#and THEN to top it all off one of them vomited in the seat across from me and it smelt awful and i had to step over it just to get off

[jarofstyles]

Put Your Records On

This is a little thing I came up with at 2 am and kept writing till 5 lol. It's pop star y/n x rock star H. I don't do a lot of canon H and some things are changed/ don't fit into the real one but that's on purpose. Part two will be up very soon!

Check out our Patreon for early access to part 2 and 170+ exclusive writings!

WC- 4.2k

Warnings- dirty talk, mention of bullying (Brief)

She saw him from across the room- well, more like felt him. The room had a buzz in it that it hadn’t before.

It was common knowledge that he was going to be there. One of his best friends was hosting the after party for the BRIT awards, and she had been lucky enough to be invited considering her manager had been friends with the group for a while. Actually, it was a bit shocking that she’d never met the man considering how close their circles ran. She’d met a lot of his management and production team, even a few members of his band- but never the man himself. 

It was her second year after making it big on the music scene but her entire life, she’d been working towards this. School musicals, voice lessons, guitar and piano lessons, music had become her flesh and blood and she was determined to make it her bread and fucking butter. She’d been blessed with her voice and a talent like hers wasn’t one to waste, that’s what her parents had said as she grew up- and it had all paid off. She went home with Best New Artist and was coming down on the buzzing high of another huge accomplishment of her career. 

Harry was infamous, at the top of the damn world and everyone knew his name. He was just about to hop back on tour, one Y/N had been invited to attend by his manager himself. It seemed like today was the day they would finally meet in person, and judging by the recognition in his eye, he had heard about her too. 

God, that made her want to vomit. Growing up she’d been a casual fan of his band, been to a few shows even after scraping together enough money for a ticket along with her best friend. Said friend was lost somewhere in the room and Y/N knew she had a knack for awful timing, but as the man got closer to her she felt her insides begin to bubble. She wasn’t one to get starstruck super easily, thank god, but it was hard not to feel intimidated as he approached her. A black blazer with a very sheer pink blouse underneath, pants tight on the thighs and flared at the calves, necklaces hanging in a thatch of thin chest hair, she’d felt her mouth dry as his smile was given directly to her. Someone she’d grown up singing to in her bedroom, right into her hairbrush, was grinning at her like she was someone important. 

“So we finally meet.” Harry reached his hand out to shake hers. Clunky rings covered the digits as her own took them, shaking his warm hand with her own smile on her face. She’d been on stage in front of tens of thousands of people, and yet he was a bit more intimidating. Still she was going to do her best to use her brief acting skills and pretend her heart wasn’t in her throat. “I’ve heard so much about you- your album’s fucking brilliant.”

He was tipsy, she could see that much. His eyes were slightly hooded and he had a looser demeanor than he had seated at the table ahead of her at the awards show. Good for him. It wasn’t likely that he did this too much. It was well known that he wasn’t much for drinking during his working season and he’d won two awards! That called for drinks all around. 

What took her off guard, though, was the fact that he’d listened to her album. He listened and he had said it was good? Her cheeks heated as she realized he was still holding her hand, gently letting it fall as he took a step closer. It was a little loud out there but not too bad if you were close enough. “You think so? I’m hoping it’s all good things.” She let out a laugh she hoped sounded natural, adjusting her hair. The girl had always been one to fuss with her clothes when she was nervous but hopefully he didn’t realize that. “So is yours. Got quite a few on my playlists.” 

“Yeah?” His smile grew bigger. “Which ones?” Y/N felt the lump in her throat as she tried not to think about how good he smelled. It was so creepy, noticing that. There was a faint hint of tobacco and the tiniest bit of alcohol, but he smelled really warm. Cuddly, in a way. It made sense in her brain, but she was also a drink in at this point. 

“Mmm, I have a few from other albums but from the latest? Satellite, that’s the go to for the gym for me… Late Night Talking, very relatable for me. Erm… Boyfriends, unfortunately.” She saw him give a playful wince. “Yeah, men are shit- no offence. And then I’d say Daydreaming is a personal favorite. As It Was was brilliant, obviously, but Daydreaming is my favorite.” It felt like maybe she word-vomited a little but he’d listened to every word, seeming pleased with her answers. 

“Daydreaming isn’t one I hear of being a favorite, usually. M’chuffed that it’s yours.” He genuinely seemed happy about it. “I really liked the closing track of your album- it’s so rare to find albums that tell a story, that are thoughtfully laid out, at least at this point in time. I love to listen from front to back and it was laid out perfectly. Usually m’a bit of a snob and would have some critiques but you nailed it.” 

Y/N preened. It wasn’t a compliment she got often and it shocked her because that meant he’d really listened. Really paid attention to her music and took time with her album. It was extremely flattering. Surreal, really. Who could have told 15 year old Y/N that Harry would be a fan of her fucking music? She’d probably pass the fuck out. “I’m shocked you got that, but thank you. Yeah, I did the same thing growing up. It was my favorite part of music I’d find, seeing how stuff flowed together. Top to bottom and then bottom to top, then I can shuffle.” It was said in a slightly joking tone but she was fully serious. 

“You get it, Y/N.” He reached out to nudge her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to meet you for a bit but my schedule’s been hectic. Thought it wouldn’t be since we’ve been going for a bit now but tour prep… can be brutal, y’know?” 

Y/N did know, but on a minuscule scale compared to what his tour probably entailed. He was doing stadiums, for god’s sake! Y/N’s arena tour sold out quickly, but there was a huge size difference in where they were. Hopefully she’d reach his level one day. “I do, I do. It’s not a big deal, I didn’t think you were avoiding me or anything.” For a bit she did, but that was wiped away when she’d realized he released the tour dates. It had been months of almost meetings but she had faith in the universe. When it was meant to happen, it would. 

“God no, I was excited to. Did y’want to come sit with us over there?” He motioned to the private area she was allowed into but not been brave enough to venture to quite yet. 

“Sure, that would be nice.” Y/N hadn’t expected to be invited to sit with him personally, let alone feel his hand on her back as he led them through the crowd of people in the room. The star said hellos as he walked through but somehow had mastered the art of saying hi without being caught into a conversation without seeming rude. That was a skill she sure as hell was envious of.

His hand was really fucking warm. She could feel slight calluses on his fingertips, in true musician fashion, but they weren’t as rough as one would originally expect. Her backless dress did her no favors in hiding the warmth and how nice and comforting his touch felt, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank or scowl at her stylist. It wasn’t half as uncomfortable as the dress they’d pulled for the carpet, thankfully this dress was a slinky, emerald green one with room for her legs to actually move. Her updo had been taken down to a mess of curls that nearly reached where his hands were- the power of extensions. As heavy as her head felt, she couldn’t deny that she felt exceptionally beautiful. Thank god the universe had chosen today to meet Harry. 

“Finally!” Sarah sighed. “I’ve been waiting for you two to meet for ages. Come sit.” The woman had always been very sweet, even more sweet with a few drinks in her. Saying her hellos to the familiar people, she felt Harry sit himself next to her in the booth and immediately drinks were brought over. So this is why it was VIP. It was a lemon drop, something Y/N did happen to like. Harry handing her one before taking his own was unexpected but very appreciated, a gentle thank you exchanged as he settled back next to her. 

It was unreal to be here. To be sat at a table of friendly but insanely successful people, feel like part of the ‘in’ crowd, it had completely blindsided her. This was the sort of thing that she’d always thought about when she was in her bed at home as a teenager, hoping one day to rub elbows with the people she once admired so much they had space on her bedroom wall, and here it was. Someone who’s face was on her favorite bedtime tee shirt (Those merch shirts were expensive and she wasn’t about to get rid of it because a member was now in her circle). 

“Y/N, did you know that H added some of your songs to the preshow playlist in his dressing room?” Sarah hummed. 

“You did?” The girl gasped as she looked at him. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn she saw a bit of a pink glint to his cheeks. Maybe it was the alcohol. 

“He did, and he’s been raving about it to Mitch. Sometimes he’s singing it when we pass, that one song about the… what’s it called? The Raven? Some sort of bird.” 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink.” Mitch had to laugh at her airing a bit of Harry’s business, but she was a chatterbox when she was drunk. 

“That’s so nice!” Y/N said shyly. “You’re on mine too, actually. The dressing room for me and the one the fans listen to, I can hear them sing it from backstage.”

Harry’s leg was pressed into hers so she didn’t have to turn far to look at him, watching him finish his drink as he nodded. “I do, yeah. Told you I liked your music. I meant it.”

“Yeah, if he didn’t he wouldn’t mention it. That’s why when he met that girl earlier he just said it was nice to meet-” Sarah was cut off by her husband asking her if she wanted to see something on his phone, putting Harry out of his misery. 

“M’not an ass.” He groaned. “I just didn’t vibe with the album, y’know? I won’t say things I don’t mean but that doesn’t mean I can’t be polite.”

“Agree, 100%. It’s easy when it’s just a taste thing, but I’ve found it harder with people I’ve seen or heard talk bad about me and it’s confirmed. Dunno how you’re able to do that.” Y/N struggled to not show her nerves or distaste of people sometimes and it was something she was constantly working on. Her best friend often had to tell her to adjust her facial expressions and she’d even gone viral once for a ‘stink face’ she’d made at someone. It was accidental of course, but it’d also caused one of her first big waves of hate. 

“It’s not easy, and anyone who says so is lying.” Harry confirmed. “It’s taken me years. Said something about pussy on tv not realizing the cameras could see, so It’s trial and error.” The joke had the both of them laughing, Y/N not divulging that she indeed already knew that. “I think it’s important to just remember they’re humans and probably just as nervous t’see you. It’s just a short interaction and you can move on quickly. I also think working out, yoga, all of that helps a lot with my inner calm. It isn’t easy, like I said, but you’re also in the beginnings of your career in this sort of light. I’ve got no doubt that you’ll be able to have a good poker face by the end of the year.”

“God, I love that song.” Y/N sighed. “Poker face, loved that one I mean. But thank you. I really do appreciate the advice. I was terrified coming tonight. The award shows are much scarier than your own gigs.” 

“Oh, definitely.” Harry whistled, taking another drink from the tray and handing a fresh one to her. “S’like, you know the people who go to your shows are there for you. It’s like a little family get together, it’s safer. Those people love you enough t’buy a ticket, travel got knows how long, wears a shirt with your face on it. It’s mental to think about but incredible. These things?” He motioned around the room. “All marketing and partying, but more drama. S’crazy how many people have slept with each other in this room.” Harry realized a bit too late that he’d said too much but thankfully Y/N just giggled in agreement. “You seem to take to it quite well though. Not to sound weird but I saw you accept your awards and socialize a bit here, you’ve probably got the whole room fooled.”

That was a relief and a compliment in her opinion. The goal was to make sure no one sensed the weakness. Unfortunately she’d learned early on that these people could sniff it out like a shark in bloodied water. “That’s the goal.” She replied, leaning back into the seat. Her back was killing her from the bloody heels on her feet and how tight her other dress was, so it was a relief to have this reprieve from them sitting here. 

“So tell me about your tour then. What’s going on with that?”

—-----------

Y/N was drunk. Certifiably hammered. She had one too many lemon drops and apparently, so did Harry. Some of the people had vacated the booth and it left them alone as they talked amongst themselves. With the aid of the liquid courage, she wasn’t losing her mind over how close they were. Sure, her heart was still going a million miles a minute, but that was due to his fingers fiddling with the strap of her dress. Harry was, evidently, a touchy drunk. Clingy. He’d even followed her to the bathroom and waited for her outside before they’d returned. 

In all honesty, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t believe all of this in the morning. That Harry had ignored everyone else in favor of talking to her, tucked away in VIP at a round table, his body closer than it needed to be considering the space. They’d talked about a lot of industry things, but more so the fun and personal. She told him about her collection of band tee shirts and admitting to not having listened to all the bands she wore, but he didn’t judge her for it. Said he went through a phase of doing the same while in the band. She told him about her cat, a Siamese named Simon and he’d cooed over photos on her phone about how cute he’d looked with his collar that had a little flower on it. So many topics were covered, so many things discussed in the last two hours that she felt like she was getting a handle on who he was. 

Though this many drinks, it was bleeding into oversharing.

“Your ex was at the awards?” He asked, eyes slightly red but widening as she dropped the tidbit.

“Yep.” The p in the word was exaggerated with a pop of her lips and an eye roll. “Note to you for the future, don’t fuck anyone involved in your production team. Makes for a nasty breakup and a lot of rude ‘inside sources’ with the press.” Her lips flattened. “And he couldn’t even make me finish, so. Fuck him.”

Harry’s eyes widened further before he groaned, his head dropping to the side onto the leather booth seat. “No, not that, Y/N. C’mon.” He seemed a bit distraught. “It’s always those guys that make your life hell, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I did learn that a bit early on.” He seemed to remember it but she didn’t ask. If he didn’t divulge it, she wasn’t going to pry. “You got the shit end of the stick. It’s one of my embarrassments being a male. Y’don’t have to be a rocket scientist to learn how to pleasure a woman.”

“You’d think.” She scoffed. “Swear, men in LA don’t know how to use any of their appendages. Used like a human fleshlight so I stopped hooking up with people. It got discouraging after the fifth time I left. Not a single one know where the clit is.” It was an unfortunate truth. Maybe she was looking in the wrong places or had a string of bad luck, but she’d been voluntarily celibate because of it. “Doubt you know what m’talking about, Mr Watermelon Sugar.”

Y/N realized her internal thought had become an external one when he broke out into his own giggles, her face heating. She’d definitely not meant for that to be said out loud, but thankfully he didn’t seem offended. It was the truth anyways, any man who loved pleasuring a woman so much that he wrote a whole song about it had to know what he was doing.

As his giggles came down, he replied. “Well, I’d like t’think I do. I…” He swallowed. “Know we just met, but overshare?” Scooting closer, he watched her nod. “I think I get off more on getting other people off, if that makes sense. Like, making someone feel good. I dunno if it’s some sort of ego thing, but I enjoy it a lot. Being the cause of pleasure. Think it probably ties in to a bit of a praise kink I’ve got, but it’s the truth.” 

Y/N had never thought she’d get into this sort of conversation with the man, let alone in a dark corner at the BRITs afterparty, but she wasn’t about to complain. “So it’s true then?” She rose an eyebrow. “You really love eating pussy?” Drunk Y/N had officially taken over. A bit of a drunk, horny Y/N she’d been trying to repress. In the morning she would be mortified that she asked that, but right now she was genuinely curious. 

“I do.” He smirked. “I dunno there’s just something about it. Being the one to make someone gasp. When it feels so good they try and push and pull you at the same time. Love the taste, love t’hear the noises. Maybe it’s a little arrogant of me but your name sounds better when it’s said with pleasure, don’t you think?” 

Y/N should have known better than to ask. Harry was a very attractive, alluring man, he was close to her and smelled so fucking good and god damn it, she was already horny. Her cunt throbbed and she knew she was going to have a wet patch in her thong when she left, but she was a glutton for punishment. “I do. I like giving for the same reason.” She admitted. “I’ve always had a lack of gag reflex so, it’s made it easier for me than other people probably have it.”

Harry’s interest seemed to be stroked, fingers brushing over her bare neck as she spoke. It was hard to concentrate here, with him so close. But Y/N always did like to be a bit of a tease, brushing the tip of her foot over the back of his leg. Maybe they were playing a dangerous game talking about this, but no one else was around. She didn’t fall back when his head dipped slightly, getting closer than necessary. “Look at us then. What a pair.” 

“I know. You’re just bold enough to write a whole song about it.” Her finger poked him playfully in the chest. 

“M’not apologetic about it. A woman’s pleasure is important and often overlooked. Makes me sad that no one’s made you feel good in that long. I hope you’re taking care of yourself at the very least.” Oh, she was. And she would be when she got back to her hotel tonight. Thank god for the suction vibrators. 

“I do, but it’s not the same as having someone else do it for you.” Her drunk self told her it as a good idea to pout, trying not to breath too hard as his fingers caressed the nape of her neck. “Sometimes I just miss the touch of another human, you know? Even innocent touches but, there’s nothing like being fucked so hard you feel it the next day. Feels like it’s impossible to find it anymore.” 

“It’s not.” He replied. Eyes were staring into her own. “You’re fucking stunning. Especially tonight, you could pull anyone in the room.” Gaze dipped down to her cleavage, not hiding that he was looking. Heat that had been bubbling in her stomach spread through the rest of her body, his touch igniting a bit of a spark. 

“Anyone?” Her head tilted to the side. The tension had been growing a bit with the two of them but now it was thick in the air. There was no denying that there was an attraction between them but it was palpable now. “So if I wanted to, I could pull you?” Y/N had no idea if he was even available for anything right now. It wasn't’ a smart idea considering how closely they worked near each other, but right now all she could think about was the fact that she had full confidence that Harry could give her the feelings that she wanted- the fuck she needed. 

“Absolutely. M’hanging on by a thread here.” His voice deepened, face far closer to hers than should be appropriate for two people who just met. “I’ve been trying to be a gentleman all night. M’a bit of a slut sometimes but hookups aren’t usually my thing. Was trying to figure out a way to ask you out but, I’ve been a little nervous.” Fingers curled around the back of her neck as their noses brushed. ‘But fuck it, right?” Warm breaths puffed against each others, leaving the ball in Y/N’s court. 

“Fuck it.” 

Harry took that and ran. Lips pressed against hers as he cradled her neck, angling her how he wanted while he slowly kissed her. It was shockingly intimate despite the setting, smooth, soft lips sucking lightly against hers. There was no sign of stopping as her mouth opened for him, letting their tongue brush and the heat rise between them. His body angled slightly to cover hers from view, he let out a low groan in his throat as her hand raised to his hair. It was soft and a bit long for him as of late, but it felt good between her fingers. His other hand held the side of her face, so gentle but solid that she knew she’d give into any of his demands. 

The party raged on behind them but they got lost in the kisses, one turning to three, turning to ten and they hardly came up for air. There was no doubt her makeup was going to be fucked up, that her lipstick was done for, but there was no better way to ruin it. “Y’taste so sweet.” Harry’s words were whispered against her swelling lips. “And you smell so good. Been driving me a bit crazy. Wanted to meet you for ages cause I knew we’d get on… but didn’t think we’d get on this well.” He chuckled into the kiss, squeezing the back of her neck and making her melt slightly into him. “Hoped for it, though.” 

“You did?” Her own voice was breathless as she tried to catch up to his kisses.. It was hard not to get butterflies when he hummed in agreement. Harry had been excited to meet her. “Had a little crush, did you?” The statement was fully meant to be a tease, but he agreed. 

“Suppose I did.”

[katya-goncharov]

i had such a hellish bus journey home from work today and i'm STILL drained from it

[coryosbaby]

STEPSISTER AND ETHAN?HER SECRETLY RIDING HIS COCK DURING A MOVIE NIGHT.

Ultraviolence- E.L & C.M

(pt. 2)

Fandom: “Scream Vi”

Pairing: Stepbrother! Ethan Landry x fem! Reader, Chad Meeks Martin x fem! Reader (not in this chapter), Ethan Landry x Chad Meeks Martin (not in this chapter)

Warning: dubcon, slight sliiiight mention of vomit and suicide (but not in a serious manner), stepcest (stepsister x stepbrother), public sex in front of relatives (the parents are completely clueless), scent kink, dom! Ethan, dark! Ethan, sub! Reader, p n v, squirting, finger sucking, degradation, possession, rough sex

A/N: 😱 how have I not thought ab stepbrother! Ethan before ??!! Thank you for this. The way I wrote the whole situation is literally so unrealistic but fuck it we ball. Literally going to write so many more stepbro fics now and am totally making this a series 😘 this is pt 2! Pt 1 is already posted <3 luv u

“Care if I sit here, sis?” Ethan’s voice is laced with sarcasm, and you cringe.

It’s movie night, and your mom and Ethan’s dad are sprawled out on one couch. The only spots left are the ones on the smaller couch with two seats. The lights are off, and Ethan is standing above you, a large green comforter clutched in his ring clad hands. The light of from the television makes him a warm silhouette.

You give him a thin awkward smile, mumbling a small “yeah, sure.”

He grins, but there’s a mischievous look to it that doesn’t sit right with you.

“Great!”

He plops down beside you, covering his tall form with the blanket. He moves close to you, even though he has a whole other half of the cushion to take up. Your face flushes when you catch a whiff of his cologne, and you have flashbacks to a few weeks ago.

A flashback, it seems, that racks you with a shit ton of guilt.

You cant stop thinking about it. About how Ethan threw you on top of the kitchen counter when your parents were gone a few weeks ago and fucked your virgin pussy open. Can’t stop thinking about how his hands had felt, how his cock had felt.

You shiver, and your stomach twists in knots. What the fuck is wrong with you? This whole thing is sick. He’s your stepbrother, for god’s sake!

Ethan’s fingers gently skimming along your knee cap is what pull you out of your thoughts. You narrow your eyes at him, not in the mood for his antics right now.

But, as usual, Ethan doesn’t know how to fucking listen.

“Sis, you’re practically freezing. You should move a little closer and share the blankets with me.” Ethan suggests. You are freezing, but you aren’t going to admit that.

You scoff, and then roll your eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Your mother scolds from across the room. “And be nice to your brother!”

Brother. You might throw up. In fact, jumping off the roof sounds like a very good idea right about now.

“Whatever.” You mutter, and scoot closer to the the boy next to you. Your mother turns her attention back to the movie as Ethan’s dad wraps his arms around her.

Ethan’s scent gets stronger, more prominent, now that your arms and legs are touching. You notice that it’s not just his cologne that smells so good; it’s him. Just, completely and utterly him.

You really do hate yourself right now.

Ethan throws the blanket over the two of you and he begins to slowly lift you and sit you down on top of him. You stiffen, his closeness in such a public setting confusing you. Does he just want you both to get caught?

“Oh, look at them, Wayne! They’re bonding!” Your mom gushes when she sees Ethan holding you. She’s so naive.

‘We’re certainly bonding all right, but not in the way you want, mom.’ You think. You move around to try and sit correctly on Ethan.

And then you feel it. Big and hard, pressing against your ass. He’s hard.

In front of your fucking parents, too. Jesus, this motherfucker is demented.

You try to ignore it, you really do. But your pussy has a mind of its own, and Ethan isn’t making it any easier. His thigh flexes and pushes the muscle against your soaking pussy. He seems calm, but his grip on your hips is a dead giveaway. You try not to gasp, to moan at the feeling of the friction against your swollen little clit. It’s difficult.

“Oh! See, Wayne? This is my favorite part.”

Your mom’s voice cuts through your wild thoughts, and your face gets hotter than it was before, if possible. She doesn’t deserve this.

Ethan’s hands rest on your upper thighs now, and you feel the coldness of his rings against your skin.

He’s breathing quietly down your neck, and you feel him adjust. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when your lightly lifted by his strong arms, while he moves his sweatpants down. You try to act calm when he lowers you back down and his big cock is resting in between your pussy and his thigh. And then, when Ethan sees that your parents aren’t looking, he presses a light kiss to your neck.

“Be really still, angel. Don’t wanna get caught, do you?” He whispers, lips against your ear. You shake your head.

He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

You clench. And then, you feel the boy gently pull your sleep shorts and panties to the side. He lifts his cock and presses the tip into your tight hole, and you almost whine. He already feels so good. Why does he feel this good?

His cock is wet, and you can feel his pre cum spreading around your outer lips. You cringe when you hear the faint sound of your creamy wetness sliding around on his dick. It’s hard for him to stick it inside, really. You had only had sex once since before this moment, that time a few weeks ago. The stretch burns, and Ethan’s above average size doesn’t help. But you sit, and you take it like a good girl. And eventually, slowly, while slightly readjusting you, Ethan’s cock slides all the way in. You feel filled to the brim, and ashamed. Your parents are still watching the movie. Your mom has no idea that her sweet little girl is getting impaled by her stepbrothers big dick.

And then Ethan just…stays there. He doesn’t move, or even try to, and you don’t understand how he can physically handle it. Because as of right now, your thighs are almost shaking from the feeling of being filled. You know you’re soaking, can feel your juices trailing down onto Ethan’s balls and his sweats. You can feel his cock throbbing, can feel all 9 inches and every vein. Your walls clench down on him on accident and you feel his breath hitch.

You smirk. If he wants to play dirty, you can too.

You clench again, your hands going down into the blanket to run your fingers over his balls. He inhales sharply, and his fingers go up to put your arms in a tight grip.

“Stop it.” He growls, his tone low. You lean back to whisper in his ear in a hushed tone.

“Why don’t you make me?”

All of Ethan’s willpower is trying to stop him from plowing you straight on the fucking couch. He can smell the intermingling of yours and his arousal dripping down his cock. His eyes nearly roll to the back of his head.

God, you smell so fucking good.

Both of your thoughts are interrupted when the both of your parents sigh tiredly. The end credits. Ethan’s dad looks incredibly tired, barely even acknowledging the both of you and saying goodnight as he throws you the remote.

“If you guys aren’t going to go to bed anytime soon, just put on something else.”

Ethan’s head is leaned back against the couch, his chest heaving slowly at the feeling of you. Your face is hot, for obvious reasons. Your mom frowns at you.

“Honey? Are you okay? You look a little sick..” her hand goes up to feel your head and Ethan adjusts his hips. You gasp, but quickly cover it up with a cough.

“I’m f-fine mom!” You smile, all teeth. “Just a little tired, that’s all. We’re probably going to watch the wizard of oz… or something.”

Your mom looks at you both strangely for a moment, but decides to shake it off. Both you and Ethan give her a sheepish smile as you begin to actually turn the wizard of oz on as a distraction. She goes upstairs, and lastly, you and Ethan are alone.

As somewhere over the rainbow plays, Ethan instantly throws you onto the couch, shoves his fingers into your mouth, and pounds you so hard that you can feel his tip kissing your cervix. He reaches down to rub your soaked clit, the sound of your wetness prominent.

He begins speaking in a hushed but growling whisper. He’s angry, most definitely. And his full intention is to take it out on you.

“You dirty fucking slut.” He sneers. “Think you can get away with the shit you do? The shit you say? You’re lucky our parents were here tonight, or I would be spanking that cute little ass until it bleeds.”

You let out a cry, one thats muffled by Ethan’s fingers, one you hope doesn’t catch the attention of your parents upstairs. You can feel that elastic in your gut start to snap, can feel yourself letting go.

And then you literally ejaculate onto Ethan’s cock and balls.

He grins down at your squirting pussy, his teeth shining. Your sobs and moans are muffled by his hand, and he gives your cunt a light slap.

“Yeah, squirt all over that cock, baby. Fuck, just wait until mommy and daddy aren’t home. Gonna ruin this fuckin’ pussy, sweet thing.”

He watches your hole as he spreads it apart with his fingers, watches your greedy walls suck him in. Your face is contorted in pleasure, looking up at him like he’s God. His eyes are completely black, almost evil. As he looks at your precious face, your fragile body, possession overtakes him.

Family be damned, you belong to him.

[delopsia]

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 17,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader, Hanahaki disease, soulmates AU, childhood friends to lovers, alcohol, food mentions, vomiting, first kisses, thunderstorms, (temporarily) unrequited feelings, almost kiss, unprotected sex, eventual happy endings 🌹. Vaguely based on the Gary Allan song of the same name. Brief Summary: It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, and yet, your tattoos don't match. You're not made for each other.

It's hard to tell if the feelings started with the stuffiness in your lungs or if it's something that has always been there. 

An indescribable sort of longing that has flown beneath your radar for the better half of a decade. The kind of thing that has let you assume a false sense of comfort under the title of childhood friend. 

Best friend, if Rhett has a few drinks buzzing through his system. Two shining plaques with your name written across them in bold letters.

But neither of them are what you and your dumb heart crave. The pride of being called his significant other is a feeling you will never know, so long as your tattoos are around to remind you that they don't match. So, so close in nature, and yet, they're not the same. 

It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, so perfect he could fit into your life like a puzzle piece, and yet fate has destined him and you to fall in love with strangers. Not each other. 

Never each other. 

That tickling rises in the back of your throat. Snowballing larger and larger until you can no longer—

A horn blares. 

Your head jerks back toward the street just in time to see the passenger door of an old GMC squeal open. Rhett. Leaned all the way across his bench seat, hair in his face and all. 

"Y' comin' or not?" He chirps, already beginning to impatiently pat on the cloth seat, beckoning you in like he would a stray cat.

In this cold little town, your heart burns a little warmer.

How he got here so fast, you'll never know, but you've never been more thankful for it. Water splashes beneath your feet, darting toward his truck and away from the crowd of people raging on behind you. Up into your designated place in his passenger seat, slamming the door closed before you've even gotten settled, effectively shutting off the thumping music and flashing neon lights.

"How did you know where I was?" Because last you recall, you never told him about where you were headed tonight. 

Rhett just hums, the noise lost to the rumble of his truck engine. "Recognized the floor in the picture y' sent." 

Of course, that would be one of his many odd talents. 

"Being able to identify a bar just from the floor tile might mean you have a bit of a drinking problem, Cowboy," your eyes roll, shifting to rest against the door. 

"Listen," the streetlight catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a memory, "that checkered pattern is cute 'til your head stars spinnin'." 

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

The silence that falls into the truck is a comfortable one. It's the kind of quiet that lets you hear the impatient drum of his fingers, dancing to the soft drone of his radio set to an old country station. Backdropped by the sound of water spraying beneath his tires, washing away weeks upon weeks of built-up dirt from the ranch. 

His whole truck could use a good wash, but it won't see a bucket of soap and water until he scores another date with some no-name from the rodeo grounds. Or alternatively, you show up in the middle of the night and scrub it from top to bottom.

Your phone lights up with a text asking about where you went. Sent from some guy you cared so little about that you haven't even bothered to save his number in your contacts. But as you move to unlock the screen, it opens up to a different set of messages. 

You: Nothing quite like being stuck at a bar, waiting on your designated driver to decide she wants to leave. 10:47 PM

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

You: I told a guy I didn't want to dance, and he 'accidentally' spilled his drink on me 🙄  10:51 PM

You: But my ride doesn't want to leave for another hour or two. 10:52 PM

You never noticed the message that was sent right after yours. 

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

Maybe not every man in this world has gone to shit. 

Rhett's hand bumps into your chest, some kind of gray fabric balled up in his hand, "here."

You've seen this old shirt before; it's the first thing he ever bought online, hadn't realized until it arrived that it was a few sizes too big for him. Not particularly ideal for a cowboy who can get caught on equipment, but perfect for your impromptu sleepovers.

"You still have this old thing?" You're already beginning to tug your damp T-shirt over your head. Potential onlookers be damned, you're ready to be free of the overwhelming whiskey bitterness reeking from it.

The back of his knuckles graze up your naked side, guided by the thin path of a decade-old scar. A branding from younger, brighter days; the ones when Cecelia would let you spend weekends on the ranch. Waking up at dawn to help Rhett with his ranch chores because the quicker things got done, the sooner you got to run down and play in the creekbed. 

"Still can't believe that piece of glass marred ya like that," Rhett mutters after a long moment. You can't see into his thick skull, but you've got a feeling that he's got a similar memory flickering through his mind. 

"To be fair, I did fall on it," slipping your arms through the clean shirt, you pull it over your head, and once again, that old scar is out of sight. 

That half-hearted chuckle sends a warmth rushing through your veins. The exact one that shouldn't be there. But he hasn't the slightest clue of the wildfire sitting next to him, back to tapping along on his steering wheel as he drives through the main stretch of town. Past feedstores, tourist shops, dinners, the grocery store, and every other little niche boutique hidden between. 

"Thank you." You hardly recognize that it's you speaking. Hadn't realized it was your voice until the sound of it met your ears.

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

But Rhett just reaches over to shake your shoulder. "Y' don't gotta thank me for shit like that," for a fleeting second, he's got just enough time to look away from the road and offer you a lazy smile. "'s what friends do, ain't it?"

Your chest feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Meek, you nod, attention suddenly on the floorboard and nothing else—nothing else to say. 

