokes around the room. Everything is the same in Hawkins and Dustin asks him to bring him back some comic book or other which Steve declines.

Getting ready with Billy is fun. They take a quick shower, Billy barging in while he's in the middle of shampooing so they can fool around real quick. They fight over the hair dryer and Billy sprays him in the face with hairspray so of course he towel whips him which turns into a wrestling match on the bed. There's as much kissing as there is trying to pin one another. It's as they're heading out the door that Billy stops him with a hand in his. 

“Hey, don't get too drunk tonight, ok? I wanna try something with you.” 

“Like what?” Billy wanting to try something could be anything from ordering room service to taking the team bus for a joy ride. 

Billy’s smirking as he leans in real close to whisper in his ear, “I wanna get my fingers in you tonight, baby, see how you like it.”

“Jeeeez, uh, ok.” And shit, why was that so hot right now? They had just jerked each other off in the shower, how was he getting hard right now? And it was a confused boner to be sure because Steve hasn't actually thought about this before. 

Yes, he knew that's what dudes did when they had sex with each other, but it was more of a concept , not something he had pictured himself doing. 

Well, now he was and he was kind of panicking about it. That's not where fingers go ! That was definitely designed as an exit.

“Or you could do me, pretty boy, dealer's choice.” Billy gave him a wink before slipping out the door. 

And damn, now that was a mental image. He'd fingered girls a few times and it had been fun. Maybe this was another one of those things that wasn't all that different when he was doing it to a guy? 

Shit, now he was thinking about having Billy all laid out in the bed, writhing on his fingers. It was a very tempting thought. 

He switched them out in his mind, imagined himself there. And shit, he was a little apprehensive about that… but Billy hadn't steered him wrong yet. They have talked about it a couple times and Billy had told him about the times he had done it in the past. Apparently there was a spot inside a dude, same as a chick that made you go wild and Steve had to admit, he was curious. 

It would be a gametime decision. 

The party was fun, they drank and shot the shit, ragged on the other teams and gave each other shit. But Steve was distracted the whole time and called it after two hours, despite the rest of the team calling him a pussy. 

“You better be back sooner than later Hargrove! I don't want you coming back in at ass o'clock and waking me up!” He yelled over the protests. 

“Fuck you, Harrington!” Billy yelled back, eloquent as always. 

He turned on the TV as he waited up for him, turning his options over in his mind. 

What did it feel like? To have something up there? Other dudes did it all the time so it must not be too bad, right? Shit he was curious. But he also didn't want to get halfway through and find that he hated it. Not with Billy watching. It's something that he would rather know about beforehand.

He still probably had like an hour before Billy came back… he could… try it himself? 

Steve hustled over to his bag and pulled out the lube and condoms he had stashed there. He had been carrying around condoms since his voice dropped and his health teacher had given them all a very serious talk about where babies came from. The lube was a more recent addition since he had started things with Billy but honestly he doesn't know why he didn't carry it before. It made hand jobs and even his own special alone time waaaay better. 

He strips down and tries a few different positions until he settles against the pillows on his back with his legs wide and knees bent. It feels very… open and he's not sure he likes that but whatever. 

He's feeling a little nervous so he starts by just coating his palm in the lube and returning to ol' faithful, just slowly stroking himself, squeezing little harder at the base as he likes. 

He thinks about Billy and what they did earlier in the shower and it's not long before he's fully hard again. He thinks some more about having Billy here with him, hovering over him and imagines his hand is Billy's as he dips it down past his balls and strokes around his entrance. 

Ok, this is fine, he can do this. He squeezes out some more lube onto his fingers and returns it to that little furl of muscle. 

It's… weird. And super sensitive. He feels around some more, bringing his left hand up to lightly fondle his dick. 

Well, here goes nothing. He slowly works his index finger inside to the first knuckle. And has to stop to catch his breath. 

It's… a lot… and not altogether pleasant? But also not bad? He's not sure how he feels about it but he's come this far already. 

He starts pressing it in and out, slowly, working in a little deeper every thrust. And ok, he can kind of see what people are talking about here, it feels kind of… full and the friction is nice. It's nowhere near enough to get off on though. 

Maybe he needs more fingers?

He pulls out and adds more lube before trying to press in with two fingers now. 

Ho boy. That's a lot. It kind of hurts now but… in a good way? Is that normal? He should have asked Nancy. No! Stop thinking about Nancy and butt sex! Why would she know about that? Probably because she knows everything. Not this! She has perfectly working lady parts! Unless… No! Stop thinking about her!

Ok, back to Billy. Billy with his smart ass mouth wrapped around his length, taking him all the way into the back of his throat. God it felt so good when he did that.

He had the second finger worked in most of the way and had set up a good rhythm and was panting with it. Damn, ok, this was good, he could get used to this. The slick slide of the hand on his dick mixed with the friction and full feeling of his ass was really working for him. He could totally do this with Billy when he got back. 

