#a few months long at minimum. i think the last one was five?? maybe??? but yeah idk if my regular dr would be writing the script for that

[coldvampire]

i got to enjoy relatively clear skin for just under a year after going on isotretinoin & now fucking. i get the Joy of dealing with some other new skin condition on my face that just doesnt want to fuck off

[ellemj]

Needs & Wants - Sex Pollen Trope Pt. 2

Bucky Barnes x Reader

**If you haven't read Pt. 1 yet, READ IT FIRST.**

Summary: You fight the effects of the chemical compound for as long as you can, until Bucky makes you an offer that your body can't seem to refuse. But, you each have a rule that the other has to follow.

Warnings: this one is a huge fucking tease, I'm so sorry (I won't be sorry when I release part 3 tonight), masturbation, talk of unprotected sex, profanity, use of y/n, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Feel free to comment and let me know if this requires more warnings.

Word Count: 4k (I just couldn't stop the build up)

Author's Note: I cannot believe the overwhelming response on part one of this, I was just in a silly goofy mood and decided to finally use my Tumblr for something other than reading y'alls AMAZING fics every night before bed. I didn't expect anyone to really even see it. My heart is racing as I get ready to post this rn lmao. PLEASEEE tell me what your fav part of this one is, I have to know. Part 3 will be out tonight, I can't make you guys wait too much.

            Bucky’s resolve has been steadily crumbling for the past hour, and truthfully, he’s barely placing any blame on the chemical compound that’s interacting with the serum coursing through his veins. He’s placing the blame on you and the needy, whimpering noises that you’ve been making for the last forty-five minutes. After the video conference with Bruce and Tony ended, you were quick to lock yourself in one of the bedrooms of the safe house. You didn’t even say another word to Bucky, you just stood up from the couch with one hand clutched over your stomach, and hurried off down the hall. He wanted to say something to you, but what the hell was he supposed to say? I’m sorry that we’re in this situation? That wouldn’t help a damn thing. You’re in it and there’s nothing either one of you can do except pray that you’ll have enough self-control to make it through the night with your doors still locked.

            Bucky sat on the couch for a few minutes after you left, replaying Tony’s last warning to you in his head. You won’t feel relief until your body thinks it has a chance of reproducing, until semen is introduced into your system. It made him feel like shit. He can find relief on his own, he can take care of himself tonight, but you? You’ll suffer for a minimum of eight hours, possibly nearing death, alone behind a locked door. It’s not that he thinks you can’t handle yourself. He’s perfectly aware of how capable you are at handling practically anything. He’s been your partner in the field for two months now and he’s never once had a doubt about your skills, your ability to tolerate pain, or even the split-second decisions you have to make sometimes during missions. You might give each other shit the majority of the time that you’re working together, but when it comes down to it, you trust each other with no reservations. So, why then, does he find himself so fucking worried about you?

            He’s been locked in the bedroom across the hall from yours for the past hour now. He thought maybe things wouldn’t be so bad when he heard you tucking yourself away into bed, when he heard you go still and silent for a few minutes. It was smart of you, trying to sleep as much as you could before the chemical fully set in and began to wreak havoc within your body. But after only fifteen minutes, he heard the faintest sound carrying across the hall. He wasn’t sure what it was at first, thinking maybe you’d gotten up to use the bathroom and it was the creak of a floorboard or maybe a door hinge. It was wishful thinking. The second time he heard it, he was sure. You were whimpering in your sleep. For a few moments, he was able to deceive himself into thinking it was whimpers of pain, maybe from your stomach aching in your sleep. When you grew louder, the sounds of your soft, breathy moans mixing with the sound of the sheets rustling as you tossed and turned restlessly, that’s when his resolve began to break apart piece by piece. He sits on the side of his bed in total darkness. His shirt and tactical pants are strewn across the floor where he previously discarded them when the heat emanating from his body became too much to bear. His hands grip the edge of the mattress with enough force to break through the layers of fabric there, but he fears that if he lets go, the next thing his hands will grip will be either his cock or the two door knobs separating you both. Focusing on your suffering is keeping him from feeling his own pain, but the noises you’re making are making it significantly harder for him to ignore the needs that are bubbling to the surface within him. Shit. How the fuck did he end up in this situation with you?

            You awake suddenly, drenched in sweat, your sweats especially making you feel like damp towels are wrapped around your legs. You waste no time throwing the covers back and ripping your sweats off, tossing them onto the floor and moving your hair to lay it across your pillow so it’s not sticking to your neck. Fuck HYDRA. Fuck Zemo for killing Dr. Nagel. Obviously, you wouldn’t have wanted him running around recreating the super soldier serum either, but if he was still alive maybe you wouldn’t be lying here in this state. You take a deep breath in, counting to three in your head as you breathe it back out. Focusing in on your symptoms, you try to make a mental list. You think that maybe if you can remind yourself of the science behind the symptoms, you won’t become an irrationally horny mess, you can just reason your way out of the most intense arousal you’ve ever felt in your life. Sweating, tachycardia, abdominal cramping, bone pain…you stupidly let your right hand slide down between your legs. Your fingertips briefly grace the exterior fabric of your black boyshort panties, feeling how wet they are adds another symptom to the mental list, not that you needed to feel it to know. Arousal.

            You lean over to the bedside table and feel around blindly for your phone. The screen illuminates and you see that it’s only 10 pm. You’ve only been sleeping for an hour. The chemical compound isn’t even at its peak activity level yet and you’re already beginning to feel a type of desperation that you haven’t felt before. You need relief. Tony’s words swirl around in your mind, making you feel lightheaded and making you want to hunt him down and make him take the words back by force, like that would change the reality of the situation you’re currently in. You won’t feel relief until your body thinks it has a chance of reproducing, until semen is introduced into your system.

            You could try finding relief on your own. Tony isn’t lord over all things scientific. When has he ever dealt with a compound like this before? Never. He doesn’t know shit. You’re trying so hard to convince yourself that he could be wrong. Sitting up in bed, you reach over and flip on the lamp that sits on the bedside table, casting a pale glow across the room. You will yourself to think clearly, to make a plan and implement it. You can fight this. You need something that’ll take down your body temperature, slow your heart rate, and ease some of the pain you’re feeling everywhere. A cold shower.

            Bucky listens intently as you open your door and your feet patter softly down the hall. He listens as you shut and lock the bathroom door behind you and then as you turn on the shower. He mentally curses his heightened sense of hearing when he hears the tussle of your clothes hitting the floor. He’s been ignoring his hardening cock as it grows beneath the black fabric of his boxers. He’s been ignoring it because he feared if he tried to relieve himself, you’d likely hear him across the hall and he’d never let himself live it down. He can’t be the first one to break. But maybe, with you being in the shower, you wouldn’t be able to hear anything coming from his room. Why the hell are you even in the shower? He imagines the pain you’re in would make it hard for you to stand in there for very long, and it’s not like a shower is going to give you much relief at all. He can’t wonder for more than a quick moment, before the chemical begins to really cloud his mind, his clear thoughts becoming hazy behind thoughts of chasing relief. Fuck it. You won’t hear a damn thing.

            Bucky sighs deeply as his lays back on the bed, still in darkness, pushing his boxers down a few inches and freeing his hard length. His flesh hand quickly wraps around it, giving it a slow stroke from base to tip, pre-cum quickly coating his fingers.

            “Oh, fuck.” He groans lowly. It’s never felt like this before. It’s as if every nerve in his body has shifted, has traveled down to embed in his cock. His head falls back into his pillow, his eyes squeezing shut at the sensation of his shaft finally being handled. He works his fist up and down, picking up speed and reveling in the feeling of temporary relief. As he strokes his cock, he feels the pain throughout his body slowly dissipating, easing up but not fully disappearing. Before he can stop himself, he’s picturing exactly what you’d look like right now. Your perfectly toned body standing under a stream of water, your hands running down your smooth skin, your eyes closed as you let the shower wash away your discomfort. He feels guilty. Truly, he does. But it's as if he has no control over his thoughts when his hand is on his cock and his veins are corrupted with a potent chemical from hell. Especially not when you’re naked a mere ten feet down the hall. As Bucky nears his climax, his balls tightening and his cock twitching in his hand, a loud crash resounds throughout the house and he’s brought back to reality. He’s on his feet, his boner tucked reluctantly away in his boxers, and his bedroom door flying open in less than two seconds, fearing the worst. He thinks you must’ve passed out from the effects of the chemical, fallen in the shower, maybe split your head open. When he reaches for the bathroom door knob and finds it locked, he’s giving no second thought to breaking the door down. Hell, he decided he was going to break it down before he ever left his room. He takes one step back, ready to use his leg to kick through it, when he hears the shower water cut off and the curtain pull back.

            “Y/n?” His voice is laced with concern and it takes you by surprise. You’d only been standing in the ice-cold shower for two minutes when you realized it wasn’t going to do shit for you. You aren’t usually one to lose your temper, but feeling so hopeless and helpless, your only plan failing to provide you with any relief, you ended up slamming your fist into the tiled shower wall out of pure frustration. You didn’t do it hard enough to really hurt yourself, but apparently hard enough to alarm Bucky.

            “You’re supposed to be locked in your room.” You call out, your voice coming out a little timid and quieter than you intended. Wrapping a towel around yourself, you step out of the shower and examine yourself in front of the bathroom mirror. Your cheeks are still flushed, your pupils are dilated so much that you’re surprised the lights aren’t hurting your eyes yet, and your rapid pulse is nearly visible in your neck. You let your hair down from the bun you threw it up into for the shower and then pull on the same shirt and damp panties you had on moments earlier.

            “I thought you fell.” Bucky says quietly, barely above a whisper. You can tell he’s standing close to the door. You’ve never heard him speak so softly. You freeze, your hands clutching the edge of the bathroom sink as your body responds to his voice, against your rational mind’s will. You feel a familiar heat gathering between your legs and you squeeze your thighs together. He needs to go back to his room. Now.

            “Bucky, go back to bed.” Your voice is firm, without a single hint of hesitation. Bucky knows that he should heed the warning. He knows he should turn around right now and go back and lock his door. Instead, he stands there in the hallway with his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers and a conflicted expression on his face. You said earlier that your only option was to lock yourselves in your respective rooms and ride it out until morning. Was that really the only option though? He could easily think of a few more options, though admittedly, he might not be thinking with his brain anymore.

            “You have to go back to your room before I come out.” You’re starting to sound like you’re pleading with him. As much as you want to act strong and like you have all of the self-control in the world right now, you’re worried that if you step out into the hall and see him, you won’t be able to stop yourself from reaching out for him. You want to feel his skin beneath your hands as you run your palms from his shoulders, down his chest, straight to the waistband of whatever the hell he’s wearing right now. You want to have him completely bare in front of you, with nothing stopping you from dragging him straight to your bed to find the relief that you both so desperately crave right now. A sharp pang in your lower stomach causes you to let out a soft groan, and the sudden inhale you hear from Bucky through the door doesn’t go unnoticed.

            “Not until I see that you’re okay.” Bucky says, still worried that you fell in the shower or hurt yourself somehow. Not wanting to waste any more time letting the chemical stew in your reproductive system, you flip the bathroom light off so you’re thrown into darkness, before unlocking the bathroom door and pulling it open slowly. You can just barely make out his form in the dark hallway, the curve of his broad shoulders, the glint of the black and gold vibranium making up his left arm, and fuck…the ripples down his abdomen. You’ve always thought he was frustratingly attractive, but now? Just looking at him has you insatiable. You realize quickly that he’s not wearing anything except a pair of black boxers and his dog tags. He’s really not making this easy on you. Your eyes flutter closed and you sigh, telling yourself to suck it up and walk past him. Just walk past him. But now you what he looks like with nearly no clothes on, and he’s so close to you. So. Damn. Close. A foot away from you, to be exact.

            “I’m fine, just go back to bed.” You whisper. You don’t trust yourself to speak any louder, worried that raising your voice might awake something much more primal within yourself.

            “Look at me.” He says, matching your whisper volume. Shit. Shit, shit. Shit. No.

            “Don’t—” You’re cut off by the feel of his cool vibranium fingers wrapping around your right hand, lifting it so he can see it better. You suck in a harsh breath at the contact. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, it’s not even what you need. You need skin. You need him against you. But something about the cool metal contrasting against the warmth of your heated hand feels electrifying.

            “Did you punch the wall?” He questions, examining your reddened knuckles with narrowed eyes. Your eyes remain closed as you nod your head, and he takes the moment to scan his eyes down your body. Your t-shirt skims along the tops of your thighs and he knows if you turned around, it wouldn’t even fully cover the curve of your ass. Fuck, he wants you to turn around. He drops your hand as quickly as he first grabbed it, letting it fall back to your side as he begins running his flesh hand through his disheveled hair.

            “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?” Bucky has to know. He knows how high your pain tolerance is, he knows how good you are at putting on a brave face in the worst situations. He has to know how much you’re really suffering right now before he makes an offer that he can’t take back.

            “Four.” You fib, pressing your lips together and daring to open your eyes and look back at him. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark a little more and you can see the sweat glistening across his chest, his quick breaths drawing your attention straight to his pecs.

            “Don’t lie to me.” His gaze hardens. He hates that you’d try to lie to him. Do you really not trust him enough to just be open with him? Jesus, he’s standing in front of you in his fucking boxers with a hard-on that you haven’t even noticed yet and somehow you feel the need to keep things from him, like he isn’t just as vulnerable as you are right now.

            “Seven.” You admit truthfully. The pain in your stomach has intensified, and all you want to do is curl into a ball right there on the floor. You feel like you’ve been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, you feel like someone attempted to extinguish that fire with a gallon of hot sauce, and then ran you over with a semi-truck. You reach out for the door frame with your right hand, using it for balance as your legs begin to feel weaker.

            “Y/n-” Bucky starts, ready to make you an offer, but you don’t let him continue. He knows it’s crossing a line. He’s fully aware that if he offers and you say no, things could just get weird between the two of you. He’s even more aware that if he offers and you say yes, it could effectively end your working relationship. But he can’t stand to see you like this. You might give each other shit more often than you’re civil with each other, but something about you being in pain has always sat wrong with him. He worries more about you in the field than he worries about himself.

            “Don’t say my name, just…” You cut him off, but your voice trails off as your eyes wander down to the front of his boxers, finally noticing the way he’s straining against the fabric, his tip resting just barely under the waistband. “If you keep standing here, if you keep saying things to me, I’m not going to be able to go back to my room. I need you to walk away before I lose the power to let you.” Your warning should be clear as day now. He needs to leave you alone.

            “No.” His refusal hits a nerve, angering you more than you would’ve thought possible. You feel a rush of adrenaline surge through you as you lose control of your actions. You place your hands against his chest, shoving him back, hard. He barely moves, which just further enrages you. “Y/n, we can fix this. I can fix this for you.” His offer is out in the open now. He holds his breath as you freeze in front of him, your hands falling away from his chest and your eyes squeezing shut in contemplation.

            “Do you even realize what you’re offering?” Your question hangs in the air between the two of you, and the tension in the hallway makes it feel as though lightning is about to strike the tiny cobblestone house that you stand in. You wish lightning would strike. When you open your eyes this time, the look in Bucky’s eye has changed. There’s something in place of his usual hard gaze, something that nearly draws you in.

            “Yes.” He’s offering to fuck you. He’s offering to give you the relief that you so badly need, the relief that can only be found when he finishes inside you. You’re hallucinating. That’s what this is. Because there is no fucking way that he’s standing in front of you right now, the six-foot tall super soldier who you can barely get along with outside of mandatory missions, offering to fuck you raw. “I know what I’m offering.” You only take a moment to weigh your options. Go back to your room, lock the door, and suffer for the next 7-10 hours or have sex with him and hope that it doesn’t ruin your entire life. Why would it ruin your life? Because he’s the only partner that you’ve trusted enough to work with since Nat passed, and there’s no way that things can just be fine and normal after you’ve seen each other naked. Things would get awkward, it’d be hard to look at each other, hard to see each other as professionals anymore. And your work, your job, is your life. Outside of this you have nothing. No family, not a single friend that isn't connected to this damn line of work, not a damn thing to turn to when this inevitably goes to shit.

            “Stop overthinking it.” Bucky’s voice breaks you out of your whirlwind of thoughts. Against your better judgement, you make eye contact with him and the way he’s looking at you gives you butterflies. Butterflies? Who the fuck are you right now? “Close your eyes.” His voice is low, making the butterflies in your stomach explode and spread outward until it feels like your skin is tingling. You don’t know why you do as he says, but your eyes close and you stand there with bated breath as the floorboards creak. He’s stepping closer to you, stopping when you feel his breath fanning across your face. He trails his flesh fingertips from the back of your left hand and up your arm slowly, drawing goosebumps to the surface of your overheated skin but leaving some kind of calmness behind. You relish the way your left arm becomes the only part of your body that isn’t in pain, the only part that he’s touching.

            “Okay…” Your voice is raspy as you cave to his touch. “But I have a rule.” He pulls his hand away and you wince as the pain quickly returns to the bones deep within your arm. He raises an eyebrow at you as he waits for you to continue. “You can’t kiss my lips.”

            Bucky hesitates for a second, caught off guard by your insane rule. No kissing? During sex? Do you hate him that much? Fuck, he shouldn’t have offered to do this in the first place. It’s obvious that you really don’t want this, and he won’t be able to get off knowing that.

            “Who’s overthinking now?” You laugh out, brushing past him and heading straight for your bedroom door. You took his hesitation as a rejection of your rule, and if he rejects your rule then you’re not doing this. If he kisses you, you’re scared you’re going to feel something. You can have sex and find absolutely zero meaning in it, that’s not that hard. It’s just a physical act. But kissing? Kissing makes it too intimate, too much of a real connection. You won’t give that away so easily. Just as you’re nearing the door, you feel Bucky’s hand wrap tightly around your wrist and pull you back, spinning you around so you’re facing him. In less than a second, he’s walking you backwards until your ass hits the wall and your hand is pinned above your head, with his body pressed firmly against yours. His nose brushes over the tip of yours and you shudder at the feeling of his skin, his body giving off so much heat that you’re regretting having put your shirt back on earlier.

            “Fine, I won’t kiss you.” He rasps. His vibranium hand is gripping your hip, holding you solidly against the wall as he moves to run his lips along your jawline. He doesn’t kiss your skin, he simply lets his lips ghost over it, making you tilt your head to the side in anticipation. “I have one rule of my own.”

            “What’s that?” Your voice sounds a lot more confident than you expected it to, like you’re not fighting to hold yourself together inside. He nips at your earlobe softly and you feel the tip of his tongue against it so lightly that you’re not sure if you imagined it or not.

            “You’re going to wear these while I fuck you.” He guides your right hand up over the perfect ridges of his abs, across his chest, and straight to the dog tags that hang around his neck.

Next Part

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[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i know i said i probably wouldn’t write more for brady, but, uh, here we are. this is porn with the barest minimum of plot. like genuinely this is so deranged but i had a wild time writing it. MAJOR props to @smileysvech for the title because i couldn’t think of a single one 😭

word count: 10.5k (😳 i had NO idea it was this long omg)

tw: period sex, like big time. this is essentially all smut and you’ve been warned. blood, obviously

summary: when you’re on your period, brady just wants to make you feel good

When Brady comes home after practice and his workout, a full five hours after he left the house in the morning, he finds you in the exact same spot on the bed - curled up in the fetal position. You have the plush Stormy he bought you as a joke when one of your date nights accidentally ended at the pro shop cuddled against your chest, your face pressed into the top of the pig’s stuffed head. You lift your head slightly when you hear him step into the bedroom and mumble a soft, pitiful ‘hi’ before pressing your face back into the stuffed animal.

Brady lets out a sympathetic hum and sits down on the edge of the bed, a plastic bag crinkling in his hand. “Hey, sweetheart, still feeling crappy?” His fingers are cool against your skin when he reaches over and brushes a few pieces of hair off your forehead. His forehead is creased with concern, full lips downturned in a frown.

“Every damn month, Brady,” you whine, pulling your knees up closer to your chest, trying to add pressure to alleviate the cramps. “Every month and somehow I’m still always knocked on my ass.”

Your periods had always been difficult, lasting a full seven days and coming with headaches, sore breasts, nausea, and raging cramps. Days one and two were always the worst and it blew your mind how you were surprised that you felt like hot garbage every time. It’s like you forgot about the symptoms and misery the second it was over. Being on birth control had helped a bit, but birth control came with its own side effects - a rapid weight gain, migraines worse than you’ve ever had before, and a total death blow to your sex drive. So, off the birth control it was. The weight had slipped off and the migraines were reduced back to a normal headache. It had taken a second for your libido to come back, worrying you, but thankfully it was back a few months after stopping the pills. Now you just have to suffer through the worst two days of your period, the edge coming off with a borderline unhealthy amount of Advil going into your body.

“Maybe this will help?” Your boyfriend grins a little as he rustles through the plastic CVS bag and withdraws a can of raspberry Arizona iced tea and two king sized Butterfingers bars. He holds the candy bars between his fingers, splayed out like he’s displaying a deck of cards.

Tears prick at your eyes, overwhelmed by Brady’s thoughtfulness and the flood of hormones in your body. You nod a little, giving him a wavering smile. “You’re too good to me,” you reach out and flatten your palm over Brady’s grey-sweatpants clad knee, the closest body part of his that you can reach from your position in the middle of the bed. Brady snorts a laugh.

“Sweetheart, this is nothing,” he leans back a little and sets the candy and drink on your bedside table, knocking the family-sized bottle of Advil to the floor and pushing your half-finished Tessa Bailey novel to the edge, nearly sending it to the abyss between the piece of furniture and the wall. “Whatever you need from me, I’m all yours for the rest of the day.”

It’s game day tomorrow, at home, which means Brady really is off the hook from team responsibilities until morning skate tomorrow. A sharp cramp works its way through your uterus and you wince, wiggling a little to stop your butt cheek from going numb.

“Can you just…like, cuddle with me?” You ask, rolling your neck so you can look up at Brady’s face. His eyes are soft and a low throb of want fights the cramps. You feel gross though, bloated and sore and right now all you can handle is being the little spoon to Brady’s big.

Brady’s nodding, already laying back on his side of the bed, “whatever you need from me, sweetheart,” he says, rolling onto his side and opening his arms for you to scoot in. His body is warm and inviting and you could cry with how badly you just need to be held right now. You feel stupid and silly and fragile, but Brady’s never shied away from giving you the comfort you need. He’s still and patient while you settle your head on the inside of his bicep, pressing your back against his chest, your ass flush against his groin, your knees bent and his knees slotted in right behind yours. Every inch of your body is pressed against Brady’s and the body heat coming off of him is better than any heating pad.

He wraps the arm that’s supporting your head over your chest, his forearm resting against your collarbone, and slides his other hand under the hem of your sweatshirt so his warm, broad palm can rest on your lower stomach, pressing down with gentle pressure to help your cramps. You sigh happily and relax back against him, tension seeping out of your shoulders and spine.

“Better?” He murmurs, breath hot against your ear and cheek. You nod, closing your eyes. Brady curls his knees up a little more so you’re both bent closer to a fetal position and there’s more relief for your lower back.

“Perfect,” you mumble, wiggling just a little so you’re even further in the cocoon of Brady’s arms. You can feel the slight press of Brady’s cock against the curve of your ass, but even that’s comforting, more so mentally than physically, since it’s proof that Brady still finds you attractive even when you feel your grossest. “How was practice?” You ask, happy to listen to Brady talk while you ignore the twinge of cramps.

He chuckles a bit, his chest vibrating at your back. “Same old,” he says and it feels so good when his chest moves against your back, the soft rumble of his voice in your ear. “Brett says to tell you that Amy’s gonna text you about a viewing party for the away game next week, thinks it’s her turn to host?”

You hum a confirmation, nodding against Brady’s arm. “It is. I get the game when you’re all up in Montreal,” you reply, knowing you’re probably going to have half a dozen texts from Amy when you eventually muster up the energy to pick up your phone. Brady’s hand rubs soft circles against your lower stomach, releasing more of the tension that’s built up without you realizing it. You shift again, stretching your lower back and feeling the giant pad you’re wearing move around. Brady has to be able to feel it with how closely you’re pressed against him and the thought makes you tilt your hips forward, away from his dick, so he doesn’t realize that you’re basically wearing a diaper.

Brady presses gently on your stomach and on your shoulder with his other hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles a little sheepishly, and you wonder why until he continues, “I know you’re not in the mood to have my dick poking at your ass. Swear I’m not that guy that’s worried about getting off when you’re feeling so crappy.”

“Oh!” You bite down on your lip to smother a little smile even as your nose burns with hormonal tears. Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to you that Brady would think you were shifting away because of him. “No,” you rush to reassure him, twisting your neck so you’re looking at him from an awkward angle. “I’m not…I didn’t think…oh fuck, I just didn’t want you to, you know, have to feel everything that’s going on,” you wave at your lower half with one hand vaguely, “down there.”

“Sweetheart,” Brady’s lips quirk up in a little smirk, “I’m thirty years old, I don’t have any issues with what you’ve got going on. Besides,” he chuckles a little before kissing your temple, “I’ve seen the box of pads under the sink.”

Your entire face flushes hot and you grumble, “well, let’s just not talk about that.” Brady laughs again and kisses your hot cheek. It’s almost unnatural how sweet he is, but you suppose after the string of terrible boyfriends in your early twenties, this is what it’s like being in an adult relationship with an adult man.

“How about you close your eyes and try to nap?” Brady suggests. He subtly pulls you closer again, until your ass is back where it belongs against his semi-hard dick. His thumb strokes an arc under your belly button and you sigh, warm all over from Brady’s body curled around yours. “I know you tossed and turned all night.”

“Sorry,” the words get lost in his bicep, your cheek pressed against the fabric of his t-shirt. “Tried not to move so much.”

Brady’s hand moves in lazy circles against your skin and he keeps you pressed tightly against his chest. He’s functioning like the world’s greatest weighted blanket. When he replies, his breath ruffles the little pieces of hair escaping your messy bun. “Should’ve woken me up, I would’ve spooned you until you fell asleep again,” he sounds almost hurt that you didn’t wake him up.

“Next time, I’ll wake you up,” you promise, pressing a soft little kiss to the inside of Brady’s bicep, brushing your nose over the soft skin. His arms tighten around you and you feel him kiss the back of your head.

“Just wanna be there for you,” he says, yawning a little. The yawn is contagious and your jaw cracks a little with the effort. Brady tucks one leg in between yours and you settle back, your head resting under his chin.

You must fall asleep at some point, because when a sharp, persistent cramp stabs at your abdomen, sending you curling forward in a tight little ball, the sun is a little lower in the sky and blinding you from where it peeks out under the partially opened blinds. Brady’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you mostly in place even as you’re pressing your hands to your lower stomach to try and alleviate the cramps. Whatever brief reprieve you had during your nap is gone now, the pain back with a vengeance, and you groan a little, waking Brady from his nap.

“Bad again?” He asks, voice rough with sleep. The arm around your chest drops flat down to the mattress and you roll a little onto your stomach, pressing your hand tightly against it. His other hand is caught in between your body and the mattress, tangled in the waistband of your shorts. He wiggles his fingers ineffectually.

“Mhm,” you mumble into the pillow your face is pressed against. “C’n you give me Advil?”

“Yeah, whatever you need,” Brady rolls onto his side and hangs his upper body off the side of the bed to scoop up the bottle of Advil off the floor. He pops the top off and starts shaking pills into his hand before stopping and squinting at you suspiciously. “Wait, how many have you had already?”

“Two?” The lie comes out as a question and Brady rolls his eyes at you, lips twisted in an amused expression.

He cups his hand and drops the pills back into the bottle. “You want to try that again?” He asks, raising an eyebrow and leaning back to set the bottle on your bedside table.

You roll back onto your side, facing Brady, and poke your lower lip out in a pout. “Okay, so maybe it was like five or six, but I think I know how many Advil I can handle, Brady,” you can’t help the sharp edge that colors your response. The cramps are a stabbing pain, radiating through your lower back and hips. “Just give me one at least.”

Brady reaches out and settles his hands on your hip to pull you closer. He huffs your name on an exasperated sigh. “No way, your liver’s going to give out if you take any more Advil. Come here and I’ll give you a massage, see if that helps,” he says already rubbing one large hand over your lower back. His thumb digs into a particularly sore spot and you let out an involuntary moan, gasping a little. The muscles in your back are so knotted and stiff that even Brady’s gentle touch is painful.

“I…s’not gonna help,” you whine, wiggling under his touch. Tears fill your eyes involuntarily. “Hurts too much.” You exhale a harsh breath and roll away from him, wincing when you sit up. You have to change out your pad and moving might help. Brady doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watch you as you rush off to the bathroom, hunched a little when another sharp stab of pain grips your stomach. Fuck this. One-tenth of the pain of actual childbirth contractions? If that’s true, you’re making sure you’re completely knocked out when you have kids.

You don’t linger in the bathroom, cleaning up and getting yourself ready to crawl back under the covers, making a mental note to see your gynaecologist again and harass her about a possible endometriosis diagnosis. Because this shit is just not natural.

Brady’s propped up against the headboard, his phone in his hand. He looks up when you come back into the bedroom and you’re not entirely sure you love the look on his face. He holds up his phone, displaying the screen even though you can’t see the webpage, and says, “you know, orgasms are a natural way to get pain relief from cramps.”

You’re shaking your head before Brady’s even finished talking. “No, no way. I’m never able to get myself off properly anymore, I’ve been spoiled,” you shoot him a mock glare and his smile turns smug. You continue, cutting him off when he opens his mouth, “And! It’s gross, I’m gross, I’m not letting you anywhere near me. All the blood and…and…well, stuff.”

Hands on your hips, you stubbornly remain standing at the foot of the bed, shaking your head at Brady. He tosses his phone onto the mattress and gets on his knees, crawling down the bed towards you. “Sweetheart, a little blood doesn’t bother me,” he waves his hand in the general vicinity of his face, where a cut across his nose is still healing after he took an elbow to the face two games ago. The resulting nosebleed had been fairly epic, to hear him tell the story. “Plus, I want to help you. Let me help you feel better.” He sits back on his heels and wiggles the same hand in the air, fingers splayed. “You know I’m good with my hands.”

He is REALLY good with his hands. And your poor swollen cunt throbs a little, arousal building low in your stomach despite everything else happening in your body.

“I’ll make it good for you, sweetheart,” Brady promises, looking earnest as hell. “If it doesn’t work, we can go back to Advil overdoses.”

Reluctantly, and chewing at your lower lip, you nod. “Okay, yeah, I guess we can try it,” you sigh. Truthfully, you’ve never tried to orgasm yourself to pain relief with your periods. It always felt so messy and gross.

Brady nods and hops off the bed, “I’ll be right back.” He disappears out into the hallway, leaving you standing at the foot of the bed, wondering just what you’re getting yourself into. You can hear a closet opening and closing and then Brady’s back, holding an old, but still semi-plush towel in his hands. He pushes the comforter on your bed to the side and spreads the towel out. You look at it and wrinkle your nose. This is going to be such a mess. But another cramp sends your stomach into a spasm and you grit your teeth. Okay, whatever it takes to relieve some of this pain.

“Come on,” Brady’s hand rubs wide circles over your back. “I’ll prop up and you can lean against me, okay?”

You nod and Brady’s on the bed, in the same position he had been before - propped against the headboard and legs spread wide so there’s room for you. “I’m keeping these on,” you huff, snapping the waistband of your shorts before crawling onto the bed. “It’s already going to be a mess, I want to keep everything contained.”

Brady laughs, “we both know it’s not the first time I’ve made you come while you’re fully clothed.” He pauses, smirks. “And it won’t be the last time.”

Your face heats up again and you push gently at Brady’s shoulder, “shush, you. This is so embarrassing.” You gingerly settle in the vee of Brady’s legs, stiff and sore. He kisses the crown of your head and gently tugs on the back of your sweatshirt so you’ll relax back against his chest.

“Why are you embarrassed?” He asks, running his hands over your thighs and up your hips. Your stomach clenches a bit when he slowly works his hand up your shirt and brushes his knuckles against your abdomen. He knows not to go any higher than your waist, that your breasts are so sore you’ll cry if he touches them, but he touches everywhere else. “I told you, I’m thirty years old. I’m not grossed out by your period, sweetheart. I hate that you’re in so much pain and if I can do anything to help,” one hand slides down the front of your stomach and his fingertips dip beneath the waistband of your panties, “I’m going to.”

His fingers slide lower and you tense a little, knowing he’s going to hit up against the pad and even though he’s so chill about it, you’re not. “Relax, sweetheart,” Brady murmurs into your ear, kissing your cheek. “Let me take care of you.” You nod faintly, forcing yourself back against Brady’s broad chest, feeling the hardening ridge of his erection against your lower back. That helps, and when Brady’s fingers finally start to stroke your swollen, sensitive flesh, you shudder a little and then relax completely. His movements are maybe less firm than usual, his fingers slipping around a little more. He takes his time, finding your clit easily and circling it with the tip of his index finger.

“Oh, Brady,” you gasp his name, sliding down his chest a bit, opening your legs wider so he has better access. Your eyes flutter closed and Brady’s free hand rests on your left inner thigh, holding it open.

“Doing so good, sweetheart,” he mumbles, angling and reaching forward. His middle finger is at your entrance, carefully pressing inside. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. Heat is building in your stomach, the throbbing between your legs overtaking the pain of your cramps. “Not enough,” you sigh, breaking off into a little gasp when Brady’s thumb presses a little more firmly over your clit. You blink rapidly, his fingers slipping too easily from where you need him. “I…more…s’fine. Put your fingers in me, Brady, please.”

Brady’s middle finger slides in, deeper and deeper until the knuckles of his other fingers are pressed against your folds. “Whatever you need,” Brady says, running his other hand over the outside of your thigh. Your legs start to tremble and he pumps his finger and out of you, sliding easier than he normally would with just your arousal to help. You try not to think about the kind of mess his hand is going to be covered in. He crooks the finger and taps against your inner wall and your stomach clenches.

“Oh!” You gasp, clenching around his finger. “More, Brady. I’m so…I need more.”

“I’ve got you,” he reassures you, taking his free hand and brushing your hair off your face. He kisses your neck, sucking gently while he wiggles his ring finger up next to his middle finger inside your cunt. His thumb ghosts over your swollen clit and you bite back a moan, grinding down on his fingers. “Come on, sweetheart. You feeling good? Tell me what you need.”