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

He doesn't make mention of it, but you've got the feeling that your SOS text must have interrupted another one of his dates. A pile of rose petals rests at your feet, scattered as if they've been swept off the seat in a hurry to make space. Caked in mud and the rainwater that tracked in from your shoes. Storebought, that much you know for sure.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

The next time you see him, it's planned. 

You have, for some reason, allowed yourself to become roped into the craze of Wabang's beloved Sugarbeet festival. Right smack dab in the middle of some old ranching land that the county bought some years back. It would have been a pleasant idea if the festival was hosted in spring or autumn and not in the blistering heat of summer. Not an ounce of shade to be found, nothing but cheap tents to protect you from the beating sun. 

It's the kind of misery that makes the outdoors feel like a goddamn oven, and heading out to start your car is its own kind of devil. The air jammed in your AC blasts your face with the boiling winds of hell itself. So damn intense that if Rhett's truck weren't crawling down your driveway, you would have canceled and called it a day.

And you're so glad that you didn't, because good lord. 

The last thing you expected was for Rhett to hop out in that unbuttoned flannel, broad chest on display for all to see. The sleeve falls just far enough from his shoulder that you can see the scar hiding below his left collarbone. 

"Quite the festival outfit you've got," you chirp, dragging your eyes away from his bull tattoo and over to a nearby tree, feigning interest. The back of your throat is starting to tickle, lungs tight as you fend off the urge to cough. Not here, not here, not here.

He laughs, "What, y' don't think I look good like this?"

You do, but he doesn't need to know that. Not in the slightest. 

"Its...certainly a choice," faking a grimace, you turn your attention back to your car, slowly but surely growing cooler the longer it runs. A pleasure that Rhett and his broken air conditioning unit haven't known since last summer. 

You don't mind the idea of it staying broken if he keeps showing up at your house looking like this. Even if that does mean that you become his ride on the hotter days, fearing an onset of heat stroke. 

The passenger door is silent as he opens it. No longer squealing due to whatever he and Royal did to it last weekend. Being friends with a family of DIY ranchers has its perks. 

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

As if last time wasn't enough of a lesson, Rhett's got his knees pinned up against your glovebox, the seat too far forward for him and his big body to fit. Though this time, he isn't hurriedly pawing at the seat levers like he'll die if he doesn't get any more space. Instead, he's resigned to a frown. More annoyed with himself than anything.

"You alright there?" 

Rhett's sigh is so heavy that his shoulders visibly deflate. "Yeah," reaching off to the side, pushing the seat back as far as it can go. "Humbled, but 'm alright."

It's toward the end of your drive that you notice the flower petals sitting on your dashboard. Roses, you think. It must be what you get for leaving your windows rolled down all morning, vulnerable to adventurous squirrels and other varmints that enjoy trespassing into property they don't own. 

They're certainly not from you, and you would have asked Rhett if your destination hadn't come up so quickly. Fighting for a parking space in the withered grass is a bigger task than folks let on. Even with folks on the ground, pointing you to the perfect spot, someone will always try to steal it out from under you. 

For a festival in such a small town, there is a hell of a lot going on inside of it. Food trucks, concession stands full of sweet treats, craft booths, and cheap knick-knacks bought offline to resell under the guise of being handmade locally. Apple bobbing, the duck pond, and ring toss. There's a precariously placed dragon roller coaster and a horse carousel that Rhett tries convincing you to get on. 

Worse. There are so many people. Faces you recognize and those you've never seen before. Waiting in lines and shoving themselves between you and Rhett because the small gap between your shoulders looked like a good opening to get somewhere quicker. 

"'s a lil crazy out here, don't ya think?" Rhett's asking through a laugh, once again stepping over to you. Two kids dart between you, their hands occupied with bags of fake goldfish. 

Only took a decade for them to learn not to hand out live fish. You can still remember the three you and Rhett got when you were small. One didn't survive the drive back to his house, and the other two managed to stick around long enough to see New Year's. 

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

"I think it's always been crazy," tilting your head to cough into your elbow, dislodging that goddamn tickling sensation—you look away before you can see what it is. 

There's a girl off to the side, staring in your direction. Or rather, Rhett's direction. Long, wavy hair and a delicate sundress, the kind of woman who looks like she's walked right off the beach cover of a magazine. Her warm gaze has long since settled on Rhett; it's a look you've seen a million and one times at the rodeo. The one that gets him a little weak in the knees.

You look away as quickly as they flickered over there. If you don't make eye contact, maybe she won't come over to introduce herself. 

"We weren't that bad, though," but then, pausing to look at you, concern lacing his narrowed gaze, "...right?" 

Rose-tinted memories flicker through your mind. Rhett falling and breaking his wrist after taking you out on a green horse. Trespassing onto the Tillerson property to play with Luke and Billy, only to get hauled home in the back of a police cruiser, 'cause their momma didn't care much for you two. Getting busted, sneaking out your bedroom window to go spend the night with Rhett. All those times, you had to run through back alleys together because you'd been caught out after Wabang's curfew. 

"I like to think we were relatively well-behaved," concluding after a moment. Though your families may have a vastly different opinion on that. 

Laughter rumbles from you at the same time it does from Rhett, shoulders bumping together. Sends a little shock of warmth rippling through your bones, twisting around your heart like briars.

Maybe the conversation would have lasted longer if you didn't get distracted. Rhett lays eyes on a truck dedicated to a locally crafted beer, and the small frame of a self-serve station from the local candy shop catches your attention. It only makes sense that you would step aside and regroup in a few minutes. You're in desperate need of a breather before that girl works up the nerve to approach him and turns you into a third wheel. 

There's more to this little station than what initially met the eye. It's shelves full of caramel apples, peanut brittle, fudges of every flavor you can imagine, covered pretzels, cookies, and hard candies galore. And here you thought that it would have been wiped clean by the folks who came early in the morning before the sun could reach mind-numbing temperatures. Even your favorite candy is here, the last box left on the shelf.

The price is a little steep, but the flavor of them on your tongue is enough to distract from the pained cries of your wallet. If Rhett knew these were here, then he absolutely would have skipped out on beer in favor of convincing you to split them together—the candy mooch. 

But you must have taken too long to make your decision because you don't see Rhett. Not by the crudely decorated truck, and he said he would be waiting next to the old wooden bench under the oak tree, but it's entirely empty. Not a cowboy in sight. That stuffiness arises in your throat again. 

Maybe he's...

"Hey!" A herd of kids are darting around you. Like a bunch of cats scrambling from the bang of a tractor. One slams into the side of your leg as she rushes past. It doesn't affect her in the slightest, but your feet stumble. Knocked off kilter. Your open container of candy threatens to spill onto the dirt. 

 But then another kid is bursting through the crowd, and this one... 

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

She doesn't need to say a damn thing. Her wide eyes tell all you need to know. 

The crowd is too tall for her to see over it, but as she tugs you along behind her, you've got the feeling that she knows exactly where she's going. Navigating the festival based on terrain alone, over thinly spread gravel, and down a broad dirt path. Her hand clings to your wrist so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. 

You don't know who she's bringing you to or what could have happened. But it has to be something. Perry could have fallen into another one of his rages. Rhett very well may be doing something dumber than getting a DUI on the back of a horse. Or, or—

It's both of them. 

Perry's clawing at Trevor like a goddamn cat. His teeth bared like an animal. Crazed. Feral. Someone's got him by the collar. But it's not doing anything. He barks something incoherent. Jabbing a pointed finger at Trevor. Amy's shoulders jolt. Squeezing your wrist impossibly tighter. 

Plaid shirts scuffle behind them. Cowboy boots and Prada sneakers kick up plumes of dirt. Two brick walls slamming into one another. Caught in a spiral until someone makes the first pull backward. Luke's fist connects with Rhett's jaw. 

Flower petals burst into the air. 

All of a sudden, Luke is jumping backward, his palms raised to the sky. A rare white flag. One that you didn't even know was in the Tillerson arsenal. "I'm sorry, man," is all he can say. Pale as a damn ghost. 

Almost pale as the baby pink petals fluttering onto the dirt floor. 

"Is that..." Amy's the one to break the silence, looking your way as if you hold all the answers. In a sense, maybe you do. "I thought it was a myth?"

Air catches in your windpipe. Feels like you're about to choke. "I did, too." 

What the fight was over, you're not sure. It couldn't have been something serious; they've dropped the issue far too quickly for it to be something worth fighting over. There and gone within the blink of an eye. The Tillerson brothers are dispersing into the crowd without another foul word, Rhett's wordlessly pawing at the fresh red mark on his jaw, and Perry's barking something you don't care to hear. 

Amy's long nails are biting into your skin, threatening to tear through and draw blood, but you can't ask her to loosen up or let go. The sting is half the reason you haven't unraveled like a loose ball of yarn. It isn't enough to stop your lower belly from twisting and turning, a bitterness rising in the back of your raw throat.

"Sorry," Rhett's voice comes so suddenly that you jolt. 

"I leave you alone for five minutes." Your tone comes out blander than you intended, doesn't match the roll of your eyes, deliberately avoiding the sight of flowers lying in the dirt.

He must catch onto it because his frown deepens. But he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Only offering a wave and a forced smile when Amy ultimately ventures off with Perry for another one of his ice cream apologies. Those seem to be happening more and more lately. 

Hypothetically, someone should say something. Explain what the fight was about, how he got across the festival so damn fast. Was the beer any good? Want to share this candy before your jaw starts to ache like a bitch? The words are flickering through your head a million miles a minute, but not a syllable makes it to your tongue. 

"It's over someone at the bar," Rhett's admission comes in the tune of a guilty child confessing to breaking a vase. Meek. Like he'll fall apart if pushed any harder. "If that's what y' were wanderin'." 

Falling back into the character of annoying best friend is easy. All you've got to do is throw your weight into his side, not strong enough to deliver a playful shove. "So there really is another person stuck with that god awful tattoo," letting your mouth rise into a smile, almost thrilled to be pulling this off so well.

"Hey!" He's pushing you back, laughing, though he's careful not to knock you off your feet this time."'Least mine ain't a shoe."

Defiant, you raise your left arm, the tattoo on your wrist just as dark and bold as it was the day you were born. "It's a lucky horseshoe, thank you very much." 

And just for a little bit, you can deceive yourself into thinking you can still breathe.

You never do put the passenger seat back into its place. It's so far back that you catch yourself thinking it's not there at all; more than once, you clamber into the vehicle and think someone has robbed you of it. A part of you wishes it would happen. That some ridiculous bandit would break in and take that seat. 

It would be doing your dignity a favor; you're acting as if he's dead. 

You passed his truck on the way over here, parked outside the Handsome Gambler. If you weren't worried about wrecking, you would have tried to get a glimpse through the open door to spot him with his shiny new soulmate. 

A good friend would stop in and say hello; if she makes Rhett happy, then you should be happy. It should be on the forefront of your mind; you're three stores down from the bar, but your feeble heart jerks in your chest with a familiar sourness. Hand trembling, struggling to hang onto this little bag of chips. 

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

And if this cashier doesn't hurry up, you might also become a horrible customer. Your stomach is twisting like you're about to puke, something bitter rising in the back of your throat. Damn near dropping the receipt when she hands it to you, shoving it into the bag, and darting out the open door. 

You hardly make it to the edge of the sidewalk. Keeling over with a wretched noise. 

But the only thing that comes up is the shit that's been lodged in your chest all afternoon, stubbornly sitting in your chest with the weight of a damn elephant. Refusing to move, restricting your airway until you crack, and confess your feelings to a man who was never meant for you. 

"Hey!" 

Bleary, your eyes peel open. Really hope they're not talking to you. 

"I have your sidekick!" Sherrif Joy's voice cuts across the night air like a knife. Swift and straight to the point.

Turning your head might be the thing that puts you on the ground, vision spinning like your eyes have gone loose in your skull. Funny. You can almost deceive yourself into thinking that's Rhett she's towing along.

Maybe because it is him. Boots dragging against the sidewalk, shoulders so loose that they sway in the wind, eyes hardly open, simply led along by the hand Joy has on his bicep. You've got just enough time to paw at your mouth with your sleeve before she's close enough to notice that something may be off.

"I know he's not your responsibility," the glint in her eye suggests she's getting more amusement out of this than she should be. Probably because this wouldn't be the first, second, or third time that she's sought you out. "But he wouldn't shut his mouth when he saw you."

Rhett's grin is too bright for his flushed face. "Hi." 

You don't need to look at your phone to know that it's too damn early for this, and yet, you can't seem to muster up the slightest bit of irritation as you ask. "How are you already drunk at eleven at night?" 

"I—" Hiccup. "Been here all evenin'." Shreds of red rose petals cling to his lips, flaking off with the movement of his mouth and fluttering to the ground like rain.

Oh, Rhett. 

"If you don't want him, I can bring him to the station," Joy always says this, the same damn line over and over, as if she doesn't know what you will ultimately say, "it's no big deal for me." 

Looping your hand through the handle of your grocery bag, you reach out to take Rhett by the wrist. He comes to you easily, long arms reaching out to wrap around you, clinging like an oversized piece of velcro. 

"I'll take him," feigning annoyance is impossible when he's smiling at you like that. Drunk but completely and utterly happy to be with you. 

If only he looked at you this way when he's sober.

Getting him to the car might be the hardest part of this excursion; it takes you and Joy to get him into your passenger seat without banging his head on the roof like last time. But this isn't your first Drunk Rhett Rodeo; Lord knows it ain't Joy's either. It might even break your previous record of five and a half minutes. Not that you were counting.

"Where we goin'?" He chirps the moment you've clambered into the driver's seat. 

"Home." It's the only response you've got. Not entirely sure if he's got the capacity to follow long sentences. 

But his head cocks to the side like a goddamn puppy. "My home, or...home home?" 

Ice forms in your wrist. Suddenly caught before you can turn the key in the ignition. Is he...? It's gotta be. What else would he be referring to? 

"Home home?" More of a question than anything, but he's not sober enough to notice the difference. That grin simply grows a little bigger. His boots kicking against your floorboard, happy as a clam in high water. 

It doesn't fade, either. Even as you get the car going, and he fusses about leaving his truck behind, he doesn't lose the excitement that bloomed the moment he laid eyes on you. Content to sit here and let you drive, looking out the window and commenting on whatever he sees. The crazy lady on Second Street has added more flamingos to her lawn hoard, and someone's mailbox has been knocked over. What does that sign say over there? 

"So what's your soulmate like?" You ask, reaching to turn down the radio. "You haven't said anything about her." 

Rhett's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug so subtle that you nearly miss it. "They're alright," pause. Then, a weary laugh. "I jus' wish they'd like me back."

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

He doesn't seem to notice the petals clinging to the lower strands of his hair and into his flannel, hanging off the edge of his pocket and accumulating in his lap. They're identical to the ones sitting on your dash, dry and shriveled from the sun, bouncing as your front tire hits a pothole. 

Now that you give it some thought, you suppose that's why he's drunk. 

"My throat hurts," he grumbles out of the blue, rattling you from the sanctuary of your thoughts. 

You hum, not entirely there. "Getting sick?" 

Quiet, he reaches into his flannel pocket, producing a small assortment of something green. Rose stems, their thorns stained with crimson. There's no way that he's...

Your tire smacks the edge of a curb. The steering wheel yanking out of your hands.

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

"You've been coughing those up?" Voice strained by your heart, sitting high in your esophagus. You're so damn lucky that was a concrete curb and not another car. 

And yet, you dare to peer at him through your peripheral. Those stems still resting in his big palm, as if he doesn't have the strength to put them away again. You reckon he's not sober enough to have noticed your mistake. He would have commented on it by now, making fun of it as if he's any better of a driver. 

"Fuckin' hurts," it comes out softly, a confession that his own ears are afraid of. 

And it's the kind of statement that echoes throughout your car for the rest of the drive. Rattling between the pauses between songs and bubbling to the surface at every lull of the music. Clouded over by too many wonderings of how long he's been quietly dealing with the roses growing in his lungs. A condition so extreme that the stems are beginning to come up, too. 

You would ask why he's never told you about this, but...

Rhett's head cracks against the window with a heavy thunk as you pull into the driveway. So sharp and sudden that you fear he's broken the glass. But the only wound to come out of it is the red spot on his forehead, the color already rising to the surface by the time you put the car in park.

"Did that hurt?" It's impossible to ward off the lightness in your tone; a smidgen amused. 

"Nuh-uh," but he's rubbing at it like it does. 

You shouldn't have believed him, either, because by the time you get him through the door, it's already begun to swell. Miniscule at first, but if you give it some time, it'll grow into a proper bump. One that he'll grimace at in the morning but will lie through his teeth when you ask if it's hurting him. 

If he were sober, he would be nipping at your palm for daring to venture near his face; you can hear it now, the prematurely yelped "'m alright!" before you've even opened your mouth. But he's not sober. Has to put his hand on your waist to stabilize himself, not entirely aware of how you're curling your hands around his cheeks, holding him still. 

You don't think this one will rise too horribly, but you've been wrong before. Like how you insisted the cut on your side was just a scratch and wound up needing more stitches than you knew how to count. 

"Will you let me put ice on it?" You find yourself asking, your fingers drifting up to smooth over the bump. 

Defiant, his head shakes. 

"What if I order a pizza? Will you let me then?" Trying again. But even at the prospect of his favorite drunk snack, he's not interested. 

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

"A promise to never speak of this again?" Nada.

Huffing, you let go of his face, throwing your hands in the air instead. "Is there anything I can bribe you with?"

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

You've got a bad feeling about whatever this could be, but God, it's too late for you to care. "What is it?"

Even if he would have let you go on for the next century, you would have never guessed that he wanted this. 

Here in the soft sanctuary of your cozy little unmade bed, nestled beneath the myriad of sheets and blankets that you swore you'd throw into the washer three mornings ago. There might be a few crumbs left over from your snack last night, too distracted by the video on your phone to notice the mess until it was too late. 

The state of it all would bother you under normal circumstances, but you reckon you're getting contact drunk. Head spinning at the sight of this cowboy, snug as a bug in your bed, his cheek squished against the spare pillow. His arm has wound up draped over your side, over the sheets, and you can't remember when your hand drifted to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his scruffy, unshaven jaw.

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

He's so unnervingly close that you reckon he can hear the hammer of your heart rattling against your chest like a caged animal. Furious. Determined to burst through and spill its contents for him to see. The devil on your shoulder suggests that you should let it happen; chances are, he won't remember any of this come morning. But the soft, whiney voice of the angel reminds you. 

Rhett's got a soulmate. And it isn't you. 

"What made you ask for this, anyhow?" The sound of your voice comes as a surprise; one of those thoughts that have journeyed to your mouth, rather than staying up in your head. 

Those sleepy blues peel open; maybe the slightest bit cross-eyed perfectly matches that crooked little grin. "'s like a sleepover."

There's a word you haven't thought of for a while. Probably hasn't surfaced in your vocabulary since your early teenage years, arising in arguments about how unfair it was that hitting puberty meant no more sleepovers. It was okay before, so why did it become a problem when your ages started ending in 'teen'? 

Hesitant, your attention drifts to the tattoo on your wrist—that not-so-lucky horseshoe. A symbol that only became a problem in your second year of high school when your heart decided that it wanted your best friend over a soul mate. "Like the ones we're banned from?"

"Uhuh," his foot juts out to kick your ankle, "'cause we're too damn old." 

You're kicking him back before you can think twice about it. Old habits be damned; you're not letting him get a shot in without getting one yourself. But he's already fighting back, socket feet smacking against yours. Tangling. Fighting to get one punch in over the other. His leg bangs against your knee. Your hands lightly shove against his chest. 

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

And you're lying on your back. Caged beneath the broad frame of a man proven to handle animals over a thousand pounds heavier than you. His hands planted on either side of your head, knees straddling your hips. Long hair strays into his face, slipping out from behind his ears, but it's not enough to block your eyes from locking.

You're itching to reach up and tuck it back into place. To drift your palms across the roughness of his cheeks and trail a thumb over those thin lips. They're bitten to all hell, but try as you might, you can't imagine they're anything other than soft. 

Time itself might have stopped. 

God. You can't breathe. Don't know if it's from the infestation building in your lungs or the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his tongue. 

Or maybe...maybe it's because he's gradually growing closer. Minimizing the gap between your bodies, inch by debilitating inch. An image plucked right out of your own imagination, replayed a hundred and one times. 

But this version of Rhett doesn't belong to you. 

The one in your head didn't reek of whiskey and beer. 

"Rhett..." You're whispering as if anything louder will shatter you like glass. But he's still...he's still leaning in, and, and— "Rhett. You're drunk."

He freezes. Stiff as a board. Eyes so wide that his irises look tiny. 

"Shit," jerking away as if he's been burned, "sorry." 

This time, when his back hits the bed, your belly doesn't fill with butterflies. It fills with something much, much worse. 

It's the silence that eats at you the most. He's right next to you, and yet, not a word can leave your mouth. What if you hadn't stopped him? Did he confuse you for the pretty thing at the bar, wandering around with the same marking as him? Your heart lurches in your chest, tummy twisting sourly. God, why are you even entertaining this sort of thing? 

He's your friend. Friends don't think of each other like this, especially when one of them has a soulmate waiting on them. 

A funny feeling swells in the back of your throat, stomach gurgling so loudly that it's got Rhett tilting his head to look at you. 

"Are y—"

You're getting up before he can finish talking. Darting for the bathroom for the umpteenth time today. 

You wake to an empty bed. 

Sunlight trickles through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the freshly made sheets that Rhett once occupied, tucked in the best he could get it. He's been gone long enough for them to feel cool to the touch, but you can't hear him moseying around your house, either.

Your bare feet drift across the chilly, wooden floor, still frozen with midnight's temperature drop. Where Rhett would typically bump the thermostat up a couple of degrees, today, it sits the same as you left it. 

"Rhett?" Voice a smidgen too fragile for the hammering of your heart. 

All you receive is an echo, variants of your own tune. His boots are missing from where they once sat by the front door, and when you creep far enough to peer through the kitchen window into the backyard, you don't find him there, either. The ice pack has been resting in the freezer long enough to begin hardening again. 

And your phone left sitting on the counter overnight, contains a notification from everything and everyone, except for one man. Still the same text messages from three days ago, no matter how many times you refresh the page. But the magnetic whiteboard on the side of your refrigerator has a new smiley face on it. 

...and the marker is once again missing.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. 09:47 PM

It's not until after you've got a morning drink in hand that you recognize the tire tracks in your front yard. The grass flattened in the corner of your driveway in a fashion that only Perry Abbott can pull off. No matter how many times he's driven here, he's always overshot the turn and ventured into the lawn.

Your phone is still quiet when you cruise through town a little after nine. Rhett's truck is missing from its place in front of the bar, the space now occupied by a vehicle that the Abbotts can't afford. 

 On its own, your heart lurches in your chest. The tail end of a blue pickup is poking out from a streetside parking spot just down the main drag, and that's got to be him. You know this town like the back of your hand. There aren't many trucks that look like Rhett's. If you catch him now, maybe you can smooth things over regarding last night. Before the dust begins to settle and erode away at your psyche—

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

This time, you don't make it to the bathroom before that damned sickness overtakes you. Spewing onto the side of the road at the only red light in town, right in front of the old cafe with its outdoor seating. 

A hangover would be more dignifying. At least then, a little old lady wouldn't be tilting her head at you, her kind, wrinkled eyes soft as she offers you a smile. You understand that look more than you'd like to admit. 

It's the same expression you carried when those petals burst from Rhett's mouth. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Yesterday.

Odd. Usually he responds fairly quickly, at least when it comes to him hijacking one of your belongings, but maybe he's busy. Summer has never been kind to the Abbotts, between blistering heat and cattle who love to take down the southern fences to get at the neighbor's grasses. Judging by the forecaster rambling on the news, things aren't about to get easier, either. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Two days ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. 07:33 PM

No dice. 

How are you meant to leave reminders in the kitchen when a rogue cowboy has pocketed your only marker? It's barely been three days, and you've already started to forget things. Today was laundry day, but now you're standing here, swaddled in Rhett's oversized shirt because it's the only clean thing you have left. Maybe there is a benefit to not returning his clothes. You were meant to go get a spice for this new recipe but didn't remember until you were halfway into working on it. Come to find out, that recipe really, really relied on it. 

You can try to blame your lack of an appetite on your cold, unseasoned dinner all you want, but it only goes so far. Heart lurching in your chest, as the screen lights up with a text.

Autumn: Still coming with us Friday night? 👀 07:51 PM

 You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. One week ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. Five days ago.

You: I'm going to call a bounty hunter if you continue this hostage situation. Three days ago. 

You're getting sick of feeling your heart twist every time you look at this damn screen. But that stupid son of a bitch still hasn't—

"Excuse me," a lady whispers, squeezing past you, "I'm sorry." 

The entrance of Odessa's probably isn't the best place for you to be checking your phone, now that you think about it. 

That's alright; you're already sliding the device into your back pocket, reaching to catch the door before it can close behind her. You've wasted enough time for your friends to have already secured a spot at the Handsome Gambler. It's a wonder nobody hasn't given you a ring to make sure you weren't nabbed off the street. 

Stepping outside does nothing to ward off the drone of multiple shop televisions. All of them moan about how another wicked storm is due to ravage Wabang and every town around it. Same channel. Same woman talking. Same obnoxious blue background. It's a tale you've heard so many times that you can nearly quote it word for word. 

There's a serious storm rolling in tonight. Tornadoes and hail are possible. Here's what to do in a tornado. Do not do these five things in a tornado. Download the news app to stay connected. Tune back in soon to find out if the forecast has miraculously gotten better or worse! 

Looking overhead, you can already see the dark accumulation in the distance, a humid breeze tickling your neck as it drifts past. It feels just like the night you and Rhett rode out into the west pasture to watch the storm roll in. 

Sitting in the grass, watching those dark gray clouds roll closer and closer whilst the horses relaxed behind you, their attentions focused solely on the greenery below. You can still hear the tune blaring from the speaker of his phone. He'd really thought he was clever, playing that Gary Allen song about how every storm runs out of rain. It wasn't so cute when the south pasture flooded. 

A laugh cuts across the evening air. Sharp and pitchy enough to have your head tilting in the direction of it. Right behind you, on the corner of the block. 

Maria Olivares. That's a face you haven't seen in a long while. Wasn't she off to medical school, a couple hours away from here? Who in the world could she possibly be...

You know that cowboy. 

Puzzle pieces click into place. The darkened mark gracing her inner wrist. Too small for you to make out. How she giggles and batts her eyes up at Rhett, as he talks about something in that wonderfully deep voice of his. 

Of course, Rhett's soulmate would be Maria. How could it not be? No wonder why he was so crazy about her in high school; they've got the same damn marking on their bodies. 

As if to spite you, a muscle spasms in the juncture of your wrist. Sourness bubbles in the back of your mouth, but for once, you're able to swallow it down. Not here. Not when either of them can turn their heads and realize that you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like some kind of creep. Even coming from a childhood best friend, that would be weird. 

"Are you in line?" 

You jerk backward. Wide eyes landing on the wirey frame of some middle-aged man standing in front of you. He motions, with the brim of his hat, toward the door. The Handsome Gambler. Your destination.

"Distracted," you blurt, scurrying to grab the handle before he can, "sorry."

"There you are!" A glass of beer rises from the opposite end of the bar. Autumn. "I was fixin' to come looking for you!"

You have to wait until you're within earshot before you can respond to her, squeezing past the group of cowboys crowded at the corner, watching a PBR ride on someone's cellphone. "I was eavesdropping," You supply, can't keep a damn thing to yourself these days, "Maria Olivares must be Rhett's shiny new soulmate."

Autumn's jaw slackens, eyes so big they might comically burst out of her skull, "are you kidding?" 

One of her friends, you forget her name, gives you a gentle nudge with her arm. You suppose Autumn has already filled her in about your situation. "How did you find out?" Her tone is gentle, nearly washed over by the music blaring from the stereo. 

"Saw them laughing together in the street." There's more to that statement, context, and a reason behind why you've come to that conclusion, but Autumn is taking a brightly colored drink from the bartender, passing it your way.

The Handsome Gambler and mixed drinks do not go hand in hand; there's always too much or too little of something. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see the door opening, two familiar frames entering the bar, the happy new couples themselves. 

Tonight, you don't give a damn what these things taste like. So long as it makes you forget the sour twist in your chest, lungs tightening as if all the air has been sucked from them. Without second thought, you bring the glass to your lips.

It doesn't leave until it's halfway empty, and that's only because the need for oxygen has grown superior. 

The lady behind the bar lifts a freshly cleaned shot glass. You've got a feeling that she's overheard your ramblings. "Need something stronger?"

She doesn't need to say another word. "Absolutely." 

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

You're feeling delusional enough to ask for a third, but Autumn's nudging you a glass of water instead. It doesn't have the same bite, but it's equally unpleasant against the back of your throat, still raw and sore. 

Next to you, Autumn and her two friends are already delving into a new conversation. Something about the oddities going on around town and how some old man says he walked into a cave and saw a mastodon. You suppose there must be some inside group dedicated to continuing the claim because it's a rumor you've heard every year. 

A smile fights its way onto your face. You and Rhett used to gear up and go mastodon hunting up on the old trails behind the Abbott property. Royal loved to ask what y'all planned to do with it once you caught it, but you and Rhett never thought that far ahead. 

Your gaze follows the bartender, ready to ask for something sweet, but she's on the other end, gathering a dozen beers for a party that just walked in. Someone leans onto the bar. His head blocking part of your view. But then he looks over, and—

Rhett's eyes widen at the sight of you. By the feel of it on your face, the expression is mutual.

At least, it is for a second. That sourness jumps into your throat. Lower gut churning with a fervor unlike ever before. 

"I'm heading out back," you blurt, hand rising to cover your mouth, "you don't wanna follow." 

The girls frown, but they're certainly not making the risk to stop you. Autumn's already reaching for your drink, accepting your nod as a sign that she can finish off what you've got left. A voice jumps across the blare of the music. Almost sounds like the call of your name. But you don't have the luxury of stopping and looking. 

Your feet are barely falling into line. Rushing to push through the men gathered by the back exit. Past the blasting jukebox. There's that tightness in your lungs again. A thick sensation rising higher. Higher. Higher in your throat. There's the door. There's the door. Your hands are reaching out. Grappling at the handle. 

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

Vivid purple petals burst past your lips like goddamn confetti. Stems and all. Ripping past your already battered windpipe and sticking to your tongue, little bits of purple carrying in the wind. 

Those three-petalled flowers were pretty until they started growing in your lungs. You can't stand the sight of them, but you've got no choice but to cough more of them up. As if any amount of effort will make them disappear. 

 A bundle of them have caught in the back of your mouth, stubbornly thwarting your ability to breathe. Light as a feather, your head spins, feet stumbling as you scurry to one of the chairs, sitting against the wall. The plastic groans under your weight, so brittle that it ought to give away at any moment.

Lightning flickers as another wave of flowers rain to the floor, and it's a wonder you can get these out at all. 

The back door opens with a screech. Music pours through the gap, an incoherent tune so loud that you can hardly hear the thunder rolling through town. Someone in boots stumbles out, keeling over.

A bloodstained rose tumbles to the ground, pink and red petals dancing behind it, landing amongst your mess of purple. 

When you lift your head, you know what you're going to see. But that doesn't make the look in Rhett's eyes any easier to bear. Some kind of hellish cross between horror and bewilderment that manages to look akin to a wounded puppy. 

Not a word leaves his mouth. Doesn't get the opportunity to, for that matter, another plume of petals forcing their way past his lips before he can do anything about it. Just the sight of them has that tickle building in the back of your throat, but for the time being, your tank is empty. 

Thunder booms as Rhett falls into the chair opposite you. His hand dips into his flannel pocket, producing...

your marker. 

"'m sorry," he mutters, sentence broken by a cough, "Didn't realize I stuck it behind my ear 'til you texted me."

"Which time?" You can't help the bitterness seeping into your tone, plucking the little writing utensil from his outstretched hand. 

His eyes dart away. 

The tension in the silence doesn't come from the storm. Wind howling around the corner of the building, rustling through the trees. Lightning flickers, illuminating the world around you for the briefest of moments, and just like that, rain begins to fall. Coming down in a thick sheet, so strong that even under the awning, it manages to reach you, mist tickling your skin and dampening your clothes.