“Fuuuuuck that's a pretty sight to come home to, sweetheart.” 

Oh shit! Steve wrenched his eyes open to see Billy had in fact returned, earlier than expected and was currently licking his lips, eyes laser focused on where Steve's fingers were disappearing inside of himself. 

“Don't stop on my account, baby, show me how good it feels.” Billy is slowly undoing his shirt, letting it float to the floor behind him and prowling closer to the bed. “Were you thinking about me baby? Got all hot and bothered thinking about my fingers filling you up so good, you couldn't wait?” 

“N-no, I-” Steve's eyes track Billy as he sheds his jeans and underwear (that he actually wore for once the weirdo, who went commando in jeans?) in one go before joining him on the bed. 

“Shhh baby,” Billy soothed, running a hand possessively down the inside of one thigh, not stopping until he could feel where his fingers entered his body. “Fuck, you're so fucking hot, you know that baby? You make me want to eat you alive.” He illustrates this point by sinking his teeth into Steve's thigh. 

“I never tried this before,” Steve gasped as Billy continued up his thigh with his teeth, tracing the path his hand had just made. “I wanted to test it before you got here.” 

“And? Do you like it? Feeling all filled up?” Billy had reached his dick by now and gave it a long lick. 

“Shit! Billy! I used lube everywhere, doesn't it taste like shit?” Steve himself couldn't stand the taste, it was like drinking bleach. 

“Mhmm. Don't care. Answer the question, baby, do you like it? Does it feel good?” Billy continued to place open mouth kisses all up and down his length making him gasp. 

“It's… fine? Feels nice.” Forming sentences was hard when Billy starts mouthing at his balls. 

“Hmm… sounds like you haven't found the spot, sweetheart. Hard to get the angle right when you're going solo.” He waves the bottle of lube around in his face, “may I?”

“God, yes, please Billy.” He slips his own fingers out, wipes them clean on the covers and whines and the weird empty feeling they leave behind. 

He doesn't have to wait long. Within seconds, Billy is slipping his first finger in to the root “ fuck yeah, baby, so wet and open for me, let me just slide right in there.” 

“Oh, fuuu-” the second one is a stretch, Billy's fingers being thicker than his own. But he takes it slowly, pressing kisses to his thighs as he goes and whispering dirty praise into his skin. 

“Fuck baby, you look so good all stretched out on my hand. Gonna fill you up so good baby, make you cum so hard.” he sets a slow pace, entering at a different angle every time and scissoring his fingers open until finally-. 

“Wow!” Steve practically levitates off the bed as what feels like lightning arcs through his entire body. 

“There it is baby, you like that?” And he's hitting it again making Steve cry out. 

“What? Is that the spot?” He pants, his whole body is on fire. He writhes on the bed, body not sure if he should try to get away or get closer. 

“Yeah, baby, that's the spot, feels good right?” And now he's rubbing his fingers on it continuously, a slow torturous roll of pleasure that has literal tears coming to his eyes and his dick jumping and leaking like crazy. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, please don't stop, please do it again, please please please.” He doesn't even fully register that it's him begging like that, just that Billy does as he asks and keeps playing with that spot. Steve is helpless to do anything but fist his hands in the covers and go along for the ride. 

“Fuck you're beautiful.” He manages to open his eyes (when did he close them?) long enough to see the downright reverent look that Billy is giving him. Billy's eyes have an almost physical weight as they travel up and down his body. “Fuuuuuck.” A slick sound and he sees that Billy has wrapped his other hand around his own dick, getting off on the sight of him. 

“Billy!” Steve doesn't think he can last much longer and hell, it's been ages since anything has even touched his dick. Is this a thing? Is this normal? He doesn't care. Not when Billy nails him in that spot again and he comes harder than he ever has in his life. 

It's so good, his vision whites out and his ears are ringing. He's only distantly aware of Billy grunting overtop of him, pulling himself off in a quick orgasm as well, his spend joining Steve's on his chest. 

Steve barely manages to get an arm around the blond after he more or less face plants into his shoulder, murmuring soft praise at how well he did, how beautiful he looked. 

Steve presses a kiss to his boyfriends forehead when he eventually comes back to himself. 

“We are absolutely doing that again.”

……….

Steve gets the chance to return the favour the next morning. They had optimistically set their alarm early the next day in anticipation of going to their first game. Since they no longer had to be there, Billy and Steve made the most of their time together. 

Steve had been right. It wasn't all that different from fingering a girl, easier even because there weren't all these other bits and parts in the way. 

He has Billy writhing and whining in his fingers in no time and when he licks around the weeping head of his dick while he's at it, it's game over. 

Afterwards, they cuddle until Coach starts knocking on doors, getting everyone moving. 

Read the whole series on AO3

Part 21 | 0 | Part 23