“Faster,” you whine, your stomach tightening with every pump of Brady’s fingers. The sound his fingers are making as they work in and out of you is obscene even when it’s partially muffled by your shorts, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when it feels so good. Brady wraps his free hand around your thigh, pulling it open slightly so he has more room to work. His hand is trapped by the constraints of fabric and can only move so fast. But the pace he’s pumping into you is perfect. His fingers slide deeper inside of you, pressing against your g-spot and your toes curl against the mattress, a low wail escaping from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, face flushing hot with embarrassment at how loud you’re being.

Brady keeps pumping his fingers, murmuring in your ear, “go ahead, sweetheart. Be as loud as you want while you come for me. Scream, let me hear you.”

He flicks his thumb over your clit and you scream his name, your entire body going taut as he works his fingers harder, bringing you right to the edge. Your orgasm builds low in your stomach, a coil of heat and tension. His fingers curl and you finally let go, surrendering to the wave of pleasure that loosens your entire body. It’s not the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had, but it’s strong enough, making your brain a little fuzzy and sending endorphins rushing through your veins. Your head drops back against Brady’s shoulder and he peppers your exposed neck with soft kisses. He mumbles terms of endearment against your skin, encouraging your orgasm with his words as his fingers continue to work you through the aftershocks.

You slump back against Brady’s chest and his free arm wraps around your waist. “Feeling better, sweetheart?” Your legs are a little shaky and you stretch out, inadvertently clenching around Brady’s fingers.

A satisfied hum leaves your throat even as Brady sucks in a breath from the feeling of being knuckles deep in your cunt. His cock stirs against your lower back and in the back of your mind, you feel a little bad for him, that he’s going to have to use his hand in the shower. But your cramps have settled to a minimal ache that’s completely bearable, so you tuck your head under Brady’s chin and mumble, “thank you, baby. That was perfect.”

“Happy to be your personal orgasm provider,” Brady chuckles, pulling his hand from the waistband of your shorts. You wince at the blood that streaks his skin, reddish-brown and dripping down to his wrist. Behind you, Brady shrugs a little and wipes his hand on the towel under your bodies. He kisses the side of your head. “Sweetheart, gotta clean up for a minute. I’m gonna go clean off and uh, take care of something.”

The ‘something’ is pressing insistently against your lower back and you manage a soft hum of empathy as you lean forward so Brady can slide off the bed. He snatches the towel out from under you in one smooth move, balling it up in his hands. “Mhm, clean your hand and come back, I’ll take care of you,” you offer sleepily. The orgasm has your head fuzzy and your entire body relaxed.

Brady kisses your forehead and you slump against the pillows. “Take a nap,” he grins against your skin. “I’ve got this.”

You hum again, wriggling against the warm sheets. Brady chuckles lowly and you hear him pad off into the bathroom. The shower turns on and you can imagine Brady stripping down to nothing, his cock jutting out proudly, stepping under the spray and gripping himself. Your clit gives a faint throb at the mental image - honestly, it could be a memory with how often you’ve had sex with Brady in that shower - and you press your thighs together. Now that your cramps have faded away and the initial embarrassment and awkwardness of sex on your period is cleared from your mind courtesy of Brady’s fingers, you’re feeling horny. Mingled with the sleepy haze, you can’t really do too much about it except press your thighs tighter together and listen to Brady’s grunts and moans that the running water can’t cover up. You press your face into the pillow, wiggling and clenching around nothing, biting down hard on your lower lip when Brady’s strangled ‘fuck!’ echoes from the bathroom a few moments later.

The water shuts off and you’re feeling more awake, the fuzz in your brain from the orgasm fading away. You can hear Brady moving around in the bathroom and he emerges a few minutes later in a cloud of shampoo and Dove soap scented steam. He’s back in his grey sweats and black t-shirt, with the towels balled up under his arm. His hair is damp, darker than usual from the water, and slicked off his face, which is tinged pink from the hot water. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him, all of your blood pooling between your legs.

“Thought you were gonna nap?” He says, eyes twinkling.

You manage to shake your head. “Not sleepy,” you say, rolling onto your side.

Brady’s grin is teasing as he comes to stand at the side of the bed. “Guess I didn’t do my job well enough,” he jokes, leaning one knee down on the mattress, making it dip under his weight. His warm, broad palm comes to rest on your cheek, thumb swiping over your cheekbone. “Let me throw on a load of laundry and order some dinner for later, then I’ll come back and cuddle, okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh, leaning into his touch. You lick your lower lip and Brady tracks the movement, but says nothing. He nudges your cheek with the knuckle of his index finger and heads out of the bedroom. You watch him leave, eyes locked onto his stupidly firm ass. With a frustrated exhale, you slump further back into the pillows, surrounded by Brady’s scent. You yawn, surprising yourself with how quickly your energy levels shifted the second Brady was out of the room. You let your eyelids flutter shut, figuring you’ll just get in a quick little nap before jumping your boyfriend.

By the time Brady slips back into bed, you’re more than halfway to sleep, eyes closed and limbs loose. He settles himself on his side of the bed and you gravitate towards him naturally. “Warm,” you mumble, tucking your head under his chin and pressing the tip of your nose against the hollow of his throat. Brady’s arms tighten around you, the best kind of weighted blanket.

“Ordered Chinese for later,” he tells you quietly. “With extra fortune cookies.”

“My hero,” you grin sleepily against his skin. He’s really so warm, like a personal radiator, and you sling your leg over his hip, notching your core against his groin without really comprehending it. The stretch feels good on your sore hip and lower back muscles and Brady slots one leg over yours, his muscled thigh pressing gently against your cunt. He can feel the warmth of you through the leg of his sweats and his cock twitches behind the fabric.

“Anything for my girl,” he says, stroking your hair and back, lulling you right to sleep in the warm cocoon of his embrace.

It’s not a very long nap, less than half an hour, but you wake up feeling semi-refreshed. Your cramps are starting to increase in intensity again and you’ve shifted while you slept so that you’re pressed flush against Brady’s half-hard cock, leg wrapped snugly around his hip. His thigh is pushed against your cunt, making it throb. He smells so fucking good and one of his hands is resting low on the curve of your ass. You wiggle experimentally and Brady laughs above you, his chest vibrating.

“Was wondering how long you were gonna sleep,” he says, bringing his hand over your hip to run against the outside of your thigh. “You’ve been making these little noises,” he continues and he sounds half tortured. “Little sighs and grunts. Feeling okay?”

You can’t think, not with his thigh in between your legs, his cock nudging against you. Your stomach flips, not with the cramps though, and you grind yourself over his thigh. Brady’s hand moves to grip your hip, helping guide you over his thigh. He laughs a little, “guess I have my answer. You want more than this, sweetheart, or you just want to use me?”

“I don’t know,” you tuck your chin to your chest, your forehead pressing into the hard edge of his collarbone. Your hips move and it feels good but it’s not enough, not with the extra layer of your pad between you. You can’t get enough friction and you whine low in your throat. “Brady, need you, please, I don’t…” you babble, trying to figure out what you need even as heat builds low in your stomach. The hand that isn’t on your hip falls to your ass and kneads gently, his fingers digging into your skin.

Brady drops a kiss to the crown of your head and mumbles, “okay, sweetheart, I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him. You plant your palms flat on his chest and grind brazenly against his cock, sighing happily at the increased pressure. His hands grip at your hips and he helps you grind down harder, “this good for you, sweetheart? You going to get off like this?”

You shake your head against his chest - no, this isn’t enough for you. It feels good and the tension is building in your stomach, a gush of arousal and, likely, blood flooding between your legs. It’s like the feeling of sneezing on your period, but worse and you almost hate it. “Can I - can,” you stumble over the request, knowing that it’s gross, starting to feel embarrassed again. “Ugh,” you frown into his shirt, rolling your hips against his like a teenager, “I need more, Brady.”

He nods seriously and lifts you gently off of him, setting you on the mattress. When you whine at the loss of contact and grab at his shirt, he clicks his tongue and says, “trust me, I’m going to give you everything you want. Just gotta get another towel, okay?” He untangles your fingers from his shirt and kisses your fingertips before practically hopping out of bed and beelining for the linen closet. He’s back before you can process, laying out the towel and pulling you to the edge of the bed. Brady tugs at the waist of your shorts, “these are coming off and then you’re gonna tell me how you want it. You want me on top or is that going to be too much?”

His voice is soft with concern for your pleasure and a shiver works its way down your spine. You wiggle your hips and reach for the waistband of Brady’s sweats, curling your fingers beneath the fabric. His cock tents the front of the sweats, a perfect imprint in the fabric for you to stare at. Brady’s big and he knows it, knows that when he gets going it’s a pleasure-pain sort of stretch. When you ride him it’s a little easier to control the pace and how deep he can hit. A cramp ripples through your lower stomach and back and you wince, making a decision.

“Wanna be on top,” you chew at your lower lip, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Brady’s sweats and brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

“Whatever you need, baby,” he grins, certainly not going to object to having you ride him. He hisses when your fingertips graze his cock, twitching under your touch. He pulls you to your feet and wraps his arms around you in a tight hug, the pressure easing some of the soreness in your body, before ducking his head to capture your lips with his. You melt into his arms, licking at his lower lip until he opens his mouth for you. Liquid heat rushes through your body, warmth pooling low in your stomach. Brady deepens the kiss and moves a hand up to tangle in your hair. He tugs gently, manoeuvring your head to the side so he can change the angle of the kiss.

You sigh into his mouth and Brady turns so he can sit down on the bed after he breaks the kiss. “Pants off, sweetheart,” he grins, scooting back so he’s sitting on the towel, his back against the headboard. He tosses all the pillows to the other side of the bed so they can stay clean.

Your heart is still pounding in your chest from the kiss and you only hesitate briefly before you shimmy your shorts down your legs, kicking them off your ankles and off to the side. “You next,” you grin, another flood of arousal pooling between your legs when Brady gives you that cocky smirk you love so much. He pulls his shirt off over his head, discarding it to the floor and messing up his hair. A few strands fall over his forehead and he makes no move to brush them to the side. The fading sunlight glints against the greys and another pulse of desire throbs through you.

His hands fall to his crotch and he grabs at himself through the grey fabric, emphasising just how big and hard he is. With a groan, Brady grinds his heel over the base of his cock through the fabric, a little damp spot from his pre-cum turning it a darker grey. He makes a show of it, pulling the waistband of his sweats down one side of his hip and then the other, the red, leaking tip of his cock appearing above the elastic. You lick your lips again and Brady lifts his hips off the mattress so he can pull his sweats down further, tucking the band under his balls and letting his cock spring free. He’s thick and hard and curves towards his stomach. His balls are full and heavy looking, resting on the band of his sweats and it’s stupidly erotic, the fact that he’s keeping his pants on.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his hand around his cock and pumping a few times to get himself as hard as possible, “sit on it and I’ll make you feel good.”

Even as arousal floods between your legs, you hesitate, thinking of the mix of blood there as well. “You’re sure?” You ask, twisting your fingers in the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Brady’s hand is still wrapped around his cock and you can barely focus on anything other than the pre-cum leaking from the red, angry looking tip. Your clit gives a painful little throb in time with a twinge of a cramp in your lower stomach. Your body knows how it feels to have that broad head of him push past your folds and it’s reacting.

Brady leans forward, his hand falling away to rest on the mattress, “hey, if you don’t want to, I’m good. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with, sweetheart.” He smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corner, “I’ll make myself presentable and we can watch TV or something.” His cock bobs in his lap, bumping up against his stomach and to his credit, Brady barely winces at the sensation against his sensitive tip.

His willingness to go along with your mood changes only makes you want him more, so before you can second (or third) guess yourself, you rush into the bathroom to wiggle out of your panties and get rid of the pad, hurrying back into the bedroom with your thighs clenched together so you don’t get anything on the carpet. Brady’s lips are pressed together to suppress a little laughter at the way you’re moving and you roll your eyes at him. “Laughing at me isn’t very nice, Mr. Skjei,” you huff with faux annoyance.

Brady opens his arms and cocks an eyebrow, “I would never laugh at you.” His gaze drops between your legs and you flush hot.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble. “I’m not wearing pants.”

“That’s exactly why I’m looking at you,” Brady teases in a low voice. He pauses and mutters, “oh fuck,” before leaning to his side, reaching for the drawer on his bedside table. “Should’ve done this while you were in the bathroom,” he mumbles, withdrawing a condom.

“It’s like you’ve never done this before,” you tease with a giggle, watching Brady’s movements like a hawk. His fingers deftly tear into the foil and wrap around his cock again so he can roll the condom over his length. He pumps himself a few more times and it seems like his cock swells in front of your eyes, filling the latex obscenely. You press your thighs together tighter, throbbing and ready to sit on him.

He mock glares at you, “making fun of the man who’s planning on giving you multiple orgasms to help your cramps is a low move, sweetheart.” He crooks his fingers at you. “Now come here so we can get to work on that pain relief.”

Your stomach tightens and you shuffle over to the bed, awkwardly trying to get up onto the mattress without dripping everywhere. “Brady…” you can’t help the little whine that escapes your lips and he takes pity on you, leaning onto one hip and wrapping his hands around your waist to haul you up on the bed. You kneel at his side and throw your leg over his lap, straddling him with your back to him. As soon as you open your legs, it feels like a tidal wave of liquid, even though you know that’s not how it works. At worst, a few drops of blood and arousal make their way down your inner thighs and you know they’ll be stopped by the fabric of Brady’s sweats. Even still, you feel impossibly exposed.

“What are you doing?” Brady asks, smoothing one hand down over your ass cheek and giving it a quick squeeze. His other hand is warm on your outer thigh. “I don’t get to see that gorgeous face?”

“No,” you huff, hovering over him with your knees planted on the mattress on either side of his thighs. “I don’t want you that deep, it’s going to hurt.”

“Okay,” Brady kisses behind your ear, “whatever you need, sweetheart.” He grips the base of his cock in one hand and rests the other hand on the curve of your hip. “Ready?”

You nod, chewing at the inside of your cheek, your inner thighs already trembling. Brady lines himself up at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you. You sink down on him with a sigh, the stretch of him filling you forcing all the air from your lungs. Behind you, Brady grunts at the feeling of you sinking down on his cock, his grip on your hip tightening. His hand pulls away from his cock and he gets a solid grip on your hips, making sure you don’t sit on him too fast, giving you time to adjust. Inch by inch, you take him, bracing your hands on his thighs in front of you.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Brady rasps an encouragement in your ears, holding your hips like his life depends on it. “That’s it, let me fill you up.”

It’s so easy to have him slide into you, easier than usual due to the extra slickness from your period. You can feel the mix of your blood and arousal drip down your thighs, surrounding his cock.

You babble his name, gasping when you sink down onto the final few inches of him, your ass making contact with his lap. He’s fully sheathed inside of you, thick and hard, still so deep despite the position that you imagine you can feel him all the way up to your throat.

Brady’s still underneath you, the fabric of his sweats rubbing against your thighs as he lets you get adjusted. You lean back against his chest carefully, the underside of his cock rubbing pleasantly against your swollen clit. A soft whine works its way up your throat and Brady’s hands trail from your hips down to the inside of your thighs, pulling gently to open you up further. “No, no,” you mumble, “too wide. Too much.” You squirm on his lap, trying to catch your breath from just the sensation of Brady keeping you full.

“Doing so good, sweetheart,” he kisses your neck, gently rolling his hips up into yours, making you gasp. Your nipples tighten into painfully hard points, desperate for Brady’s hands. “Tell me what you need.”

You grind down on Brady’s cock instead of responding, slowly riding him to build up the coil of pleasure in your lower stomach. You clench around him and Brady grunts into your hair again, fingers flexing around your thighs. “Fingers, Brady, I need…” you mumble, head thrown back to rest on his shoulder. “More, need more friction.”

The slow glide of his cock in and out of your cunt, against your clit, is pleasurable, but not nearly enough. Brady’s fingers are on your clit in the next second, pinching gently, and you gasp out his name, arching your back and forcing his cock deeper into your cunt. “Yes, yes, there. More…please, B-brady!”

“So fucking wet, baby,” he murmurs, one hand on your hip to help you ride him. His fingers work deftly over your swollen clit, sliding around easily. He bends one knee, planting his foot on the mattress and driving his cock even deeper.

You yelp, leaning forward to brace yourself, fisting the material of his sweats. “Stop, too deep, too much,” you whine, pushing at his knee so he’ll flatten his leg again. He compromises, straightening his leg a bit, but still keeping it partially bent. You breathe heavily, panting as you ride Brady’s cock. Pleasure builds in your lower stomach, hot and tight, growing as Brady’s fingers keep sliding over your clit, his cock thick in your cunt. He glides his hand over your back, down over your ass cheek, kneading your flesh.

“Come on, baby,” he encourages you in a strangled voice. “Use my cock. Know you can do it.”

You grab Brady’s wrist, holding his fingers against your clit, pressing down for friction and Brady takes the hint, rolling your swollen nub between his fingers, keeping his hand in place between your legs. Still gripping his wrist, feeling his muscles and tendons move under your fingers, you bounce on his cock. The sound is obscenely wet, filling the bedroom, louder than your breathless little moans and whimpers. Brady’s hand is tight on your hip, guiding you up and down on his cock while he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck.

“Brady, please, faster….I need….” you break off, chanting his name when he bucks his hips up into yours, meeting you thrust for thrust. His cock swells inside of you, painfully thick, and you reach down with your free hand to stroke at his balls, skimming your nails over the sensitive skin. Brady moans against your neck and his hand moves from your hip, wrapping his forearm around your lower stomach, adding more pressure and guiding you to lean forward slightly. Your nipples brush painfully against the fabric of your sweatshirt and you yelp, clenching involuntarily around Brady’s cock.

He thrusts up into you, thumb planted firmly on your clit and tears roll down your cheeks from the simulation, grinding down on Brady’s pelvis. You let go of his wrist and brace yourself on his thighs again, leaning forward and bouncing on him, the underside of his cock sliding against your clit. That, combined with Brady’s fingers, sends you over the edge, black spots dancing in front of your vision as your orgasm rips through your body. You chant Brady’s name, barely coherent while you rock on him, his cock hitting deep. Brady’s palm presses flat against your lower stomach and you let go, feeling your body gush around his cock.

“So good, sweetheart,” Brady murmurs, sounding dazed. “Keep riding, honey, take what you need.”

You cry out when he thrusts up into you, overwhelmed by sensation, but don’t stop circling your hips over his. Your brain is melted into a puddle of sensation, all of your nerve endings on fire as you clench around him again and Brady’s abdomen tenses. He hauls you flush against his chest when he finishes, shouting your name and filling the condom with cum. He reaches down and grasps the base of his cock, pumping himself into you and filling the condom faster. The warmth of it is different than when you decide to forgo the condom, but you still hum happily in Brady’s arms, stretched wide over his cock, your thighs trembling on either side of his lap.

“Brady…” you mumble his name, turning your head to bury your face in his neck while he fills the condom. Your hands grasp at his forearm wrapped around your waist and he peppers your face with soft kisses, grunting into your mouth when he’s wrung dry.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters against the corner of your mouth. “Got carried away at the end,” he brushes his knuckles against your sensitive clit and you shiver in his arms. “So fucking hot and wet.”

“S’okay,” you slur your words, your body coming down from the orgasm and leaving you limp against Brady’s chest. “I liked it. Felt good - feels good,” you amend, clenching absently around Brady’s softening cock. Every thought and sensation other than being filled up by Brady is gone from your head. He laughs against your skin and you can feel him wipe his hand off on the towel under his ass.

Your thighs and ass feel wet, sitting in a mixture of blood, your arousal, and Brady’s cum, and you wrinkle your nose a little, shifting on his lap. You can’t help but look down at Brady’s lap and you regret it almost immediately. His lap is soaked in your combined fluids, the grey of his sweats stained red. His cum is leaking out of the condom, out of your cunt, and dripping down his balls to pool on the towel. “Oh, Brady!” You yelp, less drowsy now, trying to scramble off of his lap. “Your sweats, the towel!”

Brady adjusts his grip on you so you can’t go very far. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve never liked these sweats anyway,” he jokes, gently manhandling you so he can slide out of your cunt and pull off the condom. He ties it off efficiently and makes no comment about the mess of his hands and lap.

“Well I liked them,” you pout, cheeks heating up for a different reason. “This was such a mess.”

“Are your cramps gone?” Brady asks, carefully swinging his legs to the side so he can stand up. You’re still pressed close to his chest, on your feet too now, thighs pressed together to prevent anything getting on the floor. The towel on the bed looks like a crime scene. Brady lets go of you briefly so he can tug his sweats up to rest on his hips, but then his hand is on your hip again, nudging you towards the bathroom.

“Yes,” you reply, toddling on shaky legs.

“Then it was worth it,” he leans down to kiss your cheek. “Get in the shower, I’ll clean up and join you.”

He tosses the condom in the wastebasket and wipes his hand on his thigh - the sweats are clearly a lost cause - before he reaches out and swiftly pulls your sweatshirt over your head. You shiver at the cold air on your sensitive nipples and Brady grins at you, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. You wrinkle your nose, but nod, bracing yourself for Brady’s tongue to flick gently over one nipple. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss to the swell of your breast. “You know I feel bad not paying attention to your entire gorgeous body.”

Despite the sensitivity, both nipples tighten just from Brady looking at them and you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest. He’s seen everything, there’s no point in being embarrassed. You reach behind you and turn the shower on, making sure the knob is on a high temperature. “Don’t even bother trying to save the towel,” you sigh, “just toss it.”

“That was the plan,” Brady winks, kissing your forehead before disappearing from the bathroom. He leaves the door open behind him and once you step into the shower - groaning in pleasure when the scalding hot water hits your sore muscles - you can see him in the mirror, wadding up the towel and stripping the sheets from the bed. You really hope the sheets aren’t ruined since they’re beyond comfortable.

“Just swapping them for fresh ones,” Brady calls out to you, apparently a mind reader now.

You smile to yourself and focus on scrubbing shampoo into your hair, the eucalyptus scented steam relaxing your entire body. By the time you’re rinsing and repeating, Brady’s stepping into the shower behind you, sliding warm broad hands over your waist. He leans in and brushes his nose against your ear, lips ghosting over the sensitive skin at the hinge of your jaw.

“Hi,” you giggle, wiggling a little in his grip. Your legs are shaky.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, massaging at your lower stomach. You lean into his touch, still trying to work shampoo into your hair.

“I always smell like this,” you reply, ducking your head under the spray and letting the suds wash down your body. Brady’s fingers trail along with the soap, drawing lazy patterns against your wet skin. You shiver under his touch, unsurprised when the familiar tingle of pleasure starts at the base of your spine, in between your legs.

Brady notices the subtle move of your thighs and he lets his fingers trace the crease of your thigh, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Smell like mine,” he murmurs. “My girl.” His fingers move to the left, mere inches, and tease at your entrance. The tip of his middle finger circles your clit, still swollen and sensitive and you can’t believe you’re about to let him give you a third orgasm.

“Brady,” you gasp his name a little, closing your eyes against the sensation. Your hips cant towards his fingers, chasing his touch.

“Sweetheart,” Brady groans against your neck, his cock twitching against the back of your thigh. “Gotta let me feel you. No mess in the shower.”

He continues to slowly, gently circle your clit, making your brain fuzzy again and your knees week. You press a palm against the shower wall to hold you up, but there’s no chance of falling, not with Brady’s arms wrapped securely around you. You whine when Brady’s finger slips inside your cunt, curling gently.

“Feels good?” He asks, massaging at your lower stomach with his other hand. You nod against his shoulder. “Good,” he continues, “just want you to feel good.”

Brady’s usually chatty during sex, but this feels different, his words alternating between concern and filth, his fingers working their way over your clit. You can feel yourself dripping for him, slick and hot. “Brady, Brady… p-please,” you hiccup the words when he grinds his hardening cock against the split of your asscheeks. “Give me more.”

You plant both of your hands on the wall and widen your stance, feeling Brady line himself up at your entrance. The broad head of his cock slides through your folds, entering your cunt with an easy roll of Brady’s hips. You moan his name, still stretched out from earlier, so the feel of him inside of you is just pleasure. He kisses a hot trail over your shoulders, sucking gently at your pulse point, laughing when he can feel your heart skip a beat at the feeling of his fingers pressing against your clit.

“Feels so good,” he groans, thrusting into you, more gently than you’d expect. The drag of his cock against your inner walls has you clenching around him, arching your back, pressing your ass firmly against his pelvis. One of his hands holds your hip in place while he thrusts and the other snakes down your stomach to play with your clit. Brady’s fingers bump up against his own cock and he grunts, choking off the noise. You can feel his cock twitch from the contact.

Honestly, if you had known that being on your period would make the both of you this horny, you might’ve given in to period sex months ago.

Brady drives his cock into you deeper, punching air from your lungs in a sharp gasp. Your head falls forward, chin to your chest, and you watch with hazy vision as Brady’s cock splits you open. Water drips down your face, into your open mouth, nearly drowning you until you spit a little, angling your face away from the stream.

You’d barely come down from your last orgasm when Brady shuffled you into the shower, so it’s easier for him to build up this one. Pleasure works it’s way through your body, your clit throbbing under Brady’s touch, and before you know it, before you can really focus on it, he’s bullying that third orgasm from your body. Fingers and cock working together to send you over the edge. “Come on, sweetheart,” Brady talks you through the orgasm. “Go ahead, scream, cum on my cock.”

You shriek his name, fingers scrambling on the wet tile for purchase as Brady rocks his hips up into yours, rolling your clit between his thumb and index finger relentlessly. Nonsense words spill from your lips while Brady keeps up his pace and it’s only a few more heartbeats before he’s tightening his arm around your waist, his stomach muscles pulling taut, and spilling inside of you. He groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder, his hair flopping forward and brushing your skin. Brady’s fingers only stutter in their movements when he jerks to a finish inside of you and by then it’s too overwhelming so you reach down to push his hand away, whining that it hurts.

“Sorry, sorry,” Brady mumbles against your shoulder, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss there. He pulls his hips back a little, his softening cock slipping from your cunt and releasing a flood of his hot cum down your inner thighs. You shiver at the sensation, rubbing your thighs together a little and looking down to see the drips of blood and cum wash off your legs and down the drain. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head, dizzy and exhausted. Brady’s palms skim up your stomach and sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and he turns you so he can kiss you on the mouth. You melt into his touch, warm and pliable for him. Brady kisses the corner of your mouth again, a soft little peck, before he says, “okay, let’s get you cleaned up for real this time.”

A mumbled noise of agreement leaves your body and Brady keeps you propped up with one thick arm around your waist while he gently soaps you up and helps you rinse off. He gives his own body a quick scrub, paying extra attention below the belt, giving you a little smirk when you watch him clean himself up. You lean against the shower wall on shaky legs, letting the hot water keep you warm. You watch him shower, muscles bunching under his skin, and blurt out, “god, I love you.”

Brady rakes his hand through wet hair, slicking it off his face, and looks at you with warm brown eyes. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he grins. He leans forward and brushes his lips over your forehead before turning the water off and reaching an arm out of the shower to grab one of the big fluffy towels that wait for you. He wraps you up, rubbing his hands over your arms to warm you, and once he’s confident that you’re grasping the towel around your body, he gets a second towel to wrap around his waist. From there, you let yourself be taken care of - Brady leaves you alone in the bathroom to grab you a pair of panties, handing them to you with a knowing smirk, before leaving again so you can get yourself settled with a pad. He’s dressed in a pair of boxers and a worn out University of Minnesota t-shirt when you eventually pad into the bedroom after lotioning up your entire body.

“Sweats or shorts,” Brady holds up both items of clothing and you reach for the pair of his joggers that he offers, wanting to be bundled up and cozy even though it’s not that cold out. You step into the sweats while Brady attempts to pull one of his shirts over your head, only for you to get tangled up in the fabric, blinded by the cotton, and tip forward with a little squeak of surprise. Brady grabs you before you can fall onto the bed, hands hot against the bare skin of your waist. “Ah, shit! Sorry, sweetheart,” his voice is muffled from the fabric around your head and you wiggle from his grip, tugging the shirt down so you can breathe again.

“You already killed me with orgasms,” you huff on a laugh. “No need to actually try and kill me.”

Brady laughs and lifts his hands in the universal sign for surrender. “I’ll let you handle getting dressed,” he chuckles. “Undressing you is my specialty anyway.”

You snort a laugh, managing to get yourself dressed and comfy, the sleeves of Brady’s shirt hanging over your hands. “No more undressing tonight,” you sigh, twisting your wet hair into a loose knot on top of your head before crawling into bed. “I’m tapped out, done, ready for a pile of lo mein the size of my head and a solid eight hours.” You fluff up your pillows and draw the comforter into a little nest shape around your body, curling up like a cat and yawning so wide your jaw cracks.

“Lo mein, I can promise since the delivery should be here any minute,” Brady replies, looking at you with a soft smile on his face. “Eight hours of sleep? Well, if three orgasms doesn’t wear you out enough, I’ll go for four tomorrow.”

You shoot him a sly little smile, even as your eyelids fall slowly closed. “four orgasms? Might have to start complaining of cramps all month long.”

Brady’s laughter fades out as he heads downstairs to check if your food’s been delivered. You snuggle into your little nest of blankets, feeling warm and impossibly relaxed, like all the stress and tension’s been completely removed from your body. You’re pleasantly sore between the legs and you stretch out a little, impatient for Brady to return so you can eat and cuddle up against him.

The mouth-watering smell of Chinese food precedes Brady’s return and you pop up into a sitting position like a cartoon animal, wide awake. Your stomach growls a little too. Brady laughs loudly at the expression on your face. He’s got two white cartons in his hands, a bottle of Gatorade under one arm, a wad of paper towel tucked in the crease of his elbow, and two pairs of chopsticks stuck into the top of one of the cartons. “You’re wide awake now, huh?” He asks, handing over one of the cartons and snatching his hand back like he’s afraid you’ll chew it off. He settles down next to you with his own carton, placing the Gatorade and napkins down on his bedside table.

“I am suffering, Brady,” you inform him primly, shoving a wad of noodles into your mouth and chewing happily.

“Poor thing,” your boyfriend pouts at you, taking a bite of his orange chicken. “And here I thought I helped you so much.”

You swing your legs over to drape over Brady’s thigh and lean in to kiss his lower lip. “Oh, you helped very much,” you grin against his mouth. “You’ve been such a big help.”

Brady laughs into your mouth. “See, now I know you’re teasing me, sweetheart. I might not be so generous with my help next time.”

You fake a gasp, “you wouldn’t!”

“Nah, you’re right, I wouldn’t,” Brady leans in to whisper against your ear, “not when I know how needy you are on your period. Or how easy it was to slide into that sweet, wet cunt.”

Lo mein noodles slip off the end of your chopsticks and your entire body flushes with heat. “Brady…” his name leaves your mouth on a shaky exhale and he laughs, rests his hand on the inside of your knee, and leans back against the headboard. His thumb draws lazy circles on the inside of your knee and you shiver a little.

“I’m here for your free use, sweetheart,” he offers, toasting you with the carton of chicken and rice. “Just say the word.”

You kick lightly at the outside of his thigh with your heel, still flustered. “Insatiable,” you murmur, unable to deny the flutter of interest in your lower stomach at Brady’s words.

“You love it,” Brady counters, feeding you a piece of orange chicken. You hum, not about to lie to him, and lean forward to get closer to the heat Brady’s radiating off his body. You’re both quiet for a bit while you eat, trading bites off each other’s chopsticks. You sip at your mostly warm raspberry Arizona, starting to feel sleepy again from the food and the warmth off Brady’s body. You don’t even realize that your head is drooping forward to rest against Brady’s bicep until he gently takes the mostly empty carton from your hands and sets it on the bedside table.

“Hey, time to sleep a little,” he says softly, lifting your legs off his lap and straightening them out so your entire body shifts.

You hum, eyes shut, and press your face into your pillow, scooting around and getting comfortable. Brady pulls the comforter over your chest, making sure your back is covered and you’re cocooned in the warmth. You reach out a hand from the covers and grab Brady’s wrist, wiggling your fingers until he laces his fingers with yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses your fingertips. “I’m going to clean up, get some stuff ready for tomorrow, and I’ll be back,” he says against your fingers.

“Best Brady ever,” you mumble through a yawn, hearing his chuckle.

He strokes a piece of hair off your forehead and you’re passed out before he can let go of your hand and climb out of bed.

Cuddled under the covers, you don’t quite manage an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep, but when you wake up in the middle of the night with Brady’s entire body wrapped around yours, legs tangled together, heartbeat thumping steadily under your cheek, you don’t really mind.

[crmsnmth]

September Sky Chapter Five, part 8

The place was busy. Blacks and reds and whites floated around the bar and dance floor. At the moment, Mike Shinoda's remix of "Enjoy The Silence' was pumping through the carefully hidden speakers. The dance floor was crowded with people flowing and ebbing, and not always in time with the song's beat. That's the greatness of the goth dance. All you have to do is flow. That is, unless you were a cyber-goth. Three of them stood off with their neon and black straps, standing against the wall. The strange and hypnotic that was industrial dance was almost hypnotizing when it's done well. These three looked as if they were pretty serious in it.

A bartender dressed in a black shirt and black jeans came up to us. Anyone who looked at him could probably tell he was not a happy person. I don't think he wanted to be here on goth night. Hence why he wore the bare minimum look. I handed over my card before Addison could even slightly protest. I even but the first round for everyone. I'd been a third wheel for so long, that I felt like being generous.

Once we got our drinks, Addison and Kayla started having some quiet conversation I couldn't hear. I looked around, taking in my surroundings. Basically looking for the exits. I always look for the exits.

"How's things been?" I loudly asked Conner.

"Good. Finally got a job at the distribution center." Conner was talking about a Target distribution center that sat on the outskirts of Oconomowoc. The place paid really well and the job's were extremely easy.

"Ah nice. Actually making something?" I promise you, he was making more than I was.

"Enough that one check can pay our rent plus go grocery shopping."

"You guys moved in together?"

"Two months ago. Nobody told you?"

"No. I'll have to get you guys a potted cactus as a housewarming gift. I guess it's official, I'm out of the loop." I laughed. I was never in the loop. You have to pay attention to be in the loop, and even before my head broke, I had a very short attention span.

"Nah, not yet. You're like Pluto. Way out on the edges of the loop."

I may have not been a very social person, but I truly enjoyed the time I spent with the friends I'd managed to have latched on. These moments had been far and few in between, but I wouldn't trade them for anything.

"So how is that working out?" I asked.

"Great. really good. She keeps me in check."

"That's awesome, man. I'm really happy for you guys."

"What about you? What've you been up to?" Conner looked around quick, his eyes scanning the room.

"Work. Home. Repeat. Dropped out. For real this time."

"Just couldn't do it anymore?"