Idle, your fingers twist the marker back and forth; it's still warm from where it rested in his pocket, snug against his chest. A part of you wonders if he always runs this hot or if your hands are just cold from the Wyoming air.

"So you and Maria, huh?" Even with the roar of the storm, your voice is too loud; a megaphone in the library would be more tolerable. 

"Nah, I just ran into her 'bout a half hour ago." Rhett's head shakes, eyes on the floor. "We were both goin' to the same place, 'n that was about it."

"Damn, and here I thought she was your soulmate." You hate that a selfish part of you floods with relief. So overcome with it that you can feel the way your shoulders drop. "It would have made for the perfect story."

You could have been the perfect story, too.

"I don't know why I liked her in high school," he's continuing, running a hand through his hair, fingers visibly catching on a tangle, "'s like talkin' to a fuckin' wall."

Of all the things you've imagined him saying, that wasn't even close to making it on the list. Though, you can't say he's entirely wrong; ever since that time you got paired with Maria for a history presentation, you haven't been able to see what's so interesting about her, either. Nothing but one-word answers and giggling with her friends while you worked on the assignment by your lonesome. 

It may be petty, but you're still bitter. 

"I'm sorry, I..." Rhett's talking again, caving to the silence that you've unintentionally put between you two. His hands fall into his lap, clasping together. Then, break apart just as quickly, one of them reaching up to rub at his forehead. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you the other night."

"It's alright—" your tongue pauses before the rest of your sentence can follow. I wanted you to. But you're looking down at your tattoo, and it's still the same horseshoe. It doesn't match Rhett's. 

It will never match Rhett's. 

Finding your voice is damn near impossible, but you do it anyway. "You've done stranger things while under the influence." 

"Like gettin' a DUI on the back of a horse?" He says it so bluntly that you can't help but sputter. 

It's easy. Dissolving into laughter. Peering at each other through smiling eyes. Yeah, getting a DUI on horseback is much, much worse than trying to steal a kiss. You've still got the voicemail from when Joy called you in the dead of night, asking you to come get Rhett and his horse. 

White flashes. Lighting up the world for the briefest moment. An ear-splitting crackle erupts from above. So loud that the town lights flicker in unison like a bunch of candles nearly blown out by the squealing wind. 

"'s gettin' pretty bad out here." The sound of Rhett's voice is nearly lost to the ringing in your ear. 

"Tell me about it," you lean forward, peering over at the miniature river that runs down into the alleyway, carrying with it a parade of purple, pink, and red flower petals. "The road'll be flooded by the time Autumn decides she's ready to leave."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "You didn't drive?" 

"Couldn't." Shocker, you know. "I had a hot date with a shot of whisky."

"Two from what I saw," so he was watching you do that, huh?

You wink. "I would have made it three if I knew you were watching."

Something crackles in the distance. Maybe a tree struck by lightning, bits of bark falling like rain. A little too close for comfort, whatever it was.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat once more. Forces another cough out of you. The purple petals catch in the wind before they can hit the ground, soaring off like tiny planes. Rhett's eyes follow them until they're out of sight. 

All of a sudden, he rises to his feet, spurs chiming with the motion. Must have forgotten to take those off again. "Need a ride?" Offering his hand. 

You take it before you even realize what he's asking. 

A part of you is beginning to suspect that Autumn can see into the future because she's hardly phased when she turns her head to see you meander back into the bar, hand in hand with Rhett. Her white teeth flash you with a smile, perhaps a little too interested in whatever Billy Tillerson is babbling into her other ear. With their hands intertwined, you can hardly tell that they've got timers imprinted on their wrists, bearing identical numbers.

Autumn doesn't need to ask when you hand her the twenty from your pocket; in the time you've known each other, you've proven to be a creature of habit. Instead, she offers you a wink, not a word said. 

Rhett's already by the door, working his beat-up wallet back into his jeans before he can set it down and forget that it's there. "Y' ready to get wet?" He chirps once you're within earshot. 

You're not, but there's no stopping the rain now that it's coming down. "Ready as I'll ever be." 

The door creeks open. A gust of wind rushes in through the gap. Slams you with the force of a freight train. Damn near strong enough to knock you on your ass. But Rhett's grabbing hold of your wrist and him hauling you forward is the only thing keeping your feet from being swept out from under you. 

Freezing rain splatters against your skin like a million tiny bullets. So sharp you think they might pierce through and come out the other side. A sheet of white blinds you. Forced to lower your head and prey Rhett's hauling you the right direction. The sidewalk is already flooded. Splashing up to lick your ankles. Soaking through your shoes. 

You're moving. You know you're moving. But you might as well be on some hellish treadmill because it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

All of a sudden, Rhett's pulling you to the right. Toward the curb. Reaching for the handle. Yanking so hard you can hear it over the rain. 

It opens. You're inside within the very same second. Clambering into the cloth passenger seat, pulling your legs in, just as Rhett slams the door shut. Through the blurry dash, he's only identifiable as a big blue splotch, travelling around the front of his truck. His door rips open just as quickly, the vehicle rocking as he all but throws himself inside.

"'s fuckin' cold!" He sputters, blindly jabbing the key at the ignition. Miss. Miss again. Another miss. He tilts his head. It slides home. 

It's been a minute since the last time you heard this old truck roar to life. Even longer since you've last felt your skin go this numb. Shivering like a leaf, nerves so ruthlessly beaten by the elements that they're shot. There's a texture to this seat. You know there is, but you can't feel it. 

A weary hand darts out. Wavering back and forth. Narrowly misses the little heat dial.

"Ain't got heat, remember?" Rhett almost sounds guilty, though you can't say for sure. It's hard to get a read of his face when he's focused on putting the truck into gear, looking straight ahead as he pulls onto the road. Though you're not entirely sure why, he's still got that old—

...no. His spare shirt is still sitting in your clothes hamper, next in line for a wash. Even if you had miraculously known to carry it with you tonight, there's no way it would have done you any good. Not with how soaked your clothes are, dripping like you've just gone for an impromptu swim in the coldest river you could find. 

Your arms rise to wrap around yourself, clinging to what little body heat you've got left. A jacket. Why didn't you think to carry a jacket? Lightning flickers. Crackling so loudly that you can feel it travel through the ground; almost sounds as if it's laughing at you. 

Even in the safe confines of this truck, the win threatens to wriggle in and get ahold of you. Screaming around the truck. Whipping past light posts. Rattling them so hard that they sway back and forth. Something is telling you that a power outage is in your near-to-distant future. With how you can look out the back window and see it ravaging the main part of town, there's no way it's not going to take out a power line. One little mess up is all it takes to plunge this little town into darkness. 

There's already a tree down. Its long branches obstructing part of the road, forcing Rhett onto the other side to squeeze past. 

"'m I over far enough?" He sounds like he's got a handle on it, head tilting back and forth, drawing the truck closer and closer to the edge of the road. 

Your eyes squint. Struggling to see through the window. "I think so."

It's an obstacle easily overcome, but as you begin to pick up speed once more, a new problem arises. Those poor little windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the rain. Coming down in sheet after sheet, splattering against the glass quicker than it can be swept off. Driving in the ocean would have better visibility.

"Can't fuckin..." Rhett's talking to himself. You hope he's talking to himself because you can't hear him over the chatter of your teeth. Trembling like some kind of exaggerated cartoon character.

The truck gently veers to the right, off into some kind of gravel space on the side of the road, grinding to a halt.

"The— the wipers can't go any faster?" Tongue limp in your mouth. Impossible to move.

Rhett's head shakes. "No, they don't..." 

His eyes lock onto yours. Even that might be enough to eat away some of the ice forming in your bones. His jaw softens. Eyelashes fluttering with an incoming thought.

Slow, his arm rises from his side, extending your direction. "C'mere."

Your breath catches. Is that...no, you....you shouldn't—

"Promise I won't kiss ya," his fingers tap your shoulder, "'m jus' gonna warm ya up."

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

You're scooting across the bench seat before thunder even has the chance to arise. Slipping beneath his outstretched arm, helpless to do anything but fall into his big chest, equally soaked as you are, but he's warm. A big furnace, wrapping around and squeezing you into him. 

He shifts the slightest bit, leaning against the door, opening himself up for you to properly squirm into his side. With such little space in this truck, it's a squeeze, but you fit nonetheless, cheek resting atop that old bucking bull tattoo, the scruff of his jaw tickling your forehead. 

Another rumble rolls through, wind slamming into the side of the vehicle, rocking it back and forth like some kind of giant cradle. Rhett's legs shift, properly rising up onto the seat, knees knocking into yours as they settle. There's no way that you can feel his body, not with those thick jeans in the way, but a part of you swears that you can. So certain of it that you think the ice in your bones is beginning to thaw.

A big, warm hand runs up and down the expanse of your arm as if to create a little friction there. "Can y' still feel your hands?" He murmurs, voice rumbling against the top of your head, and you think that's the tip of his nose bumping into you.

You're wiggling your fingers, can see them moving in the darkness, but hardly any sensation comes of it. Feels as if you're operating a separate object and not a part of your own body. "I don't know." 

He reaches down, both hands wrapping around yours, and immediately, it's as if you've been set ablaze. Fire burning in your frozen joints, sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature. Rhett's thumb swipes against yours, a rough glide, his skin weathered by a lifetime of labor on the ranch. 

They're so much bigger, too, dwarfing yours in comparison, long and thick with muscle and built-up callouses. He must be noticing it as well because he's sliding his index finger down next to yours, and even in the dark, you can tell that he's at least twice the size. So big that you can hold just the four of his fingers, and not even need the rest of his hand.

You don't know why you're doing this or why he's letting you. 

Careful, your gaze crawls upward, roaming over the wet fabric of his flannel, up his damp neck, and the dripping curls resting at his nape. And he's...

he's already looking at you. Half-lidded eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lip twitching upward for the briefest moment. A tickle rises in the back of your throat. Nothing comes of it. Lightning lights up the world like a light switch flicked, but you don't hear the thunder that follows. 

His nose bumps into yours. Breath fanning out against your skin. 

This...you shouldn't...but...

Those blue eyes drop down to your lips. Then back up to you. His eyelashes flutter. You think yours might, too. He's so close. Can feel the stubble on his chin brush against you, a fleeting thing that you can somehow still feel, even after the contact breaks. A breath trickles out of your chest. The slightest little movement that brushes your bottom lip against his. And he's not moving away, he's—

An ear-splitting boom tears past the truck. Rattling it back and forth. Sends you and Rhett jumping. Your head bangs against the seat cushion. His elbow hits the horn. 

"The hell..." he grumbles, with a shake of his head. "Was that s'pposed to be thunder?" 

"Is that what it was?" Parroting him, looking toward the window as if that could possibly give you an answer. 

The rain has slowed into a slow trickle that is easily swept away by the windshield wipers, unveiling the world around you once more. You recognize where you're at now, just two or three miles down from your house.  So damn close, and yet...

"Let's get you home," Rhett's sitting up, and you've got no choice but to do so as well. The scoot to the passenger side is almost shameful, the cold, soaked seat squishing beneath you like a sponge. 

A thick collection of petals swell in the back of your throat as Rhett's foot finds the gas pedal once more. Were you about to kiss him? What the hell were you thinking? That isn't how this works. You're not soulmates.

Somehow, the air has grown even colder without him wrapped around you, his very presence haunting you like a ghost. Lingering in the back of your mind so strongly that you can almost deceive yourself into believing that you're still snuggled into his side. But no matter how hard you focus, you can't force it to manifest into reality. 

Cruel is what it is.

Even as the rain picks up once more, it's not enough to pull you over again, swept away from the windshield as quickly as it lands. There's another tree down, but it has barely made its way into the road, such a simple obstacle that only takes a second or two to get past. And just like that, your porch light is emerging in the distance. A golden glow that grows larger by the second, like a tiny sun rising to greet you.

The gravel driveway crackles beneath the tires; it's usually a pleasant sound, but today, all it does is cause your stomach to sink. Such a sour feeling that it rises, flower petals tickling the back of your throat until you cough. Little bits of purple scatter across your lap. Rhett's foot jumps to the brake pedal, a soft squeal emitting from beneath the vehicle as it comes to a stop. 

You've never been so disappointed to see your front door. 

"Thank you," barely a whisper as it leaves your mouth. Anything louder might break you.

He nods, eyes darting from your lap and up to your face. "Yeah." 

The only sound in the truck is that of the frozen rain pitter-pattering on the metal roof. Nothing more. Nothing less. With a forced, tight-lipped smile, you reach for the door handle. It opens with a groan, creating just enough space for you to slip out, the oversaturated ground squelching beneath you. He doesn't say anything as you shut the door, so neither do you. 

Resigned to silence, you trudge through the rain. Wind rips past, determined to lift you up off the ground and whisk you into the sky. But you don't lift off the ground. You don't even slip. Your feet find the front steps of your porch, hand fishing into your pocket and producing a set of drenched keys.

The confines of your home are so much warmer than it was outside, and yet, as you toe off your muddy shoes, you can't help but compare it to Rhett. Your heater may be strong, but it doesn't wrap around you the way his arms did. Big. Secure. The kind of thing you thought only existed in your daydreams. 

Strange, you don't hear his truck pulling out of the driveway. You know he hasn't; that old GMC runs far too loudly for it to slip by unnoticed. Curious, you hook your finger into the blinds, pulling them down.

No, he hasn't moved at all.

...what's he doing out there? Even from here, you can tell that the storm is picking back up again, rustling through the trees, swaying them back and forth. 

Nothing has fallen or otherwise obstructed the driveway, and something couldn't have gone wrong. Not that quickly. Unless he's suddenly developed the ability to hear your heart hammering against your chest, wordlessly begging him not to leave your driveway, there's no reason for him to still be parked. 

The cab light flicks on. Then off again. All of a sudden, he's rounding the back of his truck. You're opening the door, socked feet stepping out onto the cold, wet porch. His spurs chime, boots thumping up one stair. Two. Three. Four. No, no, something must have happened. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack, looks half scared to death. 

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

"I forgot somethin'." One more step, and he's leaning down, and, and...

It's the simplest of things, merely pressing against each other for a long moment, but heaven itself cannot compare to the feeling of Rhett's lips against yours. His nose crushed uncomfortably against your cheek, big hands cradling your cheeks like you'll break if he doesn't. 

Just as quickly, he draws away, soft blue eyes meeting with yours. Lightning flashes, but even the following slam of thunder cannot stop you from grabbing a fistful of his flannel and yanking him in once more. Lips crashing together, feet stumbling with the force of it. One of his arms is wrapping around your waist and your hands are sliding up into his hair. Bold. As if this is familiar, something you've done every day of your lives. 

The press of his mouth and the stubble of his chin are so much more than your imagination ever could have crafted. Warm and scratching against you so deliciously that your head goes quiet. Soul mate markings be damned. This is where you're meant to be. Right here. Twisting your fingers through his unruly curls, gasping against him. Drowning as he kisses you again, and again, and again. 

Your head is spinning. Stumbling blindly as he leans into you, forcing you backward. Your heel catches on the doorway. "Rhett—" But you don't fall. You can't. Not with that strong arm around you. "Cowboy!" 

"You're the only one that's ever called me that." He breaks away, kicking at the door with his foot. There's no doubt a mud stain on the white frame now, but you've hardly got it in you to care. 

"What?" Your nose bumps into his cheek. A little too close.

"Cowboy." He mutters, lips brushing against yours. So, so close. 

A breath hitches in your throat. "Should I stop?"

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

Muffled thunder rumbles outside, and you're pretty sure the power has gone out, but you can't open your eyes to check. Helpless to do anything but tug on his hair, drinking in his deep grumble like you're starved. You should be embarrassed. Shouldn't be this desperate over a first kiss. 

But Rhett's got it just as bad. Pushing you backward until you're bumping into the wall. His big, calloused hand is venturing beneath your soaked shirt. God, and you're letting him. Back arching as his fingertips trail up your spine, chest pressing into his. Gasping against his lips like you're trying to put on a show. 

More. You want more. Reaching down to toy with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time, shaking fingers struggling to push them through the holes. Too eager to feel the expense of his chest beneath your palms. 

"You're gonna have t' stop me," Rhett's speaking against your lips, batting your hands away. Makes no effort to finish your handiwork as he yanks the flannel off his shoulders, the final three buttons snapping off and scattering across the hardwood floor.

Before you can stop it, your hand drops to his belt, pulling him closer. Earns you an affectionate chuckle that echoes throughout the house. Those hips of his press forward, obnoxiously large buckle digging into your belly, not an inch of space left between your bodies. 

"Why would I stop you?" It's too early for you to be reaching down to grab at the hem of your shirt, but you don't care. You want this damn thing off. The soaked fabric stubbornly clings to your frame, heavy as you drag it over your head. It hits the floor with a wet thunk, a mess for the future version of you to handle. 

Those deep blue eyes might eat you alive. "Good point." 

It's hard to tell who makes the next move. All you know is that you're leaning in to kiss him, noses crashing together, and his hands are appearing on your ass, squeezing until you get the hint to jump. It all happens so fast. The thunk of your back against the wall. His hips slotting between your thighs. 

"Y' feel what you're doin' to me?" He grunts, and he doesn't need to specify for you to know what he's talking about—heavy bulge straining against his jeans, pressing perfectly against your core, igniting a familiar heat there. 

"Uhuh," is all you're capable of. Greedy hands sliding across his chest and up his shoulders, feeling over all the little freckles and marks that have haunted your imagination. Fuck, and he just lets you. Too busy leaning in to steal a kiss off you. One. Two. Three. Before he shifts to the juncture of your jaw, stubble tickling as he kisses down your neck.  

Your hips buck forward. 

"Fuck," Rhett's voice tickles your ear, "shoulda let me kiss you earlier, sweetheart."

A shiver ripples down your spine. That's new. 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Finding your words is a task in of itself. Hard to do much of anything when his lips find the soft spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly. 

"You were drunk," voice strained, wound too tight in your throat. 

"Felt pretty sober in the moment," He hums, tongue poking out to wet your skin. Fuck, you wonder what that would feel like in other places, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter around his hips, works a groan right out of him. 

Thunder booms outside, but it's not enough to stop your lips from crashing once more. Teeth clattering, hopelessly grinding down into him, and even these layers of clothing can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches. 

It's all a blur. 

One moment, you're up against the wall. The next, you're on the ground again, socks sliding against the floor as you stumble down the hall. Hands tangled in his hair. Gasping against his lips. Moving blindly, too focused on each other to spare even a second. You don't know you're in the bedroom until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, falling backward with a yelp. 

Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this. There's no reason for you to be letting Rhett Abbott climb into bed with you and slot his big, warm body between your legs. He's your friend. You've known him since you could walk. And these tattoos. They don't match. You're not soulmates. 

Rhett's hand rises, pinning yours to the mattress, fingers slotting together. Must know what you're thinking about. "Who gives a fuck 'bout soulmates," he whispers, leaning forward to bump his nose against yours, rubbing them back and forth. "A damn stranger ain't gonna make me as happy as you do."

And you don't...you don't know what to say. 

Maybe you don't need to say anything because he kisses you like he's heard everything your heart has to tell him. Stealing your breath away, plucking every little flower from your lungs, so dizzying that your legs have to curl around him to keep from floating away. As if you could possibly escape the big, warm arms that have settled on either side of your head. 

Slow, his weight settles on top of you. Bellies snug together. So close that you can hardly grind up into him, reduced to a needy squirm, whining high in your throat. 

"Shh," he coos. A big hand curling around your cheek, thumb stroking the thin skin there. "I'll take care of you."

He's already making good on his promise, pulling away to kiss down your neck once more. Hot tongue poking past his lips, running over a vein, leaves behind a glistening trail as he makes his way to your collar. One of his hands dips behind your back, pinching the clasp of your bra, opens it so easily that it almost surprises you.

The last thing you expect is for him to gasp when he pulls it away. Awestruck by the sight of you, bare, for his eyes only. "So fuckin' pretty," whispering, as he kisses down your chest. Too eager to run his tongue down the swell of your breast, so content that his closed eyes seem to smile. 

Oh, that's...

"Rhett..." Heat swells in your lower belly. The feeling of his tongue swirling around your nipple is...truly something... 

Just as quickly, he's darting to the other one, all too excited to feel the little bud harden beneath his touch. Sensitive. Only takes the slightest bit of suction to make you jolt. But he must have noticed something even more enticing because he's pulling away from that one as well, a big hand rising to toy with it as his head dips down lower. 

A delicate kiss presses to the scar on your left side. 

Then another. And another. And another. Loving on the old wound, as if he can possibly reverse the damage if he gives it enough attention. Maybe just one more kiss will do it. If not, then surely the next one can make it happen.

"It was nobody's fault," you say softly, reaching to run your fingers through his hair once more. Truly, it wasn't. Nobody could have anticipated that shard of glass. 

"I know," the rumble of his voice tickles, pausing to run his tongue up the expanse of the mark, "jus' wish it didn't hurt ya like it did."

Gradually, he draws himself away from your side. Kissing his way down your belly until he meets the thin, delicate band of your underwear. His eyes peer up at you with a silent question. Your answer comes in the form of lifted hips, allowing him to pull the material down your legs. Then, he reaches for his belt, pinching it open with mesmerizing ease.

One boot thunks against the floor. Then the other. You really hope he didn't track mud all over your hardwood.

"You and that obnoxious buckle," the comment slips off your tongue before you can stop it. Too busy watching him undress. It's unfair how well the fabric clings to his thighs, fitting him like a damn glove. 

He laughs, kicking his jeans off his feet. "What, don't think it looks good on me?" 

"If I answer that, your ego will go through the roof." Your eyes roll; the last thing you need to do is tell him that, yes, you do like it. Lord only knows he'll run himself through four more rodeo seasons, trying to score an even bigger buckle. 

"Already has," he winks, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his boxers.

You don't know what he's got to be so confident about until...

"Jesus, Rhett."

"What?" He grins. Absolutely fucking obnoxious. But you can't formulate a single word. "What?"

Your thighs cinch together, hiding yourself from view. There is absolutely no reason why that should be springing up from its confines, so heavy that it smacks against his hip, unable to stand up against his belly. So wet that even in the dark you can see him glistening.

"Naw, y' don't gotta be shy," Rhett's hand travels up your knee, slipping between your closed legs, callouses dragging deliciously against your sensitive skin, "'s just me." 

A little too easily, you fall apart once more, feeling a little too exposed as his hungry eyes rake down your body. Every imperfection and curve is on full display. An exhibit of the life you've lived. And Rhett just might be your biggest admirer, his warm frame slipping between your legs, big hands gliding up your sides, pressing lazy kisses as he settles on top of you. 

"Rhett..." you don't know why you're saying his name, thighs curling around his sharp hips. His cock head bumps into the meet of your thigh, sends you jumping before you can realize what's happened.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," uttering beneath his breath, a sentiment meant for your ears only. "I promise." He reaches between your bodies, gently guiding himself to—

Your head tilts back with a gasp. That's new. The delicate drag of Rhett's cock, gliding between your folds, the underside of him nudging at your clit. Hadn't realized you'd gotten this worked up until now, so wet that you can almost convince yourself that you don't need any lube at all. Not a hint of dryness to be found, sliding so, so easily against you.

But then you're gathering the courage to peer down between your legs, and even the darkness can't hide how big he is. Thicker than your daydreams have ever depicted, just a hair longer than any of the toys hiding beneath the bed.

"Bedside table," you blurt, heart fluttering in your chest. Walking is a privilege you'd like to keep. 

An unforeseen positive to letting your best friend between your legs is the fact that he knows exactly what you're trying to say. No need for questions as Rhett reaches off to the side, hand disappearing into the drawer. Comes back with the bottle, then delves back in, producing some tiny, round hunks of plastic.

You don't recognize them until he flicks one on—the tiny, fake candles from a few Halloweens ago.

"How romantic," there's a strangeness to this that you didn't expect; oddly casual, even with this newfound situation. 

"What?" He asks, innocent as can be, like you have a choice in the matter, already putting one flickering candle off to the side. Another, next to your hip, and he's still got four or five of them left to turn on. "Ain't in the mood for some mood lightin'?"

Lying to yourself is fruitless. The soft golden glow is a welcomed addition to this dark little bedroom. Highlights the room just enough for you to catch the way he drizzles the lube into his palm, reaching down to spread it over himself. That big hand almost tricks you into believing his cock is smaller than it really is, the flushed tip nudging at your cunt with every upward glide. 

They say monsters hide in the dark, and you know you caught sight of one between his legs. 

Two fingers press into you. No warning to be found, the thick digits easing in like they've done it a million and one times, crooking upward, dragging against your walls. There's the slightest hint of a stretch, a soft ache that—

You suck in a breath, a soft noise escaping past your lips. 

Rhett's cock twitches against you. "'s that it?" 

Weak, you nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Not with him gradually beginning to move, shallowly pumping those long digits into you, never pulling out far enough to make you feel empty. But it's so hard to stay quiet when he continuously rubs up into those little nerves, nudging them on every pass over. 

"Rhett..." hips writhing against the bed, not sure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

That must be all that he's planning to give you because all of a sudden, he's drawing away. Wet fingers glisten in the candlelight as he reaches for his cock once more, guiding it back between your folds. Not entirely the same as what you had before, but the drag of his cock head against your clit is so, so worth the exchange. 

His warm chest settles against yours once more, lips finding your cheek, scratchy jaw tickling the skin there. Sounds like he murmurs your name as he travels to the corner of your mouth, pressing another kiss there. Finally. Finally, he meets you for a proper kiss, almost immediately broken by the swivel of his hips, reformed just as quickly.

Your hands are on the move. One in his hair, the other on his naked shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips. Strong from a decade of bull riding and all that time spent on the ranch, chiseled and perfect in every way you can imagine. Fuck, it's like he was built just for you and this. Rutting between your legs like he's in heat, dragging against your needy clit until your hips twitch off the mattress, pressing into him. 

Swallowing down his groan is enough to put you up on cloud nine. 

A pressure appears at your entrance—the soft nudge of his tip. Your antics must have caused him to wander a little too far down. But you're pushing down onto him like it was your intent all along, and by God, he's not trying to stop you. 

Rhett stiffens. "You want me to...?" Muttering against your lips, unable to draw himself away any further. 

"Yeah," it's the easiest thing you've said all night.

It's all the encouragement he needs, mouth meeting yours once more. Slow, that pressure between your legs begins to grow, his blunt tip spreading you wide. There's a part of you already beginning to wonder if you should have asked for more lube, but his incessant lips are so damn distracting. Tangling with yours, drawing you into a captivating dance, spinning your head round and round, drawing your mind away from the burn. 

His head slips into you with a soft 'pop,' such an odd little feeling that has you gasping into his kiss, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. Now you can really feel him. The delicate drag of his length gradually filling you, centimeter by debilitating centimeter. You'll be waddling come morning. You can already feel it.

There's no way you won't be. Not with how your pussy aches with the overwhelming stretch of him.

"Y' want me to stop?" Rhett's low voice rumbles against your bottom lip; when did the kiss break? 

Thunder rumbles outside, your only reminder of the storm that looms just past the thin walls of your home. Even the memory of running with him in the rain feels like it was forever ago. There were flowers filling your lungs just a few hours prior, but as you draw in a breath, you can't feel a shred of evidence that they were ever there.

"Yeah," nodding, your nose bumping into his, "you're just...a lot." 

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

But it's too late. There's already a wild grin emerging onto his scruffy face, so pleased with your words that his eyes seem to sparkle. As if the sight of you struggling to take his cock wasn't enough of a boost to his ego. 

"'s that it?" Speaking through his smile, still has the audacity to sink even further into you. "Ya never had anything big as me?" 

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

All at once, his hips are flush with yours, not an inch of space left, your legs tightening around him as if there's a risk of him pulling back out. But that's not happening. Not with the way he's blindly nuzzling his nose into you, so lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can't hold his eyes open.

"Y' alright?" His eyelashes tickle your cheek as they flutter open.

"Uhuh" is the best that you've got at this given moment. It's so hard to speak when you're so full. Couldn't take another millimeter of him, even if he begged you to. "You can..." pausing for a breath, "you can move."

In perfect synchrony, your attentions flicker down to where your bodies meet. A sight lit by the golden glow of the artificial candles, illuminating the slow withdrawal of Rhett's cock, where you're stretched so wide that you don't think your smaller toys will ever satisfy you again. 

"Shit, look at that," there's no reason why Rhett, of all people, should be so mesmerized by this, but he is, and it makes you fucking dizzy. "'s fuckin' hot."

And then he's sinking back in and—

"Fuck," it's too early for you to be whimpering so high in your throat, but his blunt tip is dragging right against the sensitive nerves hidden within you, and it's so, so much. 

This close, it's hard to miss the way Rhett's breath hitches, "'s that the spot, baby?"

All you can do is nod. Nails biting into his shoulders as he draws back once more, rubbing past that little spot once more. Toys don't normally get this sort of reaction out of you, but there's just something about it being Rhett that's getting to you. Your childhood best friend. The man that your weary heart has yearned for since high school. Eye candy at every rodeo he's ever set foot in. 

His lips find yours, tangling lazily, humming all the while. A part of you wonders if he always demands this many kisses. If he makes a habit of smiling into them. The rest of you knows that he doesn't because otherwise, he'd know that the heavy thrust of his hips would send your teeth clattering together.

"Ow," he's jerking back as if he's not the main culprit behind it. 

His cock head drives right up into those nerves. Sends your back arching up off the bed, pussy spasming around him, and you don't know which of you cry out louder. 

"There, there, there," you're babbling like a fool, but he's already missing it again. Such a minuscule thing that every correction is an overshot. 

Rhett's brows furrow, focusing so damn hard, and yet, "I can't...shit, that ain't it either." 

But you've got an idea.

Without a word, you begin to lean up, foreheads bumping together as Rhett tries to follow along, his big blue eyes so wide that they glisten in the light. Slipping out of you entirely as he falls onto his haunches, looks like a big puppy when he's confused like this.

"On your back," your command is soft. It could easily be bent if he really wanted to, but he's already following through on it, twisting and falling back onto the bed without a fuss. 

Settling into his lap is a feeling you've imagined a million and one times, and yet, somehow, it's unlike anything your mind has ever come up with. Warmth radiating off him like he's a damn heater, broad chest making your hand look impossibly tiny, as you lean on him for balance. He's already one step ahead of you, carefully guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt; all you've got to do is sink down and—

A pair of gasps tear through the room. Louder than the storm raging outside.

"Y' look so fuckin' beautiful on top of me, baby," Rhett sputters, peering up at you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky. 

Already, you're beginning to move. Knees digging into the mattress, palms firm against his chest as you lift yourself up. The curve of his length alone is enough to make your thighs shudder.

"You're not so bad yourself," you're breathless already, hips swiveling, searching for that deceptive little angle. Maybe if you...lean a little further forward...

There it is. 

A tingle ripples up your spine, clamping down around Rhett's cock, and he must feel it because his head rolls to the side, lips parting with a groan that ought to make your head spin. Those big hands settle onto your thighs, gripping like he'll fall off the bed if he doesn't.

"Is that—oh fuck,"  his hips jerk up off the bed, leaking tip kissing those little nerves head on, "is that it?"

You can't answer. Palms shivering against his chest, already fighting to keep yourself upright. An ache blooming in your thighs with every rise and fall, head tilting back, a familiar heat beginning to bloom in your lower belly.

Rhett must be feeling it, too. There's no way he isn't. Head rolling from side to side, back arching off the bed, unable to keep himself still beneath you, a whiny mewl escaping his parted lips. And all it's doing is jostling his length inside of you, sporadically tapping against all those sensitive spots.

A calloused thumb appears on your clit. Not sure when he started reaching down, but it's damn near got you collapsing onto his chest, a tremble setting into your exhausted bones. 

"Fuck, Rhett!" You're squealing, poorly built rhythm already beginning to fall apart. 

Again, his hips snap upward, heavy balls smacking against your ass. "'m sorry, I'm not trying to buck my hips. I just..." he doesn't get to finish that because you're falling forward into his chest, face burying into his shoulder. It's too much. It's too much. 