I laughed slightly as I sipped a very strong whiskey sour. I grimaced and swallowed it down. Maybe I'd have to ask him to make mine light. I didn't feel like getting wasted tonight. Not here. Not now.

"You know, there are other places you can go." Conner had met me before Emily, and he got to see a side most of my friends forgot. The teenage anarchist. Loud, obnoxious and fearless. Now I was in fear all the time. Fear of my own head.

"I go other places sometimes."

"Name one."

"I went to Dimes last week."

"Last week."

"What's wrong with that? Once a week is pretty good."

[djino04]

Injury

Author note : Don’t hesitate to ask requests in comments and I will try to write a minimum of three sentences OS. It’s a challenging experience for me, because English is not my native language. Thanks to @theyhaveacavetroll for the beta

Prompt asked by Broken : “Oh please, I need Silva severly hurt and Sky sad and protector”

POV Sky :

This is the first time I'm alone with Silva, outside of Alfea, since his release from prison. I don't know what to say to him and obviously he doesn't either. In the past, the silence between us was calm and almost comforting, now every second is a torment... I regret having said yes when he offered me to come with him to his father's cabin. Anyway, I didn't want to say yes to him but Aunt Farah convinced me to do it, telling me that it would be good for both of us and here we are in this old hunting cabin, while the wind starts to blow outside. I sigh for the umpteenth time, getting another glare from Silva, but I don't care anymore. If he's not happy, he shouldn't have asked me to come... And he shouldn't have lied to me all my life... Andreas was a great hero blah blah blah, your father would have been proud of you, blah blah. Andreas mostly followed a psychopath, abandoned me for 16 years and replaced me with Beatrix. He was a ba... a creep. I glance at Silva, as if he's going to chastise me for thinking of a swear word. But of course, he keeps his nose in a book he found in the library. 

I sigh again and it's obviously too for Silva because he gets up from his seat on an old chair and he grabs his coat: 

"I'm going to get some wood. I'll be back in five minutes. Don't go out. The wind is picking up and it isn’t the time to get lost in the woods."

I immediately retort: 

"It happened once and I was 14... Why do you speak about it every time?!"

Saul gives me one last look: 

"It happened one time too many... Get yourself an occupation inside before I get back."

An occupation, an occupation, he has good ones.  There's nothing to do here and there's not even a signal, so I can't speak or chat with Bloom. A little voice in my head tells me that I've been here many times before and that I had no trouble finding something to do. But I wasn't on the outs with Silva, so we had things to do together, like just going for walks or playing darts, sparring, playing board games. He would also tell me stories by the fire or read me a book. 

I get up and start walking around the cabin looking for an activity I can do on my own, but other than reading, I don't see much. Why did I let Aunt Farah talk me into this? 

I knew it was a bad idea. And I have a right to be mad at Silva for lying to me my whole life, right? Well, okay, Aunt Farah was also in cahoots with him and she lied to me too. But she's dead and back so it's a little different and I can't stay mad at her for this reason. 

After a few more minutes of searching, I realize that the 5 minutes are long gone. Silva should have been back about 15 minutes ago. 

I look out the window, trying to see where he is. A bad feeling comes over me. Maybe he needs some space just like me. I guess the last few months haven't been easy for him either... And I certainly didn't help matters by pushing him away every time he tried to approach me. But all he had to do was warn me that my father was a dangerous lunatic instead of presenting him as a hero. 

I waited a few more minutes before deciding to go out. I know Silva is going to give me a hard time when he sees me outside. We'll have one more argument and then that's it. We've been doing this for months anyway. I walk around the cabin because I know the woodshed is on the other side, a little further down the field. It's hidden by shrubs and you can't see it from inside. 

I walk over there at a good pace but I start running the second the shelter is in sight, or at least what's left of it. It looks like it has collapsed. I start calling frantically: 

"Saul?! Saul?! Answer me."

I can’t hear any response. I hope he wasn't in there, but I know in my heart that he is. I continue to call even though the shelter is only a foot away from me. I hear a low moan in response, telling me that at least he is alive. The wind is blowing harder and harder and the rain will soon fall. I kneel down next to the debris and begin to quickly clear it away to try to find Saul. It only takes me a few seconds to spot a piece of cloth and I focus my efforts towards that spot while continuing to speak: 

"Saul, can you hear me?"

He coughs before answering me weakly: 

"Sky?"

"Yes it's me. I'll get you out of here, don't worry."

I manage to clear his body little by little, effectively moving all the pieces of wood. Fortunately for us, none of them are too heavy and none of them impaled Saul. What worries me is that he makes no effort to help me or try to get up, he just lies there. And I understand why when I see the bump and blood on his forehead. I know that head wounds bleed a lot but my heart races again when I see the amount running through his hair and onto the floor. His eyes are also struggling to focus. I murmur more to myself than to him: 

"It's okay Saul, it's okay."

I try to get into soldier mode like Saul taught me. I need to think and not panic. I also know there is a satellite phone in the car in case of trouble, I'll be able to call Aunt Farah, she'll know what to do and she can come quickly with a portal. But that means leaving Saul here alone for a few minutes. 

I look at the blood and suddenly see Andreas' body instead for a few seconds. I shake my head, trying to clear my head. Despite all our conflicts, I can't let my second father die too. I already had to kill the first one, I can't bear to do it again with the second. It's my fault he's lying there, if I hadn't sighed earlier, he wouldn't have gone to get wood then and the shelter would have collapsed without him in it. Even though he lied to me all my life, he was the one who raised me, the one who educated me and most of all the one who loved me... 

He groans again as he tries to stand up. I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him: 

"Stay down, I'll go get help. But please stay down." 

Saul doesn't listen to me and continues his attempts: 

"No...it's too...dangerous...for you..."

I shake my head: 

"I'm just going to the car to get the phone and call Farah. I'll be back in five minutes, I promise. But stay here, and stay awake for me okay? Just stay awake."

The last sentence comes out like a plea but he murmurs okay in response. I leave immediately and run faster than I've ever run. As I head to the car, I make a promise to myself that once he's better, I'll finally have the conversation with Saul that he's been waiting for for months. I will listen this time and do what it takes to repair our relationship.

[chronicals-of-top-surgery]

25 days post OP 6/20/22

Jeez, five days have passed already?? Time is FLYING by.

Well, a day or two ago I took a nice hot shower and because I wasn't super concerned about water getting into places it shouldn't (which was a concern when my nipples weren't fully attached yet) I was able to get everything cleaned. Sadly, I need to exfoliate because just rubbing my shoulders made a ton of gross, dead skin fall off.

Speaking of gross dead stuff falling off, the hot steam got the scabs really loose. My right nipple has almost no scabbing now and my left lost a TON. It's seemingly very healthy and pink and perfect under there. The top is weirdly not super smoothed down to the skin or flush, it's raised around the top edge but I think it'll smooth itself out and be fine.

Though, while I was gently lifting away the scab bits that were flaking and falling off anyways, one bit of scab gave a weird amount of resistance. Turns out, there's a fuckin SUTURE hiding under the scab!! Like a whole stitch, hiding, totally missed by the doctor 2 weeks later. I sent him a text and showed some pics and he said I'm healing up perfectly, I look amazing, and that the suture will dissolve and fall away on its own so just don't bother it and it'll be fine.

I only have 6 more days of wearing my chest wrap too. Ive been taking breaks for a few hours at a time. Just letting everything breathe and relax a little, especially when the wrap is just not cooperating and is rolling up and sitting on my scars weird which hurts. My sides do hurt but I think it's from the wrap and laying on my sides. I've been able to sleep on my sides a little but I keep just rolling back over to sleep on my back again.

Everything is super sensitive. Especially in the center of my chest between the two scars and like in between where my breasts used to be, it's just really tender to touch. Like touching a super raw sunburn, or (and maybe only my fellow autistic folks will really get this one) when someone pets or rubs you in the same spot over and over for too long it starts to hurt? Yeah that sensation. Really uncomfortable. It feels better with the wrap on it and nothing brushing up against it but my whole chest is just sensitive in a bad way

For some reason, right below my nipple and a little to the outside, it's hard as rock. Idk what that's about bc the rest of my chest is more squishy. I'm guessing it's muscle?? Or part of the suturing? Idk, it doesn't hurt, just a little strange note. It's on both sides, mostly the left, so I'm assuming it's normal.

I still am trying to not really stretch, I still haven't done any heavy lifting, pushing, or pulling. I plan to keep it that way for another month, hell, until I'm moving out for college (3 months total healing). I want to be CERTAIN I don't cause any damage and I want my scars to heal as pristinely as possible, and right now I have the luxury to do so. Besides, as of right now, if I stretch a bit too far or push a bit too hard, it does hurt. I haven't had anything besides a twinge of achey pain or a quick pinch but id rather listen to those little hints of pain telling me to stop while I'm ahead and not push it further.

Ive got my online college orientation tomorrow so I have that to look forward to. I also need to start talking to my boss about when I'll be returning. But I can worry about that tomorrow. I still have 10 days before my leave ends, I'm not on the very last second of planning. It's still flexible and calm and I'm not gonna freak myself out over a minimum wage job. The only reason I haven't quit is because I want to transfer to a store in the college town and take advantage of tuition reimbursement.

So yeah! It's going good, I'm taking it easy still, healing is nice, I'm no longer stressed about my nipple because it turns out it's scab was just a LOT thicker than my right one, and everything is healing good! Im outside of the scary zone now, no more fear that a nipple will fall off or that something will get infected. Now it's just a gentle waiting game for the sutures inside to heal and dissolve away and for my scars to settle and start permanently healing. It won't be completely healed for like 3 years (the deep scar on my hand took about that long to go from reddish pink to my skin tone) but I just need to make it to the period where I'm safe to work out again which I think is like 3 ish months? I'm fine with that honestly. I'm not going to start working out again until I have the campus gym accessible to me.

I'll keep updating this periodically! Im really fond of this blog and all like 3 people who follow it, and it's a great archive for myself and my memories. Somehow being in Miami simultaneously feels like yesterday and a year ago. I miss my companion, I miss how much he doted on me and cared for me. Of course my mom dotes on me too but that's a good mom for ya, I love and appreciate it but I still yearn for him too. Little bit of gay yearning never hurt anyone yeah? Yeah. I'll keep updating here as I go along and heal! Until the next post!

[mell-eight]

Writing Galore:

10/20/23

Toss in a little magic, a bunch of political intrigue, a pair of twins and their love interests, and apparently you get a great story!  At least, per the reviews I'm getting for Twin Elements.  I'm so happy everyone seems to have enjoyed it!  If you haven't gotten your copy yet, I posted a bunch of links HERE, but it's available at most major retailers.  

I have completed writing my story Soulbond, which I plan to submit to NSP for their internal Valentine's Day call. The story ended up being short and sweet, almost fairy tale style, with a strong emphasis on the magic and the romance.  I really think you guys will like it!  It's due to NSP in just a few weeks, so this is a bit of a rushed timeline for me.  Normally when I complete a story I give it a quick edit before setting it aside for a minimum of six to ten weeks.  This allows any nuances of what I meant to say versus what is actually on the page to fade from my memory, and when I return to the story I can be much more objective.  Soulbond can only sit for about two weeks before I have to start editing or else I won't make the deadline. Luckily Soulbond is a short story, so I should be able to get it finished in time.  I'll be sure to let you know how it goes! 

I have completed writing the epilogue for The Prince in my Princes of Toval series. which means this story is also done!  I really, really like how this book turned out.  The magic is advanced, the characters are dynamic, and I think I've pulled the romance in nicely.  Especially in the epilogue, which is all about the romance.  This weekend I am going to give The Prince a once-over to complete a basic edit, before setting it aside.  Unlike Soulbond, The Prince will receive the full two months rest I prefer.  I plan to pull it out again for a more in-depth edit sometime in the end of December or early January, and submit it to NSP for their consideration once it's ready.  Keep an eye out on this blog around then if you want to know more! 

In between all that other writing, I've somehow found five minutes here and there to start writing the third book, The Spy.  I'm maybe 500 words in, so it's not much, but it's a start that I think is very promising.  The Spy is set a few years after The Prince concludes, with a totally new set of magic rules and a fun new plot.  I expect this will be the final book in the series, as it finally ties together the last loose ends from The Chef (book one).  Also, Vivary Tales has been mentally harassing me, begging to know when I can return to working on it.  I chose to focus on The Chef (and the sequels) instead, as both books were too intricate to write simultaneously.  Plots are percolating so I can't stay away from Vivary Tales too long.  As soon as The Spy is done, I will have to return to Vivary Tales.  That said, I don't actually know how long The Spy will be.  I have two major plot points that need to be explored in separate, but interlinked, arcs.  I'm going to aim for 50k words, hope I actually get to 60k, but be willing to settle for 40k if that's what the story calls for.  As soon as I'm really able to start digging into the writing, I'll be able to make a better estimate.

[james-bucky-barnackle]

forcing myself to blog

I am forcing myself to blog because I feel like I always get to a realization when I write. And I use the word "force" because I haven't written one of these in such a long time because I've formed this conditioning that if I write traumatic or upsetting experiences in my life, it'll immortalize it and I'd never forget. But I feel like I have to, so I could lay it all down and for once, maybe it'll stay somewhere else other than my brain. In old school fashion, I am tabulating it.

I'm currently (not) studying for the board exams. I should very well be, but I'm not. I enrolled in review classes but only ever went to class for the first three weeks and then ineffectively dipped because 1) I relied on believing I'll watch the recordings even when I'm clearly not; 2) I always thought I had months away, until well I have only one more left; 3) I realized I could not for the life of me focus and I'm not sure if its because its online or maybe because I believe I'm better off reading lectures by myself. Whether I'm delusional for the reasonings to be both the opposite, and am in denial - I won't know until I type t all out; 4) It's so hard to study when you have work, and am battling some fucking mental illness that just about affects even your relationships and work and its a fucking cycle til you get to a point where you don't even know which one is the root. Like the chicken and the egg analogy, it never fucking stops. I have 1 more month left and I am shitting my pants. It's not obvious, but internally I am and I've filled a wasteland of shits that I look like I'm not giving but really I am.

For some mystical reason, I have to claim it and yell at the universe that I am going to pass and somehow top the exams without the effort I should be exerting and as I'm typing this, half of my brain is thinking of a comprehensive calendar to squish all of the lectures I need to read before the three days of hell come.

I'm terrible at work, really terrible - and I have my employee evaluation tomorrow. I haven't even filled it up yet because I always rely on mood for some tasks (and most people don't really understand that because they're twats and don't know what it's like to have fucking ADHD). I'm very insecure about the fact that I'm still holding the same job title regardless of company and I've been working for five fucking years. It gets to a point where I'm joyed when a peer of mine tells me they fucking suck at work and have a minimum job because it makes me feel better about myself which then makes me feel like a douchebag. And then a few minutes later I realize, I shouldn't even care about how much they're salary is because I'd still be struggling with mine. Now I have to build up the courage to tell my manager tomorrow to not reduce me to the last two months that I've been underperforming just so I could at least fight for my career even when I don't believe in myself anymore.

Next, is that I have to move out of this condo in 2 fucking weeks and I am furious because I just about want to cry right now, realizing how much is on my plate that I want to somehow time travel to any year as long as I retain my memories and live from then on. I'm so anxious because I only have a month left to study for boards and 2 weeks from that will be dedicated to packing to go back to my mom's house and I'd have to adjust again and I just want to cry and pull my eyeballs out. Just thinking about 2 weeks here and 2 weeks at home absolutely crushes the life outta me. I want to pack and start reading my lectures, not worry about moving or having to adjust to any schedule. But now I have to panic about that and panic about having not finished a single hand out.

On top of that, my anxiety has been piling up to the point that I can't even open up to my boyfriend because I feel like he's getting tired of trying to understand and I know that if I ask he'd say yes and I would just dissolve. Because certainly if that's what he feels, I can't really force him to try because he'll just grow to resent me for it. But I'd want him to know how I'm doing, I'd want words to spew out of conversations because he's my partner and I'd at least want him to know, because I respect him enough to let him know what's going on with me but also am torn about having respect not to tell him anything. I'm just worried that he'd look for me and that I wont be there anymore. At the same time I'm worried he's only here because he's afraid of what'll happen to me, and I don't want him to feel that way because I want his love for me to be free and non obligatory (even if he says it isn't I'm anxious of the possibility, especially when he can't be honest enough to tell me when I make him feel bad, which I berate myself for). I'm not even sure we still are together because we're going through a situation and I'm slowly dying and falling into an abyss. I'm growing more distant as time passes even when I respect his time and his process. I just want him to know that I'm growing distant and that I don't want to leave him in the dark when I suddenly turn ash cold and not have given him the chance to warm up.

I might just have to ask him to read this because I have no idea how I should talk to him. Imagine the scene where you ask Gordon Ramsey to taste your cooking and you just pull the most nervous face you don't even wanna look; or a finger pulling loose a collar because you'd be too nervous to check your boss' response on something because both of those will be me.

It's even worse because I'm fully aware I've gotten depressed (even though I feel like I've been this way for years) and I can't do anything about it even if I want to because I'm too broke to afford medication. And wanting to end things has become a thought for the past few months even when I really haven't thought about ending my life before. It's gotten to a point that the littlest things trigger me and I make it an issue, because I simply can no longer tolerate anymore. I am so anxious. I am so depressed. I am hopeful but also hopeless.

[hansolmates]

one more time (m)

pairing; (former) popular!jk x (former) normie!reader summary; it’s been two years since you’ve seen your former tryst jeon jungkook. you didn’t expect him to be applying for the internship you’re currently running, along with the rate your heart is running at the sight of him in a black suit. genre/warnings; self-deprecating language, your typical (future) co-workers!au, jungkook is a piner and so is oc, a lil bit of sneaking around, adulting, a mutual understanding of feelings (finally!!) smut in the form of—soft n’ dirty baybee, unprotected, cockwarming, overstimulation, minor praise and possession kink, cumplay, &you know that they gon have heart eyes the entire time w.c; 7.3k a/n; darn why am i so... emotional over this??? it started out as a meaningless drabble series but with all my lovely readers and moots it’s grown into such a fun, introspective series. thank u for loving this and joining me on this journey. for those of u who are new to this series feel free to read popular-ish first or as a standalone! [popular-ish masterlist]

if you’ve enjoyed this (whether as a standalone or as a series) please consider giving it a like and a share✨✨✨✨✨

“A mess, I’m a mess,” you sing-song to yourself, organizing the manuals on the clear glass by subject and size. The applications of all your new interns are alphabetized, not a form out of place. Everything’s perfect. “Alright Jessica, all twenty of the interns are accounted for.” 

“Actually, there’s twenty-three,” Jessica quips, and you let your shoulders slump. Being part of the recruiting team of your company has been simultaneously exciting and stressful. Stressful because of the constant travel, but otherwise exciting because you loved your internship at your current company. You remember how nervous you were two years ago, and how much support and help you got from your recruiters. Applying to this team was a natural turn of events. 

“A-are you sure, Jess?” you look through all the applications, count the amount of nametags, triple check the chairs. You’re sweating through your blazer, wondering where you went wrong. 

The head of your recruiting team glues one hand to her hip, while the other hand is holding her iPad, scrolling with her thumb. You swallow, intimidated by Jessica’s golden wavy locks and her black-trimmed white Chanel pantsuit. 

“Yep, but don’t be too hard on yourself. I just added three more recruits last night. I’ll get the chairs and the apps are being printed. No worries,” Jessica assures, gesturing for you to hurry up and get outside, “Call the babies in!” your team leader waves her finger around like a magic wand, commanding you to the front lines. 

Krystal puts a hand on her shoulder, as always looking impeccable. She has virtually nothing to worry about. She’s a woman who has connections, courtesy of her team leader. “Let’s go, newbie,” she teases, pulling you through the door. 

The recruits in the lobby are wide-eyed and vibrant, and you feel a little nostalgic as you watch them line up in front of you and Krystal as you sign them in. You would dwell on the feeling more if it wasn’t for your exhaustion, so you decide you’ll get a chance to take a road down memory lane when you get to the hotel. 

“Name?” 

“Xu Minghao.” 

“Congrats Minghao, here’s your nametag and I’ll see you inside,” with a firm handshake, one recruiter is free to go. 

“Name?” 

“Chou Tzuyu.” 

“Congrats Tzuyu, here’s your name tag and I’ll see you inside,” she doesn’t go in straight away, and moves to the side of the door. “Actually,” you pause mid-handshake with another recruit, staring at the woman in curiosity, “my boyfriend just got a call last night that he was accepted in this year’s batch. Do you have his name?” 

“Yes, three more recruits were added,” you chirp, as if you totally did not hear that bit of information five minutes ago, “What’s his name—Jungkook?” 

The both of you blink at each other. One hand on Tzuyu’s shoulder, eyes wide and mirroring yours. Your heart falls straight to your stomach, wanting to be eaten by acids and bacteria so you can stop any possibility of feeling any lingering affection for the boy you fooled around with in undergrad. Everything about him screams professional. He’s clean cut, a pinstripe black suit you never thought he’d own, and his hair is neatly trimmed and pulled behind his ears. His shoulders look tall and broad under the slight padding, his biceps comfortably stretching against the dark fabric. The golden complexion remains the same however, from the honest brown eyes to the coral pink lips that would always smile at you. 

“Oh, so you do have his name!” Tzuyu clasps her hands together, delighted. He has a girlfriend, too. It’s then you realize you’ll be stuck with not just him, but her for the week. “You guys are so efficient. C’mon Kookie, let’s find some seats!” 

“I still gotta get my nametag,” he replies goodnaturedly, gesturing to you, “save us some seats in the front?” 

Tzuyu thinks nothing of it, squeezing his bicep before skipping off to the front row. Your eyes linger on her form, and it’s only then you realize how tall and intimidatingly pretty she looks in that plaid teddy bear brown skirt suit. You did not look that good when you were a budding undergrad. 

By this time, Krystal has taken all your other recruits from your line, regarding you with a raised brow. She’s fast with her attendance, so you know you don’t have much time. 

“I applied last minute,” Jungkook says, scratching his head, “was running out of options before graduation. I didn’t know you’d be one of my recruiters, though. Lucky me.” 

Jungkook and you never ended up keeping in contact, at least as of recent. A check-in message a few months in, a happy birthday or holiday greeting late at night. But two years later and those messages are automatic, with no feeling or personality. You never thought you’d see him again, no less in the city. 

“You just graduated with your masters, congrats,” you smile at Jungkook, although you’re sure the feigned emotion fails to reach your eyes, “IT Management, right?” 

“You remembered,” Jungkook brightens, reaching over to squeeze your shoulder, “you look good.” 

“Oh please—”  you laugh to yourself, shaking your head, “I just got off a flight and I ran over in a two-day old suit, I don’t even have makeup on,” you didn’t feel this way in the morning, you just rushed to do the bare minimum to be enough and ran over to the convention hall. But now in the presence of Jungkook who looks so handsome and clean-cut, you can’t help but feel a little slighted at the sudden reunion. 

“You’re always beautiful,” Jungkook exhales, and you clutch your clipboard closer to your chest. 

You cough, an excuse for him to stop touching your shoulder, “You should go inside, it’s gonna start soon. We can catch up later.”

“Wait—” you make a scrunched up face that Jungkook can’t catch, but right in Krystal’s view. You can tell she’s laughing at you internally with her devious grin. “I just wanted to say, Tzuyu isn’t my girlfriend. We’re just…” 

“Fooling around?” you didn’t mean for it to sound so sharp, but you wanted this conversation over. You have a job to do and Jungkook is your emotional barrier. 

You and Jungkook used to fool around. 

Jungkook winces, looking younger in his monkey suit. “I mean if you give me a chance to explain later—”  

“Nametag, let’s go newbie.” Krystal slaps on the sticker herself, a little too hard if she asked. She doesn’t even bother to write his full name, just a bright green Jeon JK, IT Management tacked on his breast pocket, clashing with the gold pocket square. 

“Sorry,” Jungkook tucks his tail in for now, bowing at you and Krystal as he scurries inside. 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Krystal doesn’t bother to comfort you or ask what’s up—not that you want her to, even though you do want a breather before you have to go up on that stage and explain the itinerary for a week. The only thing you can do is smooth out your skirt, brush away the flyaways on your hairstyle and plaster a company-paid smile on your face.

The autopilot switch is on throughout the rest of the morning. Not just because Jungkook’s around, but the new position has got you on livewire. You’re glad that you’re not wearing base makeup because you are absolutely melting with all the high beam lights all up in your face as you talk through the week’s activities. 

You could swear Jungkook clapped a little harder than most once you stopped talking, but maybe it’s because you’re not used to seeing Jungkook in the very front of a lecture. In fact, he was a very hard middle person, preferring not to show off his intelligence and let other people lead the discussion. Then again, it’s been two years, you don’t know how much he’s changed. 

Jessica caps off the seminar with a great kick-off, the happy hour. The recruitment team picks a four star restaurant under their hotel so the recruits can enjoy themselves before going off to the training facility for a week. 

And by training facility, you also mean yet another four-star hotel. You knew you made the right decision by joining this company because the benefits are impeccable, and value personal enjoyment just as much as they value work ethic. In the morning you and the recruits will be driving uptown to a private resort where there would be classes in the morning, and recoup in the evening. You’re very much looking forward to the infinity pool on the roof. 

The recruits are ushered out as soon as you’re done, and that’s when you step out of the shadows to clean up the chairs and the brochures left behind. Thankfully Jungkook is probably following the norm and going back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner. Once the room is completely empty, you rip off your blazer and let yourself relax. 

It’s going to be a long week. 

Jeon: where u @?

You: hotel room

Jeon: why? Thought we were all gonna have dinner together

You: nahhh, this night is for the recruits! You’ll be tired of our faces by the end of the week, enjoy it while you can 😉  have a good night

You sigh in contentment, relaxing further into the silk sheets. You just finished your skincare routine, letting some mindless drama play as the essences and serums sink into your skin. All you want is one Jungkook-free night. Tomorrow you’ll be stuck training him and Tzuyu for the week and you want to take tonight to emotionally prepare yourself. 

Your phone rings once more. 

Big Baddie Jessica Jung: krystal and i ordered takeout in the restaurant downstairs. Can u bring it to our  room? Plsssssss 

Little Baddie Krystal Jung: it’ll be faster if you do it, we even got u a lil somethin🍰🍰🍰

Taking in your outfit, you grimace. You’re dressed for bed, a large nightie with your hair pulled back and a little pink bunny tie headband on top. Can’t they get room service to send it up? You admire your boss but you don’t understand why she needs to display her power over and over, she already knows you’ll follow her to the ends of the earth. 

Quickly slipping into a pair of sneakers you run down the expanse of the hotel. It’s easy to spot where the recruits are, livin’ it up in the large restaurant that takes up half the space of the ground floor. Most of them are pretty drunk, hoping to sleep off the hangover on the four-hour bus ride. You have absolutely no judgement, two years ago you were in the same position. 

Thankfully you don’t have to go far into the restaurant, as the hostess immediately knows Jessica’s order. While you wait for her to go into the kitchen and get it you drum your fingers against the counter, hoping no one notices you. It’s akin to when you’re a teacher in a mall, hoping none of your students gawk at you in the middle of Victoria’s Secret. 

“Ah, well Jungkook and I aren’t official yet—but very soon.” 

Your ears perk up at the sweet voice. Tzuyu is leaning across the open bar next to the counter, sipping on a mango mojito. She’s dumped the blazer for the night, showing off her soft skin and slender arms with a sleeveless cream blouse. 

“Then where is he?” another recruiter asks, gesturing to the expanse of the lobby. 

“He’s not much of a party person,” Tzuyu shrugs, tipping back her drink. 

You scoff, plastering on a smile to the hostess as you grab your bags and walk as fast as you can out of the lobby. You’ve never felt more like an old hag until now. Sure, most of the recruits are younger than you, but seeing Tzuyu talk so freely about her relationship with Jungkook has you in a bit of a spiral. The day of graduation, you told Jungkook not to wait for you. Heck, you’re only interested in the idea of what you could’ve had with Jungkook. 

These thoughts only cloud you further as you jab the elevator buttons all the way up to the suites where you and the Jungs reside. You relax a little when you see a strawberry cheesecake sitting prettily on the top of their order, your name written on the label with a little heart. Hanging their bag on the door handle of their room, you make your way back to your suite. 

You freeze when you see a floppy-haired Jungkook roaming the hallway, looking like a clueless child hobbling around in slippers and wide eyes at any sparkly item that decorates the area. It doesn’t even look like he tried attending the happy hour tonight, dressed in an impossibly big heather grey sweatsuit that swallows his form. 

“Are you lost?” you ask tentatively, as if you’re talking to a toddler lost at the mall. 

Jungkook relaxes considerably at the sound of your voice, and he replies, “Was tryna find your room since you didn’t reply to my texts.”

“So… you decided to check all the rooms?” 

“Yep,” he pops the p with a smack of his lips, “I figured the recruiters would be far away from the party so I started at the top. Thankfully I got to Jessica’s room first. Didn’t have to knock on too many doors. Only one old man got annoyed at me.” 

“You’re crazy,” you chuckle, slipping in your keycard to let Jungkook in. 

“Fuck, this room all to yourself?” 

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to kick his slides to a corner of the wall, flopping atop your bed and clutching your baby blue koala plush in his arms. The king sized bed is enough for his legs to stretch comfortably without falling off the edge, and he eagerly pads his feet against the soft fabric. 

It warms you to think that Jungkook is comfy enough to lay on your bed and hug your stuffed animals, a semblance of friends that you’ve missed for such a long time. Last year the team you worked for was great, you loved the people and even now you consider some of them friends. This year the team is a little smaller, and since your two other co-workers are sisters, it’s a little harder to nudge yourself in the direction of friendship. 

As soon as you sit down against the headboard, Jungkook’s eyes soften. Everything feels so different and the same. The threadbare pajamas that either of you haven’t had the heart to throw away since they’re so damn comfy, yet  your bodies are a little more worn and your eyes a little more droopier than usual. 

“So,” Jungkook bites his lip, not in the sexy way, but the nervous way, “about Tzuyu—”

“Jungkook, you don’t have to explain yourself,” you slump on your corner of the bed, regarding Jungkook with guilty eyes. “I really shouldn’t be feeling the way I’m feeling. It isn’t fair and I don’t want to jeopardize your internship.”

“And… what are you feeling?” 

“Dumb things.” 

“Your feelings aren’t dumb.”

“This time they are.”

“I’ve always shared my feelings, it’s unfair that you never want to share yours,” Jungkook sits up, criss-cross applesauce, pensive. “Maybe it’s my fault for not making you feel comfortable enough to share, but I feel like the reason why we never worked out was because we never tried hard enough to have a proper conversation.” 

How could you have missed all the indicators, all the good words, all the kindness Jungkook has given you that last semester? “You’re absolutely right,” you let your insecurities, your apprehensiveness, get in the way. You think in two years you’d do better to eradicate this kind of behavior, but lately you haven’t had many friends to express your feelings to. “Tell you what, I’ll work harder to express how I feel. No exchanges, no nothings. I owe you this.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Jungkook smiles, “I just think it would be nice to y’know, talk. As friends.” 

“Right, friends.”

“So, will you hear me out about Tzuyu?” 

“Let me open my cake,” you pull out your bag with the cheesecake, which thankfully has two spoons, “it seems like we’ll be having that kind of conversation.” 

Everyone is more amicable because of food. According to Jungkook, Tzuyu has a hardcore, ten-year plan for her twenties. After a couple of dates with Jungkook, Tzuyu whips him into the plan. Mentions that she’s well-bred and has a family reputation to uphold. Says IT Management is something completely desirable in a partner, that he’s sensible and wonderful and would like to be committed full-time. 

“And she talked to her parents about me and said that I’m a good prospect for marriage. Like I’m another pillar in her plan!” Jungkook cries, taking a monstrously sized bite of your cheesecake, wallowing away.

This is akin to sleepovers you’ve always wanted to have in high school, down to the food gorging. You can’t help but be fascinated, “So are you wrapped up in an engagement? Is this a scary rendition of Crazy Rich Asians?” 

“You just can’t turn a one-eighty like that on a fifth date,” Jungkook shakes his head, reeling at the emotional whiplash, “she’s really nice. Really organized, really perfect. It really intimidates me.”

“Is she what you reaaaally want?” you can’t help but ask, rolling your eyes at the excessive use of the word, and tamp down the pain in your stomach by eating a forkful of creamy cheesecake. 

“I don’t know!” Jungkook replies exasperatedly, “Obviously I’m worried since she wants to put a ring on it. I told her she needs to back off. Right after the seminar I said she had no right telling other people we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. She didn’t say much, just frowned and walked away.” 

You roll your eyes, scraping the leftover graham cracker crust from the edge of the plastic plate. “According to her, I heard you two are planning to make it official very soon.” 

His eyes widen, “I really bring girl trouble wherever I go, don’t I?” 

“Since I’ve known you,” you half-joke, putting away the plastic cutlery on the nightstand. 

You two sit in silence for a few moments, letting the television fill the room with mindless static about some sappy Hallmark movie. Tentatively, you land a hand on Jungkook’s knee. He looks down at your tiny fingers, giving his skin an experimental squeeze of comfort. 

“I don’t want her,” he finally says. 

“Okay,” you reply, “you won’t even have to talk to her if you don’t want to. I can arrange the groups this week so you don’t have to be around—”

“Give me one week,” his eyes flash to yours, dark and sharp.

“Jungkook. You have your determined face on,” it makes you sweat.  

“Because I’m determined to win you over, once and for all,” you eyes widen, and Jungkook visibly freezes, “was that too much? I’m kind of on an emotional high today. I didn’t expect to see you today and it kind of threw me into a loop. I thought I might be running into you once I started my internship but I didn’t think you’d be my recruiter. And then you went on that stage all bad-ass talking about work and you looked so gorgeous in your suit and I was so proud knowing you made it and IrealizedhowmuchImissedyou—” 

“Jungkook, slower,” you’re feeling a little woozy as well, equally overwhelmed. “You’re just saying this because you didn’t expect to see me—” 

“You’re deflecting, again.” 

“I’m scared, okay?” you blurt, throwing your hands in the air. “You’re right, this is all so sudden. So can’t we just start being friends and see if it takes us somewhere? You don’t have to win me over, just support me like I’ll support you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook moves up the bed, so he’s leaning against the headboard as well. His long legs stretch farther than yours, and it feels oddly domestic as you talk it out and stare at the television screen. “I’m just, worried I’m running out of time.” 

“I'm not going anywhere this time.” 

“I know,” Jungkook shakes his head, ridding himself of his torrid thoughts. Conceding, he gestures to the television, pulling out the remote under your pillow, “wanna watch television, or catch up?” 

You last about an hour until you knock out. However, Jungkook keeps you entertained up until that moment, as you exchange your lives and stresses. Everything meshes together, you’re not sure if it’s the charm that comes with late night talks, but you feel like you can talk to Jungkook about anything if given the time. You melt when he strokes your hair till the last minute, wishing you a goodnight and a promise of more. 

“Okay, I’ve gone over most of the work ethics in the manual,” you smile nervously when you see your glazed over recruits, nearly falling off their chairs. Even Krystal is bored out of her mind, discreetly playing with her phone in the back under her manual. Of course you’d get stuck with teaching the boring classes. “Any last minute questions before we head off for dinner?” 

Tzuyu shoots her hand up, “Are romantic relationships allowed in the workplace?” 

Jungkook promptly chokes on his water bottle. He looks up at you, panicked. Ignoring his terror, you paint on a thin smile towards the young woman, “Like I mentioned earlier, romantic relationships between employees are not frowned upon, so long as you’re not working under or over someone in the same department.” 

“Right, just wanted to make sure,” Tzuyu is all chipper smiles as she thanks you.  

If you were still twenty-one, you’d gag at the pointed look she sends Jungkook. They’re sitting diagonal from each other, and Jungkook makes a point to pretend to be interested in your lecture until the very end. 

You’re halfway done with recruitment week, and while you’re not shocked at how fast the week has gone by, you’re fairly disappointed that Jungkook and you haven’t had time to meet up in private. So far it’s been easy enough to keep your friendship (and past sexual relationship) a secret, but something dark and eager tells you how much you want more. The recruiters are eager to leave, all twenty-three of them grouping off and talking about what they want to eat for dinner. Everyone except a certain dark-haired fellow, who’s hair is currently bouncing off it’s styled coiff, wanting to return to it’s normal non-gelled self. 

“Kookie,” you raise a brow at the interaction, Tzuyu leaning over her chair to Jungkook’s, “wanna get dinner tonight?” 

Jungkook’s taking an excruciatingly long time to pack his things, raising a brow at her, “I’ve told you already, I don’t want to be involved in whatever plans you have.” 

“Oh-kay,” Tzuyu rocks back and forth on her oxford heels, pursing her magenta pink lips, “then why don’t we at least walk back to the hotel together? I really want to talk about some things that might change your mind.”

“Nothing will change my mind,” Jungkook’s determined face has been staying strong for the week, from the way he makes sure he’s first in your class to the simple “good morning” and “good night” texts you exchange. “Besides, I have a date tonight. And I really want to talk to the recruiters about a personal work matter, so can you please leave?”  

You try not to snort at how blatant Jungkook was being. You pretend to organize your folders, throwing whatever random notes you have in your bag for later. 

“A date,” she twitches,  “with who?” 

“Someone that doesn’t treat me like a stepping stone in her career path,” Jungkook deadpans, and that’s all it takes for Tzuyu to huff and walk away from the hall. 

You think Tzuyu is like a bug, relatively harmless, but someone who gets on your nerves. 

“A date, huh?” Krystal quotes, finally looking up from her phone. Her sharp, cat-eyes linger at the door, wondering if Tzuyu is going to pop out and try to drag Jungkook by the reins. Finally, she plants her stare between you and Jungkook. “So, you two fucking?” 

“Former fucking,” Jungkook supplies helpfully, and you jump off your podium to elbow him in the ribs, “ow—what?” 

“You just don’t tell Krystal we’re fucking!” 

“Former fucking,” he chastises, but the eyes he sends you are a little sultry, and you wonder if he’s thinking of fucking in the future. You reel yourself back, focusing on the third party.

But you anticipate that Krystal couldn’t care less, and you’re grateful for that. While a smaller work team means a smaller possibility of close work relationships, you do like the drama-free environment. “Like you said,” Krystal shrugs, slinging her briefcase over her shoulder, “romantic relationships in the workplace are not frowned upon.” 

You wring your hands between your bag when Krystal finally makes her getaway, and you look up at Jungkook. “So,” you smile wryly, “you have a date tonight, huh?” 

“With a pretty working woman,” he sighs dramatically, putting a hand over his chest, “that is, if she’ll have me.” 

“Consider yourself taken.”  

Jungkook and you sneak away to your suite once again. To your surprise, the suite is decorated in rose petals and a bottle of champagne sits in an ice bath on your bedside. A large pizza pie sits beautifully on your coffee table, and the television is playing lo-fi hip-hop. 

You feed Jungkook champagne-dipped strawberries as you gorge on the joy that is baked bread and cheese. 

And when he kisses you, it’s slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. 

It’s the last day of recruitment week, and all classes ended at noon so the interns can use all the resort’s amenities to the fullest. Many of the interns, including yourself, Jessica and Krystal, are on the rooftop celebrating a successful workweek. Staff and interns alike are buzzing around, eager to top off their weekend with some relaxation and sun. 

Jungkook is with his new team, conversing with other IT employees. You try not to stare too hard at your reignited flame, tipping back a cutely decorated glass of fruit. His arms ripple as he tips back the liquid. He’s wearing a tank top and you could swear his biceps have gotten meatier. Unfortunately you hold yourself back, after all the internship isn’t quite over and you still are a professional. 

At the end of the weekend you really have nothing to worry about, you know that. 

But Tzuyu? She irritating. 

“I just don’t understand,” Tzuyu suspects nothing of your budding relationship with Jungkook. You’re thankful for that because towards the end of the week, it was getting harder and harder to be subtle when you two send each other heart eyes from three meters away. 

Tzuyu sounds like she’s talking to herself, the way she stares into the infinity pool, despite the fact that her friends are surrounding her with rapt attention. You’re a cabana away from her, sipping languidly at your drink while Jessica and Krystal nap next to you. Even though you can’t see Tzuyu, you can practically feel her pout emanating through the fabric that separates you two. Despite the fact that she’s been offered a great intern position given her degree and experience, she’s still upset. For her, is that not the most important part of this whole week? 

“Jungkook’s really not that great if he’s going to turn me down like that,” Tzuyu seethes. You should write up her nonsense in a book and publish it, really. “Why waste time when he has the whole package right in front of him?” 

It’s then you realize why you’ve been so torn, so strung up and wound tight all these years. Just like college, all shy and hesitant to take a step forward while Jungkook was ten steps ahead, you were worried. You let other people’s thoughts stop you from making the leap, girls like Tzuyu that never meant to intimidate you, but you let their presence get up in your head and control the nonexistent hierarchy. 

But two years later, and that doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Jungkook is no longer the all-star lacrosse player, but what remains is his heart, full and willing. 

Everything Tzuyu just said was… wrong. Irrevocably, inexplicably messed up. But the idea of “wasting time” does strike a chord within you. Are you wasting time? At this point, your feelings of each other are pretty clear. What are you two waiting for, again? 

You thought Krystal was sleeping, considering her sunhat sitting atop her face, but once she hears you packing away your bag she whistles, “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

Sending a quick text to Jungkook, you make a beeline for your destination. You don’t even bother looking for him in the crowd. 

You: meet me by the elevator at the very end of the lobby. 

Not a minute passes by when Jungkook joins you at said elevator. He has two glasses of champagne in his hands, and offers one to you, “tired of the party?” he asks.  

You clink drinks, easily tipping yours back. “It’s not our thing,” you declare with a small smile. Jungkook's eyes soften, glancing back and forth between your face and the soft pleats of your marigold sundress. His hair is pushed back, sticky from sweat and chlorine, dark bangs hanging over the shaved sides of his head. You turn your head slightly as you wait for the elevator, biting your lip as you're sorely reminded of how sexy Jungkook looked at the dive pool half an hour ago. 

The elevator dings, and it’s wide enough for you to slip in at the same time. You put your champagne glass in the corner of the elevator for now, hoping you don’t accidentally step on it. In closed quarters, you can smell the slight tang of chlorine coming from Jungkook, combined with his own brand of musk. 

Jungkook looks younger tonight, happier. Having just finished graduate school and working towards a full-time gig, another chapter in his life has started. His hair is no longer in that tight-whipped coiff he struggled all week to maintain, loosened in its natural wave due to the pool water and heat. His cheeks are a little ruddied and plump, a sign he’s been enjoying the food this week. 

The door barely closes when you get it out, pulling at his hand to face you.

“Jungkook, I like you,” you blurt, and his eyes bug out considerably. Out of reflex, his hand sharply squeezes yours. “You don’t have to say anything, because you’ve been saying everything for the majority of our relationship. I really like you, I really liked you back then too. You’re still so sweet, and loving, and smart and I’ve just been too dumb and insecure to—” 

Jungkook seals your confession away with a desperate kiss, and you turn into a pile of mush at the contact. Relief seeps into your bones, sings into your system. When he pulls away, he looks serious. He doesn’t let you get far, and clutches your face between his two hands so you can’t turn your head. Your soft cheeks fill between his fingers, warm and cradled. 

“Never call yourself that,” Jungkook exhales, regarding you with firm eyes, “you’re beautiful, and intelligent, and the person I want.” 

“I don’t wanna take it slow anymore,” you mumble against his lips, leaning in so that you can barely nip at the pink skin. “Want you now, need you now.” 

“You have me now,” Jungkook agrees, and as soon as the elevator dings open to your floor, he scoops you up into his arms. 

By all means it’s not graceful, he’s clutching you like a baby with his hands over your butt as he jiggles you all the way to your front door. Clinging onto him like a koala, you press kisses to his cheeks as he leads you to your room. You laugh and giggle like teenagers, as he fumbles between your breast to grab the card key that’s nestled between your bra. It’s warm in his hand as he swipes it through the reader, pushing you inside. 

“Is it bad that I’m kinda turned on by the fact you got my key out of my boob?” you joke, although the contact of his rough fingers against your breast is a feeling well missed. 

“Is it bad that I’m always turned on when you lecture in seminars?” Jungkook retorts, kicking the door closed with his slipper-clad foot as he walks you to the bed. “Fuck, I can hear you talk about insurance benefits all day.” 

“Didn’t know my sex appeal extended that way—oh fuck—” 

Your vibrant marigold sundresses provides easy access to Jungkook as he throws you onto the mattress, your skirt billowing over your waist as he makes quick work to expose more of your skin. 

“No more talking, more loving,” he’s crazed, doesn’t hesitate to move your bikini bottoms to the side as he rubs lovingly at your long-lost bud, “need to fuck you, now. It’s been so fucking long.” 

“Kook,” his breath is warm against your already sopping cunt, and you lift your hand to run through the strands of his messy hair. It only takes one firm tug and you’re able to pull him up by the root of his hair, cranberry juice tinted lips with a faint sheen because he couldn’t help himself to have a little taste of you. “Baby, let me touch you. Let me show you how much I want you," you coo with a pout, hands trailing over the drawstrings of his trunks.

You can see how much Jungkook wants to say yes. His eyes glow with the possibility, bright and wanting in the afternoon sunlight. The image of him shoving his cock deep into your throat, so far that you can taste it in every crevice of your mouth. Your nails gripping into his ass as you go deeper, tears pricking your eyes as cum seeps out of your pretty lips. 

But he firmly shakes his head, fingers doing the devil’s work as he eases a digit in you. A little noise of protest bubbles in your throat, but it soon dies out as soon as he finds the right spot to reduce you to mush. 

“Next time,” he exhales against the juncture between your thigh and pelvis, picking up the pace and adding another finger, “if you touch me, I’ll cum right then n’there. This is enough for me, you’re enough.” 

So you let him have what he wants. You’ll make it up to him in the morning, and the day after, and the day after. You shed your clothes, the sundress extra forgiving as it slides off your body, revealing a swimsuit that hasn’t even touched the pool. You feel a little self-conscious as he drinks you in after so long, but he quickly shucks off his clothes to match your state of nakedness. 

You remember how you tiptoed around your first night with Jungkook, taking great care to make sure it was fleeting, how dark the room was as you let your pleasure take over your senses. Two years later and the sun is setting, gold bleeding through your sheets and illuminating the room. There's no need to hide.

“I must say, we’ve both kept it tight,” Jungkook teases with a wink, squeezing your hips so he can change positions. 

You silently agree, your fingers slipping across the washboard of his waist. 

“Mm, and still so fuckin’ cute,” Jungkook marvels as he pulls you up on his lap. Your whole body is flushed with want, one hand squeezing your breasts while the other plays with the curls of hair that lead to your sopping wetness. You glide your core over Jungkook’s stomach, sighing as you take note of the abs that clench under your heat and his hot member that rubs between your ass. 

It’s a tight fit when you finally sink down on him, but the burn only fuels your desire as he stretches you wide. His grip is helpful as he guides you through the motions. It’s been awhile since you’ve been this physical with someone, and it’s almost comical when you both sigh in contentment at the contact. 

“I’ve missed this,” you mumble, biting into his shoulder as he thrusts up. 

“Mm, it feels different, right?” Jungkook hums, keeping a slow pace. The drag is wonderful, and you know that he’s trying to prolong the moment. He reaches for your head, presses his forehead to yours as he speaks, “you’re mine now, right? For real.” 

“I’m all yours, Jungkook,” you press kisses everywhere. No need to hide anymore. You bleed love into every kiss, to his jawline, the little freckles across his chin, his lips. “This is romantic and all, but I really want you to dick me down. Which is why you need to go a little faster, you sap.” 

Jungkook scoffs, “A pillow princess is what you are.” 

He stops moving, and you two sink further into the mattress without its springs bringing you back up. The both of you are acutely aware of how wet you both are, your combined arousals seeping between your seams and dripping onto Jungkook’s thighs. But the young man simply relaxes against the headboard, baiting you. 

“Kook,” you whine, clenching against his member. Your hot walls have a mind of their own, unable to stifle their desire. Sweat lines Jungkook’s brow as he tries his hardest not to move, just simply be. 

“Tell me how much you want me, princess,” the pet name has you clenching harder, and you pout. 

“Baby,” you whine, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. There’s no one in the room, and you’re sure no one is on this floor because everyone’s on the rooftop, but the words you’re about to say are for Jungkook and Jungkook only, “please, I want you to pound me into this mattress until I can’t walk anymore. I want to cry out your name so everyone can hear I’m yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you nip at his lobe, and let your thumb nick at the simple silver rings that adorn his ear. You hear a click of his teeth, indicating the clench of his jaw as his muscles flex around your body, "I want you to fill me with your cum until I’m eating it, and—and—oh Kook!” 

Your words aren’t enough to distract you from his large dick sitting prettily between your folds, and you’re suddenly cumming, all by the mere thought of what’s to happen. You’re shuddering in his arms, and Jungkook soothes you by running his fingers over the spine of your back, distracting you from the utter mess you’re making on the sheets. 

“Such a good girl,” Jungkook coddles you, stroking your hair, “can my good girl take it?” 

“Y-yes, Kook,” you nod eagerly, fighting the overstimulation as he nudges you off his lap. You’re pliable, as Jungkook sets up the pillows for you to rest comfortably as you get on your elbows and knees, “your good girl.” 

You shudder as your bare pussy starts to feel cold, immediately missing the warmth Jungkook can provide. You can practically feel his hot gaze burning in your back, his large palm squeezing your ass as he marvels at how ready and eager you are for him. 

“It’s so easy to slip inside,” Jungkook rubs your nectar across the head of his cock, swirling around your engorged skin as he slips right inside. You both moan at the stretch, “Finally, my adorable baby, you like this? You like getting pounded like the dirty girl you really are?” 

“Mm, yes!” you squeal, clutching onto the feather down pillows for dear life as Jungkook displays his strength, one hand gripping your hips as the other weaves itself into your hair. It’s a delicious mix of pleasure and pain, and the lewd sounds of each other’s juices and his balls against your ass echoing in the room. 

“Y-yeah,” despite his power, his thrusts are sloppy, and you know he’s almost at the edge, “and I like you, so so much. I want to make you cum everyday, make you happy and—mph—” he gives up on talking, focusing entirely on his destination. 

“Cum, baby,” you urge, melting when his one hand comes to thread with your own, “fill me up with you.” 

He flips you on your back, and you finally see how desperate Jungkook is to cum. His eyes are glassy, filled with emotion as he strokes himself to completion. Your hand reaches up to cup his damp face, and that’s when you feel him loosen. Hot, pearly strings cling to your pussy, decorating your skin in his essence. Your fingers immediately reach down to swirl the cum between your folds, and Jungkook groans at the picture, immediately throwing your hands to the side to kiss you senseless. 

There’s so much pouring between the two of you, affection, the feeling of being cherished, so much that you can feel the whole world reducing to the two of you. 

“All mine,” he whispers to himself, as if he still can’t believe it. And then, he puts up a poker face as he leans into you, resting his head gently on your breasts, “I knew I only needed a week.”

You narrow your eyes, flicking lightly at his forehead. You’re sticky, sweaty, and covered in cum and while you’re exhausted, the built in jacuzzi in your washroom looks very enticing right now. “Jungkook, this happened naturally. I said we would try as friends first and we did. We just so happened to escalate pretty fast.” 

“I don’t think it was that fast,” Jungkook nuzzles his face into your skin, “it’s been two years since college. Being popular did do a number on our relationship, but we caught up." 

“You were popular-ish,” you roll your eyes, teasing him. His face falls, and you can’t help yourself. Your hands reach over to cup his cheeks, and you happily squish the supple, pouty flesh. He’s adorable. “Kim Taehyung though? Park Jimin? Absolute heartthrobs I couldn’t stand to be near them—ah!” 

Jungkook seems to read your mind, lifting you bridal style to drag you over to the bathroom where the marble jacuzzi sits tauntingly. The stone is ice cold as he brings you both inside, immediately turning on the nozzles to fill it with steaming hot water. You find the tiny bottle of lavender suds, spilling the soap in an arc. His legs slip over yours, cradling you so that your back is pressed against Jungkook’s chest. 

“Being popular never mattered,” Jungkook shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “I realized the only person who I really needed to notice me was you.” 

bonus. 

You wake Jungkook up the next morning with your lips wrapped around his cock, fresh cherry balm rubbing down the thick veins until he's cumming down your throat. 

"Wow," Jungkook whistles, licking his lips at the sight of you sucking the arousal from your thumb. He huffs against the pillow, eyes darting to the open organza window, letting in the early morning light. The rooftop of a multi-star hotel, white Egyptian cotton seats, a full time job on the way and waking up in the most blissful way possible. 

"I have a proposal," you crawl on top of him like a koala, hooking your thighs between his blanket clad body. 

"I do," he replies instantly, looking straight at you with droopy puppy eyes.

"Not that kind," you slap his chest, "where are you living once orientation is over?" 

"Mm, there's a boarding house near a local translation. It's probably an hour commute? Not too bad." 

"So, I just leased a townhouse last month," you bite your lip, tucking your head between his neck to hide your embarrassment, "I was gonna rent out the spare room and put an advert in the paper but…"

"I do."

"I said it isn't a marriage proposal."

"Asking you to live with me is basically a marriage proposal."

"There will be no benefits," you sit up, wagging a finger in his face, "you'll be paying rent and half the utilities. And you will be doing all the laundry." 

"Sure," Jungkook replies loftily, squeezing your ass, "you're benefit enough." 

[palbabor-writes]

Adhesion

Pairing: Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, TA/student dynamics, tw.mild drug use, tw.bribery, tw.recording without consent, tw.dubcon, brat taming, fingering, cucking 

Words: 8,915

You can feel his gaze; can tell he’s watching you from hooded eyelids and you do your best to resist his pull, not wanting to be drawn in by that eerie blue of his eyes. It’s not that you don’t like his eyes; no, if anything, you like them a little too much. They’re a beautiful shade of shifting cerulean and possibly the only positive thing about the man. 

“You sound upset, babe,” he taunts, taking another drag on his silver vape.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t call me that. And me? Upset? You’re a real Sherlock, you know? What fucking gave that away? Oh, maybe the fact that I pay this university good money for these classes and I could actually use some support. But what do I get instead? A lazy TA who can’t be bothered to do anything more than the bare minimum. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m passing, and it’s certainly no thanks to you,” you snarl, twisting back to your work, ignoring the sound of his chair, gliding ever closer.

Notes: i bribed @libiraki and this fic is my part of the bargain. you heard it here folks, full stop, i am trash. 

this story falls under the University AU that i’m working on: Licentia Docendi - the first fic is Practicum & is all about Professor Shigaraki. For Adhesion, Dabi is a TA: Teacher’s Assistant in a college chemistry class. 

my reward for completing this is User 433 by libiraki. go read it, it’s killer & i’m so fucking pleased my nefarious deeds have paid off.     

Adhesion ad·he·sion /ədˈhēZH(ə)n/ noun the molecular force of attraction in the area of contact between two unlike bodies that acts to hold them together

What time did he say this was supposed to start at? There’s no way you’re late. Did he tell you the wrong room number? You paw into your low slung backpack and wiggle out the [Teacher’s Assistant (TA) handout for Organic Chemistry II]. Nope, you’re not in the wrong room, so it looks like he’s the one who’s late. 

Not too surprising, judging from his appearance. 

You’d only caught a glimpse of him that morning. He’d sauntered to the front of class when the professor had finished with the preliminaries of the syllabus and introduced the lanky man with inky black hair and some of the scruffiest clothes you’d ever seen, as nothing other than, DABI. No last name, no other credentials, just a simple, ah, here’s the TA for this class; he’ll give you a handout on meeting times and be sure to follow his lead with the labs. This Dabi fellow hadn’t even grunted out a hello. He’d merely waited, hands tucked firmly into his jacket pockets, and dropped down from the raised platform once the professor finished his brief introduction. 

You tend to avoid the TA sessions. They’re usually just reviews and endless reminders on the readings, and study prep has never been a weak spot for you, but this semester is different. You’re a junior and you’ve got to push through six classes this term if you want to graduate on time. You haven’t slacked off, haven’t taken less than a full course load. No, it’s just bad luck that they only offered organic chemistry during the Fall term this year.

Thanks to the addition of Organic Chemistry, now all of your classes are heavy sciences. Ick. Well, it’s the price you’ll have to pay for your pharmaceutical degree. It’s not that you don’t like the classes. Honestly, they’re fascinating, chock full of information and techniques that you love to dive into. Nah, it’s not the material of the classes themselves, but the course load and labs that’ll be your downfall if you don’t keep pace. 

So, here you are, waiting in an empty room in the library’s basement for the errant TA of organic chemistry to show. You’re a little shocked that no one else has come to this session. Maybe they’ll try for the other times, or they might be under the blissful impression that they can score the ‘A’ with no outside help. Who knows? 

You’re twiddling with your phone and debating leaving when the study hall door opens. His dark hair is the first thing you notice. It gleams in the bright light of the fluorescents, and you’re distracted by the sheen. It’s almost a little too black. 

It’s not that it doesn’t fit him. If anything, it makes the angled features of his face and neck stand out and draws your eyes to his pale patches of skin. They’re patches because his collarbone and lower neckline are wrapped with spiraling whorls of tattoos; they’re everywhere. How had you missed that? Was his jacket zipped up when he stood in front of the class?

“What’s up?” he calls out, tilting his chin at your wide eyes. He pauses beside the table you’re sitting at and regards you frankly. His eyes are half hidden by his fringed mop of hair, but you can see that they’re a vibrant blue. It’s a haunting color, almost otherworldly. You don’t particularly like the coldness that’s reflected at you, so you focus on the rest of his face instead. He’s got a few nostril piercings, three little studs that shine out when he wrinkles his nose at your bewildered expression. 

“You hard of hearing or something?” Dabi scolds, crossing his arms and glaring down at you. You shake your head and loosen your heavy tongue, finally pulling your gaze away from him. 

“I-I’m here for the TA session.”

“No fucking way!” he mocks, a barked laugh escaping his quirked lips. “Alright captain obvious, let’s get you set up so I can go about my day. Sign this and I’ll give you the power point slides for this week.”

He yanks his backpack forward and tosses a few mismatched papers your way. One is so badly crumpled you have to iron it out with your arm, ignoring the slight stick that clings to one side. Ah, it’s a sign-up sheet. But, hang on, isn’t he supposed to poll the class on these meeting times? He can’t just pick the times himself, can he? You’ve never seen that before. What’s going on?

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to ask which time works best for us before you set the schedule?” you question, sliding the paper back to him. 

His long fingers catch the sheet before it can tumble off of the narrow table and he gives you a wolfish smirk. “Ah, you’re gonna be one of those,” he grumbles, pulling back one chair and flopping into it, splaying his long legs out in front of him. 

“Tch, what do you mean by, ‘one of those?’ I’m not some green freshman, I’ve been to TA meetings before. You ask us for the times.”

“Hmph, okay. Let’s put it this way then, you’re here now, right?”

“Yeah. I–”

“So it’s fair for me to assume that you can make this time?”

“I can today, but what if it’s a one-time thing? What if I have another class or a job?”

“Do you?” his voice drops as he lingers on that ultimate word, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward, blue eyes watching you closely. 

“N-no, I don’t personally have any objections to this time. But what if others–”

“Others?” he scoffs. “I’m sorry, do you see anyone else in here? We’ve been talking, what, five minutes? And I was, eh, almost fifteen minutes late? That sound right? Hate to say it, but I think it’s just gonna be me and you babe.” 

“Ew. Don’t call me that! It’s (F/N)(L/N). Gross, who does that? Babe? You don’t even know me,” you sputter, leaning away from his hunched gaze, earning yourself another clipped chuckle. 

“Ooh, so sensitive! Alright, miss. “I’m not a freshman,” if there are no more objections from the peanut gallery, go ahead and sign this so I can conclude this session. Don’t particularly like chatting with you either, since you’re taking years off my life with these pointless questions.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a dick,” you bristle, crossing your arms and glowering down at the crinkled sign-up sheet that Dabi’s pushed back toward you. 

“Damn, we’re already talking about my dick! I usually reserve that kinda thing for the third week, but I’ll let it slide. Now, be a good little girl and sign that paper for me.”

A month in this whole TA arrangement hasn’t gotten any easier. 

Half of the time Dabi doesn’t even show up, opting to text you the notes and study guides, waving you off with some vague excuse, or promise to make it up next time. The days he appears for the session, he’s always late and glumly sits beside you in the vacant study hall, tinkering with his phone and doing his best to avoid any kind of work. 

But today? Today takes the cake. 

He’s got his booted feet on the table and is taking quiet hits on his vape pen, exhaling long breaths of clear steam into the study hall. “Dabi,” you hiss across the room, aghast at his cavalier attitude. “You’re not supposed to smoke in here! Wait. Oh, my god! Is that weed?”

“Shhh, Jesus. Keep your voice down, mom,” Dabi sneers, puffing a wisp of smoke your way. “Why don’t you try focusing on your work, huh? You’ve got twelve more molecules to stabilize and your functional groups are a mess; you don’t have time to worry about me. Come on, chop, chop. I’ve got places to be.”

“Ugh. Places to be. What a load of bullshit. You know what? I wonder what might help me speed things up? Oh! I know! What if you did your job instead of getting stoned out of your mind?”

Dabi swivels around in his rolling chair, lowering his legs from the table and cocking a dark eyebrow at you. He’s foregone his tattered jacket today, and the sleeves of tattoos that lace up the chorded muscles of his arms are on full display. He’s done that on purpose, the bastard; likely noticed that you like to stare at them, your eyes engrossed by the shadings and designs. Not your fault you like some of the artwork. You’re not looking at him, not admiring any kind of twist or pull of his forearms. Not thinking about how nice they look when he wears a low cut shirt, or rolls up his sleeves. Nope, you promise yourself, careful to keep your eyes down and on your notes, it’s not that.  

You can feel his gaze; can tell he’s watching you from hooded eyelids and you do your best to resist his pull, not wanting to be drawn in by that eerie blue of his eyes. It’s not that you don’t like his eyes; no, if anything, you like them a little too much. They’re a beautiful shade of shifting cerulean and possibly the only positive thing about the man. 

“You sound upset, babe,” he taunts, taking another drag on his silver vape.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t call me that. And me? Upset? You’re a real Sherlock, you know? What fucking gave that away? Oh, maybe the fact that I pay this university good money for these classes and I could actually use some support. But what do I get instead? A lazy TA who can’t be bothered to do anything more than the bare minimum. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m passing, and it’s certainly no thanks to you,” you snarl, twisting back to your work, ignoring the sound of his chair, gliding ever closer.

“Such a fucking sour puss. I bet you’d look a lot prettier if you’d wipe that scowl off your face every once in a while. Lemme see what you’ve got,” Dabi snorts, sauntering out of his chair and bending over your work. 

His tattooed arm braces itself beside your shoulder and the exposed skin brushes against you, making you unconsciously scoot awkwardly to one side.

“Don’t get so close,” you chastise, doing your best to ignore the pull of his cologne. It’s got a hint of patchouli and oranges, and it mixes so well with the cloying sweetness of his lingering vape smoke that it makes your head swim.

What’s he doing? This… well, it’s not like him. He never “checks” your answers, he usually just tells you to submit it to his email and he’ll get back to you later, which he never does. You don’t like this. Nope, not one fucking bit.

He takes his time studying your work, one long finger etching its way across your scribblings. His skin is warm; almost too warm. The heat of it against your clothed side makes you shiver and you duck your head at your unbidden reaction, balling your hands into fists and scrunching them against your tense thighs.

When he finally replies, he dips his head close to your ear, keeping his voice low and steady. “Not bad, (L/N). Nice to see you have some capacity for development after all.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you huff, whipping your head to his.

Oh, that’s right; he’s close.

The lazy smirk he gives you stretch his lips over his teeth and his eyes fall to a half mast as he leans closer, ghosting his breath over your face. “It means, you did a good job, babe. I’m impressed.”

You must be gaping at him; there’s no way that you’re not, but you can’t fucking think, not when he’s so close. If he wanted to, he could close that gap and he’d be against you. His lips look nice from here, smooth and pink, and you suddenly have a wild urge to see what he tastes like. Heart pounding, you feel yourself tilting your chin upwards, your lips parted, tongue dancing across the open plushness, dampening them, waiting, hoping that he’ll just…

“Practice your Lewis structures. Some of those compounds look fucking ridiculous,” Dabi replies, pushing himself off of the table and peering down at you, eyes gleaming with poorly concealed mirth. “But, you’re on the right track. Finish this shit up. Gotta go.”

“W-what?” you sputter, trying to quiet your pounding heart and steady yourself, upended by his short-lived…seduction? What exactly was that?

“Already told you, got some place to be. Send me the screenshots, if you wanna’, but I’m prolly’ not gonna look at them until after the weekend. Well, see ya’ around, (L/N).” And, with a last wave, he snatches up his backpack and saunters out the double doors, leaving you alone.

“So what are you thinking? Just go up to the dean’s office and ask to file a report against him?” your boyfriend questions, his voice hazy and distant through the filter of your earbuds. You’d called him a few minutes ago, once you had a good signal and filled him in on, well, most of the details. 

After Dabi left, you’d gathered up your things and paced the floors of the library, debating your next move. He’s not doing his job. That much is a fucking given. You’d even talked with a few of the other students in your class the other day and they all said the same thing: He’s lazy and he can’t be bothered to help. Apparently, you’re the only student who had one on one sessions with him, but the group meetups sound worse. They told you he usually just opened the textbook and asked them to copy down definitions, and those were the days when he showed up for the meetings.   

“Yeah, and today he really outdid himself. The jerk basically… well… he’s not doing his job,” you flounder at the omission of Dabi coming onto you. If you’re honest with yourself, he hadn’t really done much, and you’d been the one who was surging forward, suddenly tempted by his closeness, his scent, and those rippling sets of tattoos and bright blue eyes. No. Stop it. It’s the last straw, you remind yourself, shaking your head and refocusing on the familiar tone of your boyfriend’s voice.

“I’m sick of it. Midterms are coming, and I’m not about to let him hold the fate of my GPA in his stupid hands.”

“Go get em,’ love! You’re totally right, you’ve worked so hard and you shouldn’t have to put up with some middle-aged asshole’s antics. It’s been a crazy week for you, so dinner’s on me tonight. Wherever you wanna’ go, name the place and I’ll make sure we get a smile back on your face!”

That… that’s so like your boyfriend. He’s always so sweet and caring. Always looking out for you, ready to pick you back up and dust you off each time you feel you’ve fallen short. He’s perfect. He’s all you want, all you need… right?

Goddamn it, you think after you hang up your phone and hop on the elevator that will whisk you up to the dean’s offices, you’d almost kissed your TA. Here’s your boyfriend, being the most supportive and loving thing in the entire world and all you can think about is how fucking good Dabi’s cologne had smelt has he leaned over you. Some partner you are. 

The dean’s office is emptier than you expected. There’s a single secretary, who is sitting behind a low desk, twirling a dark lock of hair and skimming over the pages of a magazine. She looks up when you clear your throat and a practiced smile lifts her lips. 

“Hey there! How can I help you?”

“I uh, need to file a complaint against someone in the College of Sciences,” you explain, dropping your heavy backpack from your shoulders and scratching at the back of your head balefully. You’re likely not the first one to file a grievance against the Dabi, so why are you suddenly bothered by the idea? It’s not going to get better. Just remember all the shitty, half-baked sessions he’s made you sit through (Y/N) and get this over with. 

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that! Let me grab you the registry of TA’s and adjunct professors,” the secretary chirps, pushing her rolling chair across the wooden floors to snatch at a heavy binder on a shelf. 

“I can, um, just tell you his name. If that makes it any easier,” you quietly reply, one foot tapping agitatedly against the other. What is this uneasy feeling that keeps zinging through your mind? It’s going to be an anonymous complaint. It’s not like he’ll ever see it. He likely won’t even know it’s you. Some of the other students had discussed the idea. He could think it’s one of them, not you.  

“No, no,” the secretary replies, sliding the binder across the glass counter of the desk. “It’s no trouble at all! Just search for their name and fill out all the particulars on the university system. Doing our best to reduce waste! Gotta keep that paper trail down! We’ve got a little kiosk outside, close to the elevators. It’ll help you with all the details, just click on the form and it will file it into our online system. The dean’s office closes in fifteen minutes, so be sure to bring the binder back as soon as you’re done!” 

“Uh, ok,” you mumble, hefting the thick book into your hands. “Do you want me to take it with me, or just look it up here?”

“You can take it out there! It’s sorted by department, for ease of use, so it shouldn’t take you long to find them.” 

Great. 

You lug the binder to one of the many empty tables outside the sliding doors of the office. Slipping your backpack into a vacant chair, you flip through the lists and sections. Chemistry, chemistry… ah! Okay, you’re in the right section. Now to find Dabi, should be easy enough.

Yeah, no. There’s no one in here listed as “Dabi.” What the hell is this? Some kind of elaborate scheme? Is he just a random student who’s fronting as a TA? It would explain some of his general disinterest, but he knows more about molecular chemistry than anyone you’ve ever met, and that skill isn’t exactly a common parlor trick. 