Big hands settle on your hips. Gripping tight as his knees bend, feet digging into the mattress to pump into you properly. Lewd smacks of skin on skin echoing through the room, artificial candles bouncing with his every motion. 

"Anyone else ever fill your sweet pussy like this?" He rasps in some rumbling, guttural tone you've never heard before. "Hm?"

Your head shakes, but it takes a moment to realize that he can't see what you're doing. Not with you nuzzled up under his jaw. "N-no," whimpering right into his ear. 

Those hands are moving again, gliding up your back, big arms securing themselves around you like a hug, the only damn thing that keeps you from bouncing further up the bed. Your forearms settle on either side of his head, shivering as you try to lift yourself up, but you can only go so far, barely able to meet his eyes.

Lips clash, so loose that it hardly even counts as a kiss. Drinking down Rhett's feeble whine. Makes your head spin so much more than the alcohol ever did. Heat pools between your legs, pussy tightening like a vice around his pistoning cock, thick tip rubbing into those nerves over and over and over. 

You're close. 

"I love you," it slips out of him so quietly that you nearly believe it's a figment of your imagination. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

One of your hands delves into his hair, noses colliding. Think you might be whispering it back, but you can't hear what's coming out of your mouth. Overridden by the blood rushing to your head and the slap of his skin against yours, and, and, and...

Spots appear in your vision. Body going taut as you cum around him without the slightest warning. Crying out high in your throat, forehead knocking against Rhett's, an invisible flame racing across your skin. Every thrust pushes your head higher into the clouds, could damn near float up to the ceiling if his arms weren't tightening around you, his hips stalling. A melody of whimpers bubbles out of his throat, orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave. 

You think you can feel it. The spasm of his cock and the warmth of his cum painting you white, flooding your pussy so full that you think it's already beginning to pour out of you. His hips jerk up into you, punctuated by a sickening squelch and his own broken moan. 

And yet, somehow, you've got the strength to meet his swollen lips, lazy tongues poking out to twist together like a greeting. Wet and messy as can be, saliva running down your chin, drooling like dogs in the summer sun. Rhett twists beneath you, and you're vaguely aware that the world around you is spinning, falling into the mattress beside him. 

A tickle rises in the back of your throat, forcing a cough out of you. Two purple flowers dance out onto the bed, obnoxiously vibrant and dainty. They've always been small, nothing compared to the roses Rhett's been choking up, but they look even tinier in his sweaty palm.

"Spiderwort," he murmurs after a moment, running a fingertip over their petals. Bleary blues peer flicker up to you, half-lidded and turned upward by his dumb smile.

They've always been his favorite. 

"So there was no girl at the bar?" You ask, hand wandering onto his cheek, curling around it like he's the most delicate thing on this planet. 

His head shakes. "Never." 

There's still a storm lurking outside, rattling the house, lightning and thunder striking the ground with an unmatched fury, but you hardly notice it. Too distracted by the warmth of a cowboy, his legs tangling with yours, uncaring of the mess you've made together. Kissing just for the hell of it, wandering across cheeks and peppering over old scars, musing about the memories attached. 

When you fall asleep, you're not sure, but you wake snuggled into his naked chest, his big arm looped around you like a blanket. Sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains, the shrill tune of a bird singing her song, and for once, it's dreamy rather than irritating. 

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler. 

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open. 

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses. 

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm. 

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh. 

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture. 

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it. 

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all. 

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened. 

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort. 

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed. 

[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 2 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 1 HERE, and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 14k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. The weekend before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A cellphone is tucked between Monsoon's cheek and shoulder, the line trilling. She carries her duffle bags and kit, feeling like a battering ram as she makes her way through the crowd of people. The airport is packed and she can feel just how humid it is form how sticky she feels.

The hallways of the airport wind as she follows the crowd out of the baggage claim. The people around her move just a bit too slowly as they wheel their bags behind them, just begging for someone to trip over them if they dare pass. If there is one thing Monsoon did not miss about being at Top Gun, it's the trip in.

Fuck flying coach.

Fuck PSC Season and all of the families taking all the seats on the military flights.

Fuck the crying lady sitting next to her, who wouldn't stop sobbing at the shitty romcom she was watching, and fuck when she decided to start it over, just to watch it all over again.

But the best thing about coming back has to be seeing her surrogate father, Beau Simpson. Their relationship has only grown stronger since that night at the bar. They have spent countless meals together, drinking at bars when they are in the same place and always sending 'check in' emails. Phone calls have always been a bit dodgy between time zones and deployments.

Neither one knew exactly what they were getting into when the bond between them grew, neither really sure exactly what a parent/child relationship looks like, especially when the child is really an unrelated adult. But as the days went on, and the email chain got longer and longer, things seemed to just make sense.

The pair talked about everything, from work to dating, friendships and recipes. Cyclone opened up about June and their baby, sharing his favorite stories of their marriage. From how they started dating, to the day that June passed, Monsoon heard it all. 

Calla lilies were June's favorite, the only flowers that Beau believes should ever be given to a woman, and Monsoon smiles at the memory of her graduation from Top Gun, and the way Cyclone smiled at her with the bouquet of lilies in his lap.

When Monsoon found herself in Vermont she carved out time to visit June and Baby Boy Simpson at the cemetery. She showed up with two bouquets of calla lilies and a speech to give them. Monsoon cleaned their headstones and laid the flowers delicately across their plots, speaking to them the whole time about herself, and Cyclone, and the world they live in.

Cyclone's phone buzzed in his pocket while in a meeting. When he snuck a peak, he was met with a photo of Monsoon, a light smile adorning her face as she sits just in front of the burial plots. The message read "With Mama June and Bubba, thinking of you, Pops". Cyclone had to excuse himself from the table with tears in his eyes.

As the years went on, the surfaces in Cyclone's office slowly began to fill with more photos of the two of them. The collection of frames started out sophisticated, it really did, but as time went on, the frames became more eclectic, more fun. 

It's juxtaposes the rest of Cyclones office in a way that is almost comical. As he is shouting at someone for their latest fuck up, there are shelves full of silly frames just a few feet away. Cyclone's favorite just so happens to read "Clown College Class President" while Monsoon's favorite is one of those irregular shaped ones, with an oval opening for the photograph.

There is a photo of the two of them tucked in the cockpit of Monsoon's jet. It catches the mechanics off guard every time, but no one dare says a word about it- mostly out of fear that word would get back to Admiral. The photo depicts the two of them at one of those giant truck stops, posing with the large dinosaur sitting out front. She is sat atop of it, like a cowboy, with Cyclone leaning up against it, his shoulder near her thigh. They both wear larger than life smiles as the sun beats down on them. It was a silly thing, really. Both stuck in at little forgotten Air Base in middle America for a flight test, but the pair managed to make the best of it, remembering to take photographs as they went.

There is a postcard folded up in Cyclone's wallet. Once upon a time, it read the catchy saying "Why Not Minot?" printed across the front of it, with a cute little photo of a town square, a little forgotten town in North Dakota. It's one of those bases that people dread being stationed at, that much has always been true, but the little photo on the front of the post card sold a different tale. It wasn't the cutesy saying or the photo that made him keep it, the edges now worn and fibrous. On the back, written in neat blue ink, underneath a little blurb about how there is absolutely nothing to do in North Dakota, the sentence "I love you, Pops" sits next to a scribbly little heart.

The staticky, tolling, phoneline picks up after a few rings as Monsoon pushes around a family with one too many screaming toddlers. They have on those little backpack leashes and Monsoon almost gets close lined as a little dark haired child bursts in front of her without warning. She dodged, but she catches one of those damn rolling bags with her toe. Monsoon barely notices the glare the lady sent her way, but the lack luster wrath of a stranger isn't going to stop her.

"Hey, Kid," Cyclone greets over the line, the smile on his face evident through the sound of his voice. There is no need for an official "hello" to begin the conversation, both knowing full well that Cyclone had been watching the flight itinerary like a hawk to make sure Monsoon wasn't going to be delayed. The call upon landing is just expected at this point, though neither of them have mastered the cool,casual, its good to see you.

"I just landed," A woman walks right into one of the duffle bags hanging off of Monsoon's shoulders, throwing her completely off balance. She hikes the bag higher up on her shoulder, trying to rebalance the hefty weight she is carrying. Monsoon sways like she is at sea, attempting to get her balance back. There is something so familiar about the way she sways a bit, just like the jet carriers do as the waves bash against the metal of the hull.

"Fuck" she curses under her breath, steadying herself once again. For a Seaman, one might think Monsoon would have better balance. Cyclone rolls his eyes on the other side of the phone. "I'll be over for dinner tonight, if that's still the plan,"

"Sure is, I'm making your favorite,"

"Steak and potatoes are your favorite," Monsoon corrects.

"You can correct me without the side of guilt, you know," Cyclone is chuckling through the phone, earning him a roll of the eyes.

"I only meant to tease," There is a nonchalance to her voice, though she is the furthest thing from cool. Cyclone isn't either. His kid is coming home and they get to sit down for a meal for the first time in months and he is beyond excited.

"I'm going to drop my stuff off at my rental, then I'll be headed your way, you better be ready for me to eat enough for a small village," Monsoon heads right for the exit, ready to look for a taxi. "And Pops, maybe think about adding a-" The word "vegetable" fails to make it's way out of her mouth as Monsoon looks up as the double doors in front of her slide open. Cyclone is standing on the other side, a large sign reading "WELCOME HOME KIDDO" sits loosely in his hand, the other holds his phone up to his ear.

It's like one of those cheesy scenes from a movie, both wearing matching grins and laughing. Cyclone knew the whole thing would be a surprise; he took a leave day to make sure he would bet there to pick her up.

"Pops!" The name still makes Cyclone's heart swell, even if he had been responding to that very name for the past few years. It's funny, really, how easy it was for the pair to adjust to the name, though Monsoon waited for him to acknowledge it first before she actually said it.

The acknowledgement came from a recorded phone message, shortly after her first move after her Top Gun Graduation. Cyclone got stuck in on the highway with a dead car and no cellphone. The call came in from a payphone, an unknown number. Cyclone left a message, "Hey, kid, it's Pops, my car died and I am stranded. I could use an assist. Do you know anyone in Missouri?". That message is still saved on Monsoon's phone to this day.

"Hey, Kiddo!" And then Monsoon is stumbling closer, her bags swinging her center of gravity all over the place. He reaches a hand out to take one, ready to throw it over his shoulder, but instead, each one hits the pavement with a hard thud. Monsoon is quickly wrapping her arms around his body, one over his shoulder, one under his arm, meeting around his back and squeezing him hard.

The hug is returned in kind, both damn near trying to squeeze each other to death. It's playful, as they share "good to see you's" and "I've missed you's" .

"I hope you don't mind, Kid, but I invited another one of the recruits to dinner tonight," He speaks the words into her hair. Monsoon pulls back to look up at her Pops with furrowed brows. She doesn't have to say a thing, he already knows exactly what is going through her mind.

"I know it's unorthodox, but, Kazansky said it might be a good idea, and when the good Admiral says something like that, you set another place at the table,"

"Yeah, unorthodox is definitely a word for it," Monsoon is pulling out of Cyclone's embrace, dipping to grab her discarded bags from the pavement. Cyclone grabs one before she can, which earns him a roll of her eyes.

"Be nice, would you?"

"To you or the mystery guest?" Her words are dripping with sarcasm.

"Preferably both," Cyclone chides, poking her in the side with the welcome home sign. She swats it away with a quick hand, both laughing.

"I'll see what I can do,"

---

The sun is setting over the horizon, painting the sky orange with wisps of pink the lower it sinks behind the curve of the Earth. Monsoon is spread out on one of the lawn chairs, relaxing, well, more like waiting out her Pops' little outburst. She had opened the grill to check on the steak, making sure the edges wouldn't be too crispy, and Cyclone all but snapped the lid shut in the middle of her investigation. He banished her to the other side of the patio to wait for the food to finish cooking. Then, and only then, would she be allowed to touch the grill again.

If there is one thing to be true, Cyclone has a method when it comes to grilling. Monsoon had it all explained to her the first time he grilled for the pair of them. He has it down to a science, all from the temperature and the kind of charcoal to use, to the length of marinating time and spices to make even the worst cut of meat from the Commissary the most perfect dinner.

And Monsoon couldn't exactly tell him he was wrong. After all, every single thing Beau had ever placed in front of her tasted delicious, delectable even. Not only that, but Monsoon really couldn't have done it better if she tried. Her Pops wouldn't let her try, either, but that is beside the point.

Soon, everything is pulled off the grill and the pair are inside, Monsoon tasked with setting the table. All of the windows are open, the evening breeze cooling the inside of the house. As she places another fork down, Monsoon takes in the way the breeze dances across her skin. Goosebumps threaten to crest over her exposed arms at the chill the air carries. In that moment, she is thankful for the California air, the smell of the freshly made sides sitting in the center of the table, and the fact that she is setting the table in her Pops' house.

It has been too long since the pair got to sit together and share a meal. Cups of coffee over video chat were no where near as nice and Monsoon couldn't lie, she missed Cyclone's cooking. As she sets down the last knife, Cyclone is bounding down the stairs. His causal jeans and t-shirt have been replaced by a nice pair of brown slacks and a cream polo shirt, tucked in with a belt. He's even sporting loafers.

"Hey Pops, there is something I want to talk to you about tonight," Monsoon shouts down the hall. She tries to shake the bit of nerves rumbling through her chest like a handful of loan bees.

"Okay, kiddo," Cyclone calls back as he is rounding the corner into the kitchen, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, promise,"

"Okay," It's a simple response as he walks further into the kitchen. He pats her on the shoulder as he passes, a loving gesture.

"Got a hot date?" Monsoon chides as she looks him up and down. She sets the bundle of flatware down on the table, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No," Cyclone is shaking his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at her words. "We are having company tonight, remember?"

"Oh, I remember, but I didn't think some random Lieutenant, that is only coming over because the good Admiral all but ordered him to, was someone worth dressing up for."

There is a shrug of her shoulders as her head sways down nonchalantly. Cyclone crosses his arms, mirroring his kid, with a stern look on his face. It's a look that Monsoon isn't used to seeing out of uniform. Maybe it should worry her, but the vein that would usually protrude from his forehead is nowhere to be seen.

"Remember, kid, you too are just 'some random Lieutenant'" Those words stir a bit of anger within Monsoon, but it dissipates as fast as it came.

"Well then, Admiral Simpson, sir," Monsoon stands up a bit straighter, dropping her hands to her sides, "Let me find something more presentable to wear for the strange man who's crashing out family dinner," She grimaces a bit, but they both laugh. Beau is just laughing, in that way that make's his whole body shake, his eyes scrunched closed while whole hearted giggles escape his lips.

"Go on, kid," He waves in the general direction of the hallway, towards the front of the house where she dropped her bags by the front door.

The zipper of her duffle bag slide open easily, the separation of the teeth vibrating her fingertips. Monsoon fishes out a sun dress and a cropped sweater, something to keep her warmer as the sun sets below the horizon. It's a nice enough combination, something that will surly look like she gives a fuck about her appearance without looking like she planned too much. Monsoon changes out of her sweat shorts and t-shirt in the half bath, emerging looking like a brand new woman, though the feeling  of the plane still lingers on her skin.

Just as she is stuffing her travel clothing back into her bag, the doorbell sounds throughout the house, the bells tolling just a bit too loud.

"Jeez, Pops, could that doorbell be any louder?" Monsoon is yelling just as she reaches for the door. She pulls it open with a swift movement, a smile on her face. Then it falls as soon as she sees who is standing on the other side of the threshold.

Clad in a button down shirt, one with a pattern that would rival any rodeo clown, with one too many buttons undone stands Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw; a man she hasn't seen since a deployment five years ago, about six months after she graduated from Top Gun.

There is a gold chain hanging around his neck. It's just long enough to graze over the tops of his collar bones. His shirt is untucked, the bottom a bit wrinkly, like he has tucked and untucked it a couple of times trying to decide which looked better. He made the wrong choice, by Monsoon's calculation, the patterned shirt covering the top of his dark khakis. He looks a bit silly, really, from the chain down to his boat shoes. The thing that catches her the most off guard though, is the fucking mustache he has decorating, no, vandalizing his upper lip.

Her own mouth hangs open just a bit, her hand tightening it's grip on the door handle. Bradley shoots her that mega wat smile, that million dollar, dentist office poster smile- the one that made her swoon all those years ago. But now, now it makes her fucking angry. Or maybe it's resentment that she feels boiling up inside of her, steaming her insides with a sort of sick feeling that she hasn't felt in years.

The last time this strange, queasy feeling flowed through her she was wrapped up in the white sheets of her mattress on an aircraft carrier, somewhere out in the pacific. Her naked body feeding off of the warmth of spot that Rooster once occupied. When she awoke, there was a feeling of contentment that spread over her skin, until she reached over to find the spot next to her cold.

Their deployment relationship ended with a fucking post it note, "Duty Calls" is all it read, scribbled down in a mess of black ink, the pen itself skipping. Hell, the pen couldn't even bother to work long enough to get a complete message through- their relationship simmered down to nothing more than steamy nights together in a twin size bunk while the ocean waves rocked against the carrier.

The contentment drained from Monsoon faster than than the anger could take over, and for a moment there was nothingness in the spaces between her ribs.

And now, Bradley fucking Bradshaw is standing on her Pops' front porch, smiling at her like nothing has ever happened between them, holding a bottle of wine, and somehow she is just supposed to let him in!

"Hello," He scratches at the back of his neck, his brows pinched together just the slightest bit. "Is this Admiral Simpson's house?"

Words are caught in the back of Monsoon's throat, each individual letter sticking her in the esophagus. Monsoon stands there looking at Bradley, each growing a bit more uncomfortable as the seconds go by. But, she is on the inside of the doorjamb, she has the upper hand. Just as she goes to slam the door in his fucking ugly mustache, Cyclone catches the door.

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Beau booms, his tone friendly as he sends Monsoon a what the fuck look. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, though it does nothing to relieve the rapidly growing headache that's taking over her skull.

"Come in, come in!" Cyclone practically ushers Bradley into the house. "This is my daughter, Y/N Mitchell, she is in the new Top Gun class as well!"

Beau is doing his best to defuse the tension in the room, between Monsoon's anger, and Bradley's overall discomfort from being in an Admiral's house, the vibes are askew. Bradley crinkles his brows at the information and Beau quickly jumps in with a chuckle, "No relation, but I claim her anyway. Introduce yourself, Son,"

"Brad-"

"We already know each other,"

The pair speak at the same time. Monsoon's tone is full of distain, like the words taste bitter and unforgiving on her tongue. She pushes past Bradley's outstretched hand and past Cyclone. Bradley can't help the fact that his face twists up in confusion as he wracks his brain trying to figure out where exactly he knew her. 

The woman's definitely too upset to be a recent fling- hell, Bradley hasn't even managed to bring a girl back to his place in such a long time. Deployment really limited his prospects and she sure wasn't on the mission he just finished. 

"Please, this way," Cyclone guides Bradley back to the kitchen, taking the bottle of wine from the younger man. They follow the path Monsoon took, down the hall and back to the large kitchen. She is standing at the sink, her hands braced on the counter top.

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Bradshaw. If you'll excuse me, I have to speak with my daughter for a second." Cyclone is moving before Bradley can acknowledge him. So, Bradley pretends to be very interested in the view just outside the kitchen window.

"What the hell, kid?" Cyclone carefully grabs Monsoon's elbow, leaning in just a little bit closer to fake some sort of privacy. He sets the bottle of wine on the counter. With all the tension blooming in the air around them, Cyclone decides alcohol is the last thing they need. 

"It's complicated, Pops, just leave it be, okay?" Monsoon is running a hand through her hair, a shallow attempt to ground herself. "I can play nice for one dinner,"

"What the hell happened between you two? And it's not just one dinner, it's the next few weeks."

That fact is met with a grumble from Monsoon. It took her only a few seconds to convince herself that she would be able to make it though a dinner, but the idea of having to see Bradley fucking Bradshaw every day for the foreseeable future had a mixture of nausea and frustration swirling through her. 

"Pops, trust me, this really isn't something you are going to want to hear about, nor do I feel like discussing it in your kitchen, at a whisper, while the man who doesn't even seem to fucking remember me is only a few feet away! No thank you," Monsoon pushes past Cyclone once more, picking up the bowl of salad from the kitchen island and bringing it over to the table. Cyclone is hot on her tail, speaking lowly after her.

"Y/N" That gets her to stop, Beau never uses her first name, "We are not finished discussing this,"

"After supper then," The words leave her tongue sharp, but they are met with a nod of approval. Then Cyclone is moving, ready for the night to move on as planned. 

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Cyclone is turning his attention back to their guest, a makeshift smile plastered to his face, "Please, take a seat, I am just going to grab the food off the grill,"

And then Cyclone is disappearing out the back door, leaving Monsoon and Rooster alone, the room already threatening to burst from the rapidly accumulating tension. Monsoon chances a look at Bradley as she finished setting out the flatware that had been left abandoned earlier, suddenly a little bit glad that her Pops hinted at her to change clothes. She looks good, that much she knows, if only it mattered at this point.

Maybe, if it mattered, Bradley would look at her and realize just how much he walked out on. Maybe he would see the way Cyclone cares for her, and their little family that they've created and know that he threw away his chance to be apart of it. If only he could see just how happy she is now- yet he doesn't even fucking recognize her, and that makes her heart burn like cheap kerosene. It's like gulping down saltwater, the feeling of being forgotten, drowning right out in the open for everyone to see.

As Monsoon is drowning in thoughts of Bradley, he is just trying to remember her.

Bradley takes in the slope of her nose and the freckles that are smattered across her legs. His eyes wander over the frizzy bits of her hair, down the line of her shoulder and ending at the tips of her fingers. The way that she glances at him, her face still turned down as she adjusts the table settings, strikes him as familiar- but in a far off sense of the word. Familiar in the way his own face is reminiscent of his father's. 

His father, Goose, and Maverick... Pete Mitchell... Mitchell!

"Mitchell?" Bradley breaks the silence, his gaze  a bit wider, still locked on her downturned face. Monsoon's eyes shoot up at the name, locking with his dark brown eyes. They bore into her the same way they always had and a part of her aches. 

"Are you-" The breath he sucks into his lungs burns a bit with hazy memory, "Are you Pete Michell's kid?"

An audible, pained groan leaves Monsoon's throat at the question. 

"Not anymore," Are the only words she can manage, the flames of anger licking at her legs.

"But you were, once?" There is almost a ribbon of hope laces somewhere in his tone, but Monsoon pays it no mind. She walks away from the table, keeping her back to Bradley as she attempts to calm the heat of rage that's licking at her legs. 

Why couldn't Bradley just ask her about normal things? Why aren't they talking about work, their partners, their friends. Hell, he could hit on her at this point and it would go over better. 

If he wanted to talk about Maverick- Pete Michell, there were countless times when they were tangled up together in blankets, in the dark save for the crack of light breaking into the room from under the doorway.

He could have asked as they scurried up the stairs of the carrier, their gear smacking against their chests as they ran. Bradley could have asked then, as they bounded out into the early morning, salt soaked air.

Hell, Bradley could have asked over coms, high in the air as the wind whistled past their wings. They were just test flights after all, no enemy to contend with. He could have asked her then.

But he didn't.

"That was a very long time ago," She's turning to the fridge, pulling a pitcher of lemonade out. The sigh that leaves her lips is nothing but tension attempting to escape from the confines of her chest. It doesn't work, and Bradley doesn't catch the hint to just shut the fuck up and leave it be.

"We knew each other, right? When we were kids?" The question catches Monsoon off guard, almost as much as his initial presence did. She wants to laugh, really she does, at the ridiculousness of the situation. 

He didn't remember that fact when they met on the carrier five years ago, and Monsoon tried not to let that bother her, especially when he was buried inside of her, moaning filthy things into her ear. But now? Now he remembers. But somewhere, the memory of their torrid love affair escapes the great mind of Bradley Bradshaw.

"Oh, for fucks sake,"

Though the whole thing is laughable; Bradley isn't laughing. He's holding his breath, too caught up in the scene in front of him, in the soreness of his chest and the way his heart thrums against the backside of his ribcage. 

Fuck how his chest aches. 

There is this part of his past, this piece that he once knew like the back of his hand, that's just in reach now- again, and Monsoon is laughing at him. The memory of her was erased with the sounding of artillery, the three volley's fired into the air. And now, he craves this memory like he craves the memory of his father, the pieces of his innocence having crumbling into his hands like ash.

It still stains his hands that sickly blackish gray, gritty against his skin, though he is the only one that can see it.

The sliding door opens once more and Cyclone is slipping though, holding a large platter of steak in his hand, the meat is grilled to perfection and he looks proud. Bradley looks at Monsoon with furrowed brows, questioning the words that she let slip past her lips. Cyclone steps between them, setting the plate of meat down on to the dinner table, more than enough food to go around.

"Please, Y/N, come and join us," Cyclone is pulling out a seat right next to Bradley, offering it to her. Reluctantly, she pads over, taking a seat next to Bradley who can't seem to take his eyes off of her face. He runs his hands up and down his pant legs, more out of anxiety than anything else. Cyclone takes a seat across from the pair, a tight smile on his face. 

In any other world, it may look like a child introducing their significant other to their father, the way the tension hangs in the air between the trio. Cyclone awkwardly dishes himself servings of the food before passing it to Monsoon, who does the same before placing it down next to her, leaving Bradley to fend for himself. It's petty, that's true, but to Monsoon, it's a small act of defiance. A small fuck you for not remembering her, or the nights they spent together.

The Admiral knows something is going on right under his nose, just out of his understanding. He can see it in the way Monsoon shifts awkwardly in her seat while Bradley's gaze gets overly friendly with the plate in front of him. There's a question on the tip of his tongue, "kid, is Bradley your boyfriend?" but he knows better than to ask it. As he observes longer, he takes in the way his daughter tilts her shoulders just a little further away from Bradley, the arm closest to him resting elbow down on the table. The moment Cyclone notices the unpassed dishes sitting between the pair, he just knows. 

"So," Cyclone clears his throat, "Are you two excited to be back at Top Gun?"

It's a reasonable question, very middle of the road. Monsoon opens her mouth to answer, but Bradley beats her to it.

"Yes, sir. It's good to be back stateside. Hell, it's good to be back on solid ground. I've been stuck on a carrier for the past nine months and I was beginning to lose my mind!" He's chuckling now, and Beau joins in right along side him, the deep chuckles of the men filling the air. "But you know how it can get on the carriers. It's hard to pass the time, no going to the bar with friends, no dating,"

Then, Monsoon's fork hits her plate with a metallic clank against the glass. No dating, yeah, right. Out of all of the things Monsoon pegged Bradley to be, a liar was not one of them, but then again not much could surprise her after the way he left. 

"How about you, kid?"

"To be determined, Pops," The answer is genuine, spoken through grit teeth. 

Maybe she shouldn't be so upset with Bradley's lack of remembrance for her. After all, it's not always the wrong time with the right person. Or the wrong place. Sometimes it's wrong, maybe he just didn't like her that much- more a deployment fling to get him through the lonely nights than a future. 

"Well, I am excited you're back," Cyclone returns her direction, but Monsoon just shoves a fork full of salad into her mouth.

"Sir, can I ask what exactly they called us back for? And are there more of us?" Bradley asks between bites, his fork and knife busy against his plate.

"I am not obliged to share much, but I can tell you that fifteen of you have been called back, from varying Top Gun classes." The explanation leaves something to be desired, but both recruits are nodding on the other side of the table. Bradley eats another bite of steak, complimenting Cyclone on his grilling; Monsoon is just pushing the food around on her plate with the tines of her fork. It's easier than finding the appetite that was lost somewhere between the front door and the kitchen after Bradley's arrival.

"Are you teaching us this go around, Pops?" Monsoon's question is spoken quietly, in the middle of Bradley's sentence about his own grilling technique- there is no remorse for the interruption.

At her words, Cyclone visibly stiffens, his fork stilling on his plate. Then he's setting it down, eyes still locked with his plate. With a huff and a lick of his lips he looks across the table, met with two pairs of curious eyes. He knew this was going to be hard, but he didn't expect it to be quite like this. 

"No, I'm not teaching," Cyclone takes another breathe, unsure who to make eye contact with, knowing the words he's about to say are not going to be received well, by either one of them. "We- Top Gun has decided to bring in-"

The doorbell is ringing loudly through the house, startling Cyclone in his seat. It breaks though the tension like a fucking bullet, the whole thing blasting apart on impact. The trio trade glances that last milliseconds, like someone just knows whos going to be standing on the other side of that door.

"I'll get it, Pops," Monsoon is already pushing out of her seat, placing her napkin next to her plate. She is a bit too eager to get away from the tension surrounding that table, not only from her question but from the way Bradley is basically staring out of the corner of his eye. Though she can't exactly see it happening, she can feel it- the way his eyes are boring into the side of her head, almost burning. She will take anyone being on the other side of that door if it means she doesn't have to sit in Bradley's swimming gaze any longer. 

"No, you stay, I'll get it," Cyclone corrects, "You stay and chat,"

Then, Cyclone is pushing away from the table, heading right for the front door. He gives his daughter no time to protest. Cyclone leaves the slowly rebuilding tension behind him, and Monsoon is stuck having to sit back down, next to Bradley, left to simmer in it.

"We did know each other, right?" Bradley is quick to ask the moment Cyclone rounds the corner. It's a speed he's not used to- too used to sitting and waiting for the perfect timing that just doesn't come. But this isn't something he's willing to wait on, it's just something he has to know.

"Yes, Bradley, we knew each other. But that was a long time ago," Monsoon is shrugging, avoiding his eyes. The words should have hit him harder, from the way they all but flew from her lips, but the impact is almost gentle, like the comfort of them bore the brunt of it all.

"Do you remember my father?" The question is so innocent that it almost hurts; and Monsoon knows just how much throbbing pain there is inside Bradley. After one drunken night while on the carrier, he poured his heart out about his father, about how much he missed him and how he wished- hoped that Goose would have been proud of him. Monsoon sat and listened the to the whole thing, through the tears and drunken hiccups, reassuring Bradley that Goose would be proud of him.

After all, she knewhim, even if that was a million years ago- even if Bradley didn't know it.

She knows he would have been, because Goose was a good man.

A trait that seemed to have skipped over Bradley.

Good men remember their lovers. They remember their old friends. They remember the people who showed up to their mother's funeral- and have the decency to show up to their friends' mother's funeral.  

Good men don't leave women in the dead of night, a break up message scrawled on a sticky note. They don't leave their friends to grieve alone. They don't forget. 

"Yes, I remember him," Monsoon chances a glance at Bradley, unintentionally meeting his eyes. God, he's looking at her like she holds the fucking secrets to the universe and all she can feel is a sort of twisted up sickness, like her sternum is bound together with poisoned ropes. Bradley can see the stars that cling to her fingertips, the secrets to the cosmos, but can't seem to find the words to beg for their translation.

Cyclone is walking back into the room a second later, accompanied by another set of footsteps. Neither Monsoon nor Bradley look up when they walk in, both too busy staring at each other. Bradley looks curious, Monsoon looks hurt. 

She looks away first. 

A tall blond walks in behind Cyclone, his gaze focused on a set of files in his hand. He's reading over the top file carefully, running his free hand through his cropped hair. There is a toothpick in his mouth, resting between his teeth. Dressed in his tan uniform, his biceps are straining against the cuffs.

He's a Stetson model type, clean cut and masculine. The line of his jaw accentuated by the clean lines of his uniform. His jaw ticks with frustration as his brows furrow at the paperwork. There appears to be a word on the tip of his tongue by the way the toothpick bobs between his plump lips.

"Hey, guys, sorry for that, this is-" Cyclone swings his hand, introduction interrupted by twin gasps.

"Jake?!"

"Hangman?"

Hangman isn't sure who to look at first, but his eyes meet Bradley's form first, his eyebrows knitting together at the familiar face before shooting to his hairline when his eyes land on Monsoon sitting next to Bradley.

"Y/N, Doll! What are you doing here?"