Oh? My secret talent? Well, I can tell you about isotopic labeling and the exact timing of the reaction speeds! Wanna hear more? 

No. No one does. Plus, the professor had introduced him to the class on the first day. He knew him and Dabi’s not exactly inconspicuous. There’s gotta be something you’re missing. 

You close the heavy book and make your way back into the office, fingernails tapping out a disjointed pattern against the plastic of the binder. “Hey, um, sorry to bother,” you begin, tilting your head and biting your lip at the secretary’s beaming face.

“No bother! Did you find them? Everything work okay in the system?”

“No. I, uh, couldn’t find their name? He said his name was Dabi, never gave us a last name so, um, that’s all I have to go on,” you explain, placing the binder back on her desk and praying she’ll give you some kind of explanation.

“Ooh! Dabi! Sorry about that, he’s a special case, since he goes by his nickname. He’s under the adjunct section. I believe his last name is Todoroki,” she twists the book toward herself and flips through the pages at an alarming rate, eyes skimming over the names. 

“Here he is! Touya Todoroki! They don’t put nicknames, or preferred names, since it’s an official listing. He’s a brilliant man and one of our brightest junior professors. I know the university is hoping to snap him up this coming semester, get him on track for a tenured position. 

He’s a little unconventional, but he’s a super nice guy and… oh! Wait a minute, you wanted to file a complaint against him, right? I’m so sorry, here I am, running my mouth! You want a pen and paper? So you can jot his university number and info down? Lets me keep the book in here. Four minutes to closing after all, might as well save you the trip back.” She whips out the procured sheet of blank printer paper and a university stamped pen, holding them both toward you, a friendly smile still crinkling her eyes.

“Thanks,” you sigh, a little bewildered by her chatter. From the sound of it, Dabi’s got some university backing and is a ‘nice guy’. Coulda’ fooled you. Doesn’t matter, you think, crossing the t’s of his first and last name; he’s likely just skimming by on the promise of tenure, and the sooner the school knows about his lackadaisical attitude, the better. 

You’re typing in Todoroki, Touya when the secretary closes up the office of the dean, flicking off the lights and waving a goodbye to your tensed expression. A few minutes later, the elevator swallows her up and the only sound that fills the empty space is the clacking of the keys as you finish typing out your complaint. 

Alright. Got most of the minor points out of the way. 

Inattentive to the lessons, frequent absences, missing materials, smoking in the library; you’ll leave out the mention of weed, it’s not like you can claim innocence on that charge yourself and you’re not looking to have the guy arrested, just stripped of his TA status. You could mention the near kiss, but it feels too vague, and it’s not like he made a move on you. No, all that shifting forward rests squarely on your own shoulders. Damn it, stop thinking about that! You’ve got a boyfriend, someone who loves you, who’s going to take you to dinner! Hit complete and get the fuck outta’ here, before someone–

“Whatcha’ doing?”

His voice makes you jump half a foot into the air, your right knee contacting the protruding keyboard of the university kiosk. “Fuck,” you hiss, twisting around and hunching over at the bright spots of pain that flash across your vision as you rub your fingers over the hurt. The soft footfalls of his approach snap you out of your dazed reverie and your head snaps up, eyes widening at the sight of him.

He’s got a loose fitting white shirt on and you can see the coiling of his tattooed muscles under the thin fabric. His chin is lowered and his eyes are distant pinpricks of blue flame in the low lights. Booted feet take a few more steps toward you, but he pauses beside the table that your backpack is sitting on, hands sliding into his dark jeans, waiting for your response. You gulp back your nerves and lift your eyes to his, hoping some of your ire and defiance will shine through. “I’m putting something into the system,” you reply, your voice holding steady as you re-straighten your spine. 

“Can see that,” he counters, head tilting, dark hair falling to one side of his soft jawline. “Why are you doing it up here? This is the College of Science’s dean’s office. Most people don’t come up here to adjust their university login. So let me ask you again, whatcha’ doing, Ms. (L/N)?”

“Filing a complaint,” you snap, fingers curling into tight fists, shoulders rising and fall with your quickening breaths. That’s right, asshole, and it’s a complaint about you. How do you like that? Not much you can do about… about it now…. oh, shit. Fuck.  

You haven’t hit the enter key. 

The fucking e-document is just sitting there, unattended and completely vulnerable. He might not have seen that you haven’t sent it through and if you could just step a few feet to the right, then you can slip one finger against the keypad and hit that all important “enter.” 

You look up at him again, praying he won’t notice you scooting your shoes backwards, doing your best to keep him wholly focused on your face. “What did you expect?” you taunt, eyes narrowed, arms wrapping around your back, fingers unconsciously stretching out, feeling for the lift of the keyboard. “You’ve been shit. Midterms are in a week and half of the class says you’re not showing up for their sessions. Don’t look so shocked. This can’t possibly be your first run in with something like this? No wonder you go by that silly name, Dabi. What’s the matter? Upset that I know your actual name now?”

As you ramble on, his face has dropped all pretense of blank civility and now his entire body is hunching forward, shoulders curving, hands pulling free of his pockets and coiling outward, reaching, palms tilted upward. 

“So much fucking talk (Y/N). Looks to me like you forgot that last step. Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” he begins, a wicked grin twisting across his lips, not quite reaching the glare of his narrowed eyes. “Ah, babe. Why you gotta be this way? Make you a deal, huh? Walk away now and I’ll forget the whole thing. No repercussions, no questions asked. Never even saw you up here, scout’s honor.” 

The keyboard is close; you can hear the hum of the monitor, buzzing as it holds the screen with your complaint against Touya Todoroki steady, waiting for your inspection, for that final command. Dabi is close, his looming form heavy against your wide eyes, but it’s now or never. You’ve got to turn around, got to let the predatory lumber of your ill-appointed TA slip from your mind, you have to do this. It doesn’t matter what kinda promises he’ll make to you. That changes nothing, absolutely nothing. 

Now! Do it now!

You whirl around, hands shaking as they search for the right keystrokes, the right submission link. It feels like minutes have passed, not seconds. Even though you’ve pressed all the buttons and heard the computer chime, a sent message alert into the sudden, reverberating silence, you can’t take your eyes off the burning gleam of the screen. Not until that thank you pops up. 

He’s still behind you. You can hear his boots as they click across the wood. His movements have slowed, but he’s still advancing. It’s too late for you Dabi, you think, watching as the submission page fades to a pleasing orange, the school mascot waving a large “Thanks!” as it dances, close to the bottom of the page. You did it! There’s nothing he can do. Nothing that–

His powerful arm drapes across your stiffened shoulders, his wrist popped beside your face, fingers dangling lazily into the open air. “Ahhh,” he sighs, leaning over you, resting his head beside yours. You half turn your face to see him, aghast that he’s so close again, that he’s touching you, holding you in place with his weight. His muscled side presses against your back, leaning heavily into you as he gives you a rakish smirk. “Well, looks like we get to do this the hard way.”

“What the fuck? The hard way? What does–hey! HEY!” He’s stepped away from you, and that arm that was braced over your shoulders shifts to the back of your neck, ramming your face down into the keyboard, mashing out a random string of commands. Your nose stings from the impact and your eyes wince shut, protecting themselves from the threat of the black letters. 

“Warned you about sending that,” he replies, and you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s stroking a hand down your head, tangling his long fingers in your hair, pulling at the strands until you’re groaning in pain. “Now we have to do this another way. Gotta even the score, don’t we? Need to make sure you’ve got some kinda blemish on your record, too! I know that secretary filled you in on my upcoming tenure. No way she didn’t. She’s a fucking leaky faucet and I know you had to ask her about my name to fill out that complaint. No, no. We gotta fix this, babe.”

His voice has dropped into a terrifying lower octave, his words sharp, barbed, lancing into your mind like a showering of sticks and stones. He fucking sounds like he’s seconds away from losing his goddamn mind. The hand that’s wrapped around your hair is tugging against you in earnest, jerking your neck away from the threat of the keyboard, forcing you to look up at his leering face. The pupils of his eyes are blown, the black eating away at the shine of the blue until there’s almost nothing left. His teeth are bared in a grimace and his cheeks are pinched, making the silver of his piercings stand out against his flushed skin.

You do your best to gasp out another set of questions, but he’s yanking you back, holding you against his broad chest and wrapping those ink sleeved arms around you. They coil over your stomach and across your breasts, digging into the globes and heaving them under his forearms. His lips are tracing over your arched neck, teeth nipping against your bared pulse. 

“You always smell so good, babe. What are you wearing? Hmm?”

“W-what… get off me! You sick fuck! Why are you… ow… damn,” you whimper as he sucks a bruise into your skin, gnawing and pulling until you’re writhing in his arms. You keep attempting to slip away, to shift your feet forward, but that mouth of his won’t let up. Each time you shake yourself free from those quick pants and hums he’s dashing across your neckline, he moves to another spot, or his hands cup and squeeze at your heaving chest and shivering waist, distracting you. 

“Mmm, this is unexpected. Looks like you just might enjoy what’s about to happen,” Dabi teases, licking a wet line under your jaw. “Come on, let’s go somewhere a little more private, shall we?”

You exhale a shuddering breath and remain perfectly still, hoping your feigned submission will lull him. Thankfully, it works. He chuckles and spits something out about being a ‘good girl,’ but when he moves back, his arms unlacing from you, you stumble forward, one heel raised, cracking down over his booted feet with as much force as you can muster. 

Dabi hisses out a string of low curses, his body coiling over itself protectively. You do your best to squirm out of his grasp, but one of his broad hands reaches out for you, snatching at your leg and forcing you back to him. The sudden shift jolts you off your feet and you tumble to the wood, your palms skinning against the uneven surface. 

“Stop it!” you shout, kicking your feet, trying to dislodge his iron grip. 

“Kick me again and I’ll knock you out,” Dabi threatens, lowering himself to your level and jerking you underneath him, trapping you, bracing his knees on either side of your hips. 

“Fuck you,” you screech out, bucking upwards, trying to dislodge his weight.

“That’s the idea,” he croons, long fingers curling under your clenched chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you and stop acting like you don’t want me. You were practically salivating for me this afternoon. I bet you’re already wet. Let’s find out, hmmm?”

His other hand drifts to the clasp of your jeans, flicking past the barrier of your button and dipping his hand into your pants. His touch lingers around the elastic band of your panties, yanking and teasing at the seam as he works your zipper down. Unconsciously, your traitorous hips roll under him and he gives you a sharp grin, blue eyes blazing. “There you go, babe, just relax. Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you,” he whispers, his voice catching as his touch slips downward, tapping across your curls and snagging against your slippery folds. “Maybe… ahhh… look at that,” he moans, a satisfied grin lifting those tempting lips of his. 

His middle finger brushes between your quivering flesh, gathering droplets of your arousal onto his finger pad. You choke back a staggered breath and your head flops weightlessly against the floor as you arch pitifully into his hand. One of his nails digs into your clit and faint stars pulse over your eyes. “S-stop it,” you stutter, unable to control the shiver that echoes up your spine.

“Tch,” Dabi scorns, adding the pressure of another finger. “Figures,” he continues, his mouth dropping into a pleased smile as you writhe under him. “I thought you liked being difficult. You’re so fucking cute when you’re mad, you know? So what happened to all that vigor, (Y/N)? Not gonna struggle anymore? I’m disappointed, I was hoping you’d keep it up.”

“You’re disgusting,” you snap, your fingers lifting from your side, grabbing the loose collar of his shirt and jerking him to your waiting lips. You can feel the lift of his grin, but he allows the caress, sharp nose digging into your upper cheek. This is wrong. So fucking wrong. But, if you have to endure it, it’s only fair you get a little bit of enjoyment out of this sick power play, so you nip at his lower lip, giving him soft presses and sharper pulls. Dabi, for all of his earlier barbs of prowess, is a bit taken aback by your sudden interest, his hands cupping at the back of your head, urging you on each time you maneuver away from his open-mouthed kisses. 

“You want to fuck me here? Right in front of the elevator?” you question breathlessly, fingers coiling into his dark hair, carding through the rough strands until he’s groaning above you. 

“Nah,” he pants, pulling away from your lips and leaning back. His fingers are still working their way against you, but it’s not enough friction and you wriggle under him, slipping him from your clit. “The fuck are you doing, babe? You gonna try and make a break for it again?” he laughs, pulling his hand from your pants and licking at the faint sweetness that you’ve left for him. 

“Why bother?” you reply, twisting your neck, your head dragging over the grains of the flooring. “You’re just going to catch me. I don’t know my way around this part of the building, so even if I got away, you’d only find me and I don’t really like being tossed around. Not good for me, you know? Why do you care? I thought you said you were gonna fuck me?”

“Oh, I am,” he assures you, one hand snagging under your chin, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. “Just wanted to know what changed.”

“Nothing,” you barb, tugging your chin free and fixing him with a pointed stare. “This whole thing means nothing. I’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s buying me dinner tonight, so, just get through this and I’m free to go, right?”

“A boyfriend,” Dabi muses, knees tightening around your hips. “Should we call him? I’d hate to think how he’d feel about all this. Knowing that his girl is letting her TA take advantage of her this way.” 

“Hmph,” you snort, arms bracing under you, pushing yourself upward, doing your utmost to level this shitty playing field he’s laid out for you. “Like you give a shit.”

“You’re right,” he affirms, hands snatching under your arms and pulling you out from under him. “I couldn’t care less.”

His office is small. 

You keep a sharp eye on the door, watching to see if he locks it. Fingers crossed, he’ll get himself off and that’ll be the end of this. But that tone he’d shifted into, when he’d told you that you’d need to fix this, to erase the complaint, to walk it back, that made your spine tingle and skin prickle. There’s something else, something he’s not telling you, he’s a smart guy, there’s no way it’s this simple. He’s paced behind his desk, fiddling with something in one drawer, his eyes lifting to observe you each time you shift on the couch he’d gestured for you to sit on.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice a dull monotone. You don’t care, you remind yourself, hands wrapping around your stomach. No matter how good he looks, or how skilled his fingers are, you don’t care (Y/N) and it’s pathetic that you have to keep reminding yourself of that.

“Just making sure everything is ready,” he answers, eyes flicking over you. “Take off your pants and shirt, but leave your bra and panties on.”

“Huh?” you question, shoulders tensing as you glare up at him. “Why?”

“Does it matter?” he responds, closing his desk drawer and stepping back to you, kicking his boots and socks off as he gets closer.

“I-I guess not, but I don’t understand why you–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all when I’m finished,” he reassures you, kneeling on the floor and propping an elbow against his tattered couch. “You can make a show of taking your clothes off, I won’t mind.” 

“You’re revolting,” you snarl, curling your fingers over the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up. 

“Mmm,” Dabi agrees, one palm rising to run over your exposed skin. “Whatever you say.” 

“Ugh,” you grunt, popping your hips up and yanking your jeans down your long legs, not wanting to give him too much of a viewing as you pull them along your calves and onto the floor.

“Cute,” he murmurs, one finger racing along the lace of your panties, curving around your hip and onto the soft skin of your ass. “Oooh, did you wear these just for me?” he asks, cupping a broad hand under your soft skin and tugging it into his palm. “Love a girl in a thong,” he murmurs, fingers pressing and lifting into the plush flesh.

“Stop it,” you groan, lifting your hips up, depriving him of his lecherous grip. “I’d never do anything for you.” 

“Always such a stuck up little thing, let’s see if I can’t change your mind,” Dabi laughs, pushing you back and splaying you against the haggard cushions. His long fingers hook under the band of your thong and steadily work it over the curve of your hips and down the line of your calves. Instinctually, you clamp your thighs together, rubbing against the ache that’s budding between your clenched legs. 

“Come on,” Dabi encourages you, slapping his hand against your round thigh, smoothing his palm over the redness that he’s left behind. “Open up babe, let me see you.” 

“Don’t, ah—” you bite out, leaning away from his ravenous gaze and bracing yourself on your elbows as Dabi leers over the sight you’ve been forced to open for him. He glances up at you for a single moment, the blue of his eyes ensnaring your attention and leaving you gaping against the cushions. Seconds later, he’s diving between your spread thighs, his curious tongue lapping over the exposed folds of your cunt.

He slows his licks as he passes by your clit, pausing against the bud before wrapping his lips around the nub, sucking a swift rhythm over you. Your feet rise from the floor to brace against his broad shoulders and you coil your hips upward, urging him on, your head falling into the swath of pillows that rest under your neck. Tense fingers wrench into the cushions and you give a soft gasp, your lips stumbling over his name.

“What was that?” Dabi asks, lifting his head from your curls, lips wet with your slick, his blue eyes watching the contours of your face.

“Fuck you. I-I know… I know you heard me… D-Dabi,” you moan, hissing when he brings a digit against the quivering ring of your entrance. 

“Dabi, huh?” he ponders, letting the edge of his fingernail tease over you. “Don’t know if I like that. I think I’d much rather hear you screaming out my name, my real name.” 

“What?” you question, popping your head up and giving him a blank stare.

“You remember,” he grins, poking out his tongue and dragging it over you, smiling as you buck under his hands. “Come on,” he taunts, sucking at your clit again. “I know you know it. Go on, say it for me.”

“Wha-what’s wrong with Dabi?” you smart, bracing your feet against the couch and forcing him to insert his wavering finger, digging it forward until it hits the second knuckle. 

“Nothing, I just wanna’ hear how the other name sounds. I want to know what it’s like when you’re choking on it, barely able to gasp it out cus’ I’m making you feel so good. Come on, (Y/N), indulge me, huh?” 

“Fine,” you huff, legs trembling as he shoves another finger into you, curling them upward, poking and prodding until you’re squirming. “Keep going. Make me cum all over your mouth, Touya.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Dabi hisses, his teeth catching over your clit. “That sounds real nice, baby.”

His lips seal over you again and he drags another finger into you, stretching you until you feel you’re close to bursting. It’s a low ache he’s working up, but you love the burn. It’s not like your boyfriend can’t do this, but you’ve never worked up the courage to ask. How do you even go about that? Hey, I want you to pin me down and… no. That doesn’t matter, you remind yourself; fingers sinking into Dabi’s black hair, pulling him closer. You just need to get him off and get the hell outta’ here. Don’t think about it. Just relax and get this over with. 

“You need more, don’t you?” Dabi questions, tilting his head and cracking one cerulean eye open, watching as you writhe and cant under his skillful hands. 

“I-I just need…” your voice fails you as he resumes that suction, tugging your engorged clit between his sharp teeth and giving you a few rapid fire nips. “Al-almost, just… keep… oh fuck…” you sigh, thighs tensing around his dark head. His fingers speed up that sinful drag and he wriggles them forward with each push, tapping and stroking over the spongy patch of nerves within your cunt. 

Then, right when you’re breaths away from a mind blowing release, he yanks his fingers from your sopping pussy, laughing as you pant and whine for him. “Ahhh, come on babe,” he sneers. “Why would I reward you when you’ve been such a fucking pain?” 

You openly gape at him, your eyes blinking back dots of frustration and distant flashes of lingering starlight arousal. “What the fuck,” you pant, shifting away from his slicked lips and crossing your legs. “Wh-what what was that for?”

Dabi pushes himself onto his haunches, licking the last traces of you off of his fingers before digging his hand into his jean pocket. He returns with a small remote and waggles it in front of your aghast expression. “Got all I needed,” he informs you, flicking it toward a bookcase. You swiftly whip your head to the shelves and spy the tiny camcorder resting above the topmost set of books. 

“You fucking ASS,” you screech, hands reaching for the dangling remote, not caring that your sopping pussy and half naked breasts are on full display. Dabi hovers the remote above the two of you, cracking that all too familiar grin over his thin lips.

“So, about that complaint,” he taunts, scoffing at your desperation, leaning on his heels to watch you scramble up from the frayed pillows of his couch. 

“Y-you, why… I… give me that! You can’t record me without my permission!”

“Awe, babe,” Dabi barks, his laugh echoing around the small space. “Too bad for you, huh? I don’t need two party consent.”

“That’s for phone calls,” you bite out, finally snagging his wrist, yanking him toward you. 

“Who said the video was on?” 

“You fucking jackass! That’s why you wanted me to say your name!”

“Calm down, I won’t release it if you walk back the complaint,” Dabi counters, letting you pull him closer, his lips teasingly reaching for yours. You dodge his touch and fix him with a pointed glower, nose wrinkling and brow furrowing. 

“This sounds like a well oiled routine,” you accuse, dropping your hold on him and crossing your arms over your exposed stomach. 

“Tch, you jealous?” Dabi sneers, cupping both of his hands under your bent elbows, forcing you to lean into his hold. You shake your head at his accusation and grit your teeth, tilting your face away from his seeking touch. 

“What are you going to do about this part? Where I’m yelling about what a son of a bitch you are?”

“Edit it out,” Dabi informs you, lips latching onto the hollow of your throat, teeth worrying your tender skin between their grasp. “Again, if you walk back the accusation, all of this goes away.”

“What if…” you pause, biting your lower lip and shrugging Dabi off of you. He leans away, bright eyes studying your face, pausing at the dip of your lips, following the pink indentations that your teeth leave behind. “What if I wanna’ fuck you?”

“Oh?” Dabi hums, nose flaring, making those three tiny piercings gleam under the low light of the moon that’s streaming through his window. “Now you wanna’ fuck me? You sure about that? Not that I blame you, I’m pretty good, pretty big, too.”

“Ugh, don’t say shit like that,” you reply, lifting a shaking hand to his neck, tracing your fingertips over the indentations of his tattoos.

“Hmm,” he groans, already leaning into your touch, his skin prickling under the gentle strokes of your fingers. “One condition. I get to record it. This time with the video on.”

“Fine,” you confirm, coiling your hands into his inky hair. “Never know, you might want it for later.”

“For what?” Dabi asks, yanking himself away from your intoxicating strokes to jerk his white shirt over his head. You shake your head at his question, not wanting to think about the ramifications of this situation, distracting yourself with the new patterns and whorls of dark ink that are bared to you. He twists back to the camcorder, hitting a few buttons before tossing his remote across the room, the plastic clattering over the wood.

You can just make out the outline of wisps of blue flames beside his ribs when he kicks his pants and boxers down, finally lowering the curtain on the dip of his hipbones, displaying his straining length to your ravenous gaze. He’s covered in piercings. A silver Prince Albert is gleaming at his tip, catching the drips and bubbles of pre-cum that are hovering against his slit. His cock curls proudly toward his stomach when he releases it from the thin protection of his boxers and you catch sight of the Jacob’s ladder that climbs up his impressive girth. Unconsciously, you gulp in a swift breath and shake your head, not wanting to show him your wavering uncertainty. 

He’ll undoubtedly be the biggest cock you’ve ever taken, and you’re not sure that he’s stretched you out properly. He’d paused too soon and you can still feel the shuddering echoes of your faint brush with release travel up your spine as you gape at him. It’s not enough… it’s not…

“What?” Dabi questions, one black brow arched. “Worried I’m too big for you?”

You’re about to respond when he shoves you down and maneuvers you sideways, stretching you along the cushions, his hand a steady pressure against your windpipe, choking out any reservations that threaten to escape your lips. He’s on top of you seconds later, the sheer weight of him pinning you under him, and you let out a whine when he spreads your legs, popping the brittle muscles of your hips in his rush. 

“I’ll make you like it,” he promises, looming over you, his lips tracing up your neck as his hands dig under your back, unfastening your bra and stripping you of your final defense. “You’ve got a nice rack, babe,” Dabi praises, lowering himself, ghosting over your peaked nipples, tongue lapping out to dip over the puffy areola. 

“Stop saying shit like that, I might think you mean it,” you snarl, throat catching on your gasps of strained pleasure. He sucks one stiffened peak between his lips and suckles, hard. The pressure makes your back bow off the cushions, fingers reaching for him, clawing and scratching your way down the muscled plains of his back. 

“Mmm,” Dabi groans, popping his lips free from the distraction of your nipples. “Do that again, but put some effort behind it.” 

Well, why let him down now? You dig your nails into him, yanking until you feel his skin part under you, splitting from the drag of your touch. “Fuck, yes,” he grunts, his hips jerking into you, blindly seeking your entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you,” Dabi warns, teeth biting the hollow of your neck. “I’m gonna fuck you until all you can say is my name.” 

He blindly reaches for your hips, two fingers searching for your cunt. Once he finds it, he grasps the swollen length of his cock, jerking himself a few times, splashing his hot pre-cum against your inner thighs. There’s no warning, no call for preparation, or a quick kiss, instead there’s just the heady press of his hips and the weight of his length as it splits you in two. Your neck arches off of the cushions and your hips fall away, shying from the keening sting that he’s thrusting into you. A low hiss slips from your lips and your toes curl, legs unconsciously wrapping around his thin waist, heels digging into the soft dip of his back. 

“F-fuck,” Dabi chokes out, hands bracing themselves over the swell of your hips. “You’re fucking tight, babe. Goddamn it.”

“Dabi,” you moan, curling upwards, praying he’ll give you a few more seconds, positive you’ll shake yourself to bits if he tries to move now. Your hand finally lifts from his back and makes its way toward the crest of your thighs, desperate to tweak and roll your pulsing clit. Once you’re inches away, one of Dabi’s hands unlatches from your waist and snatches your seeking fingers away. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, lips rising to suck against the lines of your neck. “Only if I tell you,” he continues, warm tongue dipping and licking over your ear. “Understand?”

You nod, still reeling from the steady stretch of his cock as he tugs it out of your sopping cunt. It pricks and bites and your heels do their best to restrict his movements, pinning themselves to his lower back and grinding down. He ignores your hints and starts a steady push and pull within you, the rungs of his piercings catching on the edge of your leaking pussy. Each thrust snags against a piece of you that sends a scattering of sparks and stars over your vision and you coil yourself forward every time he yanks back, anticipating that ignition, that ache, as he braces himself to slip into you again. 

“How the fuck are you still so tight?” he complains, hands jerking your chin upward, demanding that you kiss him. The bittersweet sting of pain is still too close for you to get into his caress, so he soon gives up, finally settling the pad of his calloused thumb over your clit. “Is this what you need?” he asks, hips lancing into yours, picking up the pace of his ruts. You nod as your teeth chatter, a thin slip of drool escaping your parted lips. Dabi grins at your overwrought expression and his tongue laps at the traces of saliva, nose pressing into your skin, his hisses of exhaled air hot against your cheek. 

“You’re getting real tight (Y/N). Wanna cum? You wanna’ cum on my dick?” he asks, his voice shaking with effort, trying to ignore the insistent envelopment of your slick cunt. “Hey, come on, answer me!”

His deep pitch of exasperation snaps you out of your stupor and you fix your hazy attention on him, closing your swollen lips and giving him a cruel smile. “I don’t think you’ve done enough,” you taunt, a laugh bubbling from your throat. “Looks like you’re gonna cum first. Turns out you’re not as impressive as you think, huh, Touya?”

He’d usually ignore you, keep pressing and teasing until you’re putty in his hands, but it feels too good. It’s too much. Your fucking cunt feels like heaven and he can’t help himself, thrusting and pounding into you like he’s fucking fifteen again, all hormones and no finesse. There’s nothing he can do to stop himself, it’s too good, it’s just too fucking good.

With a half-formed groan he spills into you, his cock pulsing and swelling, hands bracing themselves against the swell of your hips, lifting you to him until those dots leave his vision. “Fuck. Fuck, that was… you were… God. That felt so fucking good.” 

You sprawl under him, your eyes languidly meeting his as you crack a sly grin. “Ahhh, Touya, like I said, you were so close. Too bad. Thought you’d last a little longer. Haha! Maybe next time, hmmm?”

Tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @evesmores​

notes: editing always takes me so long :((((

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 1

I'm finally back with some more rowaelin! I started this fic in november last year and wrote the first 10k in 24 hours, but from then on this fic was a struggle... Thank you so, so much to @morganofthewildfire for sharing so much of your time to help me with this, this fic would not be here without you 💗 I'm so happy to have finally finished it and can share it on here. I hope you enjoy

CW: past drug abuse, minor character death, violence

7.7k - masterlist - ao3

--

When her agent sends her the script it’s not the first time she’s heard of Rowan Whitethorn, his name is written at the top under the heading director, which itself is under the big red text reading confidential. He’s been at this stuff for a while now, directed a couple of movies that popped up on her radar but that nothing ever came of for her, and he’s well known in the business.

He was even nominated for an Oscar a couple of years ago, and she watched the ceremony with Lysandra, slapping the bills into her outstretched hand when he didn’t win.

His movie had been far too fucking raw for him to have won, she knew that, a tale about a group of kids who witnessed a murder and how it stayed with them and fucked them up into adulthood, but it had stuck with her nonetheless and she’d put her money on him anyway.

She reads the section of script Dorian has sent her, tucked up in bed with a glass of sparkling water and her most comfortable sweater, leaning back into the mountain of expensive pillows she had Elide buy for her and pondering how so much money could end up so uncomfortable, and she knows it’s something special.

She realises she wants this role, almost to an uncomfortable degree, when she’s about five lines in. The heroine is bratty and rash, but serious and pained in a way that makes her completely fleshed out and Aelin wants to play her, wants to be her and embody her in a way that takes her out of the pit she’s in.

She hopes this could be what gets her out of it.

Aedion had tried to pull her out, gods bless him, dropping by her apartment every morning for weeks to check up on her with a coffee in his hand, topped with cream and two sugars the way he knows she likes. Each morning he let himself in with her spare key, the one she gave to him the day she moved in, wanting him to be able to let himself in whenever he wanted but also knowing there was no one else she wanted to give it to.

She would have given it to Sam, would have given everything to Sam, but he’s gone and she’s left sitting here, wondering how to salvage what’s left of her reputation.

What reputation she had even managed to build after starring in one mediocre TV show and a handful of low-budget movies. She knows deep down, and in a way her brain likes to remind her of when she’s at her lowest, that the main reason she isn’t a complete nobody is because she’s Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. Her therapist tells her every time she bothers to go to a session that having a famous mother doesn’t mean she’s a failure and that she has to recognise each of her successes as her own. She nods along every time, but she doesn’t believe her. What has she managed to accomplish truly on her own?

It hasn’t been made public yet that Rowan Whitethorn is involved in the film, she only knows because Chaol wrote the whole script himself and texted her to let her know when he signed on to direct. She’s known Chaol since she was eighteen and took her first solo trip to Rifthold, drawn to the lights of the big city and the almost magnetic pull of the heart of the industry. He’d stumbled upon her in a club she was far too young to be in and had pulled her out, sending her home in a cab that he paid for. Looking back she was grateful for his attempt to avoid what she knew later was an inevitability.

She had cursed him when he told her she’d still have to audition, but she gets it. She hasn’t exactly behaved in a way recently that makes people want to take a chance on her.

Stumbling out of clubs, eyes as wide as saucers and high as a fucking kite isn’t the kind of star casting directors are desperate to hire, but she’s trying to be better. She’s promised those around her that she’ll be better, and she knows that the only reason she hasn’t ended up in rehab is that she has an incredible therapist and a highly persuasive manner of dealing with her friends and family. The only reason they’ve taken that chance on her is time, and she’s grateful for that mercy.

She turns the page, hitting the final line for the third time. Chaol’s script is so good she’s read the few pages she’s been sent over and over.

She only reads scripts in physical copies, takes the time to print them out using her shitty printer that belongs right back in 2008, and she knows it’s wasteful but she allows herself that small luxury of the crisp paper in her hand as she delves into each new world. Her character is in the middle of a teary monologue that she knows exactly how she’d do, the way she’d halt her breath and choke out the words-- it’s not her character. Yet.

The audition is next week, and she’ll work her ass off to make sure she’s ready. Her usual pre-audition ritual involves taking up far too much of Lysandra’s time to practice reading the lines and filming herself time after time, take after take, and watching it back in the unholy hours of night until she’s happy she’s made an improvement.

Or at least that’s how she used to do it, nothing has made her want a role like this in a long while. She worries as she bites her lip, that wanting something this much means she’s getting over Sam. That maybe one day she won’t think of him and hear the pounding in her ears, won’t feel the lightheadedness that comes with a memory of their time together. Worries that if she forgets the sounds of his screams she’s failing him somehow.

She takes another sip of her sparkling water. It’s poured into a wine glass so she can at least pretend she’ll get the relaxation she craves. Alcohol was never one of her vices but she finds it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s unhealthy as far as coping mechanisms go, but she’s been worse so it’s going down as a win.

Chaol told her some guy called Brullo is casting this one. She’s never heard of him, which is kind of rare. She’s been on the periphery of this bubble for pretty much her entire life, following her mother around her own movie sets and sitting on the wooden directors chair when her legs still dangled off the side, but if he’s like any other casting director in Adarlan she knows how to impress him.

When she reaches the last line of the part of the script she’s been sent, her mind wanders again to Rowan Whitethorn.

He’s the kind of director up and coming actors can only hope to one day work with, even though she’s pretty sure he can’t be much more than thirty, he’s built himself to a level where he can be choosy with his projects.

It's a well deserved privilege. Each of his works has stayed with her after watching, his style is gritty and dark, but grounded in a way that leaves her empty each time after finishing.

She wants this, and she buries the guilt she feels for that. Sam would want her to want this. She deserves it, or at least she hopes she can come to.

Dorian books her a mid-morning flight so she doesn’t have to wake too early before the audition, he’s a damn good agent and one she definitely doesn’t deserve with his seemingly endless patience, but she’s continuously grateful for him.

Aelin styles herself for it, ties her hair back and leaves the makeup to a minimum in a way that she hopes shows them she’s right for the part, that she can be the insecure little girl who experiences far too much. She knows she doesn’t have the sheltered innocence the character has, but she’s an actress and this is what she does. Aelin pretends for a living.

He’s also booked her a room in a pretty nice hotel for the night, she’s not sure whether he’s used her meagre acting funds or the funds from the account she knows he mom throws money into every month. It’s an argument she and Evalin have had repeatedly, she wants to stand on her own two feet, but she never protests too hard. The account kept the roof over her head when she was too busy snorting her life away to consider where her next paycheck would come from.

Aelin throws herself backwards into the crisp white bedding on the hotel room bed and takes a deep breath. The only luggage she brought with her is a carry on slung somewhere by the door and the room feels too empty to sit here and wait for the car that’s arriving to take her to the studio in just over an hour. If she sits here and waits the nerves will only build, and then she’ll itch for something to take the edge off.

She picks her phone up to text her cousin.

Jet lag from a 2 hour flight. Who would have thought?

Aelin waits two minutes for a reply, locking and unlocking her phone as she sits there, but one doesn’t come. Aedion’s probably at a training session and not checking his phone. Aelin runs a hand through her hair, careful not to dislodge the pins she placed carefully in it this morning, she needs to stop using him as her crutch. She knows he doesn’t mind, but it’s not right either way.

She needs to get out of this room.

The streets of Rifthold are busy and crammed as she meanders down them, clutching the takeout coffee cup she bought from a vendor with a stall at the side of the road.

People pay her no mind as she walks, the oversized shades hide her eyes that she knows are a dead giveaway for her membership of the Ashryver line. Even if she didn’t wear them, everybody else here wants to be someone, and so far she can still blend in if she tries.

She sends a text to the assistant organising the audition, it’s kind of shitty of her but she keeps it brief because she can’t remember their name, letting them know the car isn’t needed anymore and that she’ll make her own way there. She needs the stroll through the streets to clear her head.

Aelin needs to nail it. She hasn’t felt the twisting of desire so sharp in her stomach for a long time and the only way she’ll manage it is with a clear head.

She alternates her breathing with sips of her coffee, the taste is bitter but she keeps drinking. She pulls her phone out to check the directions to the studio.

Spontaneous isn’t a word Aelin would use to describe herself anymore, any longing to go with the flow died the minute she lost control. It’s safer now to plan, to make sure she won’t lead herself astray.

Brullo is a man in his mid forties, with dashes of grey seasoned through his muddy brown hair, and kind lines around his eyes as he smiles and shakes her hand. Aelin wipes the sweat off her palm on her jeans before clasping her hand in his.

The audition goes about as well as she can hope for, she remembers every line, and the other casting director is fairly natural reading the lines for her to act against. Aelin swallows back her tears after she finishes, trying to keep what dignity she can to end the audition when there’s snot threatening to run down her upper lip. It was a brutal scene to start with, but if she can pull this off she can surely manage the rest.

Brullo’s expression is carefully guarded as she leaves, giving nothing away, but Aelin thinks she did a good job, which is all she could have ever hoped for.

She’s staring at the tiled floor, mulling over Brullo’s parting words, thanks Aelin, our people will be in touch, when she hits something hard and warm.

She’s too busy dissecting those eight words to register exactly who it is with their hands clamped around the top of her arms, steadying her as she stumbles, but she looks up and her gaze meets that of a pair of striking, green eyes.

The man gripping her is easily over a head taller than her, broad and strong enough that she fights back the shiver that wants to roll through her at his touch. He’s staring down at her, the strong planes of his face drawn into a deep frown, with his strangely coloured eyebrows pulled in.

They’re a kind of silver that matches his short cut hair, and it shines in the fluorescent light of the hallway in a way that it can only be natural, but she’s never seen a shade quite like it.

“Sorry,” she manages to stutter out, still thrown from the vulnerability of her audition.

“It’s alright.” His voice burns through the words, his accent rolling in a way that raises hairs down the back of her neck. He flashes her a dangerous grin and she steadies herself. She knows what that look means. She’s used to the male attention, and as much as she hates to acknowledge it, she knows her looks are an element of how she’s got as far as she has. That and her family’s name.

The decision of whether to register in the guild as Aelin Ashryver or Aelin Galathynius was one she had spent hours deliberating over. Did she want the level of independence Galathynius would give her, or the reputation being an Ashryver would bring?

The man releases his grip on her shoulders, but not before running his hands down her arms until he reaches her wrists which he releases with a light squeeze. She takes an almost imperceptible step back, leaning back to breathe some air into her lungs. All she ends up doing is filling her mind with this man’s smell, inviting and intoxicating, a delicious combination of pine trees and snowy winter mornings.

“I don’t usually go around slamming into people like this,” she tells him, letting some of her snark slip through. He’s said two words to her so far but she knows he can take it, and she wants to play.

His grin becomes even more wicked and it truly is a sight to see. This man is built like a god; broad, muscular shoulders stretching the white button up he wears and she spies the dark lines of a tattoo threatening to slip past his collar.

It’s been a couple of months since her last mindless hook-up, and this man would more than do. The mischief glimmering in his eyes tells her he’d know how to make her gasp and beg.

“Slam into me anytime.” His words are a sensual croon and her mouth drops open slightly, but he sidesteps her before she can manage to speak again, nodding towards the door she’s come through. “Good luck with whatever you were here for.”

With that he’s gone, leaving her to turn and watch the way his grey slacks pull against his thighs as he walks away from her.

Aelin tries not to think too much about the outcome of the audition, and flies back to Orynth in economy class with a sleep mask tucked over her eyes lest she be recognised when all she wants to do is curl up in bed and be alone for a bit. That or get fucking wasted, and she can’t do that.

She tries far too hard to forget about the man from the hallway, forget about the way his voice had rumbled deep in her chest and the tug in her belly that his words had sent through her.

She begs Elide to come to a bar with her, and she agrees. Aelin needs to pay her more, maybe change her title from publicist to publicist-come-part-time-therapist-and-life-saver. Aelin’s not sure she has the budget for that really.

Elide would smack her if she knew Aelin’s thoughts. Would scold her for looking at Elide just like an employee as if they weren’t childhood friends and Elide hadn’t been there holding her hand through the whole Sam thing. As if she, Lysandra and Aedion hadn’t been her only reason for being here now.

A bar might be a risk, but she can sip her sparkling water while she browses the small selection of men that Orynth has to offer.

She enjoys the easy conversation she has with Elide, chatting about what their friends have been up to, even though most of them are mainly Elide’s friends at this point. After Sam she stopped speaking to everyone but those who were necessary. She couldn’t manage any more than that.

“You should come with us next time,” Elide is saying as she sips her own lemonade. Aelin knows Elide would normally choose a crisp glass of white wine over a lemonade and her sobriety solidarity touches her heart.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, noncommittal.

The look Elide wears tells her she’s debating pushing the issue for the millionth time against the risk that Aelin would pull back again. She hates that she does this to her friends so she sighs.

“Text me next time,” she tries. “I’ll see if I’m free.”

Elide offers her a thankful smile, and Aelin returns it, trying to tell herself this is what she needs and that she shouldn’t just stay locked up thinking about Sam.

There’s a dark haired guy at the bar catching her eye, his jeans are far too tight and his shirt is ridiculous, but she can see the body beneath and his face is striking. Elide notices her stare and smirks.

She likely knows why Aelin invited her out tonight, but doesn’t mind. Lorcan’s probably waiting for her at the home they share, waiting for her to come back so they can be in love. Aelin hates the bastard, except she doesn’t. She introduced her friend to the tall, dark and grouchy hockey player at the wrap party for the shit teen movie she did a couple of years back, and she’s big enough to admit she wants what they have.

She had what they have.

What’s left in her glass slips down her throat easily in one mouthful and she promises to text Elide tomorrow before slipping out of the booth and over to the guy at the bar.

“You going to just stare at me all night?” She asks with a sly smile. “Or did you plan on doing something about it at some point?”

His smile makes him look even more attractive.

“Maybe I was waiting for you to make the first move, a beautiful girl like you can be intimidating.”

It’s a shit line and she rolls her eyes, but tugs him into a cab back to her place anyway.

“Please.” Her voice shakes as she begs. “Please don’t do this.”

The man in front of them scoffs and Sam squeezes her hand, his palm rough against her own.

“Aelin, baby. It’s okay, just do what he says.”

He lets go of her hand and turns back to the guy in front of them. His face is covered by a black mask, only two slits show her the dark brown of his eyes. She can barely look away from the knife he holds out in front of himself, it’s pointed at Sam but that doesn’t make her feel any better, it makes her feel worse in fact.

“Your wallet,” the guy demands.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, fat and hot, as she fishes around in her bag for her purse.

“Just dump the whole thing,” the guy growls, irritated, but she’s pretty sure she’s going into shock and she can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

Sam’s voice is steady by her side as he throws his own wallet onto the street in front of them.

“Alright, man. We’re doing everything you say.”

“Hands up.” The mugger’s voice is sharp. “Don’t fucking move.”

She raises her arms straight in the air, trying to control the way her hands are shaking and the attacker ducks down to grab their things.

She lets out a tiny whimper and feels Sam spin to her, his eyes begging her to trust him. No, she shakes her head.

“I said don’t fucking move,” the guy yells and lunges for Sam.

His scream cuts the night air and she whirls, hands dropping into the air between them as he drops to the ground. The mugger takes off, sprinting down the empty street and she falls to her knees by Sam’s side.

In the dark, the pool spilling out across the floor by Sam’s side just looks black, but she knows that really it’s red. She’s not stupid. His face is twisted in pain and her hands flutter around his torso before she manages to pull back the flap of his jacket.

There’s a hole in his white t-shirt and now her jeans are wet where she kneels.

She needs her phone, needs to call someone who can make this all better, but her phone is gone.

She presses her hands against his side and his eyes shutter closed as he gasps. His breathing is stuttered and uneven.

“Sam. Sam, no,” she cries. “I’ll get help. You’re okay.”

“Aelin.” He raises a hand to press against her cheek, and the blood on it is sticky and warm.

“No, Sam. No, stay with me.”

The scream that tears through her throat will hurt tomorrow but now she barely feels it. “HELP!”

His breathing becomes much quicker as she presses on his side and screams again.

She knows abstractly that she’s crying, tears and snot streaming down her face as she desperately presses her hands against his side.

There’s a strong arm around her waist, tugging her back and away from Sam, and she screams one word over and over.

“No, no, no, no.”

There are people here now, leaning over Sam, leaning over his body.

“NO.”

Aelin gasps as she launches up in her bed. The sheets are stuck to her clammy skin and her head flies to the side. The guy is gone, the side of the bed he occupied when she fell asleep now cold. Good.

She lives it over and over in her dreams, sees the dark street more often than not, feels the phantom warmth of his blood down her legs. Wakes screaming herself hoarse just as she did that night. She doesn’t normally let people stay the night. Even when Aedion tried for the first few weeks after the fact, she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t turn her brain off for even a second. Every time she closed her eyes she was back on that street, begging and pleading for him to open his eyes.

She grasps at her side for the switch of her bedside lamp and flicks it on. Her room is cold and empty and she hasn’t had it in her to decorate past the basics so it’s plain and impersonal when she looks around, trying to calm her breathing.

She checks the time. 6:25am. Not bad, she must have managed about six hours of sleep last night, and it’s more than she usually gets.

There're a few texts waiting in her inbox, including one from Elide, and she expects it to be a request to let her know that she got home safe but it’s not.

Call me as soon as you wake up.

Sent at 6:02am. Elide is a chronic overworker, no matter how much Aelin begs her to stick to a 9 to 5 schedule, but she couldn't imagine her friend any other way. The smiling emoji at the end of the text lets her know it’s nothing she needs to panic about, so she takes a moment to scroll through her other messages. It’s unusual for her to wake up to so many.

She clicks on her conversation with Dorian, the only message she can see, his most recent one, just says Aelin. He has sent her nine messages while she slept, and she scrolls up to reach the first one.

Aelin, you did it. You booked the Rowan Whitethorn movie.

Her heart pounds in her chest, running into overdrive as she processes the words on her screen.

She got the part. She fucking did it.

This is one of those moments she knows she’ll remember.

Dorian has forwarded over a number of contracts and official things but she ignores them in favour of dialling Elide’s number.

“Aelin!” Her friend’s voice is breathy when she answers. “Congratulations, I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, El.” A pause where she takes a deep breath in. “I can’t believe it.”

She falls back onto her mattress, pressing a fist to her lips as she smiles, eyes closed, almost giddy as she listens to her friend talk.

“They’re putting a press release out today at 12:30, announcing you and the male lead, who I haven’t found out yet but I will.”

“Oh my gods,” she sighs, covering her eyes with a clammy hand.

“I know,” Elide laughs.

She allows herself one tear as she stares up at the white of her ceiling.

This is big, she can feel it.

Later her phone buzzes as Elide sends her links to two different articles breaking the news.

Fenrys Moonbeam and Aelin Ashryver to star in new Chaol Westfall drama. More to follow.

Rowan Whitethorn signs on to direct The Crescent City, the latest project from Chaol Westfall (Throne of Glass, The King’s Hand & more).

She presses the phone to her chest as she lets out a sigh of relief.

It all moves pretty quickly from that point.

She’s on a plane back to Rifthold the next day and Chaol has sent over the whole script for her to read on the plane, bypassing Dorian completely even though that’s how it normally goes and she knows the two are like brothers.

Chaol was the one to introduce her to Dorian, and they kind of took her under their showbiz wings in the first few years she began to get really serious about acting.

They gave her the inside scoop, having been in the industry for a few more years than her. Chaol writing and making movies and Dorian doing all the background stuff like contracts and negotiations and exposure. They took her to their wrap parties that everyone knows are just networking events and introduced her to some of the big names in the industry without so much as batting an eyelid, and she knows she owes them a lot.

The script is phenomenal, and she has to try and hide the tears that form when she reaches the end, it probably wouldn’t be the best start to the project, being photographed crying on the plane on the way to start shooting. It really is some of Chaol’s best work, and she sends him a text when she lands that says fuck you, I hate it, but his reply lets her know he knows she’s joking.

It tells the story of her character, Feyre, and how she’s dragged into selling drugs to pay for her mom’s hospital bills. Along the way she meets Fenrys Moonbeam’s character, Rhysand, the glowering bad-boy who’s well established in the gang and together they see some shit and do some shit but manage to get out together. The topics are kind of cliché and over done, but Chaol has managed to add a level of originality to it that makes it really special.

It’s heavier on the romance than Rowan Whitethorn’s previous projects, but it’s gritty enough that she can see why he’s signed on. It’s going to be hard, she knows this, and it will really push her to her limits trying to embody the range of emotions her character goes through. But she wants it, and she will make her performance incredible if it fucking kills her.

There’s a niggling part of her brain that reminds her that she’s surrounded by some big names on this project, names that are big for a reason, and she can’t let them hiring her be a mistake.

She sends Chaol a follow up text, wtf are these names btw???

He ignores her.

When she’s in the car taking her to the apartment the studio is renting out for her while they film she decides to take a little trip through Instagram and look up her new co-star. Fenrys is a household name by now, a couple of years in after his debut, but it can’t hurt to know a little more about her leading man.

f.moonbeam01 comes up as the first option when the types the three letters f e n into the search bar and he has over eleven million followers.

Shit.

Not that she needs a reminder but it slaps her in the face that this is actually big. Aelin only has a few thousand followers herself and Elide has already told her to prepare herself for that to rise.

His Instagram is a mixture of mostly photos of himself, some selfies and some professional shots, and he’s obviously gorgeous. His deep brown complexion playing well against his golden curls with a straight strong nose and flawless white teeth. He’s definitely leading man material, and she can tell just how charming his grin is even through a screen.

There are also promo pictures for all the movies he’s involved in at the moment, there are at least three projects he has coming out this year. Damn.

His most recent picture is a screenshot of the article announcing their casting, and he’s actually tagged her in the photo along with Rowan himself. She hasn’t seen the tag until now, it’s normally Elide’s job as her publicist to tackle the professional side to her social media, but there’s 6.4 million likes on the photo.

Again, shit.

She can’t help herself from clicking onto Rowan’s account, rowanwhitethorn is a pretty simple handle. He only has 27 posts, most of them are behind the scenes shots from projects, one with his classic director’s chair that has his surname printed across the back in thick white lettering, and a few pictures of different cameras and pieces of equipment.

There’s only one picture of him on there, and it’s from 2017. He has his back to the camera and the sunset behind him lends a shadow that covers all of his features. Very artsy she muses to herself as she double taps the screen to like it, he probably won’t see anyway, the notification will probably get lost in the ones his account no doubt gets from his 2 million followers. The only thing she can gather from the photo about his physical appearance is that he has pretty broad shoulders.

She’s tempted to google him, wanting to know what he looks like, but she feels a bit too much like a stalker, and she knows she’ll meet him in a couple of days anyway so she leaves it and pulls up her emails to reply to the seemingly endless list of forms she has to fill out and send back to Dorian.

The apartment she’s living in for the next few months is modern and airy, with clean lines and bright decor. Aelin likes it, and while it’s not hers in the same way as her home back in Orynth, it’s far better than a hotel room that lower budget movies tend to shove actors in. Another reminder that this time is different, there’s a bigger budget than she’s used to, bigger names than she’s used to, and she can’t fuck this up. There’s more eyes on her now than ever before.

She sends Elide a picture of her new bedroom and her friend just replies with a bunch of exclamation marks and she forwards the picture across to Lysandra too. Aelin wanders through to the kitchen, wondering if anyone bothered to stock the kitchen, not that she can’t do groceries herself, it would just be nice. She’s delighted to find a fridge full of fresh produce and gets about making herself a dish of pasta and veggies.

She tucks herself in front of the big television, munching away as she watches some National Geographic documentary about whales and it helps to take her mind off the fact that this is her last night of peace for a while. She’s trying not to get too in her head about it, there’s a fine line between knowing it’s a big deal and freaking the fuck out about it, and she needs to stay on the right side of that line, needs to keep herself in check.

If she allows herself a moment to relax, a moment to sink into the situation and bask in the opportunity; she’s excited.

And depending on how well this movie does, she knows she may not have another night like this one. Somehow the thought doesn’t seem to scare her.

Lysandra calls her as she’s waiting for the car to arrive to take her to the studio, it's day one of their table read today and she’s tired. She spent all of last night tossing and turning, unable to shut her mind off and panicking over every single detail of how this day could go.

She’s lucky it’s only a table read, she’s not sure even a professional make-up artist would be able to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hello, you.” Lysandra’s voice is cheery through the phone and Aelin smiles, she’s really missed Lysandra and hasn’t taken nearly enough time to seek her out during her recent whirlwind. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

They had texted since the news dropped, but with Lysandra shooting a campaign for a brand she can’t remember somewhere over in the Southern Continent they haven’t had time yet for a call.

“Thanks Lys,” she says as she gets into the back of the sleek black car that the studio has sent for her, tucking her small black backpack onto the seat next to her. It’s all she can use at this point, any other bag just makes her think of that night.

“How’s it going? Have you met everyone yet?”

Lysandra runs in these circles of A list celebrities and Aelin wouldn't be surprised if she already knew Fenrys. She met Lysandra when they were teens; years before her first show for Victoria’s Secret, years before she was walking for people like Gucci and Prada, and they stayed close when they were both living off cheap ramen and thin strands of hope. Aelin likes to tease her about hanging with a lowly C-lister like herself but Lysandra is always quick to quip that she’s maybe a G-lister at a push.

That could change.

“I haven’t met anyone so far, but I’m literally on my way to meet everyone now.”

“That’s exciting, you’ll have to let me know if Fenrys Moonbeam is really that good looking in person.”

“So you don’t already know him?” she asks, teasing. Maybe Lysandra doesn’t know quite everyone.

“Oh you know, apart from every week-end when we hook-up, we’re not really that good friends.”

Aelin laughs, mostly to herself, knowing that somewhere out there that probably is a story that’s cropped up in some cheap tabloid. She knows there’s probably some dating rumours about herself and Fenrys already even though she’s still yet to meet him. It’s just how it is, she knows this, has known this since she was old enough to read the stories about her parents’ messy divorce.

“What does Aedion have to say about that, hm?”

“Oh, he joins us obviously!” Lysandra’s laugh is bright and loud through the grainy speaker.

No-one is more desperate for Aedion to propose to Lysandra than Aelin, not even the magazines, desperate for a scoop of the golden couple, quarterback for the Rifthold Ravens and the world-famous supermodel.

“I think I’ve heard enough, thanks,” Aelin laughs as the car pulls through security checks at the studio. “Lys, I have to go, I’ve just got to the studio.”

“Okay, good luck! Promise you’ll call me later though and let me know how it goes.”

She needs to make sure she puts aside a minute to catch up properly with Lysandra, she’s been slacking recently and she knows her friend misses her. She misses Lysandra too, and Aedion. Maybe she’ll stay with them for a couple of days when she gets a break from filming, she can probably see them far more often now that she’s in Rifthold too.

“I promise,” she agrees. “Tell Aedion to make sure he spoils you from me.”

Lysandra snorts, “Oh he does, I’ll pass it along anyway though.”

“Means a lot. Love you, got to go.”

Lysandra’s returning love you is sincere, but she cuts off the phone as the car comes to a stop outside the plain brick building.

She readies herself in the back of the car, pulling down a deep breath to center herself, she can do this.

The girl leading her to the room doesn’t speak other than to tell Aelin to follow right this way, and she’s grateful, she’s not sure she could speak right now without vomiting all over the dated linoleum flooring.

She needs to get a grip, and fight the urge for a hit that strikes her when she’s nervous like this. It could make her fears disappear, at least for a moment before they all came crashing back down ten-times worse the minute the high faded. There is a reason she packed that shit in, and she knows her nerves will pass. It’s been a while since she’s done any of this, her last movie read was pre-Sam and no matter how hard she tries to push it down, there’s a lot of pressure on her for this to go well.

The girl pauses outside an unassuming white door and holds a hand out to gesture for Aelin to go in. She rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high before she steps into the room. If all else fails she’s still Evalin Ashryver’s daughter and to some people that is something to be proud of.

Fenrys Moonbeam is the first person to catch her eye when she steps into the room, and it seems he’s done some stalking too because he ends his conversation by the food table with some others she doesn’t recognise and bounds straight over to her with a grin.

“Aelin Ashryver,” he says, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. “I’ve heard of you. It’s a pleasure.”

“You have?” She’s both surprised and not at the same time as she holds a hand out for him to shake.

He bypasses the hand she holds out and tugs her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and knocking her backpack off her shoulder.

“I have,” he says as he bends down to pick her bag back up. “Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. She needs to stop acting like a bewildered school girl meeting the Queen, she needs to remember that she has second billing for this movie thanks to Dorian.

“Don’t worry about it.” Aelin finds a smile and plasters it on.

Someone calls for everyone to take their seats and she notices the name placards spaced out in front of each chair. She locates her own and it's surreal to see her name printed there, Aelin Ashryver, between Fenrys and another actress playing her sister called Manon Blackbeak. She’s even less known than Aelin, and she only feels slightly guilty for how much that relaxes her.

Aelin knows how this goes down, they sit opposite the production team, the director and all the executive producers and she realises that she’s opposite the sign that reads Rowan Whitethorn.

She slides into her seat, Fenrys and Manon chatting over her head as she does, and she spots a male slipping into the chair opposite her. He’s wearing a slim-fit forest green henley and dark jeans, his shoulders are just as broad as they were in his Instagram photo and here there’s no shadow across his handsome features.

She can’t deny that he’s attractive, she knew it the first time she saw him. Her stare locks onto the man from the hallway after her audition and he smirks at her as if they have a secret. And maybe they do, but now she’s realising that he’s her boss, and a little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Elide is whispering to her that opportunities like this don’t come around everyday.

She owes it to Sam and she owes it to herself not to fuck this up, but the look that Rowan Whitethorn is sending her across the table makes her think she could risk it all.

It takes them three hours to run through it in full, and she’s happy to see she’s not the only one with a tear in her eye at the end. Rowan doesn’t cry, but he hasn’t looked at her since before they started and each time she read a line she avoided looking at him. She knows there were a couple of times where he nodded along with her expression of the lines. She’s ignoring it.

This is what she lives to do, they’re not even filming yet and she feels like she’s right where she needs to be. It’s cliche but she breathes easier when she acts, the air feels lighter when she takes on a new personality and feels all the things she’s told to feel.

It takes away the restlessness she feels when it’s all just down to her, being told how to feel is far easier.

Her therapist tells her she has both anxiety and PTSD, but she feels like giving it a name doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. She knows a diagnosis can be a relief for some, but to Aelin, what she feels is far too messy to be summed up in four letters. Her life has simply become the before, and the after, even though what each of those contains is a complete fucking shit show.

There are two Aelins; pre that night and post that night.

The Aelin from before that night doesn’t exist anywhere but in her own memory.

Once the run through is completed and basic notices are given by the producers, things like call sheet distributions and health and safety, the occupants of the room begin to mingle. She sees him make a beeline for her, and she swallows. She’s not ready for this.

“You look surprised to see me.” His voice is as hot as it was the last time she saw him, the slight rasp in his throat and his accent. Gods, the accent.

“You don’t look too surprised to see me.” She tilts her head at him because she feels way thrown off, like he has all the power here. Which he does. But like, she can play it cool. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? “Maybe had a little google search?”

He shakes his head at her, biting his lip kind of like he wants to laugh, and she bristles. She needs to level the playing field.

“Says you.” He’s definitely laughing now. “I saw you liked my photo last night.”

“What about it?” She shrugs, hoping her acting skills are up to it. He only tilts his head to the side as he takes her in.

“Do you think I didn’t know who you were in the corridor? I’m the director.” And fuck him for saying it like that, full of an easy confidence that in any other situation would have had heat pooling in the floor of her stomach. “Brullo discussed the casting with me.”

Right. Of course.

She’s not sure what to say next. Honestly? She kind of wants to flirt with him, but fuck.

Instead she hums a laugh, not really caring whether he thinks it’s sincere or not, and looks absentmindedly around the room instead of back up at him. He reaches a hand out to brush his fingers down her arm, looping them round the bones of her wrist and squeezing slightly like he did the last time before letting go. Her eyes snap back to his.

“Just between you and me?” he asks and the smile he wears is far too hot for her to deal with right now. “I think we made a good choice.”

“Thanks,” she says, but it’s a little too breathy. A little too dazed for having spent such a short amount of time in his presence. She’s aware that she needs to be careful, they are very much not alone in this room right now, and she doesn’t need to start any rumours that would destroy her chances of escaping this without a scandal.

She’s here to do a job, and she’s going to do it well. She doesn’t need any distractions.

He leaves her soon after that, and his parting remark of “have a good first day, Aelin” sticks with her, and she tries not to replay the way his voice had wrapped around her name.

Manon Blackbeak is watching them from across the room, and she arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at Aelin. She ignores her; let her think what she wants, she’s surely professional enough not to gossip to any press, and stomps over to where Fenrys is chatting with one of the producers. It seems like a good enough place to start.

[navalcriminalimagines]

Taken & Found - 1

Request 1: Hey there! I'd really like to see a comforting Gibbs after the reader was kidnapped?

Request 2: Could ya do something with the reader being kidnapped and tortured in captivity for a long time and after she was rescued and came back Gibbs tries to get her to talk about what happened to her so he can figure out how to help/comfort her?

Request 3: May I request something with Gibbs and scared reader? Maybe they’re like trapped somewhere or she’s going under for a surgery? You can decide reader’s fate!

This is a two-part fic. This part is basically full angst, focused on Gibbs and the comforting, healing focus on Reader will come in the second part. I wanted to separate both.

Pairing: Gibbs x Reader

TW: angst, kidnapping, mention of suicide, depression, slight alcoholism

Words count: 3k

Tags: @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @madamsnape921 @specialagentastra @ncisfan @zetasaturno99

She was supposed to be thirty-five years old today.

And it was one of those very rare days Gibbs didn’t want to get out of bed.

He spent the night working on his boat in the basement, thinking about what his life would be if anything had happened. But he would never know, would he? No matter how bad he wished Shannon and Kelly weren’t dead, how bad he wished you were here with him… all of this happened. And he found himself alone in his basement.

Well, not entirely alone. He had a bottle of bourbon to keep him company, and Fraser, an old black labrador. Your old black lab. Your furry baby, as you used to say.

You rescued it when it was just a puppy, a couple of years before you joined NCIS. So, Gibbs has always known you with this loving thing. At some point, you would even take him to the office and Fraser’s favorite spot was under Gibbs’s desk.

Gibbs never wanted to get attached to the dog. Fraser wasn’t his, it was yours and he respected that. But somehow, you both made your way to his heart.

But only Fraser was still here.

Taking a sip of bourbon directly out of the bottle, his eyes landed on your pet, curled up in the armchair Gibbs put here years ago after you made a remark. “You know, you should put something down here. An armchair or something for people who visit.” You said, while caressing the wood with your fingertips. God did he wish he was the boat at this very moment.

“People who visit never stick around.” He answered, sternly.

“I stick around,” you grinned.

Indeed, you did stick around. A lot. Probably too much.

Would’ve saved him the heartbreak if you didn’t.

A week later, an armchair was down his basement.

With the bottle still in his hand, Gibbs sat next to Fraser and started to toy the blankie. Well, technically, it was not a blankie. It was a tee-shirt. One of yours. The one you left at his house, two years ago.

The top, representing one of your favorite bands, was destroyed now. Fraser chewed it, curled against it nonstop for two years, it was now just some cotton with dog’s hair on it. It didn’t have your smell anymore, it had Fraser’s, but Gibbs never had the strength to take it away from the dog to wash it.

He never had the strength to do much after you disappeared.

When it was clear to the team that you had been taken, kidnapped, abducted or whatever, Gibbs searched for you for weeks, probably mouths. He still does, to be honest, just not 24/7 anymore.

The first weeks, he asked - or actually, ordered - Abby to take care of Fraser. Gibbs was spending all of his time away, looking for you, he couldn’t take care of someone - well, a living thing. The lab tech happily obliged, but Fraser’s health quickly deteriorated. The dog wasn’t eating, or drinking. All he did was lay on the floor, waiting for his mum to come back.

“What, Abby? I don’t—“ not a welcoming way to answer the phone but she didn’t hold it against him.

“I know you’re busy, Gibbs, but I’m taking Fraser to the vet. He’s not okay at all.”

Abby heard her boss taking a deep breath. “Which vet? I’ll be here as soon as I can.”

The dog was clearly letting himself die. Without you, he didn’t see the point of living and Gibbs understood that. If he told anyone what he did after he got Fraser from the vet, they would think he was crazy. Maybe he was, but he didn’t care at this point. He didn’t care about anything, anymore.

Fraser was depressed and there was nothing the vet could do about it. So, they let Gibbs take him home.

And he took him home. His real home; your apartment. Fraser immediately lay on your bed and cried. “You’re reading my mind, Fra.” Gibbs muttered to himself, while preparing a bowl for the pet.

Gibbs had been in your room a few times, but he never paid attention to your stuff. All his attention was on you and your body when it happened. But as he was sitting on the floor, his back against your bed, he allowed himself to take a look around. It was very much you. Minimalist with your touch. He saw your guitar, your messy wardrobe, candles and some Polaroid pictures of people you love. Gibbs never paid attention to those pictures until this moment and one grabbed his attention.

A picture of him. You could see him from afar, aiming to throw a ball. He remembered that night but he never knew you took a picture.

Ziva had invited him to throw a few balls on a baseball field. It was a nice summer night and they had just saved many people from getting blown up. It was also the first night you kissed him. In his basement, you teased him like you always did and ended up with your lips on his. He wasn’t ready for it at that moment, and when he realised what had happened, you were already gone.

Gibbs held the picture in his hand and before sitting back exactly where he was, he went to the kitchen, grabbed what he had prepared and came back.

Fraser was still laying on your bed, his face on your pillow. Gibbs carried him in his arms, the labrador didn’t even fight back or anything. He put him in front of the bowl and Gibbs sat across. “You wanna die, Fra, huh?” The dog looked at him with horrifying sadness in his eyes. “You and me both, buddy. So let’s do this.”

Gibbs put the picture next to the bowl and grabbed his gun and the bottle of whiskey. “I know you know that salmon. Eat it, choke, and when you take your last breath, I’ll pull the trigger.” He said, pressing the gun against his temple.

Fraser is deadly allergic to salmon. When he was a few months old, you fed him some and the reaction was almost instantaneous. Luckily, you took him to the vet right on time for them to save him. “Salmon is banned from the house.” you said on the ride home.

The dog didn’t move one bit. With his face still resting on the floor, he kept looking at the man. Gibbs swore he saw tears in the damn dog’s eyes. “So? Whatcha waiting for? Eat it. It’s good salmon, trust me.” He said, drinking the brown liquor.

If Fraser could talk, he would’ve told him; ‘I may let myself die, but you’re damn crazy.’ Which would’ve been fair.

Gibbs was going crazy. It was the last straw. The last punch in the guts he could take. He had reached his limit.

He was finally letting himself love again and get loved in return. And someone took that away from him. All over again.

He got it, the universe hates him for some reasons. Why would he keep pushing it then?

Gibbs stayed up all night, drinking and waiting for Fraser to eat the fish and die. So he could pull the trigger and end this once and for all.

But Fra never did. Instead, around 5am, the dog went to grab something from the bathroom and put it on Gibbs’ lap. It was one of his hoodies. A hoodie you stole from him. Gibbs buried his nose in it and he could smell you. For the first time in many years, he let himself cry. He cried like a fucking baby, under the watch of your fucking dog.

At some point, he felt that Fraser was trying to nudge his nose in the hoodie too. “We’ll find her, Fra. We have to.”

If Gibbs had killed himself, along with Fraser, it would’ve meant you were gone forever. Because eventually, people would’ve stopped looking for you. They would’ve stopped thinking about you and just pretended you’re dead.

But Gibbs knew you weren’t dead. He knew it deep inside him. Because if you were dead, Fraser would’ve eaten the salmon and he would’ve pulled the trigger.

Laying in his bed, Gibbs turned on his side and found himself face to face with Fraser. The dog was sleeping and snoring. That’s what he does most of his time. Fra was still depressed, but he didn’t let himself die anymore. He eats and drinks the bare minimum. He doesn’t play anymore though. He used to be a happy, playful and loving dog. Now he’s just laying around, waiting for you to come back.

Just like Gibbs.

They both lost weight. Gibbs didn’t even bother to look at himself in the mirror anymore. He hadn’t been to the hairdresser in a while. His hair was longer than it has never been, and his beard was prominent now. You would probably freak out if you saw him like this. You would order him to shave and get his marine haircut back. You would feed him - and Fraser - until they are full. He just wished you were here.

He reached for Fraser’s head and pet him for a moment. “The boat is done and I can’t even offer it to her.” He sadly whispered. It’s been his plan a long time before you were gone. Building a boat after and for you. Now it was your thirty-fifth birthday, the boat was fucking done but he coudn’t teach you how to operate it like he promised.

For the next two weeks, Gibbs would stay in the basement, and stare at the finished product. There was nothing left to do on it, so he just sat behind the wheel, files on his lap and bourdon in one hand. His use of alcohol has never been higher than it is now. You’d scold him if you knew.

Maybe he’s self-destructing, hoping you’d show up and make everything right again. It was stupid, since you didn’t leave on your own. You were taken. Someone took you, and god knows what they were doing to you. This awoke a rage he never knew he had. He’d kill that - or those - person with his bare hands if he ever has a chance.

A month after your birthday, Gibbs was basically falling asleep in his boat, relatively drunk. Fraser was on his lap - he doesn’t realise he’s not a puppy anymore - when the dog shot his head up. “Easy, that’s just Fornell.” Gibbs mumbled, recognizing his friend’s footsteps.