Cyclone is whipping his head around in the way he might flip a jet. And Monsoon is pushing out of her chair again, ready to round the table and throw herself into the arms of the strong, blond man who just walked in, but her eyes meet the bewildered look on Cyclone's face, causing her to halt her movements. Hangman sets the paperwork down on the kitchen island, his eyes still locked on Monsoon, that damn smirk of his playing on his lips. Monsoon can tell he is holding himself back, fully aware of exactly who's house he is standing in, and the relationship between Monsoon and the Admiral.

It's been months since they've seen each other. Their goodbyes were said on the front porch of his little rental outside of Lake Hurst. Neither of them relished being in New Jersey, but they had each other and that's all that had mattered. They fostered a brand new relationship over a year, neither of them brave enough to label the nights spent together in that house. 

Then new orders came down the pipeline, on a TS Need-To-Know. The pair were being separated with the flick of a pen. So, they labelled their year long relationship through tears standing on his stoop, the night the orders came down the channel. 

They packed Jake's small house, and Monsoon's apartment, neither one knowing just what was to come. In the name of a temporary duty station, they got storage units next to each other, the closest thing to living together they'd be able to swing. 

That was six months ago. 

Monsoon did a little time in Pensacola while Jake got sent to Oak Harbor. Thousands of miles apart, their dates turned from late night dinners to quick conversations over the phone just to hear the other's voice. 

Neither of them expected their reunion to be here, in Admiral Simpson's kitchen, with Bradley Bradshaw and the Admiral watching the whole thing, confused expressions written into their features. 

"I got recalled to Top Gun!" Monsoon giggles a bit, her gaze still trapped with Hangman's.

"Me too!" The words leave Jake's lips and the pair are smiling. It's taking everything for them to hold themselves back from embracing each other, after months apart. Then, Cyclone is clearing his throat.

"Pops," Monsoon begins, clasping her hands in front of her, "God, this is weird. Remember earlier this evening when I said I wanted to talk to you about something?"

She had fully been intending on telling her Cyclone about her relationship with Hangman, in fact, she had been working up the courage for the past few weeks. But, Jake comes with a record, a reputation, and a respect problem, things Monsoon knows her Pops won't approve of. 

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" The words are leaving Cyclone's lips almost too quick, but Monsoon is quick to reassure him that it is.

"Well, this isn't exactly how I saw this going, but, Pops, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Jake Seresin," Monsoon is gesturing to Jake now, a worried smile on her face. The pair know each other, of course they do. They had met the first time Hangman went through Top Gun. Cyclone was on instructor duty and Hangman didn't take overly well to being instructed; though he did finish top of his class. 

Monsoon bobs up and down on the balls of her feet, the nervous energy flowing through her body. If she could push all the energy out of her and into the floor she would. Her soles grounding the electric current flowing through her, unapologetic and lightning hot. Monsoon would stand there in front of the three men who have played such a large roll in her life, back straight and eyes forward like the Navy trained her to do, if only she could coral that fucking energy and send it straight through the floor.

Monsoon bounces instead.

If she had the time, she could have prevented the look that crosses Cyclone's face. That look of you're not good enough for my kid that is so evident on his features. She knows that Jake saw it, clear as day from the way he almost winces. Everyone in that room knows the reputation that Hangman wears like a neon sign. The "voted biggest player" social life with the stellar callsign, the pilot known for leaving his wingman hanging, acting alone- selfish.

So much for putting off telling Cyclone; so much for easing him into the news. 

Bradley is watching the whole exchange from his seat with his eyebrows raised, like a fucking soap opera but the whole spectacle's happening in real time. He lets his eyes shift from person to person, taking it all in. Monsoon looks hopeful, though she is waiting with baited breath for her Pops to blow a fucking gasket. Jake, on the other hand, looks absolutely cool. Though he is the reason for the interruption, and for the impromptu introduction, he is impossibly collected. Then, Bradley's eyes shift to Cyclone, who has backed up a few steps. He keeps looking between Monsoon and Hangman, like he is playing some sort of invisible game of connect the dots.

Hangman and his fucking reputation are courting his daughter, and Cyclone really isn't thrilled about the news. 

Though Bradley isn't exactly thrilled to see Hangman here either, he's taking the whole thing in stride, as opposed to Cyclone, but the younger man can't exactly blame him. If it were Bradley getting this major bomb dropped on him, he wouldn't be sitting pretty, either. Bradley is bringing his glass up to his lips, his eyes still flashing between the trio.

"Monsoon-" Cyclone starts, but the sound of coughing interrupts. Bradley is coughing, choking on his water. He attempts to wave a hand, letting everyone know he's okay, but in reality, he's far from it.

Monsoon. The woman he left asleep in her bunk five years ago stands next to him now, and not only that, they fucking grew up together, at least for a little while. And she remembers his Dad, and she's Maverick's kid. And fuck, she's dating Hangman!

Things are moving just a bit too fast, and Bradley can't quite catch his breath between coughing fits. 

The glass is quickly set back onto the kitchen table, but is sent over the edge as Bradley reaches for a napkin. The glass falls in faux slow motion, the liquid flowing from the cup as it hits the hardwood, shattering like a pinprick galaxy upon the floor. Bradley, still coughing, searches the new formation of cosmos on the floor for the answer to all the mixed up bullshit he has found himself in.

"Rooster?" Monsoon pats him harshly on the back, right between his shoulder blades. Then, she is rubbing his back, her hand full of warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. His skin burns under her touch as he struggles to return his breathing to normal. There's still a knot in the back of his throat made of unsaid words and new revelations that he can't seem to swallow down. 

"Rooster, are you okay?"

Hangman and Cyclone are quick to circle around the table, Hangman taking a knee next to Monsoon, his hand quickly finding her lower back. Cyclone is on the other side of Bradley, the glass crunching under his expensive leather loafers. Bradley is red from all the coughing, but an embarrassed blush still floods his skin from all the attention.

"Mons?" The nickname comes out all scratchy as Rooster wipes a newly formed tears from his eyes. The concerned expression morphs to hold a bit of shock before settling on some sort of mix of frustration and downright sadness. Monsoon tries to school her expression but her eyes still swim with emotion as they are locked with Bradley's.

"Yeah, Roos," Monsoon shoots his nickname right back, a confirmation that all but shakes the world around Bradley. She brings a tender hand up to squeeze his shoulder before pulling back, subconsciously leaning closer to Hangman, into the warmth of his hand on her back. She finds safety in her boyfriend's touch, the warmth of his skin pooling against her through the fabric of her dress. 

The lack of contact makes Rooster feel cold, but the feeling is short lived as Cyclone is grasping at his other shoulder. A swivel of his head and Bradley is met with the furrowed brows of the Admiral.

"Are you okay, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"Yes, sir," Bradley responds, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I'm so sorry about the glass, please, let me clean it up,"

As Rooster stands, he is pushed back down gently by Cyclone, his hand still on the younger man's shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it, please," And so Bradley is sitting again, in the center of the standing trio, feeling completely out of place. "As for the two of you, take a seat, we have some things to discuss,"

The sound of chairs being pulled out against the hard wood floor is accompanied by the intense ringing of the doorbell once again. The group look from person to person, once again looking for any clue as to who could be at the front door this time. Cyclone is padding over to the door, the crunching of glass less evident the further away her gets.

Bradley attempts to clear the lump in his throat, now without the luxury of his glass of water. Monsoon takes her untouched glass and slides it closer to Bradley, a barely there smile on her face. Her expression holds more sympathy than anything. Bradley takes the glass with both hands, a little too careful as he brings it up to his lips. 

"Let me get you a plate, okay?" Monsoon speaks to Hangman, her smile clearly wider, brighter, more full of life when it's directed his way. "Pops will give me so much grief if he comes back and that spot isn't set,"

So, Monsoon excuses herself from the table, leaving the men sitting in apprehensive silence. 

With a strong tug from Cyclone, door swings open and there is no time for a 'hello' as the man on the other side is pushing in, a wild look in his eye, a vein on his forehead bulging with frustration.

"We need to talk Simpson," The tone holds misplaced authority. Beau runs cold at the sight of Pete "Maverick" fucking Michell standing in his entryway, looking pissed off enough to catch a charge.

"That's Admiral Simpson to you Captain," Cyclone's teeth are grit so hard they might crack under the pressure of his jaw. "You cannot be here right now,"

The raised hand does nothing to stop Maverick from pushing further into the house. There's a folder in his hand, wrinkling under the closing of his fist. Sweat clings to the Admiral's brow, a vision of the crown of thorns, droplets running down the side of his face. It might as well have been blood from the way his stomach twists as Maverick steps closer to him, pushing the paperwork, right against the center of his chest.

"Do you know who got recruited for this mission, huh?" The words are dripping with venom, "Do you realize who you've chosen for this fucking death wish of a goddamn mission?"

Captain Michell's tone is all accusatory and full fury. He's pushing into Cyclone's chest harder, his knuckles white under the pressure. Cyclone grabs at the older man's wrist, his own knuckles paling as he squeezes.

"Captain, I will not repeat myself, you cannot be here,"

"Who is it, Pops?" Monsoon is calling from around the corner, her voice full of curiosity. Cyclone isn't a praying man, especially after what happened with June and their sweet baby boy, but now Cyclone is praying to every god, every deity that crosses his mind, even those who's names he cannot recall, that his daughter will not walk around the corner to see Pete Mitchell standing in his entry way.

"Nobody, kid, I'll be there in just a moment," He calls before turning his attention back to the man in front of him. He tightens his grip on Pete's wrist before he's wrenching it away from his chest. He pushes it back into Pete's own chest, leaning in close, "My daughter is not to see you here, leave. Now."

One might think Maverick would get the hint, since he pulls his hand from Cyclones grip. But then, Maverick is throwing open the file, pointing at the first page's photo. There is so much frustration in the action, it bounces between the two men like they're sounding boards, building and building.

"See this? Jake "Hangman" Seresin? You really want to send somebody in the sky who has a pension for leaving their wingman? You want to send someone into the air with a guy like him when the mission is already guaranteeing a loss of life?" 

That catches the attention of the trio in the other room. All motion stills as they strain to hear more. 

Wide mouthed, pointed tongue, Maverick is yelling without a care in the world. It doesn't matter who hears as long as Cyclone is hearing it too.

"And how about this," The paper tears as Maverick turns the page, "Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw. You know about his father. You damn well know about Goose and you want to send his son to an early grave too?"

Jaws tick, fists tighten. Cyclone breathes deeply, thinking- choosing his words carefully as the older man continues to scream. It's not beautiful or noble like books would describe. There is no gift from God, no blessing, no one anointed with the ability to see into the future, to see just how this is going to play out. Instead, it's just words exchanged between mortal men, both too damn stubborn to back down with knives to each other's throats.

"And check out these two," Maverick is laughing now, leaning in closer to Cyclone, his breathe reeking of whiskey. Cyclone can see the way Maverick's eyes are bloodshot and weepy as he pushes him back. Sweat coats his skin leaving him clammy to the touch. 

"Natasha "Phoenix" Trace and Robert "Bob" Floyd," Another strangled laugh escapes Captain Mitchell, "You really think this scrawny kid and a woman are up to the task at hand? Really? I can think of at least five better pilots and Wizzos who are better qualified than these two. And look! She's the pilot! Hell, I don't even know how they made it through Top Gun the first time around! The fucking Navy is getting soft."

"It's time for you to go, Captain Mitchell. Sober up. We will discuss this on Monday," Cyclone puts a hand to the older man's shoulder, attempting to usher him out without too much force. Cyclone can't risk Maverick being in his house any longer. He has already been gone too long and his guests are likely getting curious. "Time to go, Pete,"

"But, Cyclone, you haven't even heard the best part," Maverick can barely get the words out through drunken laughter. He's turning the page with clumsy fingers, the paper tearing under his touch.

The trio, Rooster, Monsoon, and Hangman round the corner as Cyclone is attempting to usher Maverick out the front door. They watch as the Maverick stumbles out of Cyclone's grip and further into the house.

"Pops?" Monsoon speaks as the strange man hits the floor, laughing as he does. The file has fallen open, scattering pictures of the newest Top Gun brain child called The Dagger Squad. They sit scattered all over the entry way like freshly fallen snow. Her eyes go to the paper that falls near her feet. 

"Well if it isn't the prodigal child," Maverick speaks, pushing himself further off the floor. "How many strings did you have to pull to get your own daughter onto the squad? Are you trying to send this kid to an early grave like the last one?"

The three Daggers stand speechless. Monsoon is quickly folded under Hangman's arm, her face pressed into his chest. Rooster stands just off to the side of them, his eyes flashing to Monsoon. 

The arguing doesn't stop.

"Shut your mouth," Cyclone spits, "You don't know a goddamn thing,"

Maverick stumbles to his feet, standing up at straight as possible to get into Cyclone's face, just to taunt the younger man.

"See, Admiral, that's not true, now is it? You and I both know that she isn't actually yours and this would be an easy way to get rid of her, right? Send her back to-"

His words are met with a swift punch to the face, the cartilage of his nose crunching under Cyclone's knuckles. The punch feels good, like it had been coming for a long, long time. Like it had been building within Beau Simpson for years, every single time Maverick missed out on a celebration of the amazing life Monsoon is leading. For every birthday, every graduation, every reenlistment and promotion ceremony, Maverick missed it all, and the rage built inside Cyclone. Now, it finally came out, popped like a Champaign cork, blood instead of the fizzy alcohol dotting itself over Cyclone's entryway.

A warm hand slips into Monsoon's; Bradley stepped closer, clutching onto her. He recognized Pete Mitchell the moment he got a clear view, both his anger and anxiety flaring. Bradley squeezed her hand once, nice and strong, before dropping it once more, stepping in front of her and Hangman.

"Captain Mitchell," Bradley begins, his voice firm, full of hurt.

The words make Monsoon's head spin. She leans away from her boyfriend's chest to get a better look at the bloody faced man and it sends a chill down her spine. Her Dad who she hasn't seen in years is now standing in a room full of people who can't fucking stand his existence. It's a fucking miracle that all he has is a bloody nose.

"Bradley," Pete spits a little bit of blood as he speaks, looking up at the younger man. He reaches a hand out, but it's dodged. "It's good to see you, son,"

"I'm not your son. It's time for you to go," Bradley is ready to grab Pete Mitchell by the collar and haul him out of the house. He's ready to throw him onto the lawn and leave him there to spit blood and sober up enough until he can walk himself home. Bradley has his own selfish reasons, his own grudge against the Captain, and now would be as good a time as any to feed into that frustration that he's been stewing in for years.

"I'm calling Admiral Kazansky," Cyclone declares to the room, then he's spinning on his heel the moment Bradley takes a step closer, clearly putting himself between Maverick and Monsoon.

The Admiral is ordering Hangman to move, to take his daughter anywhere else so that she doesn't have to see any more of the disaster that the night has turned out to be. He doesn't want her to see him throw Maverick out- hell, he didn't want her to see him punch the older man, but there's no going back in time. 

As much as Cyclone wishes he could have protected her from this, he couldn't. One can't stop a speeding bullet, as they say, and the shot had already been fired the moment he pulled open the front door. And as much as he doesn't want to, Cyclone has to trust Hangman with his daughter, he just has to, now. 

So, Hangman is all but carrying Monsoon away as she fights to stay put. She misses the order from her Pops, her blood thrumming too loudly through her ears. Hangman takes her through the house, dodging the pile of glass still glittering on the hardwood in the kitchen, hauling her out the backdoor and right to his truck. Monsoon flights the whole time, though it's unclear as to her reason to want to say behind.

The pair are pulling away from the house as Bradley and Beau are hauling Maverick out to the front lawn, his nose still pouring blood.

Jake drives in the direction of his apartment, holding onto her hand the whole time. He squeezes it reassuringly though there isn't much he can assure her of at the moment. Neither of them know what's going to come of Maverick, or of Cyclone's heated action against him. They don't know if Bradley is going to get caught in the crossfire, or if they are going to get called into the MP's office sometime in the middle of the night.

There is no clear answer, so, Hangman squeezes her hand and drives.

And drives.

And drives.

As far away as he can get from that house, that situation, the feeling in his chest spurred on by the broken look in Monsoon's eyes.

He drives until the sun crests over the horizon. Pulling off onto the side of the highway, Hangman kills the headlights, the world around them just beginning to come to life. That's when the tears come, falling fast and hard from the pools of Monsoon's eyes. Hangman just holds her there, inside of the truck.

The world around them awakens as Monsoon's falls apart, crumbling like unquenched Earth between her fingers. Maybe that's what the whole situation is, after all, how many times have the great authors related relationships to gardens, to plants, to life. Without nurture, without care and tending, the soil dries out, the plants die. The whole garden becoming a wasteland for the decaying plant matter; the soil turning to clay as the days roll on.

But isn't decay an unescapable fact of life?

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Two weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad.

Hangman had completely expected to pretend like the whole fight at the Admiral's house didn't happen when he met up with the other recruits at the bar, save for Monsoon. He took a little too much joy ordering drinks for the team on Maverick's tab- the older man not seeming to remember him from the incident, even after Hangman sent him a wink and a "thanks, Pops,".

When Bradley strutted in like the world was full of golden promise, Hangman took it upon himself to act like it was the first time they had seen each other in years. Bradshaw was quick to get the memo: last week didn't happen.

There's no surprise that Maverick got thrown out of the Hard Deck that night, either. Hangman sure as hell wasn't expecting to be the one to throw Maverick out of the bar, but that part gave him a sense of pride that he can't quite put words to.

The feeling bloomed in his chest as he watched Maverick hit the sand. A wide smile spread across his face as he yelled for him to "come back anytime," if that meant getting more free alcohol and the chance to throw him out again. Then, as Hangman closed the doors behind him while Rooster began one hell of a rendition of "Great Balls of Fire", everything felt like it was going to be okay.

Oh boy, how wrong he was.

Tensions are high now, Hangman and Rooster's rivalry is back and stronger than ever. They have been at each other's throats since that night at the Hard Deck, though the reason wasn't the mission or the usual dick measuring contest, even if the other recruits would say that it is.

They have been battling it out over a woman. Monsoon, specifically. The team doesn't know about her involvement with Hangman, and the pair try and keep it that way. So, she sits in the back of the classroom, right behind Yale and does her best to pay attention. The mission seems more impossible by the minute, the deadline has been moved up, and nobody has been successful.

Rooster and Maverick argue about the plane vs the pilot and how he had been the only one to make it to the target, though it was a minute late.

Then, Hangman opens his fucking mouth, living up to that reputation of his. "It's no time to be thinking about the past,"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rooster's expression is unreadable, though his brows twitch.

"I can't be the only one that knows Maverick flew with his old man!" Hangman continues through Maverick's pleas, "Or that he was the one flying when-"

Rooster is out of his seat in a matter of seconds, launching himself at his fellow Lieutenant. Hangman took it too far this time. Rooster gets one good push in before the rest of the squad are separating the two hot headed men from each other, everyone yelling for the fighting to stop.

Everyone but Monsoon, who sits in the back staring at the fight in front of her and can't seem to make herself move.

"You son of a bitch!"

"Hey, hey, I'm cool, I'm cool," Hangman reassures, pulling out of the arms of his teammates.

"He's not cut out for this mission, you know it... You know I'm right." He gets up into Bradley's face, a fucking smirk on his lips. The others are still holding Bradley back as he calms down, but it's that fucking smirk that spurs him on.

Bob's hands slip from Rooster's shoulders as he gets into Hangman's face. "You think you can talk shit about my family when it's your girl that's got the most fucked up situation of all," Bradley keeps his eyes trained on Hangman, but the blonde's eyes tick to the side, in the direction of Monsoon, who is still in her seat. It's Bob who notices the way Hangman's eyes shift, and he's the first person to look in Monsoon's direction. Then, Bob's nudging Phoenix. 

They watch as Monsoon tenses in her seat, her jaw ticking. Her hands grip the arms of her chair, knuckles white. Then, Bob and Phoenix turn their attention back to the men as the screaming match continues. 

"I'm not the one who broke up with her on a goddamn post-it note, Rooster," Hangman points out with a raise of his brows, that stupid little smirk still evident on his lips. Rooster is bringing his hands up to his temples, his expression scrunched.

"You son of a bitch," Rooster is cursing at him through grit teeth, his voice low.

The crowd of Aviators are still gathered around the two men watching them fight, Maverick's eyes flicking between them as words are exchanged. His mind flashes back to two weeks ago, when he broke down the Admiral's door and saw them standing there with Cyclone. He suddenly flashes his eyes back to Monsoon, only to be met with her piercing glare.

"What? Was taking her father for yourself not good enough for you? Did you have to break her heart too?" Hangman questions, watching as Bradley's face contorts, "You're just pissed because not only could you not keep your shit Rio of a father around, you couldn't keep the girl, either,"

"That's enough!" Monsoon shouts, her eyes finally leaving Maverick. The Daggers' eyes are locked on Monsoon at the back of the makeshift classroom, anger evident on her features. Then, with her hands firmly planted on the table in front of her, she is pushing up from her seat.

"Seresin," Monsoon begins, turning her eyes to him, "First, you will not speak about my uncle that way. Goose was a good man and a damn good Rio. Uncle Nicky would have moved the fucking Earth for Bradley, or for Maverick, or for me and my Mama, don't you dare think anything different."

Monsoon is moving closer to the group now, taking each step slowly, methodical as her words. There is a large, yellow envelope tucked under her arm as she approaches. She had been sitting with that envelope since their first class, no one having even the slightest idea what's tucked inside.

"Secondly, Rooster, my relationship with Jake is not your business, not now, not ever. What we had was over the moment you wrote that post-it and walked out the door. You didn't even remember the fact that we grew up together, for fucks sake. I get it, I was your little deployment fling, and that's all. Now, you get to live with the fact that's all I'll ever be. Hangman put you in your place, now say in it."

The crowd is too stunned to speak, but there is a rumble of laughter that escapes Maverick. He doesn't even try to hide it, thinking the tension in the air would be enough to cover it. But then, Monsoon is turning her pointed gaze to him.

"Finally, Captain Mitchell," There is a sick little smirk on her lips as she says his name, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. After all, Bradley had to get his pension for forgetting women from somebody."

Monsoon is standing toe to toe with Maverick now, eyes locked in on his, "After all, I've been in this class for what, two weeks, and I know you have had the roster for longer than that, considering that little stunt you pulled at my Pop's house. You think it's funny to forget someone when your own flesh and blood is standing right in front of you?"

Maverick furrows his brow, head cocking to the side. Monsoon can practically see the gears turning in his head with the way his eyes move across her features. She breathes deeply a couple of times, letting his mind piece the puzzle together.

"I asked you a question, but go ahead, take your time," Monsoon leans in just a fraction further, "After all, I'm told I look more like my mother, anyway," Wide eyes from the man in front of her stir out a strangled giggle from her chest.

"Wha- bu-" Maverick flounders, his mouth opening and closing, no words forming on his lips.

"Hi, Dad," The name is said with so much venom as she pushes the envelope against his chest with enough force to make him stumble. Monsoon doesn't wait for him to recover before she is turning to walk down the aisle of the makeshift classroom, paying no attention to the stares, the eyes burning holes into the back of her head. Instead she focuses on the momentary feeling of lightness that washes over her as she leaves the hanger.

It isn't until Monsoon rounds the corner that the tears begin pricking at her eyes. She takes off running as soon as the first one hits her cheek, the only thing she can hear over the rushing of blood in her ears is the thunking of her heavy boots on the pavement.

The Daggers stand looking at Maverick. He's holding the envelope to his chest, unsure of the emotions wracking though his body. Then, with a quick hand, he's crudely tearing at the envelope. The contents pour out over the floor of the hanger, looking just like that night at Admiral Simpson's house. Maverick tries to push that thought from his mind as his eyes focus in on the papers covering the floor.

Birthday Cards. Children's birthday cards.

The same ones he wrote to her for her first ten birthdays. He can't even get himself to bend down to pick one up, his neck aching from the way he stares down at them. He notices the little circles of wrinkled paper from long dried tears and his heart fucking breaks. 

The image of Monsoon at four, at seven, that he can see clearly in his mind, but there's a gap missing. Still, Maverick imagines her sitting and rereading the cards at seventeen, at twenty-two, crying over them and the father she could barely remember. Tears prick at Mavericks eyes and he lets them, making no attempt to wipe them away. 

It doesn't take long for the Daggers to figure out that the pile of cards is noticeably small, no more than nine or ten cards on the ground, though no one is near brave enough to say anything.

Moments like this remind Maverick he's still just a mere man. No matter how many records he breaks, aircrafts he tests, or brushes with death he encounters, Maverick is nothing more than a man with a skill set. He has flaws. He makes mistakes. 

That fact is almost too much for him to take. 

The memory of Goose flashes through his mind, the moments leading up to the failed ejection birth the feeling of ocean water weighing down his flight suit, soaking into the padding of his helmet as the water washes over them. So much blood where there should be none. And then Maverick is thinking about cleaning the scraped knees of his daughter, the blood bubbling up through the road rash. The tears, then, were hers as she begged, "Daddy, not the ouch-y cleaner, I don't like it,". But Maverick cleaned her wounds with the alcohol anyway, only to end up holding her against his chest in the same way he would hold Goose in less than a year. 

Maverick's mind is a patchwork quilt of shit memories; stuck reliving them all, fragment by fragment. 

"Class dismissed," Maverick manages, his eyes still glued to the floor. The sounds of fourteen pairs of boots, first loud then quieter as they go, leave the hanger, leaving him standing there, looking at the past he threw away illustrated simply in faded and forgotten birthday cards.

The hands of the clock circle once before Maverick moves. He walks right over the pile, his boots leaving angry, dark tread marks across the colorful paper. He doesn't look back once, not at the pile of cards, not at the hanger, not at the base. 

He drives straight for the Hard Deck. It's the only thing he can think to do, and after all, maybe Penny has some sort of advice. She's the only person he actually knows with a kid- a daughter.

Maverick only makes it half way before he has to pull over. Quickly, he throws himself off his bike, his knees hitting the dirt as he empties the contents of his stomach. As a pilot, he should have a stronger stomach than this, but a choice he made almost eighteen years ago is coming back to haunt him. 

He can still see Monsoon's eyes in the forefront of his mind. They haven't changed a bit from when she was a kid, Maverick realizes, as he's sat back on his haunches trying not to puke again. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the feeling of his swirling stomach. 

Maybe he should have stuck around, or at least circled back when he wasn't on deployment. After all, Maria left messages on his machine for almost two years after he up and left. It started with her begging to call which slowly turned into begging him to at least send a fucking birthday card. So he did. 

Then, she stopped calling, and he stopped writing. Monsoon grew up. 

It would be so easy to blame Maria. When she stopped calling, he stopped remembering. Between deployments and missions, flight tests and ceremonies, Maverick could pretend that it all got lost in the shuffle. But then, he remembers Maria and the way she always seemed to flawlessly manage her Naval carrier with raising their daughter, how she could juggle it all without his help when he was deployed and it was all okay. At least that's what he told himself. 

So, he thought if she could do it alone already, no harm could come from putting in for extra duty. That turned into extra deployments, more time away from home. He knew it was all a lie, but he had to tell himself something to justify it. 

It did get easier after a while, as his daughter slowly slipped to the back of his mind. It wasn't until one day, six years after he left that the realization hit him. Maverick hadn't thought of his daughter in months. He should have felt more guilty; he drank himself sick at the thought.

Two years later Maverick didn't even realize he missed her eighteenth birthday. 

Or her twenty-first. 

Over the years he convinced himself he did the right thing. That part of his past became a distant memory that he told himself he didn't miss. Maverick would be lying to himself if he still believed that to be true in this moment, sat on the side of the road after having been faced with the consequences of his long forgotten actions. 

Maverick kept one constant reminder playing on repeat in his mind all those years, You can't be a bad father if you aren't there to be one at all. 

And for the first time since he walked out, Maverick thinks he may have been wrong. 

He sits on the side of the road until the sun sets, stewing in his misery. When he manages to pull himself back up onto his bike, he heads for home, knowing that if Penny knew the whole story he would be on the outs with her, too. And so, he drives slowly, back to an empty house, wishing for the first time in years that it wouldn't be empty when he got there. 

---

When Monsoon finally reached Cyclone's office, eight blocks from the hanger, she almost collapsed in the entryway of the building. But, she pushed through the crowd, ignoring the calls of his assistant who insisted that Cyclone could not be interrupted while he was in a meeting. Monsoon couldn't find it in herself to care. 

When she pushes the door to his office open, she is met with three pairs of eyes. Iceman, Warlock, and Cyclone's eyes meet her frame. She is breathing heavy from the mix of running and sobbing, though it's unclear as to which is causing the redness in her cheeks. 

"Excuse me, recruit, but you can't-" Warlock starts, closing the file sitting in his lap. There is an edge to his tone, not taking too kindly to being interrupted. 

"Hey, kid, what's wrong?" Cyclone is cutting off Warlock without a second thought. The moment he moves out from behind his desk, Monsoon is throwing herself into his arms, her barely contained tears now overflowing. Without a second thought, Cyclone is folding her into his arms, doing his best to hold her shaking form. 

"I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop her," Cyclone's assistant huffs, running a hand through his hair. Cyclone waves the younger man off, the door closing behind him with a click. Then, Cyclone is wrapping his daughter tighter in his arms, one hand coming up to rub between her shoulders while the other is wrapped securely around her waist. 

"I'm sorry, gentleman, but the meeting will have to be continued another time," Cyclone speaks, his tone clear, unwavering. Warlock shakes his head but gets up to leave anyway. Iceman follows after him, nodding a sort of good luck to his fellow Admiral before closing the door behind him. 

"Tell me what's wrong, kid," Cyclone is pulling back, his hands squeezing at her shoulders. Monsoon is rubbing at her cheeks, smearing her tears over the expanse of her face. It's the same ugly cry she had when they first met, and the connection make's Cyclone's heart twist. 

"I-" She starts, sentence interrupted by a hiccupping gasp, "Everything is falling apart," 

Monsoon tries to wipe at her face again with her hands, but Cyclone plunges a hand into his pocket only to offer her a green pocket hanky a second later. She takes it with unsteady fingers, her heart still thrumming a mile a minute. 

"Hangman and Rooster got in a fight in class. Jake said a shitty thing about my uncle Nicky, Goose, you know?" 

"Bradley shoved Jake, which isn't exactly a surprise, but then he told everyone that my family situation is all kinds of fucked up, which it is, but it's nobody else's business. God, Pops, I know now that I made a mistake when I started seeing Rooster while we were on deployment together, but God, that was five years ago! It's in the past!"

Cyclone nods at her, listening intently while trying to keep calm. So much new information is being thrown at him with each sentence that leaves her lips and it makes him angry. 

"Worst of all, though," Monsoon wipes at her nose with the hanky, "Maverick knows,"

"He knows?" 

"I told him," She confirms with a whimper and a nod, not daring to meet Cyclone's eyes. If she managed to meet them, she would have been met with nothing but rage boiling behind his irises, red hot flames behind the dark brown of his eyes. 

"I had to, everything was already coming out anyway," She laments. 

"What did he have to say for himself?" The question is asked through grit teeth as he pulls her body tighter against his, a move meant to feel protective but does nothing to quell the flames burning Cyclone from the inside out. All Monsoon can do is shake her head "no" as she sobs against the denseness of his chest. 

"I'm gonna kill him" is all Cyclone can think as he rests his chin against her hair. His jaw ticks as the flaming feeling overtakes his body. If he could, he would strip Maverick of every single one of his achievements, his medals, his rank. He would cut the older man down so far that he was nothing more than a civilian with a dishonorable discharge. 

But he can't.

So instead, he holds his daughter as she cries. He lets her tears soak the tan fabric of his uniform top, the buttons scraping against her skin. He rubs her back and whispers into her hair, promises that everything will be okay. 

---

Somewhere in the Pacific. The Uranium Mission. Three weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad. 

Moments after the Uranium mission is completed, the team piled on the aircraft carrier, all grateful to be alive. Monsoon and Hangman got sent up to shoot down the enemy aircraft, saving Maverick and Rooster. The whole thing left nothing but swirls of confusion and gratitude in Monsoon's heart. 