“My two favorite depressed boys.” Tobias greeted them. He gently patted Fraser’s head and looked at his friend. “I need you to sober up, Gibbs. We need to talk about something important.”

“Just say whatever you have to say. I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah, right.” Tobias grabbed the bottle from Gibbs’s hand and checked how empty it was. But Tobias knew only one thing would make him react, so he went straight to the point. “It’s about Y/N, Gibbs. Get your ass—“

Before the FBI agent could finish his sentence, Gibbs had practically thrown Fraser away. The poor dog looked at him with hurt in his eyes. It was only then that Gibbs saw the file his friend was holding against his chest. He didn’t think twice and tore it out of his grip. Tobias let him.

There wasn’t much in the file, just a picture.

A picture of you.

You looked different, thinner, your hair was shorter and in a completely different color. You looked like a homeless woman.

Gibbs’s jaw dropped. His head was spinning so fast, he needed to sit again. He touched the picture with his fingertips so softly, hoping it was like touching you. A lot of things were going through his mind at this moment, he actually drew a blank. “It was taken two days ago. In Wyoming.”

Gibbs didn’t need more.

Tobias had everything planned before he showed up at Gibbs’s place. One of the FBI private planes was waiting for them, in order to take them off to Wyoming. He had asked Emily if she could dogsit Fraser for a few days, and he even called Vance to let him know he was taking Gibbs with him.

In the plane, he told Gibbs how he came across this picture and all of the info he had, which wasn’t much to be honest. As far as they knew, you were in one city of Wyoming two days ago. Maybe you were gone by now.

But all Gibbs could focus on was that picture. He didn’t take his eyes off it since he opened the file. This was you. You were alive. Whatever happened, whatever the reasons you found yourself here, you were fucking alive.

Tobias looked at his friend. He’ll spend the rest of his life pretending he didn’t see the tear rolling down his cheek. “How you feeling?” He tentatively asked.

“I—I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“She’s alive. We know it. We’ll find her.”

“I’ve always known she was alive.”

No doubt he did.

It was hard for Tobias to tame Gibbs after they landed. The agent was already barking orders at everybody and anybody, he was ready to organize a fucking manhunt to find you. But the first place they went was where the picture was taken. Gibbs spent hours in the area, while Tobias went to see the local cops. When he tried to check on Gibbs, the man never answered.

In the picture, you were looking at the surveillance camera. You knew you were being watched. You did it on purpose, Gibbs was sure of it. You must have left a clue somewhere around.

You looked scared, someone must have been following you. But he knew from what Tobias said; there wasn’t much more on the video. You were briefly seen and then disappeared, again. “Talk to me, Y/N.” Gibbs thought to himself while looking around.

It was only around noon that it hit him. He finally saw it.

Right there on the graffiti wall.

“Born to lose, live to win.”

Your handwriting. This sentence. Your tattoo.

You must have written this to let him know he should look at this wall. So he did. He studied those graffitis for a long moment, until he saw what he needed to see.

Numbers. GPS coordinates.

He called McGee, not paying attention to the missed calls he had. He gave him the coordinates and Tim gave him an address.

Was that it? The nightmare was finally over? He would go to this address, find you and take you home. Finally.

Fucking finally.

He felt dizzy while running to the address. It wasn’t that far away, and there was no way he’d wait for Fornell or a cab. So, he jogged to this fucking house. When he was standing in front of it, his heart was beating so fast, he thought it would stop.

But he couldn’t die now. He would die after he found you but not now.

He didn’t care about procedures or anything. He grabbed his gun, and let himself in the house by knocking out the door. A man was sitting there, on the couch.

The house was pure filth. The man seemed to be a bit younger than him, and he looked like a psychopath. Which he is, considering he took you.

The man was standing in his living room, his hands up as Gibbs pointed the gun at him. In a flash, Gibbs was standing right in front of the man, the gun pressed against his throat. The man looked scared, he didn’t even try to fight. “What the hell, man? Who are you? What do—“

“Shut your mouth. Where is she?” Gibbs asked, suppressing the urge to beat the man to death right now. That would come later. He needed to find you first.

“Who? There’s no—“

Gibbs’s knee hit him right in his crotch and that bastard fell on the floor. “You’re living the final hour of your life, you better tell me where the hell is Y/N, before I watch life leaving your fucking eyes.”

“I—I—“

Seeing his hesitation, Gibbs punched him. “Where?!” He yelled, but the man stayed silent. “Fine.”

Gibbs grabbed the guy by his collar to put him back up. He was physically impressive, but the adrenaline running through Gibbs’s veins gave him incredible strength. He threw him on the first chair he saw and immediately cuffed him to it. He punched him once more, harder this time.

His nose and lips were bloody, but of course it wasn’t enough. Gibbs fought a lot in his life. To defend himself or to arrest someone, but never, had he been filled with that much rage and anger. He didn’t think twice before his boot hit the man directly in his face, knocking him unconscious. He stared as the man fell on the floor along with the chair he was cuffed to.

He needed to find you. Right now.

No need to be a federal agent to know a psychopath would hold you captive somewhere private.

So he immediately looked for a basement, which he quickly found and he saw the door.

A reinforced door with quite a few locks. Keys. He needed keys that he found in the man’s pocket. Although he was still laying on the floor, fighting to regain consciousness, Gibbs kicked him again, in the stomach this time. He wasn’t holding back his strength one bit. He will kill him anyway.

As he was unlocking the door, his hands were shaking like they never did before. His heart was still pounding in his chest. He still felt dizzy.

He was sure his heart actually stopped when he spotted you on the one-person bed. You were holding your knees against your chest. It was dark, but it was you. You were there, a few feet in front of him. He didn’t even know what to do.

But you did.

When you realised who was standing in front of you, you weakly jumped off the bed and rushed into his arms.

The only thing that kept you alive all this time; knowing that he would find you.

You felt even smaller than you already were. With your arms wrapped around his waist, your face buried in his chest, Gibbs felt you crying.

He slowly wrapped his arms around you, afraid it wasn’t real. Afraid he may hurt you. Afraid you would disappear again. “You found me.” he heard you whispering.

That he did.

[bookishofalder]

Saviours Coffee House [Prologue]

Summary: Negan hires a new manager.

Warnings: Language! We’re starting off tame, but get ready because future parts get dark. WC—+2.7k.

A/N: Even if you aren’t a The Walking Dead fan, you might like this story—it’s a coffee shop A/U, I really only take the characters from TWD!

Now

Your eyes were only on Negan as he stalked forward, his normally bright eyes dark with fury as he clenched the baseball bat in his hands. You’d never seen him so angry...you’d never seen anyone so angry. Apprehension coiled in your gut, your mind blank, a doe caught in the headlights. You knew you had to move, to stop him—but part of you almost didn’t want to.

It was the part of you that had been beaten and broken over and over screaming for it to end. Screaming for you to let it happen.

And fuck, you wanted to listen to her.

Maybe you would.

—

Way Back

Negan Dean was sat at his desk, staring at the computer monitor in front of him without really seeing it. His mind had wandered away from the shop's accounting, the task he needed to complete. He had reason to be distracted, though, as he was in desperate need of a new manager, and he had a few interviews lined up that afternoon.

He’d put off rehiring for too long, left the manager position open and simply worked himself to the bone, running the place and leading it. But it had been months.

He’d needed to keep busy, after Lucille...no, he wasn’t thinking of her today. He needed to get the accounts sorted, have some lunch, and then start the interviews.

That was today’s game plan, and he was sticking to it. The extra work had finally caught up to him, as he knew it would. He was ready to step back because he was fucking exhausted and wanted to focus on his role as the owner of the Saviours Coffee House, behind the scenes. He needed a full-time manager to run the floor, someone smart and competent and good with people.

Simon had been on his ass for a while now about it, but he’d resolutely ignored his long-time friend, too stubborn for his own good. He knew Simon was right. But it was going to be on his fucking orders that a new person joined the tea—his family—even if it meant he’d fallen asleep in his office some nights, slumped over his desk in pure exhaustion.

Negan finished his task and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back, before making his way out onto the loft that overlooked most of the shop below. He had a few couches up here, and a little kitchenette next to his office, the area acting as a staff room in many ways; customers could not come up. At the opposite end of the loft, a door led up to the next floor, which was Negan’s condo. He’d bought the entire three-storey after the recession, gutted the whole thing and, working with a crew of mostly friends who had various trade jobs, renovated it entirely.

Negan was proud of Saviours Coffee House, a dream that he hadn’t always had come to life in the walls of what used to be an old, relatively small, textile factory. Now situated in the heart of downtown, it was the perfect spot for an edgy, laid-back place to unwind, meet friends, go on dates. Hell, Negan loved looking down and seeing a customer stay the whole day as they worked, even if they only bought one coffee. As far as he was concerned, the moment you spent a dime in his place, you were a customer for the day. And that had been a hit with many of the locals and students from the nearby university. Open five-thirty in the morning till eleven-thirty in the evening, Saviours welcomed all. So long as you kept your feet off the fucking tables and minded your manners.

In his former life, Negan worked as a high-ranking guard at the nearby penitentiary. It was a minimum-security, well-funded place where non-violent criminals ended up. He’d loved his years there, but after getting stabbed for the second time (the first was when he was young enough that he’d bounced back almost instantly) he decided to retire.

He sunk all of his savings into this dream, and years later had a lot to show for it. He’d also met a lot of down on their luck men in his time as a guard, so after Saviours became successful, he started a hiring program for white-collar criminals who completed a local, not-for-profit reintegration program. He only kept two on at a time, and most moved on after saving up enough.

Currently at the bar was Dwight, who’d been with Negan the longest now, having started just over a year before after getting out from serving time for drug possession. If Negan was proud of anything, it was Dwight. He’d seen the man evolve from a quiet asshole who barely grunted when customers paid, to a friendly bartender who mixed both amazing lattes and delicious cocktails, even if he grumbled about it. He was a fixture here now as much as Negan—and probably more well-liked, but Negan didn’t care about being liked. As long as people were happy, he was just fine.

It was the post-lunch lull now, so Dwight was wiping up the counters and switching the signs around from daytime menus to evening. Maggie, who had been working at Saviours for about two years, was wiping down the tables while Fleetwood Mac played over the expensive Bluetooth stereo system. He’d asked Maggie if she wanted the job, but she’d only laughed before telling him plainly that she had no desire to work full time or see him that much. He’d figured as much, seeing as she was in university, but he had wanted her to know it was hers if she did want it—she’d earned it.

Dwight was happy where he was, and didn’t want to upset the balance in life he’d worked so hard for, which Negan respected. His newest employee, also a convict hire, wasn’t up to scruff to become the manager, as much as he liked Paul, or ‘Jesus’, as everyone called him. He was a nice kid, worked hard, but seemed content working three part-time jobs. That had left Rosita and Tara, both part-time and students, and then Carol, part-time and not interested as she worked as a volunteer at the Children’s Hospital and didn’t want to give that up.

Which left him where he was now, stomping up the steps to his place to have a quick lunch before back-to-back interviews of promising contenders for a job he wished like hell he didn’t need to fill.

+

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Negan slammed his hands onto the marble counter in frustration as Dwight watched him. He smirked as he tidied up the barista station.

“That bad, boss?” Dwight was shit at keeping the amusement off of his face. Negan scoffed, glancing behind him to ensure no customers were listening, but it was busy enough now with the after-class and work rush that the cacophony of voices and music allowed him to speak privately despite the location.

Negan held up one hand, holding his thumb and index finger a sliver apart. “I’ve got this much fucking patience left. Only one candidate wasn’t a god damned catfish and I didn’t like him,” He sighed, nodding gratefully when Dwight pointed to the espresso machine, knowing Negan needed his usual five o'clock pick-me-up. “I’ve got one last one; Daryl's friend. If she doesn’t fit, I’m going to have to beg Maggie—and you know she’ll love that too much to say yes.”

With a laugh, Dwight nodded in agreement, expertly moving about making Negan’s latte. “Carol seemed pretty sure you’d like her, said Daryl thinks of her like a little sister and when he heard you were looking for someone he was adamant she’d be perfect.”

Negan sighed, “Yeah, and I like Daryl so if this doesn’t work out and I have to start hating him I’m going to be real pissed off. Thanks, D.” He added when Dwight passed over the piping hot drink, still grinning at Negan’s displeasure.

Dwight dipped his head forward, eyes behind Negan, “I think that must be her, don’t recognize her and she’s dressed too nice for this place.” With that, he turned away and started loading dishes into one of the dishwashers. Negan turned, eyes scanning for the potential candidate, and he didn’t have to look far.

Because there you were, right out of a fucking dream.

Dwight had been right, you were dressed far too nicely for Saviours, but perfect for an interview (which instantly gave you points over a few of the previous interviewees). You were weaving by a few men who were standing at a high table and hadn’t yet noticed Negan, which allowed him to survey you.

The pretty green dress paired with a smart leather jacket and shiny kitten heels gave off an air of sophistication, accentuated your curves beautifully, and rendered his mind to mush for a brief moment. You wore your hair down, and it fell in elegant waves around your shoulders. Fuck, though, if you weren’t the prettiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

He thought Carol had mentioned you were in your mid-twenties, but you walked with more confidence about you than one usually saw in those formative years. Already impressed, Negan pushed himself away from the counter, stepped forward and smiled.

You looked around, his movement catching your eye, and returned the smile warmly as you approached. No doubt, you’d looked up their social media, seen pictures of Negan. Any smart candidate would do that, and Negan could already tell you were a clever girl. He called your name over the music, and you nodded, extending your hand

Negan took it into his and shook, enjoying how small your hand was compared to his. You were curvy and petite in the best ways, so much shorter than him but fully voluptuous, and you dressed like you knew you looked damn good, fuck whatever society said about beauty standards. “Mr. Dean, it’s great to meet you, sir.”

Negan grinned down at you, then pointed toward the staircase to your left, “Come on up, it’s quieter in the office.” And he led the way.

When he glanced back to make sure you were following, Negan saw you looking toward Dwight, giving him a friendly wave. He gave you a nod, a near smile, a pretty decent result from the house grump. He needed a manager who could get along with everyone, so right there was another point in your favour.

Closing the door brought the loudness of Saviours down to mere background noise, the evening crowds were always loud as shit. Negan loved it, the differences between the start and end of days, the energy. He gestured toward two armchairs he had, hating the process of sitting behind a desk to interview like he was some hot shot lawyer. He preferred the less intimidating, friendly way. It was just a coffee shop, after all.

A damn good one, though.

When you settled, Negan took his seat across from you, suddenly feeling a little distracted under the gaze of your bright eyes. “Well I’ll get straight to it; you come highly recommended by both Carol and Daryl. I won’t lie, I’m a pain in the ass to work for and I’m looking for someone who can handle hard work, long hours and most importantly, get along with my people. You really think that’s you?”

You were sitting with your back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in your lap. You looked entirely at ease, meeting Negan’s eyes straight on as he spoke. When he finished, you leaned forward almost imperceptibly, your response instant.

“I’m exactly what you’re looking for, sir. I love people and get along with everyone. Do you think I’m best friends with Daryl and don’t know how to deal with a pain in the ass?” At this, Negan smirked, “I’m hardworking, and I have no other major commitments, so full time and long hours will suit me just fine.” You had a lovely voice, which was probably why you’d stayed working at the sales call centre for years before now.

In your resume, Negan had noted the year gap in wor—you had stopped working for the call centre just over a year ago, though it was noted you were a freelance writer and kept income that way. But he found it curious that you’d been working since you were a teenager and yet hadn't worked a solid job in a year. And now that he’d met you, he could see you were the hardworking type. Carol hadn’t known why you’d been away from a job for so long, stating that Daryl knew but didn’t tell her. He had said it didn’t matter, and that was good enough for Negan.

“Well, I’ll admit, on paper you’re ideal, which is why I scheduled you last today. I wanted to have time to read you.”

“And,” You interjected, a small smirk on your lips, “You know that keeping someone waiting the whole day for an interview will shred their nerves and leave them more susceptible to letting their true colours out.”

Negan stared, surprised, “Can’t get much past you, eh?”

You shrugged, “It’s a good tactic. But I assure you, I’m just as competent in the evening as the morning, and I think if you give me a chance to prove myself, you’ll be very happy with hiring me, Mr. Dean. I want to work here, you have an amazing place. It’s a part of this community, and the reintegration program is something I respect greatly, I have no issues working with men hired from there.” You paused, adjusting yourself slightly, palms falling open on your legs, “And, I’ll be frank, I want a job that has long days, that’ll keep me busy and tire me out and let me build relationships with customers. When I found out you were hiring, I jumped on the chance for Daryl to have Carol put in a good word for me. It just seems...right, to work here.”

“What about your writing, do you still do that?” Negan watched your face closely, and it didn’t waver, instead, your smile widened.

“I can write anywhere, anytime. And I make my own schedule with whatever commissions I take on, so it’ll be easy to write on my days off, or breaks if I don’t have a day off,” You pointed at Negan’s phone, which he’d set on the wide arm of his chair, “I can also help with writing any social media or website content, I know Carol mentioned you wanted to expand that presence, and I’m comfortable with that sort of work.”

Negan considered you, letting a comfortable silence fall as he thought over your words. You did seem eager, excited, and the fact that you’d researched what he was looking for impressed him further. Breaking eye contact, he glanced down at your resume once more, though he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. If he was honest with himself, he was ready to hire you after the first two minutes.

“I like you,” He said, thrumming his hands on his knees, “When can you start?”

“In the morning? Or I can go home, have my dinner and come back dressed more appropriately for work, if you need me straight away, sir.”

Negan shook his head, both as a response and in an attempt to toss away the thoughts that stirred up in the back of his mind every time you called him ‘sir’. “Tomorrow morning is perfect. And since you work for me now, you can call me Negan, asshole, or shithead, no more ‘Mr. Dean’ or fucking, ‘sir’, okay?”

When you smiled at Negan, it was the most dazzling he’d seen yet, bright white teeth and sweet dimples making his heart stutter. Damn, you really affected him. He needed to get a gri—you were half his age, for Christ's sake.

“Thank you, Negan,” You stood, holding your hand out and grasping his when he offered, your head tilting back to look at him as he stood before you. “Really, I promise I’ll make you proud.”

“Kid, I don’t doubt it.” He replied softly, and for a moment you simply looked at one another. Negan wasn't sure if you felt it, but he did; it was a spark. Fleeting, but strong enough that he knew life was about to get interesting again.

Taglist: @mermaidxatxheart @paintballkid711 @ladydmalfoy 🤍

[love-and-monsters]

Fake Dating pt. 2

M Faerie X F human reader, 6,405 words

This is a part two to this story. Elwain and his human are safely in the human world, dealing with things far more mundane than an assassination attempt. Both of them are adjusting to the new life and to each other. Very fluffy, with some caretaking. I was in a very romantic mood while writing this and I think you can tell.

Content notes: mentions of parents trying to kill their child, descriptions of minor illness.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. Why do humans like this?”

You repressed a snicker. “You’re watching it.”

Elwain didn’t even look away from the screen to reply. “You put it on.”

“I just turned on the TV. You’re the one who started watching.” Elwain made a noncommittal noise. You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I can change the channel, if you want. There’s a documentary on that I wanted to-”

“No, this is fine,” Elwain said. He hopped onto the couch next to you and curled up. “Ugh. These people know that expensive doesn’t mean good, right?”

You covered your mouth with a hand. Elwain actually, legitimately enjoying trashy reality shows was by far the best thing you’d learned about his personality since you’d started living together. The worst thing was probably that he’d grown up with servants and had no comprehension of household chores. It had taken a few weeks to get him to put his food back in the refrigerator when he was done with it, and you weren’t sure he was ever going to get the hang of doing dishes. Still. He was getting better.

“You’re still going to need to vacuum later tonight,” you reminded him. Elwain groaned.

“I spent all day at work!” he said. “I should get a day off.”

“You only had a five hour shift today. I worked seven. Plus, I have school. You don’t get breaks on household chores. Doesn’t matter how much you worked, they still have to be done.” Elwain looked away sulkily. That was an expression you were getting uncomfortably familiar with. “And you’re not allowed to do magic for it, either.”

“What? Just because you can’t use magic, there is no reason for me to be forbidden!” Elwain said.

“Yeah, sure. You remember what happened last time you used magic to clean the apartment?” Bright pink spots appeared on Elwain’s cheeks. He glared down at the couch, expression screwed up in irritation.

“I fixed that.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. You fixed the apartment. What you’re never going to fix is my trauma from walking into my apartment and finding everything covered in spiders!”

“I apologized!”

“Look, the next time you decide to enchant a bunch of bugs into doing household chores, just. Don’t.”

Elwain huffed. “They weren’t even venomous to humans! All of you are so easily frightened. They weren’t going to hurt you.”

“I think the heart attack I had upon entering my own apartment could be considered as hurting me,” you muttered. Elwain looked sour, but didn’t respond, apparently returning to his TV show. Elwain’s adjustment to the human world had been… difficult. He had no real understanding of conventional social norms and obviously still expected everyone to treat him like a noble, despite working a minimum wage job at a fast-food restaurant. Not to mention that he seemed to have very loose morals when it came to enchanting mortals. As far as you were aware, he’d never done it to you, but he didn’t seem to have any sort of restraint when it came to anyone else. Before he’d gotten his job in customer service, he’d made all of his money by charming random people off the street into handing over their wallets.

Admittedly, his skills had come in handy. You didn’t feel particularly good about it, but he had charmed the landlord into giving you the apartment for significantly less than the going rate. In your defense, there hadn’t been many options. You couldn’t stay in your parent’s house with a Fae hanging around, and even with both of you working, there was no way to afford an apartment otherwise.

It did not help that Elwain apparently found your moral crisis very funny.

“You all live by such dumb rules all the time. If you really wanted, I could probably charm someone into giving us their house, or just letting us stay there.”

“That feels morally dubious,” you said.

“Ugh. You won’t let me steal anything, you won’t let me charm people into letting us use their things without stealing them, you won’t even let me charm people into handing some things over!” Elwain flopped across the couch. “So now we’re living in a garbage apartment and I have to work at a greasy food place where customers yell all the time and-”

“It’s a nice apartment, especially considering what we’re paying for it,” you interrupted. “And if you use magic too often, people might start figuring out that something weird is going on.”

“I doubt it. Mortals are stupid.” But Elwain didn’t protest, and went to his job as usual, and didn’t steal, which was more respect for your rules than you were worried he’d show. And, really, you were glad you’d instated the ‘no magic’ rule at large, given how unpredictable the results could be.

Elwain sprawled across the couch. He had a tendency to take up ridiculous amounts of space, pushing you to the edges of the couch to avoid contact. Eventually, you got up.

“Where are you going?” Elwain asked as you walked out of the room.

“I’m going to study for a bit before bed,” you called back. “Enjoy your show.”

He stared after you until your door clicked shut. Weird. He’d seemed almost annoyed about you leaving, even though it meant he could watch his shows for longer and you would stop bugging him about vacuuming. Whatever. He’d been acting weird recently, though. Maybe you should talk to him about it. He’d seemed fine for the first month or so after leaving his home and his parents trying to kill him, but maybe he was having some sort of delayed reaction.

You buried yourself in your textbooks for the next few hours, trying to get a solid start on one of your papers. The back of your mind seemed to be focused on the little noises in the apartment, though. Every sound of footsteps or things being moved pulled your attention back to the rest of the house. Eventually, you heard the sound of the vacuum running for a while before Elwain headed into his room.

He never went back into the main area of your apartment and, buried in work, you were soon thoroughly distracted. Gradually, as you worked, your mind grew less and less focused until you were face down in your books, dead asleep.

“Wake up!”

You bolted upright. There was a piece of paper sticking to your cheek from a stream of drool. You hurriedly pulled it off. “What? What’s going on?” You blinked, focusing on Elwain’s fine face in front of you. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Your alarm was going off. I can’t believe you didn’t hear it. It woke me up.” Sure enough, your phone, which was still sitting across the room from you, on its charger, was ringing furiously. You weren’t surprised that you hadn’t noticed it, though. Your head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

“Oh. Sorry.” You rose a little unsteadily and turned the alarm off. “Thanks for waking me. Probably would have slept right through it if you hadn’t.”

“Uh huh,” Elwain said. “Did someone curse you?”

You blinked at him. He seemed dead serious. “Uh, no. I doubt it. Unless you know something I don’t.”

“If you’re asking about my parents, I would assume they are no longer concerned about me,” Elwain said. His voice was clipped, like it always was when he talked about his parents. “I don’t think they would bother to curse a mortal. If they had the means to lay a curse on someone, it would be far easier and more effective to just curse me.” He paused. “I was only asking because you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“You do. Why didn’t you sleep in your actual bed last night?” he asked.

“Because I fell asleep at my desk by accident. Are you going to stand here and just insult me or-” You broke off into a round of thick, hacking coughs. Elwain took a step back, alarm crossing his face.

“What is happening to you?” He lifted his arms in front of him, like he was trying to ward off some kind of evil spirit.

“It’s a cough,” you said. “Have you never seen a cough before?”

Elwain lowered his arms, still looking at me like he thought you would start convulsing at any moment. “Fae don’t do that.”

“They don’t cough?” You rubbed at your chest. A significant amount of phlegm had settled there. God, your body really had to pick the worst time to get sick.

“Not like that,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sick,” you told him.

He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of that. A mortal thing. Your forms are weak, so you occasionally fall ill. It is a sign of your small, failing lifespans.”

You considered correcting him, but decided that you had better ways to spend your morning than trying to explain germ theory to a Faerie. “Yeah. Sure. Well. I’m sick. So that’s why I’m coughing. It’s just a cold. I’ll be fine.”

Elwain narrowed his eyes. “Hmph. Well. I have work. Don’t die while I’m out.”

“I’m not in any danger of dying,” you told him. “Go head to work. Have fun.”

“That’s unlikely,” he muttered, but he left your room without protest. You closed your door after him and set about getting ready for your day.

The cold had settled into your head and chest and you could tell it was going to be bad already, even before it had come on fully. God. You could not afford to get sick.

Elwain was eating breakfast when you shuffled into the kitchen. You’d needed to absolutely cake your face in makeup to look presentable, and you saw his brows rise as he looked at you. Fortunately, the Fae at least knew how to keep their mouths shut. He just looked back at the frozen waffles he was toasting.

You snagged a granola bar and headed for the door. “Have a good day at work!” you called over your shoulder. Elwain grunted in response. The door swung shut behind you.

Work was exhausting, as per usual. It was better than Elwain’s job by a long shot, since you were working in a local candy store run by a sweet older couple, but between keeping an eye on any batches of candy being produced, sorting out customers, and having to deal with the requisite child-throwing-a-fit-for-not-getting-sweets, it was tiring. Trying to look bright and perky while being weighted down with a cold was awful.

As soon as work was off, you had class. Dragging yourself through it was a slow, painful slog. By the end, your head was fuzzy and you felt dead on your feet. Slowly, you hauled yourself on the bus and fell asleep.

Naturally, you missed your stop.

About an hour after you were supposed to be home, you dragged yourself in through the door. Elwain practically slammed into you. His hands clapped on either side of his face and he peered intently at you. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you! I thought you were dead!”

You pushed him off you and bent to one side to cough heavily until you were nearly sagging to the floor. Elwain stared at you. “Sorry,” you rasped when you’d stopped. “I fell asleep. And then my phone was on low battery and I wanted to make sure I had enough battery to use my GPS to get home.”

“You couldn’t have texted me?” Elwain drew himself up, hands on his hips. The entire situation reminded you, ridiculously, of your mom when you came home after a night out. “I was worried! I didn’t know where you were, and mortals are so ridiculously fragile-”

“Aw, you’d have been fine,” you said. “If anything, you’d be able to do more without my stupid mortal morals.”

Elwain’s expression went strange for a moment. “Are you feeling well? You seem… off.”

“I’m not feeling well. I’d like to lie down, actually.” You coughed again. “That okay with you?” Elwain was still frowning, but he stepped aside, allowing you down the hall and into your room.

You went down into your bed face-first. Almost as soon as you hit the pillows, your mind faded into sleep. Sleep came to you in fitful waves. You kept waking, coughing, rolling over and falling asleep again. When your alarm pulled you back to full consciousness, you felt thoroughly awful. The cold had settled firmly into your chest and head, gumming everything up. Your chest rasped every time you breathed in, prompting heavy coughing fits, you shivered even when you were wrapped in blankets, and your head felt full, achy, and cloudy.

The cold had apparently decided to upgrade to a full-blown illness. Slowly, you shoved yourself upright. It was hard to breathe through your nose and your mouth. Your throat stung with every inhale. Every cell of your body just wanted to pop some of the cold medicine that made you sleep and hopefully you’d wake up when it was all over.

Just as you were standing up, someone knocked on your door.

Well, you knew who. There was only one person who it could be. Grimacing, you walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Elwain. What?”

He stared at you. “I was- are you okay?”

“I’m sick. You remember the discussion was had yesterday?” you said. “Anyway. You needed something?”

Elwain looked you over. You hadn’t looking into a mirror, but given his expression, you probably looked terrible. He seemed to think you were five seconds from crumbling into a pile of ash, like a vampire exposed to sunlight. “Do I need to call 911?” he asked.

“Uh, no. It’s a cold. I don’t need an ambulance. I need to sleep for a while. Why are you knocking on my door?” you asked. Elwain’s mouth moved wordlessly. Whatever he had wanted to talk to you about, it seemed to have been completely derailed.

“I… er.” Elwain’s gaze flicked over you again. “Well. I wanted to see how you were doing. You went to bed right after you got home last night and I never saw you again. And you seem to be doing… poorly.”

“Yeah. I’m not doing great. I really just want to go back to bed.” You rubbed your hand over your head. “I feel like shit.”

Elwain hesitated. “Do you need me to do something?”

“Just go about your day. I’ll try to keep my gross self out of your way.” You slouched across your room to your bed. “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to try to get a little more sleep.”

Elwain lingered in the doorway for a few moments longer. Finally, he turned and headed into the kitchen. The door remained open behind him, and you couldn’t be bothered to get up and close it again. Instead, you buried your head in your pillow. Sleep claimed you again within moments.

Less than an hour later, your alarm went off again. You slapped at it balefully until it shut off. Somehow, it felt like you gotten negative sleep, like sleeping had made you even more tired. Slowly, painfully, you pushed yourself upright. Shivers wracked your frame. How had sleep made everything worse?

You threw on the first clothes that you could get your hands on and shuffled into the kitchen. Elwain looked up from his breakfast. His mouth opened slightly. “Good lord. Maybe you have been cursed.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “I don’t look that bad.” You did, but you’d slathered enough makeup on your face to cover most of it. Then again, maybe that wasn’t enough to hide from Fae eyes.

“You look like a walking corpse,” Elwain said. You collapsed in the seat next to him and coughed into your fist. The force of the motion made your head throb. Elwain curled his lips back from his teeth in a grimace. “Are you certain you don’t need me to call 911?”

“No. It’s a cold. I’m-” You dissolved into a fit of coughing so severe it was difficult to catch your breath. Elwain stared at you, eyes wide. “I’m fine,” you croaked.

Elwain narrowed his eyes, but returned to his phone. You didn’t know where he’d gotten it from, because he certainly hadn’t purchased it, but you’d decided you weren’t going to ask. You ate slowly, mostly because your stomach felt tender, and you couldn’t finish even half of your normal portion. After a while of picking at your food, you dumped your dishes in the sink and started gathering your items to head out.

“Where are you going?” You startled. Elwain had appeared at your shoulder, completely silent. You might have chalked up not noticing him to your cold-dulled senses, but he could sneak up on you no matter how well you were feeling.

“Work,” you said.

Elwain looked back down at his phone. “You are not supposed to leave the house if you’re sick.”

“It’s a cold. I’ll be fine,” you said.

Elwain kept looking at his phone. “If you are sick, you are supposed to stay home, both so you can avoid infecting others and so you can recover.”

“Are you reading that off a website? Where are you reading that from?” You tried to grab his phone, but he gracefully slipped out of your reach.

“I searched about human illnesses on the internet,” he said. “Your symptoms are consistent with the common cold, but they are also consistent with pneumonia. It says you should sleep and drink water until you are recovered.”

“Look,” you said. “I’m fine. It’s a cold. I’ve had them before. I will have them after this one. I know how to handle them. I’ll pop some cold medicine and I’ll be fine.” Elwain stared at you. His expression was hard to read. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll live.” You sniffed and blotted at your face with a tissue. “I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you later.”

You swept out the door, giving Elwain a wave. He stared after you, not moving until you slammed the door shut.

It was a long, slow, awful day. You could barely keep your head together. By the time you got home, your limbs were heavy with exhaustion and your mind was swimming.

You dragged yourself through the door. Your body felt like you were wrapped in a massive, thick blanket. Everything was warm and it was hard to move, like everything was stiff.

Elwain stared at you as you pulled yourself into the kitchen. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Fine,” you mumbled. “’m fine.” You slouched over the counter and leaned against it. Elwain stood, stepping closer to you. “I’m good. I… I’m good. Just… Tired. Tired. Need to nap.”

“Perhaps you should nap in your room,” Elwain said. “Not on the counter.”

“I’m fine here.” Your words were getting mushy. Why weren’t your lips moving correctly? “I’m good. I just, um. Need. Something…”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Here, hold onto me. I’ll-” Elwian’s hands were on your waist, on your back. You felt boneless, mushy. Your limbs weren’t moving the way you wanted them to. The only thing you could feel were Elwain’s hands supporting you. Was he carrying you? Maybe. You felt like you were floating. Your head was disconnected from your body, floating. Someone was speaking to you from far away, a soothing voice. It was so soothing. Maybe you could just sleep for a bit. Just sleep. It would be nice to just sleep.

Dimly, you came back to yourself. You blinked your eyes open. The ceiling was unfamiliar, at least as ceilings went. Not that you were familiar with many ceilings, really. Looking down at yourself revealed why the ceiling was so unfamiliar. The bed was covered in heavy, dark blue sheets. Elwain’s sheets. You were in his bed.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright. You still felt bad, but less bad than you had been feeling. A raking cough escaped your chest, thick with phlegm.

“You’re up!” Elwain appeared in the doorway. He looked… frazzled? You weren’t sure the Fae could look as frazzled and unkempt as a human could, but he didn’t look as ethereally beautiful as he usually did. He looked sort of ruffled. “I was considering dragging you to the hospital, but the internet said that maybe ginger tea would actually be better, so I got you some of that.” He indicated the cup in his hands.