On one hand, she is so thankful that everyone made it back home. There will be no funerals, no folded flags and no Taps to be played. Instead there will be celebrations, beer and cheering and one too many speeches for a job well done. The whole thing should be liberating as their impending doom has been starved off for the time being, however there is still a feeling of anxiety sitting heaving in her chest.  

Now, Monsoon is stuck watching the pair climb out of the museum piece that they managed to land on the carrier. The wind is whipping past them as she watches the team embrace the two men. Her strangled feelings clog her chest as she makes her way into the fray, first approaching Bradley. 

"Glad to have you back on the ground," Monsoon shouts over the crowd.

"It's good to be back, even if it's not quite the ground," Bradley attempts to joke, "But seriously, we owe everything to you and Hangman," 

"Nobody left behind," Monsoon holds her hand out to Bradley, a gesture of good will. 

"Nobody left behind," Rooster echoes, taking her hand in his own. 

As they shake hands, a sort of understanding forms between them. They share a look, one that reads no hard feelings and Bradley almost tears up. Then, they are pulling back from each other, sharing one last smile. 

Monsoon watches Bradley disappear into the crowd, his tall frame quickly swallowed up by the sea of uniforms. She catches him shake hands with Hangman a moment later, the scene bringing a small smile to her lips. 

Then, Maverick catches her eye, standing a few yards away. There are tears shining in his eyes, but he makes no effort to move forward. They share eye contact for a moment as people move between them. Monsoon offers him a half smile, her brows lifted just slightly. Before Maverick can return it, she nods at him. He nods back, then it's his turn to watch her disappear into the crowd.

It's not quite an understanding, but maybe it's a truce.

At the risk of breaking her own heart, Monsoon chances a look over her shoulder. She watches as Maverick pulls Bradley into a hug, or maybe it's the other way around, it's hard to tell with the swarming of bodies. Either way, the pair wear bright smiles as they embrace and Monsoon doesn't even try to fight off the tears that make their way to her eyes. They aren't tears of anger, no, they are tears of gratitude. Grateful that they all get to live another day, grateful that Maverick and Bradley are giving each other a second chance, and grateful that there isn't a looming cloud hanging over her head anymore. 

She no longer has to wonder about her father, because now she knows he's exactly where he is supposed to be, and both of their lives are better for it. Instead, she has Cyclone, the best father she could have ever asked for, and that is more than enough. 

Cyclone breaks through the crowd, pulling his daughter into his arms, more than thankful for her safe return. He shouts at her, over the crowd, about how well she did and how happy he is that she made it back. The pair hold each other tight for another few moments, neither ready to let go. 

Maverick takes one more look at Monsoon, who's now folded into Cyclone's arms. It's an unfamiliar sight but not an unwelcomed one, for Maverick. One thing's for sure, she is exactly like her Pops- disciplined and talented in the cockpit of a jet. Even more, though, beyond being a good aviator, she is a good person and that's something that Maverick can't regret. 

---

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. One year after the completion of the Uranium Mission and the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A year later, Cyclone and Monsoon find themselves sitting in The Flight Line Bar, her hand thrust out in front of her, ring glittering under the amber lights. 

"You're going to give me away at my wedding, right?" There is a sort of apprehension to her voice as she sips on her beer. 

"It would be my honor, kid," Cyclone slings an arm around her shoulders, pulling her sideways into him. He holds her there for a second before letting her sit back upright, a large smile on her lips. 

"Y/N Seresin has a good ring to it," Cyclone adds, bringing his beer up to his lips. 

"About that," Monsoon starts, causing the Admiral to set his beer down, "Jake and I had a conversation, and we thought that having two Aviators in the same squad with the same last name would get confusing, so it's going to be Y/N Simpson, if that's okay with you,"

The Admiral's eyes flood with tears before he can say a single word. They quickly spill down his cheeks and all he can do is look at his daughter, tears of her own overtaking her eyes. 

"I take that as a "yes"?" Monsoon chuckles, wiping her eyes with a shitty bar napkin. 

"Of course it's a yes, kid," Cyclone grabs her hand, holding it on top of the bar. 

The pair sit, hand in hand , tears still wet on their faces and all Cyclone can think about is how fucking lucky he got, how blessed his life is. He finally has a daughter who is happy and in love, a daughter that he will get to walk down the aisle on the most important day of her life. 

When he chances a glance over to her, Cyclone can see the frizz of her hair highlighted by the neon sign buzzing behind her, her cheeks bright red. For a moment, he can see June in the roundness of her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. Cyclone thinks back to all those years ago, when he and Monsoon first met sitting in this same bar, but he doesn't entertain the memory very long, after all, he has so much to look forward to. So instead, he squeezed her hand. 

"I love you, kid," Beau tells her earnestly, smiling though a few stray tears. 

"I love you too, Pops," Monsoon returns, leaning her head on his shoulder, "Now and always," 

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[thatsdemko]

one night with you - p.gasly

masterlist

requested: n

parings: pierre gasly x fem!reader

warnings: one room trope + enemies to friends to lovers(ish)

a/n: inspired by one of my favorite books one night on the island by Josie silvers (book linked if interested)

it’s how every story goes, there’s only one bed, only one seat, only one car, etc. . it’s how every “fairytail” started, and somehow you were living your least favorite trope main characters nightmare.

it all started with renting an Airbnb in Monte Carlo with a couple of friends, and he, of all people, showed up. your friends, and their significant others, had promised he was too busy in Milan to make time for a friendly get away. but there he was with his stupid French accent arms wide open as a surprise.

the second thing to happen was your flight was delayed making you the second to last person to arrive—the last person arriving being him. you were given the shitty bedroom with twin size bunk beds, and to top things off he had to room with you.

“chérie, it’s going to be fun! we can stay up all night and tell ghost stories.” he’s practically giddy to share a room with you because he knows how much you hate him. he loves antagonizing you and he loves watching you squirm around his gaze.

“I think I’m going to vomit.” your words are bitter at the tongue, feeling his hand gently touch your shoulder as he passes by you to head to unload his things in your shared room.

“its just for the night, he leaves tomorrow afternoon. you’ll survive.” your friend gives you a promising smile, but you’re not sure you can trust them. they told you he wouldn’t be joining this trip, and now you have to share a bedroom. who’s to say you’ll actually survive.

—

the nights winding down, almost everyone has already headed to crash to prepare for tomorrow, but you’re trying to deny your fate. you think if you sit out here long enough it’ll all go away. maybe he’ll go away.

you’re watching the orange flames dance around the fire pit, there’s only a couple of pieces of wood left in there, as ashes began to spew into the air. you hear the back door open, and it’s Pierre coming outside with a blanket. you hadn’t realized he had gone in some time ago, you didn’t notice his departure.

“you’re going to freeze if you’re going to stay out here.” he lays the fuzzy material across your lap where goosebumps and chills traveled your body. you’re thankful for his gesture, and it’s probably the first time he will ever hear you say those two words.

“coming to bed soon?” he asks, checking the time on his phone and it’s only just after 1am. usually you were one of the first to head in for the night, he’s surprised you were up this late.

“yeah I think so, you don’t have to wait up.”

“so you’re fine if I take the bottom bunk? my arms are sore from working out.” you can’t tell if he’s being serious, but when you look over he’s got a playful smile on his face. you just roll your eyes in response shooing him away for some more alone time. you were going to need it in order to spend a night in the same room as him.

“don’t be out too late!”

it’s not even ten minutes after he leaves, the fire is just hot coals and you’re left with whatever fate had for you, as you trekked your way up into the house and up into your shitty bedroom.

you gently knock twice before opening the door. you’ve never shared a room with a man before, let alone pierre gasly, so you’re not sure what to expect, but when you do open the door, it’s not what you thought it would be.

pushing open the door carefully, you’re greeted to a dim lamp light, and him sprawled across the top bunk shirtless. his legs hang over the edge while his head rests on the wood ledge of the bunk. he’s definitely too big for the bed which makes you chuckle.

“what’s funny down there?” he peaks his head down, hands gripping the railing, it makes him look like a little kid eager for a bedtime story.

“you in that stupid bunk bed.” you close the door behind you beginning to search your luggage for your pajamas when you notice Pierre’s clothes are scattered next to his bags.

“you couldn’t put your clothes away?” you throw his expensive shirt at him, he catches it and throws it back at you hitting perfectly you in the face.

“you can keep the shirt, it’ll be a souvenir to the best night of your life.” he sends you a wink, and you can feel your blood boiling. you’re not sure what it is about that, but it got you going, he just had that ability to press your buttons without the slightest clue.

“this isn’t funny, pierre! you’re not supposed to even be on this trip! you were supposed to be in Milan being the biggest fucking jerk somewhere else! now you’re here ruining my vacation.” your words vibrated through you, it was almost like you weren’t even speaking they just flew out of you, but it didn’t make you feel better. in fact, it made you feel worse, because there sat a man in his twin bed looking like the most pathetic idiot because of you.

“wow, I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” he swallows, his eyes not meeting yours, you feel bad. there’s something about how he looks that makes you want to rush up to him and apologize, tell him it’s not his fault it’s just that ever since you both met, you hated him.

“yeah, well I know how you feel about me.”

he scoffs shaking his head, “do you? tell me, how do I feel about you.” his finger tips tap the wood while his other hand holds up his chin, he’s waiting for you to spill what you thought you knew.

you sigh, unsure where to begin but somewhere it all starts, “I know that ever since I joined this friend group you’ve hated me from the second because I didn’t want to go skydiving, that I was a wimp for crying because I twisted my ankle hiking, and because I hate your driving!”

he’s laughing, you’re not sure when he started, but he’s pretty much bent over holding his stomach laughing. he couldn’t believe how ridiculous you sounded because none of that was true.

“are you done? because that’s hysterical.” he’s still laughing, but he’s climbing down from the top bunk to where you stood, his dirty t-shirt laying on the floor in front of you, “I don’t hate you. whoever told you that was messing with you.”

you feel stupid and small. he’s hovering over you a goofy grin on his face, “let’s start over, yeah? I’m Pierre and we have to share a bunk bed. you want to be my roommate for the night?” he extends his hand, awaiting for you to accept the fresh new start.

“I’m y/n, I’d like to be your roommate.” you take his big hand in yours and shake. he moves out of the way gesturing to your bed, which happened to be the bottom bunk.

“your bed.” he undoes the covers for you and fluffing the pillows.

“ah thank you, but first I must change.” you turn on your heel grabbing your pajamas. you barely open the bedroom door to see there was already a line for the one bathroom.

“do you mind just turning around so I can change?” you close the door once again, and his back is already facing yours. you slowly begin to take off your clothes afraid at any moment he was going to let his intrusive thoughts take over, and turn around.

“you know, I have seen you naked by accident.” he admits, it was many summers ago, but you were in one of the guest bedrooms of his summer home. he thought Charles was in the bedroom you were in, so when he opened the door, and was greeted to a pair of breasts he was quite surprised.

“we just became friends, pierre.” you challenge hearing him laugh, it was almost like music to your ears now that you didn’t hate him. you actually enjoyed his laugh, it was infectious.

“so you’re saying I shouldn’t turn around?” he fakes you out, your arm quickly covers your chest giving his back a shove. he’s back in a laughing fit that you join now.

“you test me, gasly.” you pull your shirt over your head, moving in front of him to show you are fully dressed and he’s free to go back to his bunk.

“I think you like it.”

you’re blushing, quickly moving to get under the covers of your small bed, “I do not.” you stick out your tongue like a little child and he slaps your arm.

“please you’re practically in love with me now that you stopped hating me.” he’s leaning over your bed, his body practically on top of yours, while his head inches from hitting the panels that hold his bunk up above yours.

you inhale his cologne nervously laughing, because at that moment you felt butterflies in your stomach. not just because you were nervous, but because he was so close. this was the first time you ever saw Pierre as someone other than an enemy.

“I just like you that’s it.” you’re afraid to breathe, it’s like if you did he’d pull his body away from yours, and you didn’t want him to. you wanted him there.

“you sure?” he teases, face moving closer to yours, his chin is resting on your stomach, close to your breasts. his eyes are glowing in the dim light, and you so badly want to get lost in them.

“yeah,” your exhale was supposed to be more of a sigh, but it sounded far more from that, he chuckles moving closer to your face, but then swiftly pulls away.

“goodnight, cherie—“

“kiss me you fool.” you cut him off, legs swinging from under the sheets grabbing his leg pulling trying to pull him down from the ladder before it was too late and he was asleep.

he looks down, a cheeky smile on his face, he’s moving down the ladder. his hand cups your cheek as he bends down, pressing his lips against yours. of all those times you hated his entire existence, you were absolutely wrapped into him. his lips were soft, but firm against yours. it was like melting into heaven, a moan escaped your lips.

“one night with me isn’t so bad, huh?”

“I guess not.”

[graysweatsgrayhoodie]

idk why, but I really like the idea of George being in a sweet loving relationship with someone who’s ready to throw hands with Fred at any given moment.

Her and George making heart eyes at each other from across the classroom while both she and Fred are plotting each others demise.

George is laying in bed, kicking his feet, re-reading old letters from her while Fred is laying in his own bed planning his next prank to dye her hair vomit-green.

George doesn’t wanna take sides and ends up getting caught in the cross fire quite a bit.

Fred tried to prank her by hexing her books to weigh as if they were made of solid rock, but George was the one who usually carried her books for her anyways. She tried to convince him to let her carry at least some of them this time so he wouldn’t strain himself, but he insisted he was fine (the sweat on his brow and crease on his forehead said otherwise, but she knew better than to argue). He still laughed along with Fred about the prank, telling him it was a good one and that they should use it again on someone else, more so that he could laugh along again, this time without his arms being sore for the days following.

She tried to get Fred back by casting an allusion spell on his dinner, making him think that his plate of pasta had turned into dozens of little snakes covered in sauce. She had gotten the reaction she was hoping for as he yelped loudly and jumped up from his seat, tossing his plate in the air. Unfortunately, what she hadn’t planned was that the plate had landed upside down directly on top of George’s head, pasta and noodles sliding down his face.

Again, he laughed along, enjoying Fred’s freaked out reaction, even if it meant he had to take a shower before their date night that night.

These pranks weren’t for competition for George’s attention, everyone knew this. It was just because her and Fred just didn’t get along, plain and simple.

George always said that these pranks weren’t because they hated each other, but because, deep down, they cared for each other, and never wanted to see each other in any actual harm.

They both told him he was mad.

When she graduated from Hogwarts, George had offered her a job and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, knowing full well that Fred would never agree to this. It took a lot of convincing and begging from George as he showed Fred that she had the organizational skills the twins so clearly lacked. He was only fully convinced after a few days of her working there when the back room, which was nearly impossible to sort through on a good day, had been organized so nicely, a two-year-old could find the product they were in search of (she had to make sure Fred could sort through it, of course). Besides, with her working there, he could send plenty of kids her way, telling them to test the products out on her hoping to give her plenty of boils and large purple tongues. Of course she did the same (and it went in her favor more often, the kids didn’t seem too inclined to prank such a pretty lady, much to Fred’s frustration and George’s agreement).

They both silently agreed to put a hold on their shenanigans when George lost his ear, both doing their part to take care of him and try not to stress him out too much.

That lasted a week.

Fred had superglued all of her shoes to the floor, making very difficult for her to get to work that morning. She of course retaliated by jinxing all of his ties so that no matter how you tied them, the front strand was always noticeably shorter than the back strand.

At least George had a nice relaxing week, though it only took his ear being blown off.

When the war had reached its peak and the battle of Hogwarts began, all three had shown up to fight against the Dark Lord and his minions. She was fighting alongside Fred when she heard the beginnings of the wall behind them crumbling which meant it was about to fall, and right on top of them. Fred hadn’t noticed as he was making a comment to Percy, so she ran quickly over to Fred and tackled him to the ground, mostly out of the way. A few rocks and bricks had landed on top of them, her taking the brunt of it as she lay on top of his body, arms over both their heads. The damage from the fallen wall had rendered her unable to walk, and so Fred had scooped her up and taken her somewhere safer, hurling curses and hexes at anyone who tried anything funny.

After the battle, George expressed how grateful he was to both of them for saving each others lives, and for proving his point that they do actually care about each other. “Oh please,” they had both said. “‘Saving their life.’ Whatever, they would have been fine with out me.”

They would not have been.

“Besides,” they both continued, “I only did that because if they did die, then George would be all mopey and sad about having to live the rest of his life without them.”

But for them, that day was a confirmation to both of them that neither of them hated each other as much as they let on, and that maybe George was right.

But they could never admit that. Because then they would have to tell George he was right. And he would never let that go.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

So I already know I’m the asshole here, I’m mostly wondering if it’s a YTA, JAH, or ESH situation. Or potentially I’m just treating this like a catholic confessional.

I (31, F) was on a 3 hour flight with my older sister; we had gotten aisle seats across from each other and 2 girls (I’m bad at ages, but both around 15, F?) sat next to her.

In the middle of the flight my sister tapped me to ask a question and as we were talking, I heard loud music/TikTok-esque noises. I asked my sister if she heard it and she replied that it was the kids next to her watching videos without headphones. They overheard us and one asked “Oh, sorry – is that loud?” to which my sister told them “Yeah, it’s really loud”.

At this point I put my earbuds back in, and my sister (thankfully) had noise cancelling headphones to put on. For important background, I am prone to headaches and migraines and am also neurodivergent and can get over stimulated, especially when I'm not anticipating a situation.

Flash forward to when we land – we pull up to the gate but another plane is still there so we have to wait. Normally on planes I’d keep my headphones in until it seems like people are moving, but I’d never sat this close to the front of the plane before and know I hate it when people waste time fiddling with their stuff when we’re all trying to leave. So, at this point I had already packed my thing away, as I didn’t want to hold anyone up.

However, when they announced we were landing someone near me applied A LOT body spray that was overwhelming to the point I had to cover my noise. Smells are a huge trigger for me with migraines, so I was staring to become nauseous with a headache, though thankfully with most of my usual auras. And on top of this while we were waiting, I was once again hearing music/TikTok noises, which was making me feel even worse. Normally I'm fine on planes and fly multiple times a year, but the unexpected, overwhelming, smells and noises combined to send me to a tipping point. Usually if I get overstimulated in public I just move or leave, but we were in an airplane so I was trapped in my seat.

I saw the guy diagonally from me in an aisle seat watching videos and thought it was him, and I tried to joke (you should never try to joke when you feel like shit – the tone is never going to be right) “Hey, if you’re going to watch videos that loud, you might as well let me watch too.”

Which was waaaaaay more bitchy then I meant it to be. The woman next to him commented “Oh my god, that is rude!” then seeing his face my brain caught up to the sounds I was mortified to realize it wasn’t actually him. I immediately, and profusely, apologized to him, and then my sister informed me that it was still the girls next to her. Considering we had, fairly recently, let them know they were too loud I was legitimately surprised and burst out without thinking “Oh my god, it’s still you?” They once again went “Oh sorry – we can turn it down?” and I again tried to joke, despite it not landing the first time, “Well, that or give me the phone so I can watch”

At this point the woman sitting behind them, who called me rude (rightfully) said “I’m their mother so talk to me, not the them.” I went, great, and told her they needed headphones. At this point she and her husband (next to her, window seat) started saying a lot of things that I don’t remember very well (see afore mentioned migraine and overstimulation) but I mostly remember it being passive aggressive comments about how they guess they’ll tell their kids to not watch TikTok loudly without headphones and me just trying to chipperly reply “awesome - thanks!”. I do remember the husband saying at one point “They do have headphones – it’s their choice if they use them or not.” Which thankfully, I had acquired enough situational awareness to not respond with my thoughts about that statement.

Once we got off the plane, and I felt less like vomiting, I realized I had snapped at these kids in a way that was way out of line. I truly don’t think they knew better, and even if they did I approached the situation in a bad way and really regret my outburst. Yeah, I had a migraine forming and was overstimulated, but that wasn’t their fault even if they were exasperating it. It especially wasn’t their fault considering their parents seemingly saw nothing wrong with their children watching videos without headphones on a plane while said children appeared oblivious.

So, while I know I as an asshole, I guess I’m asking - just how much of an asshole was I?

What are these acronyms?

[shimmerwindow]

I Never Really

Part Nineteen

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Marijuana use

Playlist | Masterlist

Tag List: @jazzyfigz @dont-go-home-without-me @poochiesworld @stardustcatcher @83rkblogs @jaketsguitar @dannys-dream @gretavanfan @do-it-jakey-baby @gvfpal @ignite-my-fire @gardensgatekeeper @torniturntomyarrow @dannythedog

To your absolute dismay, it no longer felt right waking up in Sam’s bed. You felt guilty, somehow. Immediate anxiety flooded your veins the moment sunlight hit your eyes and you rolled over to stare at his sleeping form. He was already awake, godlike and radiant with the light of the sun playing off specks of gold in his eyes.

Motions that had once felt so natural felt odd and foreign to you now. You had become so used to waking up next to him, and he would wrap his arms around you, and you would curl your body against his chest to revel in his warmth. The embrace of his arms never came, his hands tucked beneath the pillow. You were wracked with guilt, certain that you should have never spoken to him last night. Tears were already threatening to fall from your eyes before a word had even been spoken between you.

“We should probably talk,” he rasped, his voice still broken from sleep.

“Right now?” You weren’t sure you had the capacity to have this discussion, especially immediately upon waking up.

“Maybe not this very second. But some time today.”

It felt like you were about to be scolded by your mother, or berated by your boss. Your anxiety over this situation ran so high for a moment you thought you might actually vomit, but you managed to hold yourself together. “I’m sorry,” you said, tears spilling from your eyes and your head starting to ache. “For…everything.”

“Save it.” There was fire behind his eyes, a flame you’d seen many times before, when he was annoyed with his brothers or frustrated over school. He was actually angry with you, something you’d never seen before, and it scared you a bit. Not that you were frightened of him, but you were frightened of what it would mean for your future, what it would mean for you. “We’ll talk later. In my room.”

The remainder of the morning whisked by through your tear-blurred vision. He checked to make sure the house was empty before rushing you outside, out to his car, and back to the dorms. As you closed the front door behind you, you had taken one last long look at the inside of that house. It would likely be the last time you’d see it, with its creaky floorboards, chipped paint, eclectic furniture, and welcoming aura. A piece of you would remain there forever, and you knew that.

He ushered you up to his room, though with how high your nerves were, it felt like you were being escorted to the electric chair. You may as well have been – to live without him was a metaphorical death sentence. His dorm had gone through some changes between semesters, adopting his typical maximalist style more so than before. Posters you recognized from his room at the house adorned the walls, and the window sill was lined with as many plants as it could hold, all of them lush and green.

“I hate to say this,” he began, taking a seat in the corner of his bed with his back against the wall. He picked up a lighter that had been stashed on top of the soil of one of the plants, fidgeting with it. “But I’m more disappointed that you lied to me than anything.”

You sat across from him, as far away as possible, and you realized why this felt so familiar. Your positions now were identical to the way you'd sat with him the last time you’d had a conversation of this nature. Full-circle, as always. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry, but…” he sighed, eyes trained on the little pink plastic lighter as he twirled it between his fingers. “Sorry won’t fix this.”

“What about you?” You couldn’t fight the urge to immediately go on the defensive. “You were with that other girl last night. Had you still been talking to her the whole time I thought it was just me and you?”

“No, actually.” He looked at you, and you could see truth in his eyes. “Hadn’t talked to her in ages. Probably shouldn’t have called her at all.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” He scoffed, turning his eyes away from yours. “Is that what you’d call it? A mistake?”

You realized he wasn’t talking about his own actions. “Listen, I know you’re not happy with me. But why are we talking about this at all? I fucked up, and I know that. So we should just drop it, drop all of this, drop each other.”

“You know neither of us can.”

“Maybe we should learn, then.” You spoke softly, hoping your voice would not reach your own ears.

“Or maybe, we could just…keep some distance.”

“How are we supposed to do that?”

He pulled his shirt collar aside, scratching at his shoulder. Just to the side of his collarbone, a circular bruise had blossomed, in the shape of your teeth. The sight of it made you ache, a feeling you knew would not be sated for a long time – if ever again. He didn’t respond, clearly trying to gather his thoughts, yet failing.

“I’m not tainted, you know,” you mumbled. “I’m not ruined because I…did that. And you’re not innocent, either.”

“I know you’re not. It’s about the trust. You lied to me.”

“You never made it official.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And you made it clear you wanted to wait, anyway.”

It dawned on you that perhaps you’d also been the one to put him in a difficult position. To expect him to stay perfectly faithful, when you had betrayed his trust and lied to him about it, was incredibly unfair.

“And I didn’t think about it from your perspective.” He fidgeted nervously, trying to work it out in his head. “It probably looked like I was leading you on. But I didn’t realize you’d go running to the one guy I kinda made off-limits to you. But, also, it was unfair to make someone off-limits to begin with.” He shrugged, twirling the lighter between his fingers.

“We’re both guilty.” You stared down at your hands in your lap, your eyes tracing over the remnants of the scar still present on your palm. A reminder of the love you’d shared so briefly, much more permanent than the finger-sized bruises on your hips.

“Space, then. We need to step back.”

“God, I don’t want to do that.” You whined it like a petulant child, squeezing your hands into fists.

“Do you love me?” He turned to face you, his eyes boring deep holes into you. With the gloomy sunlight hitting him, you could see the bruise on his face much more clearly. His brow was still a bit swollen, the remnants of a dark circle present in the yellowish color marring the space under his eye.

“I do.”

“Then we need to.” He held out his hand for you to take, entangling your fingers gently. “I can’t lose you permanently. Take some time to heal and I’ll do the same.”

The idea that you had to heal from anything – especially the wounds you gave each other – was mortifying. It brought you to tears, though you had none left to let fall.

“How am I supposed to live like this?” You asked.

“When you figure it out, let me know.” He tried to give you a smile, though it didn’t convey anything but sadness. “We just have to suck it up. No contact. I won’t text you, and you won’t text me.”

“No more walking to class together.”

“No more dinners together, either.”

“What if I run into you at the plant sale this week?” You said, a smile forcing its way to your lips.

“Just pretend I’m not there.”

* * *

The two of you managed to successfully avoid each other, for the most part. For a week, you didn’t see much of him, only the occasional glimpse between classes as you passed on the walkways. You’d always pretend as if you hadn’t seen each other. It was painful, but less than you'd anticipated, in all honesty. It was not a soul-crushing sadness that consumed you, but something more like a sense of relief. It was nice to finally prove to yourself that you would be okay without him, and to finally have time to reflect on your actions.

You were able to admit to yourself that you had, in fact, slept with Jake as some form of revenge. It hadn’t been conscious at the time – you'd been so deep in lying to yourself about everything, it felt natural to add another tangle to the web. But Jake had never been someone you’d wanted to pursue, not until you realized how badly it would hurt Sam if you slept with him. Neither of them had deserved any of it.

By the second week, something started to shift. You’d taken the time to own up to your actions in your own head, and the guilt that once crushed you began to dissipate. When you saw Sam, you’d stop, say hi, make up some excuse to talk – maybe you remembered some random knickknack you left in his room, maybe he remembered you still had one of his shirts, though it was always a lie. And both of you knew it.

At the third week, on one Friday night, he texted you. Something simple, only saying hello and asking how you were. You’d told yourself not to reply, fought with yourself typing and deleting paragraphs declaring your love over and over, until you wrote an equally bland response. Things continued this way for weeks, the occasional talk, the random texts, all of it cordial and simple.

Until one night, when you’d had a bit too much out of the wine you’d snuck into your dorm, and he’d been feeling a bit too bold. You’d texted him something a bit too risky, and within minutes, you heard a knock at your door. That had been the first night you’d broken your own rules, and it seemed to be a constant cycle from there.

Space was not something you could successfully keep. Not when you would “accidentally” run into each other on your way back from class. Not when he would stare at you with those eyes the color of Venus, smile at you with a mouth of perfect teeth and pink lips. Not when you would visit him in his dorm, with the intention to help him with an assignment, a code both of you learned quickly. Every time, it would end with your clothes on the floor, your naked body against his, your head on his chest as he held a smoldering joint between his teeth. Today was one such day.

“We really shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said, absently brushing his fingers through your hair. “Probably not good for us.”

You were quiet for a minute, listening to the crackle of paper burning as he took another hit. “But it’s so nice, isn't it?” You grinned, even though he could not see your face, playing the part of the devil on his shoulder.

“Sure is.”

You watched smoke curl up and away from you, sucked out the window by the gentle breeze. Spring was nearly here, midway into April, the chill finally gone from the air until the next batch of snow came. Spring in the midwest was a fickle thing. It was too cold at night to open your window, but you still always did – there was something about that smell of spring you couldn't resist. The buds on the trees, the first of the flowers poking their heads out of the ground, the birds returning, all of it was breathing new life into you. And, with any hope, breathing something necessary back into you and Sam.

It had been almost a month now of this song and dance between the two of you. It was almost as if nothing had changed, but you came closer to more arguments than before. You never fought, not outright. One of you would always back down before things could escalate too far. In all honesty, you wished the two of you could fight. There were plenty of things you needed to hash out, but you never quite could bring yourselves to bring it up. You’d both call it protecting your peace, but it felt like you were only doing more damage. You’d talked it all through to death, your mutual apologies numbering in what felt like the thousands. There were no hard feelings anymore, but the scars still lingered.

They’d started playing shows more frequently as of late. The venues had gotten bigger, cover charges had turned into ticketed events, and on a few occasions down in the city, lines had formed outside. You heard whispers of some guy down in Nashville, something about albums. It was bizarre, and didn’t quite seem to be sinking in for any of you. At the end of the day, Sam was still the wonderful, corny weirdo you’d fallen in love with. Even as you watched from the wings while women and men alike screamed and cheered for him and his brothers. The band even had a name, now. A strange one, but somehow it fit perfectly.

“There’s a show at the house tomorrow,” Sam remarked, his calloused fingers tracing shapes into the soft skin of your back. “Want to come?”

“Of course I do,” you replied. “But will that be…awkward?”

He shrugged, the motion making your head bob a bit. “It wasn’t too bad last time.”

You hadn’t seen the other guys much in the past month, only once, when you’d “happened” to run into them at a bar. The whole space thing between you and Sam had made for an interesting night. The two of you kept an almost ridiculous amount of distance, not even making physical contact once, sitting at opposite ends of the group, barely interacting at all. His brothers hadn’t quite known what to do with the whole situation, all of them glancing awkwardly between the two of you the entire night. Ultimately, they left it alone, knowing better now than to get between whatever you had going.

“I’d have to disagree,” you replied, pulling closer to him.

“For all they know, we’re still on that healthy distance kick.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“You know how I get after your shows.”

“I’m well aware.” He laced his fingers into your hair, absently playing with a few strands. “What is it about that, anyway? Does people screaming the wrong lyrics get you going or something?”

You laughed in sync with him, rolling off of his chest to lay on your elbows, looking at him. “It’s your hands, mostly. The way your fingers move…” you imitated the way his hands would fly across the strings of his bass.

“Really? These things?” He held the joint between his teeth and wiggled his fingers at you. “All calloused and fucked up?”

“That’s the best part,” you grumbled.

“Guess I just don’t get it.” He reached behind him to stamp out the end of the joint, every curve in his body a masterpiece to your eyes. “So are you coming to the show or not?”

You pondered it for a moment, turning the idea over in your head. It seemed like a perfect recipe for disaster. But the days were getting longer, the sun shining warmer on the days it didn't rain, and a part of you was aching for a drunken night of music and joy. “Sure,” you sighed. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

[pxrxcxa]

Faster 

✶ One shot

Pairing | Eddie Munson x Fem reader

Post summary | Reader goes to watch one of Eddie's most important races but when a dangerous manoeuvre almost ends in disaster, she helps Eddie calm down in the only way she can.

What to expect | 18 + smut

Post Warnings | Rough M oral, spanking & just all around rough unprotected p in v (have safe S kids)

Word count | 3.5 K Word Count.

As always, any & all comments/reblogs are most appreciated - Love, P. x 🌿

Authors Note | This was a request - @im-alexnc thank you for your idea! I hope I've been able to do it justice and you enjoyed it :) I realised I have a problem (word vomit) because I wanted to keep this under a 1k WC & I legit can't! I really need to develop the skill of writing good, shorter stories - so if you read the whole thing, thank you :)

“How did you meet this guy again?” I rolled my eyes at my friend Clara; I could hear the judgment dripping off her tone even over the roar of the race cars whipping around the track at 200 miles an hour. A group of loud men wearing sports apparel with the colour of who they were supporting in the race, pushed past us messily and I had to reach out to grab Clara out of the way as one of them stumbled dangerously, almost drenching her with his beer can.

“I told you, when I was travelling last year and broke down, it was just outside this town called Hawkins.” She shot me a confused look as we found our seats along the crowded bleachers, we were on the top row with a great view as the cars rushed by at breakneck speeds and made the ground beneath us rattle, the sun blaring down on the backs of our necks as the heated metal under us burnt our exposed things in our thin tights.

“Yeah I know, it’s this small town in the middle of nowhere. Anyways.” I turned away from her face to duck and weave my head around the crowd as I tried to spot the familiar flash of red and black in the sea of cars blurring together, I squinted as the sun reflected off the mass of them as they sped around our side of the track once more. 

“And the mechanics I took my car to– Eddie was working there, before his racing career took off at least.” I smiled and ducked my chin as the memory of our first meeting made my cheeks blush, I’d never met someone so carefree and charming. So when he’d told me about his eight-round championship played out at racetracks across North America, my travel plans had taken a slight detour. 

“He’s the reason you haven’t come back to college?” She guessed, disapproval colouring her features. 

”I’ll come back eventually…” I dodged, avoiding her eyes. 

Clara pressed her lips together in frustration as the lie left mine, she smiled and wrapped her hands around my arm to pull me into her side, mumbling that she missed me. She was on a quick weekend break from school to house-sit for her parents, and I’d been lucky enough that Eddie’s race this week had been in the same state. Looking down now at the matching scar on her arm that we’d gotten together at the tender age of ten, when we tried – and failed – to jump across the river near our childhood homes, made me miss her agonizingly. I didn’t, however, miss her habit of being brutally honest. 

“I’ve heard race car drivers are all arrogant man whores.” She pressed her lips together, eyeing me suspiciously as her gaze fell on a group of girls nearby that had less clothing on than if they’d been wearing bikini’s, screaming as they waved their signs madly. 

“Well not Eddie.” I said with conviction, the image of his flushed, exuberant face when he’d see me after a race, stealing my mind. 

“You sure about that? How well do you really know this guy?” Her words sent an unwelcome picture of Eddie surrounded by a similar group of fawning fans straight through me. 

“Well enough.” My snarky response was cut off as the intangible feeling of competition spiked and the smell of excitement soaked into the air, the buzzing bodies packed in around us shot up in their seats, cutting off my view of the track down below as the racers began their final lap. 

I jumped up from mine, pulling Clara up with me as I bounced on the tips of my feet over the crowd, peering down as the cars looped around to our end of the stadium. The ground reverberated as the sound of their roaring engines sped towards us. 

“Which one is he?” Clara shouted over the loud jeering, tilting her head near mine. I bit my lip as my eyes roamed over the blur of colours weaving in and out of each other, my stomach clenched with anticipation as the unforgettable pattern of Eddie’s car slipped through the neck to line up with the leader of the pack. The dark car in the lead revved his engine violently as Eddie closed the gap between them. I dug my nails into my friends arm as the distance between the two race cars turned non-existent, their wheels practically pressing in on each other. 

“There, the red one.” I groaned and pointed, not tearing my eyes away from nail biting scene in front of me. 

“Damn, he’s gonna win.” Clara’s voice was filled with surprise before it turned to horror, because for a split second, it looked like he had. The official had leant froward from the starting post and raised the chequered flag as the cars raced towards him, Eddie’s inching forward every millisecond. 

It was just a piece of cloth with black and white squares on it, but the flag meant more than everything to Eddie, he’d do anything for it. 

I wasn’t professional driver, but I had eyes. Just as Eddie threw his throttle into full power mere feet from the line, the driver next to him eased off of his and nudged the nose of his car into the back side of Eddie’s as he dropped back behind him.

The entire arena held their breath as if, in almost slow motion, the clang of metal on metal surrounded in our ears and Eddie’s car began to turn the wrong way. 

It was a testament to his skills the that unlawful move didn’t send Eddie spinning horrifically across the track into the barricade. Smoke billowed out beneath his tires as he slammed on his breaks and spun the wheel as his car swung back and forth, redirecting it’s power as he unbearably came to a standstill facing the oncoming race cars.

“Shit.” Clara’s words were drowned out as an internal scream locked it’s self in my jaw as I watched, frozen, as the speeding cars slammed on their own brakes and swerved to miss the red race car stopped in the middle of the track. 

I hadn’t realised I’d closed my eyes until Clara gently pinched my arm, rubbing it soothingly as she muttered over and over that he was okay. Not believing her, I peeked through my lashes to spot the flag being waved as the other cars crossed the finishing line, I swivelled my head to watch Eddie as he sped towards his pit stop, barely slowly to a full stop before he ripped himself from the driver’s seat and tore his helmet off, his long curls pressed to his forehead in sweat. His shoulders sagged in defeat as his crew chief clapped him on the back and the rest of his team swarmed out towards the car. 

I spun back to Clara quickly and pressed my keys into her hand before weaving my way through the thickening crowd. 

“Where are you going?” She shouted out after me as celebrating patrons slipped between us. 

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel for dinner like we planned.” I yelled back as she disappeared into the crowd, hoping she’d heard me. I headed straight for the back steps that led to the exclusive motorhomes for all the drivers, shouldering my way through rough hands that shoved me back and trying to avoid getting nabbed by TV crews and journalists, until the moving crowd thinned. Looming security guards blocked my entry with angry looks until I pulled my lanyard free from my shirt. With muttered apologies they waved me through the barricade, quickly stepping in behind me to cut of some reporters to that tried to follow. 

I headed straight for the portable trailer plastered in Eddie’s teams logo as I side stepped the other drivers that stood in random places surrounded by interviewers and cameras, jogging up the metal steps as I paused with my hand raised against the door, the sharp noises inside breaking through my concentration.  

The loud crash of breaking glass and his low swearing had me walking through the door cautiously as I stared at the surroundings. The overhead cupboards were callously strewn open and dazingly shards of glass were littering the wooden floors. My gaze flickered up to where Eddie was cowering over the bench as he brought up a glass full of dark liquid to his panting lips, drowning the entire thing until the last drop. 

“Eddie?” I muttered into the silence as I pulled the door shut tightly behind me sliding the lock into place to douse us back in darkness. 

I jumped as he spun around to lean against the counter, facing me. He was still in his racing uniform, his helmet tossed into the corner of the couch beside him. I ran my eyes over his clothed chest as it heaved, imagining the taught muscles beneath it. I gulped nervously as I met his dark and heavy gaze staring straight though me. 

“Damn Fernani.” He yelled, smashing the empty glass in his hand against the tiled wall behind the sink, I flinched as the jagged pieces ricocheted across the bench, waiting for his breathing to even before I carefully crossed the space between us. 

“You okay?” I asked hopelessly, already knowing the answer. 

“Of course.” He snapped, meeting my eyes with a scathing glare. “He almost killed me andstole my win.” It was clear what Eddie considered a worse crime. 

I reached up to cup his cheeks as I stepped lightly over the broken glass, tracing my nails across his parted lips lightly. Eddie’s eyes fluttered closed as he reached up to grip my wrists. 

“I know you’re angry.” He scoffed against my fingers as he cocked an eyebrow sarcastically. My stomach knotted as my own frustration flared up at his attitude. I pressed my hands tighter against his skin as his eyes flew open in surprise. 

“I know you’re angry.” I repeated, angling my face closer to his until I could taste the whiskey coating his lips. “So let me help you with that.” 

His stare flew up to mine as I breathed the words between us. In a flash he ripped my feet from the ground, making me wrap my legs around his waist as I lost the feeling of steady ground beneath me. The multiple layers of padding between our bodies made me groan out in frustration as I grinded down against his hips. His lips latched onto mine roughly as we both fought for control, Eddie winning easily as his tongue slipped in sneakily to caress mine.

I twisted my fingers in the knots of his curly hair, tugging softly as he wrapped his arms around me tight enough to crush my bones, but I didn’t complain as his lips devoured me. Glass shattered underneath his boots as he walked across the floor with me still wrapped around his hips, saving me from the dangerous pieces. As if we were both trying to outdo each other, our moans turned loud and heated as he slammed me into the far wall, grinning against my chest as I cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. 

“Fuck y-“ He pulled his mouth from the top of my bra as his hands traced my nipples through the lacy, itchy fabric. 

“Watch it.” He cut me off as he crushed his lips to mine again, trapping my bottom one between his teeth as he bit down lightly as a warning, his eyes starring daggers into mine as I whimpered against him, submitting to his anger for the night. 

I dug my nails into his shoulders as he pinned me against the wall, using his body weight to hold me up as he untangled his hands from me – only to quite literally tear my shirt off of me. He stole my yell of protest from my lips as he wrapped me back up in his arms and turned away to drop me down onto the comfy couch that lined most of the back wall. Eddie stared down at me hungrily as I pouted up at him through my lashes, reaching out to caress his raging boner that was struggling against his thick cargo pants as he towered over me. 

“You really wanna help?” He smirked, fumbling with the buttons of his pants as I sat up on my knees, leaning forward on the pillows as I reached out to hold onto his thighs to steady myself. 

I moaned seductively in response and chewed on my lip as Eddie ate up the sight in front of him, swearing as he fumbled with his pant line. My tits swelled over my tight half cup bra as I played with my nipples through the fabric, waiting for him to reveal himself to me. I giggled and leaned forward slowly to replace his frustrated hands with my experienced ones, slipping the buttons through the holes until I could slide down the zipper, exposing the dark stain on his boxes from the pre cum leaking from Eddie’s tip. 

He threw his head back with a deep groan as I freed him from the thin material of his boxers, running my hand slowly along the length of him. I flashed my eyes up excitedly to watch the moans of pleasure tumble from his lips as I slowly licked from the base of his cock all the way to the tip, flicking my tongue around as I lapped up the pre cum dripping from it. 

“Fuck… you’re a tease.” Eddie reached down to tangle his hands in my hair, knotting it together as he tried to pull my face forward. I splayed my hands up against his stomach, swirling my fingers in the soft tufts of hair that trailed down it as he pressed his hard tip against my lips angrily, feeling for an opening. 

“Open your mouth.” I gasped and gagged as he shot forward into my face, forcing my lips apart as he slid his whole cock down my throat ferociously. My hands fell from him as one of them moved to tickle his balls and the other wrapped around his thigh to keep me steady. Tears sprung to my eyes as Eddie snapped at me to look up at him, spit pooled in the corner of my mouth as he jerked further into me. 

Embarrassingly erotic sounds filled the room as Eddie fucked my face, I moaned as he gripped my chin, helping me keep my jaw apart as the size of him began to make me ache. I couldn’t do much as he had his way with my mouth, but I swirled my tongue around the throbbing veins of his cock as he thrusted and faltered over me. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like that.” I looked up through my heavy lashes at his flushed face, soaking wetness pooled in my panties as I watched him come undone over the feeling of me. He reached down roughly to wipe the corner of my bruised lips before leaning over to slap my ass, my cry of pain was muffled as he spanked me a second time, leaving a raw, red handprint behind. I stumbled forward on my knees slightly as he wrenched my panties up between my ass, the taught fabric rubbing against my swollen clit as Eddie purred down at me squirming on the ground in front of him.

A trail of spit rolled down my chin as he pulled his cock, glistening and angry, from my mouth, he slapped it against my cheek as I let my tongue fall from my between my teeth, reaching up to stroke it as he grinded into my hand. 

“Gonna make me cum, fuck baby. C’mere.” He ripped himself from me to reach down and wrench me to my feet, spinning me around and knocking me against the couch. I gasped and leant forward on my elbows on top of the back of it as Eddie positioned my body how he wanted. Emptiness pulsed between my legs as he smacked them apart, reaching between them to rub at clit trapped beneath my tights. Eddie pushed down on my back as I moaned and grinded down onto his hand, begging for more. 

“How bad do you want me?” He grunted, the couch lolled beneath us as he moved to press in behind me, rubbing his dick into my clothed entrance as he pushed down on the back of my head, twisting and tugging on my loose hair as I arched back further into the air for him. 

“Bad Eddie – please.” I didn’t have to plead for a second longer as he pinched a piece of the fabric covering my ass, and ripped it between his fingers, tearing the fabric away until he had exposed my pussy waiting for him excitedly. He ran a finger over my wet panties as I shuddered beneath him. 

“All for me? You like it when I’m angry, don’t you?” I bit down on the pillow pressed into my face as he tore the pink fabric to the side and ploughed into me, ignoring my screams as the size of him spread me apart. Eddie was ruthless with each thrust as he pushed down deeper and deeper, wrapping his large hands around the soft skin of my hips as I tried to wiggle away from him. His moans and gasps drowned mine out as he curled over me, pressing his urgent lips against my naked back, leaving tingling kisses as he trailed down my spine. 

“Faster.” I moaned against the pillow, pain shot through my skull as Eddie wrapped his hand in my hair and ripped me up from the couch. 

“Say that again.” He demanded as he slowed his pace, thrusting further into me instead as I whimpered and twitched beneath him, his cock was thrusting awful things into my mind, thoughts that would make the devil blush. 

He let go of my hair to snake his hand around my chest, pulling down on my bra as he tugged and pinched at my hard nipples, smiling against my skin as I screamed out his name. 

“Say it.” But I couldn’t, as his hand moved around the front of my thigh to trap my clit between his fingers, rolling it back and forth under his professional hands, I collapsed to pieces, feeling my orgasm hurtling full speed towards me like a freight train. 

I turned my head to the side as I gasped out between the moans Eddie’s fingers were electing from my body, twisting far enough to make eye contact with him. Sweat rolled down his neck and disappeared beneath his racing jacket as his curls shook with each of his movements, chagrin flowed through me as I realised that he was still practically dressed and I was entirely ruined beneath him, my thin clothes torn to shreds strewn across the floor. 

His eyes entirely darkened as they glanced up to meet mine. “Faster.” I gasped; my eyes fluttering shut as he turned frantic. The skin between our bodies stung as he reamed forward into me, sending shocks of unlawful pleasure with each thrust, the sound of our bodies becoming one echoed around the room and probably the whole stadium, our moans turning into a chorus of pleasure as I screamed into the cushiony fabric and Eddie groaned my name. 

I moved my hand to replace his between my thighs as he moved to grab both of my hips, pulling me back to meet his as his orgasm rippled through him, he tensed against me as his breath fell from him in huffs, caressing my skin as my own fingers sent me hurtling over the edge. He clamped down on me to hold me in place as I tried to shoot forward away from him, the combined feeling of him realising his load inside of me and my pulsing walls was almost too much. 

Eddie gasped and laughed as he pulled himself from me, I slumped in a heap against the pillows drenched in our sweat, feeling streaks of his cum drip down my legs as we separated. I turned over to my side, pulling what remained of my tights from my legs and sneakily using them to clean up the gift that Eddie had left on me. I scowled and leant forward to rip the cigarette from his lips as he went to light it. 

“You were supposed to quit.” I berated, laughing as he pulled me across his lap, running his hands with a feather light touch over my body as I gazed up at him, happy to see his carefree smile back in its rightful place and that I’d helped rid him of his anger. 

“Screw Fernani and his trophy, I’ve got an even better one right here.” He smirked. 

“Are you calling me a trophy girlfriend?” I scoffed, raising my brow at him as I returned his smile. 

“Actually… I was thinking more trophy wife.” 

Eddie Tag List } @mayafatimakhan @edwardmunsonsslut @lacrymosa-24 @mavex @fckyeahlames @harrys-tittie @eddieshot86 @sl-tfor-joseph-quinn @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @chickennug90 @miss-momma-drama @stardustmunson @luceneraium @eddiesgffff @sammararaven @nightless @dotslabyrinth @relocatedheads @princessbubblehoe @muggleluna @sagittariughs @gloryekaterina @e0509 @prettysauceyy @urlivingdeadgirl @crimsonsabbath @lem0nb0iii @callsfromshe @lelenikki @bebe0701 @bratckerman @the-tacos-unite-blog @extravagantplant @plethoravellichor @justmesadgirl @corrodedcorpses @fanfictioniseverything @callsfromshe @im-alexnc @marsrox @eddie-swhore @kge01-blog @eddiemunsonsluvrrr @estellabookreader @sadbitchfangirl

Also Readers - if anyone is looking for a slow burn Eddie x y/n, check out my Opposite Ends series :)

Copyright © 2022 by P.McCann

All rights reserved.

[emilyssky]

Chapter 5: Tell Me A Lie

PAIRING: Lee Know! X fem!reader

GENRE(S): college au, smut, angst

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence and abuse, depression, self harm, eating disorders etc.. mentions of blood, swearing, smoking, smut [ dirty talk, oral; giving and receiving, chocking, spanking, praising, degradation, pet names, sometimes Minho is a dick :)

SUMMARY: "Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?"  

"What?"

"You said; Always leave people a little better than you found them" he looked at the floor with a small smile for a few seconds and then his eyes found mine. "You really annoyed me when we first met. I envied your optimism and excitement for life. But each time I saw you, I felt a certain thrill. You made me angry, you made me laugh., you made me feel everything. Something about you made me feel a little more alive each time. I know I fucked up and I know I'm an asshole but I'm also brutally in love with you."    

Drinking and dancing my ass off; I missed that. Waking up with a headache and the taste of vomit in my mouth; I haven't missed that shit at all. The morning sunlight that's coming from my window immediately burns my eyes when I try to open them. I groan and turn around to bury my face in the pillows, but instead, I come face to face with Hyunjin's sleeping figure. I close my eyes trying to remember what happened last night and how we ended up home like this, but it's useless and my head is killing me. Hyunjin is snoring lightly, his blonde hair all over the pillow and he's wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. I smile at how beautiful and peaceful he looks, his face is almost angelic. I slowly lift myself off the bed, trying my best not to wake him. Emma probably undressed me cause I'm currently wearing a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. I open the door as quietly as possible and tip-top out of the room and into the living room and kitchen area. I spot Felix asleep on the couch, a blanket covering his body and a pillow between his hands, and Emma over the stove, cooking something that smells like eggs and bacon.

"Good morning." My voice comes out huskier than I expected causing Emma to spin around.

"Well well well, look who's up." She flips the bacon and passes me a glass of water and an aspirin. I smile at her thoughtfulness before taking the aspirin and drinking the whole glass of water.

"What the fuck happened last night?" I run my hands over my face, trying to rub the sleep off of my eyes. I take a seat on the counter stalls.

"From where do I begin," She says and prepares 4 plates with some bacon and 2 eggs and leaves 2 of them on the counter and one in front of me. My stomach growls at the sight but as always, I ignore it. Emma takes a seat across from me and dives into her plate.

"Well," She swallows her first bite. "You were dancing with and on everyone, taking shots like you were drinking water, lost at beer pong twice, disappeared at some point until Jeongin found you at the roof." That I remember. Images of Minho and bits of our conversation flash through my mind. "You spilled vodka on Hyunjin and you were laughing like a kid the whole time." She adds.

"Ugh" I rest my head on the counter. "I haven't drunk like that in a hot minute. My body wasn't ready."

"At least you didn't throw up there." She pats my head. "You waited until we were home this time. I'm proud."

Hyunjin enters the kitchen, rubbing his hands all over his face. "My head is killing me." He says in a raspy voice. He takes a seat beside me and Emma pushes a plate in front of him along with a glass of water and an aspirin as well.

"Oh my god, thanks Em, you're an angel" He groans.

"See," She turns to me. "There's always worst."

"Where's Felix?" He asks, his mouth full.

"Sleeping." Emma nods her head towards the couch.

Hyunjin turns to look at him. "Why is he sleeping on the couch?" He frowns.

"Cause he said that now that I have a boyfriend, it's not right to sleep with me." She rolls her eyes.

"Boyfriend?" I smirk.

A light color appears on her cheeks. "You know what I mean." She mutters.

"Are you guys like, together?" Hyunjin ask.

"I don't know," Emma shrugs. "Last night we went upstairs and we talked again, like a lot" She emphasizes by slightly widening her eyes. "He told me that he really likes me and that he hasn't felt this type of connection in a long time and stuff like that. And then we hooked up."

"Get it Em." Hyunjin grins.

"Wow, he must actually like you." I say.

"You think?" She drops her eyes to her plate.

"Yeah," Hyunjin swallows the last piece of bacon, clearing his plate. "If he wasn't interested he would just fuck you and leave it at that." He drops his plate to the sink and sits back down. "I saw how you guys were. He was all over you from the minute we walked in till the minute we left."

"You've got a point." She finally says.

"What time is it?" Felix's deep voice makes our heads snap to the couch. He's up and walking towards us. His voice is incredibly deep in general, but especially in the morning, he sounds like fucking Darth Vader.

"Morning sunshine." Hyunjin grins at him.

"It's 12.30. " Emma says placing a plate and a glass of water in front of him as well. Felix takes a seat.

"My back hurts" He whines.

"Well, I told you to sleep with me" Emma argues but Felix just shakes his head.

"You could've slept with me and Hyunjin with Em." I say

"Exactly." Hyunjin nods. "I don't care that Em has a boyfriend now." He speaks the last words of the sentence a little louder.

"Shut up." She pushes him but he just laughs.

Felix's eyes are still swollen from sleep, his lips double the size, and his hair going in every direction. "Yeah, I didn't think of that."

"We have class today right?" I question

"Shit"

"Fuck me"

Both Felix and Hyunjin groan. "You guys should get going, then. And take a shower." Emma says

They both look at her and begin to smell their clothes, and I laugh.

"Well, I'm going to take a shower as well. I'll see you in class." I get up.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Hyunjin looks up at me.

I ignore the knowing look he's giving me ."I'm not hungry" I mumble and disappear down the hall.

I let out an audible sigh when the hot water hits my skin. All of my muscles are so sore from last night that our 3-hour technique class sounds torturous. I don't regret it though, I had fun. Actual fun with people, in a place where I don't have to look over my shoulder in case Jackson or one of his friends, is there. It felt nice, to be with a different crowd. I've only seen Chan's friends a few times but I can feel that they're going to grow on me. Minho takes over my mind, despite the effort that I've been putting in since last night, not to think about him. I don't know if I'm more shocked by his story or by the fact that he spoke to me about it. His honesty caught me by surprise. I didn't think that he would open up to me in that way, considering the fact that he's been nothing but ironic and bluntly rude towards me. Chan did say that he's been through a lot but I didn't really expect anything like that. The more I think about it, the more curious I feel myself getting about him. He seems like the type of guy that has a lot of layers. The type of guy that makes you wanna get invested and try to understand everything that is hidden underneath all the pain and trauma that he silently carries. I shake the thoughts off my head. I'm not trying to get myself in a complicated situation once again. I've done this back-and-forth thing and it didn't end well. I force myself not to annalize everything that happened last night anymore and ignore all the questions and thoughts about him, cause curiosity leads to interest and interest isn't good.

I gave up on trying to look better than I felt and got ready in 10 minutes by just putting my hair in a low bun and throwing a black leotard and tights on. Somehow Felix and Hyunjin manage to look alive again and ready for class in only 1 hour. They were dressed in their dance clothes with fresh-looking faces and their hair perfectly brushed backward. They were great dancers, the best in our year to be honest. Two completely different dancers. Felix is sharp. His arms and legs are strong, completing every move perfectly, and hitting every beat. He's balanced and clean with powerful and fast movements. Felix is a technical dancer. Hyunjin is a performer. He takes every choreography and owns it. His style and his incredible facial expressions make him stand out. No matter the dance genre, every move is filled with emotion and passion. He somehow manages to look so smooth yet so powerful at the same time. It's like he's playing a character every time he dances. He's sassy and sexy to the point that it's hard not to look at him when he steps on stage. These two together; they're perfection. I, like everyone, started with ballet. I've danced in almost every style, but contemporary is my favorite. When I dance I feel free. All of my emotions come rushing out of me and I can feel them leave my body as I dance. I relax and I can breathe. Dance has always been a comfort of mine, but it doesn't feel the same anymore. I don't dance for myself. It's not a way for me to let loose anymore. I have to be better. I knew I had to turn quicker, land lighter and smile brighter. Since I got into college, I had to learn control in order to get better. My feet had to be more pointed. my legs straighter, my waist smaller. I know that now I'm a great dancer with great technique. What I'm missing is passion. Energy. Emotion.  I'm missing all of the things I had before. I had to trade raw passion for technique. I was told that I had to calm down, and I did but now I feel like I've turned into a machine. Simply executing the moves, never performing.

"That's it for today, everyone. I'll see you all on Wednesday." Mrs. Miller claps her hands together and exits the class with a smile and a small nod. I let out a sigh and rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath. My body feels completely and utterly numb and I just wanna lay in my bed for the next 5 years. I walk to the side of the class to collect my bag and water bottle. Hyunjin catches up with me just as I'm about to exit the classroom.

"You look dead." He bluntly says, throwing his bag over his shoulder. I search over my shoulder for Felix, spotting him talking with a few of our classmates. He gives me a nod, meaning that we should leave without him, and I send a wave back before pulling Hyunjin by the elbow and walking out the door.

"You're so kind, thank you." I say with a straight face.

He grins and pulls me into a side hug. "You know what I mean. You look like you're going to pass out. What's going on?"

"We were out late last night, I didn't get enough sleep." I answer mechanically.

He sighs, almost like he's telling me that he knows better than to believe me. "It's not just sleep. It's drinking water and eating like a normal person. You're doing nothing out of the three." All the humor is now gone as his tone turns serious. "You're not going to make it to the end of the semester if you keep this up. You claim that you're not being the best you can be but how are expecting to do that if you don't take care of yourself?" He continues his lecture and even though I know he's right, hearing it for the 50th time won't change a thing. I'm trying. I really am. It's just harder than it seems. Developing a healthy relationship with food in an environment like this is hard.

"Hyunjin, I know. I'm trying." I keep my tone low.

"I know, babe, and I'm always here if you need anything but you have to push yourself a bit more yeah? Ask for help. Take a break. Try to help yourself in some way." He gazes down at me with worried eyes.

I close my eyes. This conversation is getting too much already. "Okay."

He opens the door with the hand that isn't wrapped around my shoulders. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

l shake my head. "It's fine, I'll walk."

"You sure?" He unlocks his car.

"Yeah." I bring my hands around his waist and give him a light squeeze. "Thanks for caring." It truly means so much to me, to know that I have people who actually give a damn about me.

He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead. "Always." And gets in his car.

.

.

.

.

.

Minho's POV:

I fucked up. I fucked up big time. It was like something took over me and I couldn't shut the fuck up. She just came out of nowhere. Again. And she was drunk again and she was smiling too much. Again. I don't know how but self-control just flew out the window and before I could stop myself I spilled half of my fucking story to her. Maybe I find the fact that she's drunk every time appealing. People tend to be a lot less judgmental when they're drunk. And most importantly; they remember less. Either way, things are not going as planned. I stayed upstairs trying to avoid bumping into her and somehow she fucking found me. I don't like this. She shouldn't be here. I wasn't supposed to see her again. I've been feeling on edge for the past week now and it's honestly draining. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. I have to ignore my thoughts. I have to ignore her. I thought it would be easy, I don't even know her. Why is it that I keep thinking about it?

I wipe the sweat that's dripping down the sides of my face with the back of my hand as I slam the door of the dance studio shut. I made sure that her class was finished until I came here, not really in the mood for a round 2. My whole body is sore and my heartbeat hasn't slowed down yet. I had missed this feeling so much. It's been only a few months since I started training again and I beat myself up for stopping every single day. It's what I love to do. A way for me to take a fucking breath.

I throw my bag in the back seat before driving off. It's so convenient that our apartment is so close to campus. A lot of times I would walk home, but driving really grew on me. I love it.

"Back already?" Jisung comes out of the kitchen just as I'm opening the front door.

"Don't you have class?" I throw my keys on the little table beside the door and remove my shoes.

"I skipped." He shrugs. "I have an essay to work on anyway."

I walk up the stairs. Jisung's following right behind me. "Shit, me too." I groan. I fucking hate college. All I wanna do is dance and make music. "Fuck it, I'll do it later, I need to sleep." I reach my bedroom door.

Jisung's eyes narrow. "Is everything okay?" He rests his hand on the wall besides my door.

I immediately turn my head away from his gaze. He knows me too well and I don't have time to talk about shit right now. "Yeah, I'm just tired." I open the door, hoping he will get the message.

He glances at me one more time before taking a step back. "Okay." He brushes my hair back. He always does this. I hated it at first but just like jisung, it grew on me. "Get some rest." He turns around and disappears down the hall. I let out a small sigh and close my door. I'm grateful for him. I really am. I don't know if I would be here right now if it wasn't for him. He basically saved me. A lot of people did. With their actions, with words, with ideas, or by simply being there. Jisung was there. He was there every time, picking up the pieces that he didn't create. Chan was there. He helped me open my eyes and pushed me to explore different sides of myself. He gave me a new dream. My sister was there, offering me a smile whenever the world frowned at me. Someone is always there. I'm tired of owning my life to others. I don't know how even though I grew up by myself and did everything on my own, I still somehow managed to hold on to people to keep me alive. Fuck, I'm tired.

I open my balcony door and step out. I place a cigarette between my lips and light it up, taking a puff. Inhale, exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Y/N's POV:

I love Christmas. I love everything about it. It's a family holiday though, so I never got to fully experience what it meant to have Christmas with your family. Things like exchanging gifts, having Christmas breakfast together, and celebrating the new year together didn't happen in my house. I still loved it though. The weather, the way everything was beautifully decorated, and just the wave of happiness that came with Christmas were enough for me. It's been the past few years that I've been actually celebrating Christmas with my Mom. Shit happened and things changed but me and her are now inseparable. She's all I have. She's always been more like a best friend, probably due to our small age gap. She suffered a lot, but her light never left. Her light, fun, and kind personality stayed even after years of pain. She came out stronger. I find myself wishing I was half as strong as she is.

"I'll be fine mom." I roll my eyes even though, I know she can't see me. I put her on speaker as I continued to write the essay I'd been working on before she called.

"I could come and stay with you for a few days, I'm sure Will won't mind" She presses.

"No Mom, go have fun with Will in London, I'm more than happy to stay here for Christmas. All of my friends will be here anyway, it's going to be super fun." I try to reassure her. It took my mom a long time to get back into dating after everything that happened but she was never one to give up on love. She's such a hopeless romantic that, even her traumatic past relationships didn't stop her from falling in love again. Will is a family friend and has been for years. He was by my mom's side through almost everything as a friend. A time came when me and my mom lived with him for a little while and that's when it clicked for them. He's a great guy and I couldn't be happier for her.

She let out a big sigh, and I almost laughed at how dramatic she was being. "Fine, but remember to text me at all times and call me first to wish me both 'Merry Christmas' and 'Happy New Year'."

It's the first time we're gonna spend the holiday apart. My mom is going to Will's house in London like we did last year for Christmas but this time, for some reason, I wanna experience this by myself. "Sure thing Mom" I laughed. She's not really happy about me staying here.

"Is Chan going to be there as well?" Even though I've only known Chan for almost 3 years, he's basically a part of my family. It took us a few months until we became inseparable and we went everywhere together. He met my whole family and spent every holiday with me. Chan doesn't really have a family. Not one that he was close with at least, so I think he found comfort in being with me and my mom. Plus, my mother absolutely loved him.

"Yes mom, don't worry. I have to go now, I need to study."

"Okay baby, I'll talk to you later. " She said before hanging up.

I love her and I love talking to her but I have so much work to do. I am a dance major but sometimes I forget that I actually have to study. I take a deep breath and a sip of my third coffee of the day getting ready to dive back into it.

A door slams.

Emma throws her bag to the floor and takes off her shoes. I give her a quick glance but I have to do a double-take when I notice her bloodshot eyes.

"What happened?" I shoot up from the couch and run towards her. She shakes her head and wraps her hands around me, burying her face in my neck. I immediately react, squeezing her tight.