“You have got to stop getting all your information from the internet. Or at least I need to give you a media literacy course on identifying good sources,” you croaked. Your voice sounded bad, but it no longer hurt to speak. It just felt uncomfortable.

Elwain gave you a bewildered look and held the cup out toward you. “Drink it.” You took it obligingly and took a sip. Elwain must have dumped half a bottle of honey in it, because it was so sweet you almost couldn’t taste the ginger. You swallowed it carefully.

“Thank you,” you said when you’d finished the cup. “What, uh. What exactly happened to me?”

Elwain sat on the end of your bed. He was wearing his old cloak, the one he’d taken with him when he’d fled from Faerie. He tucked it tighter around him, fingers fidgeting at the hem. “I was hoping you could inform me of that, actually. I was quite frightened when you collapsed like that.”

“Oh, yeah,” you said. Vaguely, you remembered passing out. “How long was I out?”

Elwain glanced at the clock. “Mn. Less than an hour? You were in and out for the first ten minutes, mumbling a lot.” You had vague memories of Elwain leaning over you, expression panicked. Must have been from then. “Once I got you into bed, you fell asleep. I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or not.”

“It is,” you said. “Probably a good idea to let me sleep. Though if I ever do collapse again, please call 911.” You considered. “Well, I guess don’t call 911 unless I’m actually dying. I can’t afford the ambulance.”

Elwain nodded, even though he looked politely confused. “Is your illness getting worse?”

“Maybe,” you said. “It’s hard to tell. I think I have a fever now, so that sucks.”

With absolutely no warning, Elwain leaned forward. His face was abruptly so close to yours, close enough to feel his cool breath tickling your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Suddenly the only thoughts in your head had to do with his lips pressing to yours, his cool mouth meandering along your skin-

His forehead touched yours. His eyes closed, a little furrow appearing in his brow. “You’re warm,” he said. “Very warm.” He sat back.

You blinked. “Uh. You can do that with your hand, you know.”

“Oh? I saw the forehead one on the internet,” Elwain said, but he reached up and cradled your face in his hands. With a soft, delicate touch, the back of his hand brushed against your forehead and down your cheek. The touch made something in your chest tighten and your breath catch. “You still feel warm.”

You moved your mouth, trying to get your brain back in gear. “Uh, yeah. Fever! That’s, uh. Bad. I need, um. You remember that pill bottle in the bathroom I showed you? The one with the little red pills?” Elwain nodded. “Get those and a glass of water. They’ll bring the fever down.”

Elwain vanished for a moment and returned with a tall glass water and the bottle of pills. He watched as you downed them and sank back into bed. His sheets were softer than yours, his bed even more luxuriously plush. You weren’t sure where he’d gotten the sheets from, or if maybe they were the sheets you’d bought him, just augmented with magic. “Why did you put me in your bed, anyway?” you asked. “My bed’s not that much further away.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on you,” Elwain said. “And you do not like me coming in your room.”

“I don’t like you just walking into my room whenever you feel like it, but you can come into my room,” you said. But you were pretty glad he’d put you in his bed. Everything in his room smelled faintly floral and herbal, a smell that relaxed you. Everything was cozy.

“I am not familiar with how to deal with sick mortals,” Elwain said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No. I just need to rest.” You paused, looking toward the window. “I should probably head back to my own room, actually. You’ll probably want to sleep here tonight, right?”

Elwain shook his head. “Stay. You need to rest. I will sleep elsewhere.” He swept out of the room, cloak fluttering behind him. You stared after him for a moment before sinking back into bed. Despite just waking up, your head was already muddy again. Maybe Elwain had gotten you the pills with the sleeping medicine in them. Your eyes closed. Within moments, you were drifting away, fast asleep.

You dreamed of strange things, of hands on your face, cupping your cheek, of soft lips pressed to your neck, of kind eyes and strong arms carrying you around. When you opened your eyes to see the same kind eyes staring down at you, you were half-convinced you were still dreaming.

“Hello,” Elwain said. “You have been asleep for a while.”

You blinked. Your body did have that foggy heaviness that came when you’d been sleeping deeply. Even your discomfort from the illness seemed far away and dim. “Elwain.”

“Yes. I’m right here.” He said it more gently than a simple statement of fact, almost like a reassurance.

“How long was I out?” There was bright sunlight streaming in through the window and across the bed. You lifted a hand to clumsily shield your eyes.

“Over twelve hours. I thought you should probably sleep. That’s what the internet said.”

“Oh, man, we are going to need to get you some better resources than just ‘the internet,’” you said. “But you were right. Thanks for letting me sleep.” Slowly, you shoved yourself up into a sitting position. “What’s that?”

Elwain held a bowl out to you. “I was told that soup was good for mortal illnesses.”

You took the bowl of vegetable broth. Elwain’s cooking was usually pretty hit or miss- he could follow recipes just fine, but he also had a habit of deciding that he had a better idea than the recipe and going completely off the rails. The soup just seemed to be broth, though. You took a cautious sip. It was watery, but tolerable.

“Are you feeling better?” Elwain asked. You nodded, glancing over at the clock.

“It’s past nine,” you noticed. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I called in sick. I wanted to stay home to make sure you were all right.” Elwain looked completely serious.

“It’s just a cold. I’m fine.”

Elwain’s eyes narrowed. “You collapsed.”

“Well, yeah, but…” You trailed off. There wasn’t much you could say in response to that. “Fine. But if you get fired for this, I’m going to be pissed.”

“I will not be fired. My boss loves me.” Elwain gave a superior little sniff, nose stuck up in the air. You laughed into your bowl of broth.

When you were finished, Elwain took your bowl back into the kitchen, returning only a few moments later. “Do you need anything else?”

“I think I’m okay,” you said. “You really didn’t have to stay home to take care of me. There’s not going to be a lot to do. I think I’m mostly going to sleep.”

“Regardless. I think it is better to be safe.” Elwain looked at you from the doorway for a moment longer. “I need you.”

He left the doorway. You could hear his footsteps retreating into your apartment, perfectly steady, like what he said hadn’t made your chest tighten intensely. You sank back into his bed. His scent wreathed around you, gentle and reassuring. Oh, god. Warm feelings were fluttering up in your stomach, swelling through chest and trembling in your lungs. Worse than that, they felt familiar. How long had these feelings been lingering in the background of your mind? And now they had surfaced and you didn’t know what to do with them. Naturally, you would have some kind of emotional crisis when you were sick.

You faded in and out of dreams where Elwain’s scent wreathed around you and his gentle hands stroked your forehead and cheeks. You woke up feeling oddly melancholy.

The sounds of the TV drifted through the open door. Shaking some feeling back into your heavy limbs, you hauled a blanket over your shoulders and headed into the living room.

Elwain was draped over the couch, staring at the TV. There was some soap opera on with a woman and a man hysterically throwing themselves at each other. Elwain looked up as you padded into the room. “Is it okay for you to be out of bed?” he asked.

“Yeah. I feel better, actually.” The sleep had helped quite a bit. You still felt foggy, but the pain in your head and chest had faded. Elwain sat up, drawing his limbs in closer to himself so you could sit next to him.

“You look less… corpse-like,” he said. Before you realized what he was doing, he took hold of your face in both hands and pulled you closer to him. “You are still warm.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m getting better.” You reached up and carefully pried his fingers off your face. You were overly aware of how your fingers lingered together. “How’s your day off going?”

“Human TV is still strange,” Elwain said, turning back toward the screen. “I can’t imagine any humans really behave like this. I have never seen it.”

“No, it’s a soap opera. It’s supposed to be deliberately over-the-top and crazy. That’s why they’re fun to watch.” Elwain rolled his eyes, but there was amusement in his expression.

“Is there anything you want to watch?” he asked.

“No, this is fine.” You settled into the soft cushions, staring at the TV. As much as you were looking in the direction of the TV, most of your attention was focused on Elwain. His gaze kept flicking toward you, as if he was unable to focus on the show either. After a moment, he reached out toward you.

One of his hands settled on your head, the other on your shoulder. Before you realized what had happened, he pushed you so your head was resting in his lap. You stared up at him as he, apparently unconcerned, started weaving his fingers through your hair.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“You did this for me when I first came here,” Elwain said. “It was soothing. I thought you might like it as well.” He paused. “Was I incorrect?”

You considered for a moment. His fingers were still carding through your hair, twining strands around his fingers. “No. I don’t mind.”

Elwain continued to stroke your hair. His nails scratched lightly at your scalp. The feeling of being touched made something tremulous swell in your chest. It was a pleasant feeling, but one so sharp and overwhelming that it almost made you cry.

You lay with Elwain for a while, his hands absently playing with your hair and trailing along your head and neck. He seemed to be paying far more attention to you than to the TV. “You should take better care of yourself,” he said, stroking your bangs back from your forehead. “If you were to die, I would be alone in the mortal world.”

“You’d manage,” you said.

“Perhaps.” Elwain removed his hands from your hair and hesitated for a moment. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Then he sighed. “But I would prefer it if you were with me.”

You looked up at him. He was staring deliberately to one side. There was a faint pinkish color to his cheeks and his eyes were narrowed. “You could have left, once our deal was up. I only asked you to stay with me for the night. And yet, you helped me. There was no reason to. I no longer have my connections or any particular Faerie skills. Even the few powers that remain with me, you don’t like me using. You have gained nothing from this deal and you help me regardless.”

“Of course, I did.” Thinking about that night only brought one image to your mind. Elwain, who had nearly been killed by his own parents, looking lost and confused and abandoned. He had been cocky before, but in that moment, he had just looked forlorn and upset. He had just looked scared. “I wasn’t going to just leave you on your own.”

“You could have,” Elwain pressed on. “Easily, you could have. You could have justified it, even by mortal morals. There’s not a lot here that could kill me. As you have pointed out, I would be fairly fine on my own. But you stayed with me regardless, for no other reason than just helping me.”

“You’d just almost been assassinated. I couldn’t leave you,” you said.

“You could have. But you didn’t. And, at least so far, you have asked for nothing from me in return. To be quite honest, you’ve been almost annoying with how little you allow me to do.”

“I try,” you said. Elwain snorted. It was an inelegant noise, but somehow also incredibly attractive. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m trying to explain to you that I care about you. I want you to be well and safe and healthy because you saved me and you didn’t have to and I appreciate it.” Elwain’s cheeks flamed red. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

You reached up slowly and let your hand cradle the side of his face. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing. “It’s strange. I’m not used to this,” he said. “My parents loved me as far as they could use me. It’s how Faeries are. But you have used me for nothing, gained precious little advantage from having a Faerie living with you. And I wasn’t used to it. I still think I’m not used to it. But I am so… so… happy. For this. For you.” He blinked his eyes open. They were hazy with emotion. “Thank you.”

It was an impulse maybe you could have resisted if you were feeling better, but you were overwhelmed with feeling and not in the mood to fight with yourself. The hand on his cheek shifted position toward the back of his neck and pulled him down on top of you. His mouth pressed into yours, tense and unyielding, then softening as he realized what was happening.

There was a moment of fumbling, while Elwain registered that you were kissing. You broke away from his mouth, but he was pressing into you again, pulling you close to him and meeting your lips over and over with his own. His tongue brushed your lower lip and his moan sounded against your mouth.

You weren’t aware of how it happened, but suddenly you were lying back on the couch with Elwain on top of you. He was kissing you furiously, his hips flush to yours. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him as close to you as you could get.

One of your gasping breaths caught in your chest, triggering a coughing fit. You rolled over, trying not to cough right into Elwain’s face. He sat back. His lips were already slightly kiss-swollen and he looked a bit rumpled. “Right,” he said, trying to finger-comb his hair back into a presentable state. “You’re still not feeling well.”

“Hold on. Give me a minute, we can keep going,” you said between coughs. Elwain pressed his lips together, but they were twitching toward a smile.

“You are admirably determined, but I think it would be better for you to rest,” he said. There was a pause. Elwain tugged on a few of the longer strands of his hair. “I take that to mean you feel the same way?”

“That I like you? Yeah.” You pulled him down so he was laying across your chest. He looked at you, eyes surprisingly wide and innocent. “When I first met you, I thought you were kind of an asshole. And you are kind of an asshole. But you’re also charming and endearing and you try to follow my rules even when you totally don’t have to. And you’re willing to take care of me when I’m sick.”

“You took care of me when I had lost everything,” Elwain said. “I only wished to return the favor.” His fingers wandered over your stomach, tracing absent patterns on your shirt. You could feel his warmth against your skin. “Usually, that’s how it works, with Faeries. Favors are given because giving means you can get something in return, and you’re always trying to leverage the deal to get more than what you’re giving.” He closed his eyes for a moment, brows furrowing. “But when I saw you were sick, I wasn’t thinking that I needed to pay you back. I was only thinking that I wanted to help you.”

You stroked your fingers through his hair. “That’s what love is.”

“Mortal love,” he sighed. “I always thought it was flimsy and weak and short-lived.” His eyes opened again and he nestled into you. “It’s much stronger than I thought. So much more than I believed. It almost hurts, but it’s a good hurt.”

You started coughing again. Elwain swung himself up and gathered you into his arms. “I’ll take you back to bed,” he said. “You need to get better. I want to continue this.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. You rested your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes. His heartbeat thudded against you, slow and steady. The feeling of him holding you swelled and ached inside you, a pleasant ache. You clung to him as he eased you into bed and settled in next to you. Your illness was all but forgotten. Everything was soft and pleasant under a heady wave of love.

[helloalycia]

worth the wait [two] // daisy johnson

summary: same as the first chapter – it was too long to post in one so this is the remainder of it!

part one | part three | part four | part five | part six | masterlist | wattpad

"What do you think?"

I raised an eyebrow as I poked my head inside the van, glancing around at the cramped space that had stupidly been turned into a living space. There was also, weirdly enough, a computer in the corner which made absolutely no sense.

"I think I have no idea what I'm looking at," I admitted, before looking to an excited Skye beside me. "What is this?"

She bit her lip to contain her grin as she patted the van's door proudly. "This is my new rig."

I almost laughed. "You're kidding."

Her smile lessened. "I'm not."

Now I definitely laughed. "Skye, c'mon, be serious. Whose van is this?"

Her smile disappeared as she clenched her jaw with annoyance. "It's mine. Sorry it isn't fancy enough for you, your majesty."

When I realised she was serious, I lost my smile and looked between the van and her. "Skye, where the hell did you get a van? You can't even drive!"

Clearly holding in her anger, she began to push past me and slide the doors shut. "He said you wouldn't get it," she mumbled to herself, but I heard.

"He?" I questioned with raised eyebrows. "Who the hell is he?"

"Miles," she snapped, stopping moving and looking to me. "Miles is the one who got me the van. He said it was a bad idea to show you and clearly he was right, Y/N. You took one look at it and laughed. He was right."

I smiled tightly, trying not to get worked up at the mention of Skye's new friend. She'd befriended this 'Miles' guy within the past few months and wouldn't stop meeting with him and his friends. He was in the grade above us, but just like her, he'd skip class and do God knows what.

Ever since she'd been hanging around them, she'd been standoffish and distant. She wouldn't contact me as much when she ran away, and she'd been skipping school more often than usual. They were clearly a bad influence on her, but she reassured me she was in control of her own life and knew what she was doing. Being the idiot I am, I fell for her pretty smile and convincing eyes, but this was getting too far now.

"No offence, Skye, but I wouldn't start listening to a guy who can't even make it to class on time," I said to her with a hint of annoyance. "Why do you need a van anyway?"

"Why not?" she countered with her arms crossed. "I thought you'd be happy that I'm finally taking responsibility. Growing up."

My expression softened. "I've never once said that you had to do either of those things."

"You don't need to say it," she mumbled, looking down at her shoes with a frown. "I know you think it. Everyone does."

I stepped forward, resting a hand on her shoulder and finding her eyes with mine. "Where is this coming from? Skye, I have never thought that. All I've ever wanted for you is to be safe and happy. I'm just worried."

She shrugged me off. "Well, now you don't need to be. I've got this."

"You're seventeen, you should be in school studying, not staying in a van," I said tiredly. "You've been missing so much. How are you gonna graduate?"

She avoided my eyes. "That's another thing... I've been thinking and, well, I don't think I want that."

I widened my eyes with disbelief. "What?"

Still avoiding my eyes, she continued, "I don't think I want to graduate."

I was too surprised to find words so quickly. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"How can you not want to graduate?!" I asked suddenly, finding my words. "It's what you do! It's what we all do!"

She met my eyes with apologetic ones. "It's what you do, Y/N. I don't want to be at a place that makes me feel like shit. I can't keep pretending I fit in when I don't."

"This isn't you," I told her sternly. "We were supposed to graduate together. You're not stupid, Skye. I can help you study. You can't just give up."

"I'm not," she said with certainty. "I finally know what I'm doing. That's all."

I squeezed my fists together to contain my frustration. "And what's that?"

"The Rising Tide–"

"For fuck's sake!" I cut her off, before hitting the van door with frustration.

"Miles has taught me a lot!" she defended. "They do a lot of good, Y/N! I just want to be apart of something bigger. Something that can help me help others. And something that can help me find my family. My real family."

I clenched my jaw, knowing I was too late in convincing her otherwise. Whatever Miles and the others had told her about their stupid hacking group had worked – she was dropping out of high school and there was nothing I could do to stop her.

"You're gonna be going to university and we both know I can't afford it," she said gently. "We couldn't stay together forever, Y/N. And my foster family definitely don't care what happens to me. I don't fit in anywhere."

I looked to her with glassy eyes. "You fit in with me. You always have."

She pursed her lips as she stayed quiet.

"I'm sorry I didn't make that clear enough," I added bitterly.

"That's not it and you know it," she muttered, shaking her head. "I have to do this. I have to figure myself out. Alone."

I felt stupid for letting her do everything she did leading up to this point. If I had just tried a little harder, maybe things could have been different.

"You're not alone though, are you?" I asked rhetorically. "You've got your new pals at the Rising Tide. It's their damn fault you're doing all this."

"They're not as bad as you think!"

"You've changed because of them!" I argued back. "They created a barrier between you and I. It's because of them that you've... that you've..."

"What?" she snapped, glaring at me. "That I'm finally thinking for myself?!"

I swallowed the lump in my throat and straightened up. "Forget it, just– forget it. I've got a midterm to study for."

She snickered harshly. "Of course. Don't want me slowing you down."

I stayed quiet and turned around to leave. I couldn't see past my anger as I left her with her stupid van. 

Of course, the two of us had been friends for a lot longer than that silly argument, so I was quick to realise how much I actually cared about her and her life, and wanted to apologise for how harsh and unsupportive I sounded.

The next day after school, I decided to head over to her foster family's place to hopefully talk to her. I'd had enough time to think about it and knew I was a lot more levelheaded now that I'd had some space.

I knocked on the front door and waited before an older blonde woman answered. I recognised her as Skye's foster mum, Sally.

"Hi, Mrs Collins," I greeted with a smile. "I'm looking for–”

"Mary doesn't live here anymore," Sally cut me off instantly, surprising me.

I had almost forgotten that Skye's foster family knew her as the name she was given by her orphanage – Mary Sue Poots.

"She doesn't?" I asked with confusion. "But I thought–"

"Goodbye, Miss Y/L/N," Sally interrupted, before slamming the door in my face.

I blinked with confusion before turning around and walking down the steps. It had been a while since I last visited Skye at home. In fact, she made sure I never visited her at home. I guess now I knew why. But then where the hell was she living?

As I walked around the neighbourhood trying to think about where Skye could be, I saw a familiar van parked up on the side of the street and put the pieces together.

Guiltily, I approached the van and sucked up a deep breath before knocking on the side. It didn't take long for the door to slide open and reveal Skye herself.

"Hey," I said quietly, noticing her surprised expression. "Can we talk?"

She licked her lips nervously and nodded, before moving to the side to let me in. I climbed inside and watched as she shut the door before settling on the seat in front of me. I looked around and realised the little details I hadn't noticed yesterday. The little things that made this place Skye's and nobody else's.

"I'd offer you a drink, but I don't have any," she joked to lighten the mood, and I couldn't help but crack a small smile.

I breathed out before meeting her eyes. "Skye, I'm really sorry about yesterday. I shouldn't have reacted like that. If I had known that this was your home, I–"

"You didn't know," she said, shaking her head with embarrassment. "I didn't want you to know. It's my fault."

I pursed my lips, watching as she looked away with pink cheeks. It hurt me to know that she was embarrassed when I didn't care about any of this, I just cared about her.

"I want you to know that I respect your decision to join the Rising Tide," I said gently, making her look up. "If it's what you want, you should go for it."

"It is," she said with certainty.

I chewed on the inside of my mouth before asking, "Is there no way you can finish high school though? Graduate with me?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to, Y/N."

"But that's the bare minimum," I pleaded. "Hacking isn't a lifestyle. You need to work, too, and I can promise you that most places won't look to hire a high school dropout."

She leaned back in her seat and shrugged nervously. "Miles isn't graduating either. And he's got some friends who haven't graduated. They're all doing fine."

I looked down and pinched the bridge of my nose to contain my frustration. I promised myself I wouldn't argue with her, but the mention of her other friends was like a trigger.

"What now?" she asked with annoyance, realising I was annoyed. "You clearly have something to say about them."

"It doesn't matter," I said, biting my tongue.

"Sure it doesn't," she played along.

"It doesn't," I agreed.

"Yeah, and the Hulk isn't bright green," she said sarcastically.

I looked up and glared at her. She stared back challengingly, practically daring me to speak. So, I did.

"Your new hacker friends are the reason you're making these choices," I told her straight. "They're the reason you're making a huge mistake. The reason you're dropping out. And for what? So you can hack like them?"

She rolled her eyes. "I know you look down on us, but we're more than that."

"Skye, I don't give a shit about them!" I shouted without meaning to. "I only care about you!"

"Then stop talking crap about my friends!" she returned angrily.

"Why do you care about them so much?!"

"They gave me a place to stay when I had nowhere! They made me feel like I belonged!"

I frowned, anger replacing with hurt. "I always offered you a place to stay. I only ever wanted you to be safe. You never needed to be different with me. You belonged. Always."

She swallowed hard and looked away from me ashamedly. "Well it doesn't matter anymore. I'm leaving."

I breathed out deeply. "School? Our town? Leaving what?"

"All of it," she said quietly. "I don't expect you to understand."

I looked down to my fumbling hands, a tear slipping from my eye. I had never felt so angry at someone before in my life. She was treating me like I was a stranger, as if I wasn't somebody who knew her inside out. She was treating me like she treated everyone else except her new friends. And I couldn't deal with it anymore.

"Fine," I said, before moving to open the door. I jumped out her van and didn't spare her a glance as I said, "Have fun with the rest of your life. Sorry I didn't care enough."

She didn't say anything and I didn't expect her to. With a broken heart and headache, I left and didn't bother turning back.

—

"What do you mean she's run away?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Mr Lock said apologetically. "Her foster family got the note this morning. They're doing what they can to find her. She always turns up, you know that."

I knew her family didn't care if she was gone or not, so I knew Skye definitely wouldn't be found. Unlike usual, Skye hadn't contacted me before leaving, so something told me she wouldn't be turning up.

Our argument was over a week ago and I hadn't seen her since. It had been eating away at me the way we'd left things, but I couldn't find it in myself to face her. I had no idea what to say anyway. And I wasn't sure when she was planning on leaving, so I didn't think it was important right now. Clearly, I was wrong.

"I just thought you should know," Mr Lock said with a nod. "The police will come by soon to get a statement from you."

As usual. Except this time, I actually had no idea where she was.

I nodded, my mouth going dry. "Thank you... can I go now?"

He nodded hesitantly. "Of course."

I left his office and headed straight outside behind the bleachers where nobody could hear or see me. The first thing I did was try to ring Skye, but there was no answer and no way to leave a voicemail. I tried several times, hoping she'd pick up, but she didn't. And that's when I remembered the burner phone.

Immediately pulling it out, I turned it on and saw the message from her appear on my screen. I was quick to open it, my heart racing like it did every time she ran away. I knew she wasn't coming back this time though.

Hey, Y/N. I know you probably hate me, but I felt like I owed you this. I said I was leaving and I have. I can't tell you where. And I'm not good at goodbyes. I've had too many of them and I couldn't bring myself to say it to you. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I never wanted to, but I guess some things are inevitable, huh? I've managed to do it all my life, this isn't any different. I'm just sorry if I hurt you in the process. Anyway, this is pretty long and I don't even know if you read it, but yeah. I'm sorry. I wish things could have been different.

The text ended there and I found myself rereading it to myself over and over, her words imprinted in my mind. I knew we'd argued and exchanged hurtful words, but I never in a million years thought she'd leave without saying goodbye. I thought I meant more to her than this. But no. I was just another foster family she ran away from. And I wasn't so sure I'd see her again.

[paper-n-ashes]

The Late Shift

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: There’s actually none (I hope). I know. I’m surprised too.

Authors Note: This is so dumb. I’m aware. Look, I’ve been dealing with a horrendous writers block and shattered confidence and I made Paul Sevier gifs to ease my pain. It turned into this. I just wanted to try something a little cute and fluffy to get back into the swing of things. So... here it is.

*

It was going to be a long night.

Stuck on the Wednesday evening shift for the third time this month, you mindlessly fiddled with the pen in your hand. Twirling it between your fingers, your mind drifted away from the present moment, wondering why your boss seemed to dislike you so much to keep you here past 6pm in the middle of the week. He’d always been adamant this was prime selling time for this boutique suit store, with corporate clients needing to do their shopping outside of normal business hours.

You, however, knew keeping this place open was senseless, barely seeing more than a few unenthusiastic customers in these agonizingly slow stretches. Working on commission also made you all the more bitter about being paid minimum wage to stand behind a counter and doodle sketches of imaginary clients dressed in the outfits you personally tailored. This isn’t where you thought a Bachelor of Arts in Fashion Design would take you, that’s for sure.

“H-hello,” you heard a deep voice quietly greet you, startling you into focus. “Are you busy? I… think I need a little help.”

Eyes flickering up from the notepad, you were sure your pupils blew wide at the sight of the man in front of you. Standing at an imposingly large height, his hair a severely murky shade of black, with honeyed irises shining brightly behind delicate spectacles.

A human personification of tall, dark and handsome. Well, except for the clothes.

The stranger wore the layered combination of a grey tweed jacket and argyle patterned sweater, arranged over a particularly heinous, mustard-coloured button up. While the ensemble made you internally cringe, it gave him an air of intelligence, like the kind that hangs around stuffy, old college professors who have more academic accolades than you have fingers and toes.

“Me?” you coughed out, knowing full well you were the only other person in this tiny little shop. “Uh, yeah. I mean- No, no I’m not busy. What is it you need help with?” Even when you stood, the man towered above you, making you silently begin to calculate the high-numbered measurements you’d need to fit him in something.

“I have an important meeting scheduled for Friday. You know, the type you need to wear a suit to?” Evidently the thought of it made him nervous, as you noticed his cheek twitch slightly, his eyes scanning momentarily at the garments filling the space. “I’m… uh… not so great with clothes.”

Clearly, you chuckled inside your head, holding the word from your tongue. “You want me to pick out something for you?”

He took a defeated breath, his mouth twisting into an awkward yet wonderfully endearing smile. “Would you mind? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble!” you burst, maybe a little too excitedly. “It’s my job!” Bounding out from behind the counter you’d been imprisoned by, you moved directly to the section of classic navy business suits. Slim line. Something to accentuate his well-built frame, rather than hide it away. You had to pause, swivelling back around to the dumbfounded man. “Is price an issue… uh…?”

“Paul,” he answered for you, slowly moving to where you stood. “And… I suppose not. Probably should spend the money on something that will last. If you think it’s a good idea.”

Oh thank god, you mused without showing the relief on your face. He’s not some rich asshole trying to flash his cash. “A good suit can last you five years, if you treat it right.” Your hand reached over to graze one of the deepened blue sleeves of a jacket at your left. “And a classic colour will never go out of style.”

Paul let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I think you’ve already noticed how lacking in style I am…” He glanced to your nametag, murmuring your name with a goofy smirk curling his lips. You’d never seen a grown man, especially not one of this stature, appear so adorable. It was horribly distracting.

“I’m sure you have expertise in other areas,” you stumbled, realizing only when the words came out how offensive they might seem. Yet Paul conceded to your comment, his rumbling laugh making your chest feel tight.

“Debatable,” he shrugged. “I’m just glad I found some qualified personnel to help me in this instance.”

Oh boy. Humble and charming? You were in so much trouble. Surely someone as sweet as this had another waiting for them at home. “I’m sure your partner could help you pick out something nice too.”

“Not an option in my case.”

Shit. Single too. You were truly fucked.

You turned, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat by focusing on finding an outfit that would contain his longer limbs. Plucking out a matching jacket and trouser set, with an ivory, collared button-up, you offered them to Paul, his features having melted into a sweetened look of intrigue. “Go and try these on. There’s a changeroom just behind the counter. See how they feel, and we can go from there.”

He nodded, taking the pieces with both of his large hands and shuffling away to where you’d pointed to. No sooner than the latch had locked were you dashing to where your phone was sitting at the register, flitting out a rushed text message to your favourite co-worker.

There was rustling you heard emanating from the changeroom stall, doing your best to ignore the urge of picturing Paul, a man you’d met only minutes ago, gradually slipping off his clothes to reveal the toned muscles underneath. You grimaced at yourself, shaking your head to banish the imaginations. God this was unprofessional.

Finally, a response lit up on your phone screen.

You laughed softly through your nose, about to type a reply when you heard the lock click open again. The breath in your lungs was stuck as Paul made his way out, the expensive textiles draping over his burly frame in a way that made your whole body tense.

He rustled a hand through his hair, looking up to you while fidgeting with the starchy material stretched over his chest. “Does it look okay?”

After all these years working this job, the enticing novelty of attractive men in well-fitted suits had slowly worn off, especially when most of them treated you with about as much respect as the used gum they spit out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, all those preconceived notions were gone. On Paul, this ensemble instantly became the most captivating thing in the entire universe.

The inside of your mouth flooded with saliva, having to swallow hard before speaking again. “Great… it looks… great.” You did your best to conceal a settling exhale. “What do you think? How does it feel?”

Paul shifted to look at his reflection in the mirror, pupils trailing up and down, flexing his limbs in an attempt to get a proper impression of the new apparel. “It feels really good. Makes me look… sophisticated.” He turned to you, his expression unsure. “Right?”

Your smile was sparkling, nodding to his question. There was a small amount of work to do, noting how in your effort to make sure everything complemented his physique, you’d oversized him. The waistline of the jacket needed to be taken in, the shoulder lines sitting slightly off, and the trouser length needing to be taken up slightly. “A couple of adjustments and it’ll be perfect.”

“You mean taking it to be tailored?”

“No need.” You pulled out the wheel of berry pins from your pocket, kneeling down on the floor next to Paul’s feet. “All our tailoring is included in the price. Done completely in house.” You began to fold the bottom edge of his pants, pinning it to an adequate length. “I can have it ready for you tomorrow, all ready for your Friday meeting.”

“You do all the tailoring yourself?” Paul asked as you slinked another pin through the fabric.

“Sure do,” you chirped, moving onto the other leg. “3 years at a design school taught me a few things about cutting and sewing.” With the hemlines in place, you straightened in front of him, plucking out a roll of measuring tape from your other pocket. “I just… need to take a few measurements to properly alter the jacket.”

His cheek twitched, the line of his jaw seeming somewhat strained. “Sure. F-fine. Do what you gotta do."

You went with determining his arm length first, feeling out the boney point of his shoulder and striping the lined tape all the way down to his wrist. Then, after taking a deep inhale, you curled your arms around his hips, focusing hard on the little black numbers to ignore the fact Paul’s breath had started to skate over your skin with this close proximity. It was when you were lining up the thickened stripes indicating his chest circumference that you made the mistake of peering up, finding his alluring stare fully concentrated on you.

There was a moment. A spark to waiting kindling. Where impulse could have led you to do a dangerous thing. You’d never been the hasty type, never acted without considerable thought. Usually so shy and composed, never making the first move. Although right now, you could scarcely hold yourself back, desperate to know the sensation of Paul’s lips, how they’d move over yours, what they tasted like.

No. This was so inappropriate.

The compulsion was about to wither away when you felt a hand skim up your waist, the lightened touch shooting a thrill over your skin.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice called from your side. “How much are these dress socks?”

You immediately stepped back, smacked into reality again. “$12.99. Exactly what it says on the box.”

The older gentlemen scrutinized the packaging, lids narrowed until he finally saw the numbers plastered at the border. “Oh, right. Eh, a little expensive for my taste. Thanks anyway.”

Flustered, you began to coil the measuring tape into its resting spiral, forcefully glaring at the floor. “I’m all done. You can get dressed into your own clothes now.”

In your periphery you saw Paul regarding you with a gentle nod, walking back into the changeroom without another word. Every part of you wanted to sink beneath the wooden floorboards, so horrendously embarrassed you could feel a smoldering heat prickle at your cheeks. Only to relieve some of the nervous energy, you ran to your phone.

Again, Paul was exiting out of the stall just as you were going to submit your reply, placing the neatly arranged garments over the counter. It was difficult to look directly at him, having to summon all remaining shards of your courage to drift your eyes up to his face. “Was there anything else you needed?”

His mouth parted, only to quickly snap shut, scratching at his hairline in the seconds it took for him to give you a response. “No. Nothing else. Unless there’s something more you think I need.”

You shook your head, wishing you could give another answer just to keep him here. “You’re all set.” The full price of his items flashed on the monitor in front of you, spouting it to him as your fingers flicked across the keyboard to finalize the purchase, with a personal discount that wouldn’t show on the receipt.

“When should I come by to pick it up?” he queried, passing you his credit card. “Oh, but there’s no pressure. Whenever you have the time is just fine.”

An idea flared. “If you give me your number, I can text you when it’s ready.”

“That works for me.”

Erasing all evidence of the conversation you’d been having, you brought up the number pad, handing your phone over. Paul swiftly typed in his details before placing it back in your palm. ‘Paul the Suit Guy’ the contact read, unable to stifle your laugh.  

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His eager expression made your heart quiver through a beat.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I’ll see you then.”

Paul waved his hand in an awkward flourish to signal his goodbye, eventually moving far enough from your vision for you to finally take a full, relaxed breath. In a dazed hurry, you keyed in your returning message to your co-worker.

It was the precise moment your thumb had pressed into the ‘Send’ button that you realised your recipient wasn’t the one you’d intended.

You’d sent this message straight to Paul.

Fuck. Oh fuck. This was bad.

While you were scrambling to formulate a believable excuse, a new message popped up onto the screen.

Tags for my lovelies who might tolerate this nonsense: @tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @blackberries45 @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynzandtonic @beskarbabs​