"It's okay." I whisper, trying to calm her down. We stay like that for a minute, until Emma's breathing comes out normally and she's not shaking anymore. We take a seat on the couch.

"Is it Seungmin?" I finally ask. She shakes her head and relief fills my body. I wouldn't want to hurt one of Chan's friends but if he had pulled anything with her, I would've.

She wipes her nose with her sleeve and sighs. "I'm not okay. I've had 2 anxiety attacks today and I-I feel like I can't function. " Her words come out rushed and blended together and from that alone, I can understand just how everything in her head must be right now. Emma has really bad anxiety, it's one thing that we have in common. She's there for me and I'm there for her, cause we understand just how hard it is to deal with this on a daily basis. "I have to finish my script and I have a shit tone of scenes to film and everyone is asking me things and expecting me to be in charge of everything and I just can't. " She continues, ignoring the tears that fill her eyes. "Everyone's expecting me to be good but I feel like I can't do anything right. We were planning this shoot for days and I forgot my camera at Seungmin's house, that's why I left class. I just- I wanna breathe."

"Hey," I take her face between my hands. "Listen to me, I know that you have so much on your plate right now. I understand, but you can't neglect your mental health. Em, you're overworking yourself, reactions like this are expected when you never relax." I brush some of the hair that's sticking to her cheeks. "You stay here okay? Take some time to relax and calm down. I'll go over to Seungmin's place and grab the camera. You still have almost an hour until shooting right?" I check the time on my phone.

She nods. She takes a big breath and nods a few more times. "Thank you so much Y/n."

"You would have done the same for me. " I smile at her. "Actually, you have."

She giggles. . . . . I texted Jisung to see if he was home, on my way there but he still hasn't answered when I reach the door to their apartment.  When I offered to come and pick her camera up, the fact that Minho lives there as well didn't really cross my mind. As much as I don't want, I have been thinking about last night more than I should have. And I hate how my nerves begin to grow as I reach their door.

Jisung's face breaks into a smile the minute he opens the door. "Hey kid, what are you doing here?" He steps aside, gesturing me to come inside. Their apartment looks different in the daylight. A lot cleaner and much more bright. There's a big living area in the middle of the room with 2 big white couches and a few armchairs. Jisung leads me into the kitchen, that's right beside the living room. I really like their kitchen. It's open and huge, everything is black and white

"I came to pick up Emma's camera, I texted you but you didn't answer. " I take a seat on a stool.

"Oh yeah, sorry I was studying. " He nods, filling up a glass of water and passing it to me. "Damn, and I thought you missed me."

"Nah." I tease, taking the cup of water in my hands. "Are you alone?"

"No, Minho and Changbin are in their rooms." He leans on the counter, placing his elbows on it. "Did you have fun last night?"

I groan, throwing my head back. "Don't even get me started, I have the worst hangover."

"So you had fun." He smiles. "It sure looked like it yesterday."

I cover my face with my hands. "Oh, my god."

He reaches over and pulls my hands away. "Stop. You enjoyed yourself, that was the point." Last night's party was different than any other that we've been to and I did have a great time nevertheless. "This weekend it's game night."

"Game night?" For some reason, I don't like the sound of that.

"Yep." He nods. "We just get together, play games, and drink. It's pretty chill." He explains. Yeah, I definitely do not like the sound of that. "Of course, all of you guys are invited."

I let out a small smile. "We appreciate it." I say, avoiding giving him a straightforward answer.

"Just think about it."

I nod. "Okay, we'll see." Jisung's eyes focus on something behind me and I curiously turn around as well. Minho is walking towards the kitchen. My stomach instantly tightens at the sight. He wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants and I can't keep my eyes from falling down his exposed stomach. Fuck, he does work out. The lines of his abs look like their carved by the gods. I blink several times, forcing my eyes to his face. His head is hanging low as he rubs his eyes with his palms.

"Well, look who's up?" Jisung grins. Minho drops his hands from his face and his eyes immediately find mine. His walking slows down and his eyes freeze on my face for a few seconds. I stare back, searching for anything that will help me figure out how to act towards him after last night but he gives me nothing. The surprise lasted only a few seconds until it turned into nothing. He kept his face blank and completely unreadable as he walked past me and towards the fridge. "You slept for like 4 hours."

Minho scans the fridge with his eyes. "Yeah, I was too tired." He pulls out the milk. Jisung opens a cupboard and takes out some cereal and a bowl. "Thanks" Minho mumbles as he puts some cereal in the bowl and pours the milk over them. I try not to smile at the fact that he puts the cereal first. Thank god.

Jisung runs his hand through Minho's messy hair a few times, trying to push them backwards while Minho's gaze stays focused on mixing his cereal. Jisung gives Minho's hair one final push and places his hands back on the counter. He turns to look at me, realizing that I'm still here. I awkwardly smile as his eyes go from me to Minho and then back to me.

He clears his throat. "Y/n's here to pick up Emma's camera." Minho just nods a few times as he takes a spoonful of his cereal, keeping his eyes set on the counter in front of him. Jisung looks at me after a few seconds of silence, his lips in a thin line with a look in his eyes almost as if he's apologizing for Minho's behavior. I shrug, shaking my head.

"I invited them over for game night this weekend. " He continues. "Changbin will probably make his signature cocktails, you will love them." He turns to me and I force a small giggle, trying to appear unbothered by the fact that Minho's completely ignoring me right now.

I see his jaw tightening, momentarily. "Cool." He says still keeping his eyes glued to the counter, refusing to make any eye contact with me. I keep my face natural, solving all the questions I want to ask him down my throat. I decide to break the silence that has taken over the three of us.

"I'm down, sounds fun." I turn to Jisung, maintaining my tone light.

"You guys could sleep over afterwards. " He further suggests, getting more excited. "Most of you are going to get wasted anyway."  

Minho drops the now empty bowl in the sink, the sound making my and Jisung's head turn to him, but his face stays unbothered. "We don't have that much space."

Jisung rolls his eyes."Bullshit. Emma is probably gonna sleep with Seungmin so I'm sure that 3 people can sleep in this huge ass house" He waves his hands around.

"Yeah but-"

"We'll see" I cut Minho off, trying to end their small disagreement. His eyes look at mine for the first time since he got in the kitchen. The smallest shift is visible in his gaze, only for a few seconds until his eyes hardened, making me swallow hard but he breaks our eye contact with a sigh. I drop my eyes to my glass of water. What the fuck? This felt like he was just, backing down. He hasn't made a single comment, he hasn't referred to me not even once or acted in any teasing or bluntly rude way towards me. He's simply ignoring me.

I turn to Jisung. "Can you please bring me Em's camera? because I have to get going in a few."

"Yeah, sure thing babe." He nods understandably, realizing my discomfort but before he can take a single step, Minho walks past me and out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway.

I lock eyes with Jisung. An apologetic look on his face.

"He's not an asshole I swear." he shakes his head.

"Well, he's an asshole to me for some reason" I shrug.

"Don't mind him," He walks past me, brushing his hand on my shoulder. "I'll bring Emma's camera."

.

.

.

.

.

I don't know how but I've managed to see Minho every day for the past 3 days. Tuesday night; I was leaving the dance studio, I was looking at my phone, texting Chan if he could pick me up cause I was exhausted when I felt my body bump into someone else. Minho simply looked at me before letting out a quite audible sigh and walking past me. Wednesday afternoon; me, Felix and Hyunjin went by their apartment to pick up Changbin cause we made plans to go for drinks. Minho was the one to open the door. He offered Hyunjin and Felix a pat on their shoulders, inviting them inside with a smile on his lips that dropped when they walked further into the living room. He turned around and followed them, leaving me by the door, not spearing me a single glance. Thursday morning; I went by the music building to say 'Hi' to Chan since I was early for my class. All of them were there, chilling on a few benches outside their classroom. Minho kept his eyes glued to his phone, as I chatted with the rest of the guys, not speaking a single word to me. Again.

This is getting ridiculous. I don't know what his problem is but the more we hang out with Chan's friends the more uncomfortable this is getting. He's literary giving me a headache and even though a huge part of me wants to confront him and simply ask him why is he acting this way, I force myself to remember one thing I had to learn the hard way; there's not always a reason for the way people treat you and you don't always get an apology or an explanation. Sometimes you just have to ignore it and move on. I shake my head, removing my headphones as I push the door of the dance studio open. My legs walk down the familiar path to the room that I always use as I keep my eyes on my phone, but the sound of music makes my head snap upwards. Almost all of the dance rooms have glass instead of walls, giving you a clear view inside of them. That's why I usually dance with the lights really low, I'm trying to avoid as much as possible drawing any attention to me since there are no blinds in most of the rooms. Through the glass, a male figure is visible. He has the lights really low too as he dances, with his back facing me. I take a step forward, narrowing my eyes in attempt to see his face but as he takes a turn I inhale sharply. He has to be doing this on purpose, there is no other explanation. He's suddenly everywhere, It's like I can't escape him. What is he doing here anyway? I've been using this room for a long time and have never seen him here. I feel a sudden heat in my stomach. Frustrated, I push the doors open. Minho stops at the sound and his eyes meet mine through the mirror. His brown hair is a mess and drops of sweat are falling from the sides of his forehead and down his neck. His white t-shirt is almost soaked, sticking to his toned chest, the outline of his abs slightly visible. His chest is rising and falling, quick breaths leaving his mouth as his wild eyes stare at me.

"What are you doing here? I've never seen you use this room" I spoke up first. He reaches for his phone, and turns off the music, before grabbing his water bottle, drowning almost half of it. He turned his back on me, ignoring me once again. I crossed my hands in front of my chest, my anger building.

"Are you gonna keep ignoring me? How old are you?" I say through my teeth, trying to stay calm. He drops his water bottle to the ground and takes a deep breath, still not looking up from the ground.

"Minho" The tone of my voice sounds demanding and a little pleading at the same time.  His dark eyes snap to mine and he looks like he wants to run. An unfamiliar wave of sadness rushes through me that quickly resolves into anger. I try to hold it in, but the more he looks at me like that, the weaker I get.

"What did I do?" I pathetically ask.

His eyes twitched with confusion. "What?" He says. I feel a little relieved by the fact that he actually talked to me and didn't just walk past me and out of the dance room.

"I must have done something for you to ignore me literally out of nowhere." I take a few steps towards him. I hate how I'm being right now but I can't stop the words from coming out. I want answers. "Tell me."

He finally turns around and quickly holds his hand up between us. My legs freeze. He holds my gaze, his eyes hard and dark looking in mine. I stare back. He stares hard. I stare harder.

"Fuck" He breaks. He starts pacing and running his hands through his hair.

Here we go again.

"Hey," I try to gain his attention but he keeps walking back and forth. For some reason, I'm beginning to get anxious. The way his acting right now is making me anxious. "Hey," I say again, a little louder. He lifts his head at my raised tone but keeps walking back and forth. His breathing is extra hard but he tries to cover it up, his fists clenching and unclenching. I take a few more careful steps towards him. "Relax" I soften my voice. "Talk to me"

"But I don't wanna talk to you, that's the problem." He almost yells, making me jump slightly. My legs immediately move backwards. He seems to notice, cause his eyes turn softer, only for a few seconds before anger takes over his whole face.

"Fuck" He yells again and turns around. I'm standing here, completely lost. What the fuck is going on with him? Why is there so much bottled-up anger towards me? The self-doubt and anxiety start creeping in once again, and I stare at his back, trying to put my thoughts in order. I'm once again putting myself in a position where I'm trying to understand someone who doesn't want to be understood. Where I care about things and people I shouldn't and where I'm building a situation in my mind to be bigger than it actually is. I don't know why I'm taking his dislike of me so seriously and I don't know why he's yelling but my body won't move. Somehow I can't bring myself to walk away right now cause for some reason I don't want it to be like this. Complicated things scare me and this is getting way too complicated. I don't want it to be complicated.

"Why don't you wanna talk to me? I don't understand-"

"You don't have to understand" He raises his tone even more. "What you have to do is leave me alone." He says, sounding almost pleading.

Leave him alone? I narrow my eyes at him. Does he think I'm some kind of stray that follows him around begging for his attention when he's the one picking unnecessary fights with me?  

"I'm not chasing you around dude." I defend, my anger coming back at his statement. "Chill out. We have mutual friends, and bumping into each other is inevitable. And besides, you're the one who's been picking a fight with me every chance he gets. You're the one that sticks his nose in someone else's business. You're the one opening up to me about your past." I move forward. "You're the one who's unreasonably ignoring a person who's done nothing wrong and you're the one yelling in my fucking face right now." My chest is burning with rage. He sure has some nerve to say that I'm the one following him around.

He stays quiet, probably cause he knows he's in the wrong. His jaw is set to the point where his lips have turned into a thin line. His eyes are shooting fire and yet, he says nothing. Again. I'm over-floating with frustration, my insides are literally screaming. "Is this about what happened at the party?" I find the courage to ask, eyeing him carefully.

By the way his face hardens, I know I'm right. He's facing me now, standing only about 2 meters away from me and looking at me like he's debating on what he's going to say.

"Do you want me to be honest?" His eyes challenge me.

"Yes," I breathe out. "Give me a truth, for once." I challenge back.

"I don't know what came over me that night. I don't do shit like that ever and I'm fucking mad at myself for spilling half of my fucking story to you." He waves his hand at me disgracefully. " Fuck I really don't know why I did that, it's embarrassing." He looks like he's talking mostly to himself at this point. "I just wanna forget about it, and you being in my fucking face all the goddamn time isn't helping" He takes a step towards me.

I'm going to actually hit him. "I'm not in your face all the time" I yell, unable to control my temper at this point.  "Like I said-"

"I don't care." He laughs and lifts his hands in the air, frustrated as well.

"Look, I don't really know what kind of personal issues you have, but stop making a situation more than it is. You opened up about some things and I did the same, what's the problem?" I run my hand through my hair, trying to bring the tones down but he's not having it.

"The problem is that I don't know you," He takes another step towards me, closing the gap between us slowly. "And frankly, I don't want to" He breathes out a laugh and I can feel my body stiffen. "The fact that we met a year ago or that I helped you escape your fucking ex doesn't mean we have any sort of connection." His tone drops lower with each word just like my heart. "Maybe I pitied you," He says, and I can tell that he knows that his words will cut through me like a knife, by the time it took for him to speak them. My stomach turns as I fight to keep the tears from filling my eyes. "Maybe I happened to be simply there." He's standing right in front of me and I stare at him, my hands turning into fists to my sides, wanting to scream at him but not a single word escapes my lips.

"What?" He raises his chin, looking down at me, with a small smile. "No more whining about me being rude without a reason?" he mocks, dropping his face to my eye level with his bottom lip pouting slightly and anger rushes through my whole body, hitting me like a train. Without thinking about it, I lift my right hand, slapping him across his face. The sound fills the room, followed by a few seconds of silence. Minho doesn't move an inch, his eyes are glued to the ground and his jaw is set as redness begins to appear on his left cheek. But I couldn't care less right now. I can feel my whole body boiling with anger.

"Fuck you. " I spit through my teeth "You're not gonna stand there and make me feel like shit about myself because you have your own personal fucking problems." Tears build up in my eyes but I don't let them fall. I turn around but before I manage to reach the door his hand grips my elbow tightly, forcing me to turn around. He backs me up and slams me against the glass besides the door. His eyes burn with fury as he towers over me, holding both of my wrists in his hands between our bodies. His sudden actions caught me by surprise and a gasp escaped my lips. Waves of emotions fill my body as I stare at him with wide eyes. Fear mixed with the tiniest hint of excitement overtakes my brain when he drops his face lower, our noses almost touching. Deep, sharp breaths go through his nose, his chest rising and falling.

"Don't do that." His voice drops lower than I've ever heard him speak, sending chills down my spine. I hold my breath, unable to look away from the intensity of his gaze. His eyes flicker to my lips and he rests his forehead against mine. My mind screamed. Unexpected, overwhelming emotions begin to spread through me like I'm falling under a spell. His body presses against mine, his scent is everywhere, and his perfect, heart-shaped, full lips right in front of me. I let my own eyes fall to them only for a second before looking back to his eyes only to find him staring at my lips as well. He lets out a breath and brings his face an inch closer to mine, our lips almost brushing. My heart started beating like a fucking drum.

"Fuck" He growls, closing his eyes.

"Minho.." I whisper and his eyes snap to mine. He releases a breath and pushes himself away from me, taking the heat of his body with him, leaving me completely frozen. He grabs his bag and before I have any time to say or do anything he's out of the room.

[jojolymes]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐒; three

࿔*:･ﾟ iii.  

next: ࿔*:･ﾟ iv.  | table of contents  

THE AIR was unbearably tense as you swallowed hard, hands fiddling with the other beneath the table. In your defense, after almost a year and a half of isolation, talking only to your drugged-up parents, it was pretty hard to talk to someone. Especially someone who was still only an acquaintance. What were you supposed to say anyway?

"Hey, thanks for saving me from the Needle Devil. Sorry I pissed myself I kind of thought I was going to die. But like you're a pretty cool guy and you're actually really good-looking and if you weren't obviously in love with your boss— or our boss now I guess— I would probably ask you out on a date. I get it though, since, y'know, being a devil hunter is pretty hard..."

You swept the thought away and instead coughed into your fist, looking over at the wall beside you stiffly. Yeah, there was no way you were going to say anything remotely close to that. Maybe if you were lucky, the waitress would come over and say something that would let you jump into easy conversation.

"Spit it out."

"Okay, sorry."

Your cheeks flared with embarrassment as you looked back over at Aki, chewing your lip nervously. He looked (understandably) pissed off— arms crossed tightly across his chest as he waited for you to finally say something that wasn't completely stupid. It was almost condescending. A sharp puff of air left your lips and you practically deflated into your seat, looking at Aki from beneath your eyelashes.

"So, uh," you hesitated as your brow furrowed. Might as well get the hardest questions out of the way first, "my parents... they're dead right?" Aki looked slightly taken aback, almost as if he was surprised that you had jumped to such a topic. At the same time, he had this look in his eyes, one you were sure you had spotted at some point within the span of your sticking around him.

"...yes," Aki replied, leaving a breath of stillness between his words, "we found your parents in the kitchen after the Needle Devil appeared that second time. They were... far beyond saving." You clenched your jaw, fingers wrapping tightly around the fabric of your pants. You really shouldn't have expected any better.

"Oh... okay." You weren't sure if you could say much else on the topic. But one thing you needed to know for sure was why the Needle Devil had chosen you in the first place.

"The Needle Devil," you swallowed thickly, hands trembling at the mere thought of it, "Miss Makima said I made a contract with it but that makes no sense. I'm afraid of needles. Why did it choose me to make a contract with?"

"That's what we were hoping to find out," Aki stated simply, "see, just as Miss Makima said, the Needle Devil is incredibly powerful. On top of that, for almost three decades now, the Needle Devil has had an exclusive contract with one of the strongest devil hunters in the precinct." You tilted your head— if it had a contract with such a strong person, then why choose you?

"I..." You wracked your memory to come up with an explanation, anything to rationalize it all. But you could remember nothing but the terrifying words that slipped from the devil's mouth before everything went dark. "I don't remember much," you began slowly, "I don't even remember walking into my house. Just that there was blood and my parents said we had a guest... but they weren't my parents- they were..."

Your stomach lurched and you bit back the urge to vomit, bringing the back of your hand to your lips. You didn't dare look at Aki, ashamed of your fear. Your friends had always called it irrational after all. Despite it all, you swallowed harshly and continued your sentence.

"Their heads- their heads were like syringes. But they acted just like they used to back when I was younger... so it had to be them, right? A-Anyways, after that, I asked what it wanted and it said it wanted to make a contract. Next thing I knew, you and Miss Himeno showed up."

There was a beat of silence and you forced yourself to look at Aki just as the waitress appeared, placing your food down. You gave the waitress a quick smile and she did the same before walking away, leaving you both in awkward silence once more. With nothing else to do, you grabbed your fork, going to dig in when you stopped yourself.

What if there was something in it? It wouldn't be hard to put some sort of drugs in your food without you knowing. Things like edibles existed for a reason. You grew queasy at the sight and pushed your plate away, turning to instead take a sip of your drink. What if there was stuff in there too? Your hand retracted back to its place on your lap and you furrowed your brow, looking at the floor beside your table.

"Are you not going to eat?" Aki asked bluntly as your cheeks burned, forcing yourself to grab your fork once more. Your food would be fine. There was nothing wrong with it. You didn't register how your hand shook when you stabbed through a piece of food and brought it toward yourself. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn't open your mouth. Aki raised a brow and you simply laughed.

It was a burst of laughter that sounded almost unnatural as you let your fork drop down to your plate, ignoring the way your hunger clawed at your stomach, begging for something to satiate it. How long had it been since you ate a proper meal? The last thing you remembered eating was something from the convenience store that you had made sure was sealed. Even then you had only taken a few bites before rushing to your graduation ceremony.

"Sorry, I must have lost my appetite," you muttered just as your stomach growled loudly, making you grimace. Aki stared, almost studying you, as you fidgeted in your seat, ears on fire. Of course, your stomach had to growl. The clatter of silverware across from you made you flinch and you cursed your pathetic nature. He had gone through the trouble of bringing you here and you ended up looking ungrateful.

"Here, let's switch," Aki began, making you straighten up. He gave you no time to react and grabbed your food, replacing it with his. You noticed there were pieces of pancake missing and you deducted he had eaten some. If he had eaten it— you paused to look at him, not noticing any particularly bizarre behavior— then his food was safe. You took your fork this time, stabbed through a piece of pancake, and ate it.

It was fluffy and not overbearingly sweet, save for the smallest bit of syrup on the piece you had eaten. You could feel a smile tugging at your cheeks— it was good. It was really good. You couldn't stop yourself once you started, chowing down on the pancakes like they were your last meal. The food was so good that you had almost forgotten what you had initially planned to do. You forced yourself to put the fork down and looked at Aki who was taking a sip from his coffee.

"Um, so..." you brushed some hair behind your ear and set your hands down in your lap, "Miss Makima said I'll be working as a Devil Hunter. Is that really true?" It wasn't like you were doubting Makima, but you were really hoping it wasn't the truth. Maybe she had messed up. Though a woman like that couldn't have possibly made mistakes, ever.

"Yes. Makima has also requested that you stay with me. People with illegal contracts such as yours usually get some sort of jail time but it seems there's something about you that interests her," Aki stated with a hint of what you could only assume was jealousy. Regardless, you could really only focus on one thing he said: that you would be staying with him.

"Oh..." Your voice cracked and you cringed internally— well, now it made sense why you had been in his apartment instead of Himeno's or literally anywhere else. Still, if anything, didn't it make more sense for you to stay with her? "Is there any reason why Miss Makima chose you for me to stay with?" Aki's face flushed and he coughed into his fist before taking another sip of his coffee, averting his gaze to outside the window.

"I'm... not sure," Aki said, almost as if he wasn't telling you something (what you didn't know was that Aki had gotten a call from Makima, telling him that he was one of the few people she could trust and that she knew that he would ensure that you didn't get out of line. When Himeno asked if he had extra clothes for you to wear, Aki had been staring at the ceiling in a daze while still thinking of what Makima said).

"Well, in that case, I look forward to...um... living with you," you faltered, rubbing the crook of your neck. You scoured your mind for another question to ask so as to move past the fact that you would be staying with Aki. "So... what will I be doing? As a devil hunter that is..." You hadn't joined the devil hunting club back in your high school, too focused on keeping your failing family afloat to know what being a devil hunter entailed.

"The main goal as of right now is to gather the pieces of the Gun Devil," Aki began, brows furrowing as his hand curled tightly around his fork, "most devils have a piece or two inside of them, especially the strong ones. We need these pieces so we can find the Gun Devil and defeat it."

The Gun Devil— you had been nine when it struck, leaving waves of destruction in its path. It had completely obliterated the company your parents worked at. It had been their day off, thankfully, but the devil's attack had been too close for comfort. You could still remember how your parents stood in front of the tv for hours. You were supposed to go visit a family friend that day but it had ended with you staring out the window, listening to the endless sirens from the city.

Now that you really thought about it, the Gun Devil's attack may have been the catalyst for your parents' addiction. In the months after the attack, they had been frantic to find a job. At some point, they had been hired, but the lack of workers made sure they didn't have much time to relax. So technically, this had all been the Gun Devil's fault. Yet, despite the realization, you didn't feel the urge to seek revenge. Maybe you had come to terms with your parents' addiction.

"Is there a way you can find the devils that have the pieces? I know that the power devils have stems off of fear so-" You froze— fear. Fear. You looked at Aki with wide eyes, hoping he too had made the connection. You were afraid of needles, so afraid that you were petrified at the mere sight of them. The thought of one on the end of a syringe made you sick to your stomach until you could distract yourself with something else.

"Your fear..."

"My fear of needles makes it stronger."

Aki was too stunned when you made the connection. Too stunned to say a word when the glass behind you shattered, an amalgamation of limbs and teeth reaching for you. It seemed that you hadn't noticed either, frozen in fear at what you had discovered. Aki didn't realize how he had brought his hand up, palm covering your face while his two fingers circled the indiscernible mass behind you.

As the unknown devil writhed and screeched and slobbered toward you, Aki could vaguely make out the sound of screaming. There were civilians in the street and in the cafe that were begging for help, praying to whatever god they believed in. Aki couldn't remember a time when he did such a thing, save for the times when his parents dragged him to the temple for New Year.

Aki's index finger and pinky curled up as his middle and ring fingers touched his thumb— he closed one eye and made sure that the thing heading straight for the both of you was within the Fox Devil's range. As his lips began to move, Aki wondered if you had noticed the devil behind you yet or the minuscule shards of glass that flew past you. It was odd; he had never really cared for many people besides Himeno or Makima.

Aki figured that as much as he resisted, at some point you would join the tiny list.

"Kon."

It didn't faze Aki one bit as the Fox Devil broke through the ground behind you, biting through the devil in one fell swoop. Aki had reached over the table and pulled you forward so that you were right next to him, stumbling past the table. What he hadn't expected, however, was for the mass to shrink back into the street, still alive and kicking.

While the Fox Devil evaporated into mist, Aki heard its voice ringing in his ears. You were absolutely petrified in Aki's grasp, mouth open as if ready to scream. But there was no sound. The people in the street made up for it, screaming in a cacophony of terror. Aki had to call backup, he knew that much. But as the people yelled and died all around you both, there was no time to do such a thing.

"THE CROWD DEVIL HAS APPEARED."

[writingcold]

Hello there! We’ve reached Act II of Bootleggers!  The second act does deal with a lot of issues that some may find difficult.  As we know from Act 1 Junie was married to Mr. Archer, to which things are not so good.  Just be aware that there is a lot of action, some violence, violence towards women specifically, in this piece.  We continue to focus on our wildflowers, Cora (and her romance with Jacob), Molly, and Susannah.  There’s  a lot that happens right off the bat, so let’s get to it. Did I mention, Cora finally gets into the Lantern?!

If you're just coming across this, here is the Master List to catch up.

Thank you always to @lvnterninthenight, @gardensgatedaisy and @whitesuitjake for all of the love and support during the time I was writing this.  

Also just a quick thank you and sweet hugs going out to @vanfleeter and @jakekiszkasbuttsweat for the support of this story! *mwah*

This is a work of fiction, and is totally mine.  Please do not take it for your own personal use.  I’ve put in hours of research, hours upon hours of writing, re-writing, screaming, yelling and vomiting over this epic of a story.  But it is mine.

Content warnings: Drinking, threats of violence, imagery of violence, hopelessness, anxiousness.  

Word Count: approx 6300

Chapter Eleven: Bank, The Moon, and the Lantern, Junie’s Plight - Jacob POV

     The weight of the air crushed his lungs and scalded the inside of his body.  Josh continued speaking, reading the letter from their father, but Jake was only focused on one thing - there was dissent amongst the families that their affiliation rode upon.  One of the top bosses had split, claiming distribution was not what it could be.  Their father was merely alerting his boys to possible issues coming their way over the next months.  With winter coming, and the driving routes effectively shut down due to snow, their father was warning them of shit coming their way no matter what they did.

     “It’s time we get the bank,”  Josh said, tossing the paper on the desk.  “It may smooth some of the feathers for a while.”

     Jacob was shaking his head.  The bank.  Josh had been obsessed for nearly a year.  His contacts were saying that it was time - Archer had been dealt a blow served by his own stupidity.  His affairs were unraveling and the venomous gossip was turning into facts.  He puffed out his cheeks as he shifted against the window.  

     “How many more runs you think we can complete?”  Josh asked.

     Jacob shrugged as Sam and Danny leaned back in their seats.  “If I had the Earl, I would get maybe five majors where I’m involved - four smaller ones that it’s just the trucks.  But as is, we’re having to make up the large runs with twice as many small runs.  Marquette county has become off limits to the trucks without me to be the bait.  We add a shit ton of miles by having to run south through Delta and Menominee counties, not to mention a lot more area to get fucked by not having friends.  We’re running behind as it is and won’t have enough product to last the winter for Iron County, let alone to fulfill expected deliveries to Chicago.  We can’t be running the trucks beyond October anyway unless we want to dig out every few miles.”

     Danny nodded.  “Our first year we got in that one run in November, but I wouldn’t count on it.  Even with the damn chains on the tires, a few of the trucks didn’t make the target.”

     “Yeah, and we said we wouldn’t do that again,”  Jake remarked with a grimace.  “Remember?  We almost lost three trucks on swampy assed roads. And - we lost that one skating off into a goddamn lake.”

     “It’s all fucking moot anyway,”  Sam remarked.  “The Earl is dead.”

     “She’s not dead,”  Jake grumbled.  “There’s nothing wrong with the engine.”

     “But the fucking shell that makes it a car is dead.  There’s nothing left for me to fix if there’s no body left, Jake.  I sent word to Father when you dragged her into the shop.  There’s something on the way.  Should be here at any time.”

     “It’s going to be a fucking disaster,”  Jake whispered angrily.  

     “I’m going before the board of trustees for the bank in two weeks,”  Josh said before lighting up a cigarette and cutting off the direction of the conversation.  “I have all but a few votes for no confidence on the part of Mr. Archer.  It will be enough to remove him as bank president.  I have an offering to present that will put us into control.  The last round of acquisitions put our line above my expected results, and offers more than enough holdings to solidify our position as main shareholder and bank president.”

     Jacob sat up straight.  Josh nodded to let Danny and Sam leave, but he stayed behind, closing the door behind the men.  Turning, he felt his twin’s gaze on him in question.

     “I have two weeks?”  he asked as he watched Josh stamp out his smoke.

     “Two weeks for what?”  Josh returned disinterested.

     “Junie?  Cora’s sister,”  Jake answered.  “If you make a move now, and Archer is removed, he will disappear with her.  You and I both know that girl won’t have a chance of survival if he ‘moves’ her.  Hell, I don’t know if she’s actually surviving now.  They won’t even let the mother inside to see the girl.”

     Josh’s brows knitted in thought.  Jake knew if there was one thing that his brother did not tolerate was a man who mistreated women in the fashion that Archer was accustomed to.  His brother was thinking things through as he kicked his feet up on the desk.

     “I may not show it, Jake, but I’ve grown very fond of Cora.  I am envious of you,”  he said quietly.  “She has a softness and fortitude that is very comely.  She’s been good for you.”

     He rubbed the pad of his thumb across stray stubbles on the underside of his chin.  “You and I both know that the current Mrs. Archer will not have a chance if we make this move on the bank.”

     Josh nodded.  Jacob could see the storm clouds behind his brother’s thoughts as he tapped the top of the desk.  “I’ll get us over there Sunday.  Have Cora with you.  It will give me time to think this through.”

     Jake lit up a smoke before reaching for his hat.  “Thank you.”

     “Are you avoiding taking her to the Lantern?”  Josh asked as he moved towards the door.  

     He stopped before reaching for the doorknob.  “Not avoiding.  Just never asked if that’d be something she’d-”

     “Jacob,”  his twin said, moving around behind him.  “It’s not like how things are with Susannah and Molly - or shit, even Catherine.  Do not say it - I know that mistake was blatant on my part.  But Cora’s a different breed.  She’s a different caliper altogether.  People in this town know her as something on the side of respectable - no reputation other than a churchgoing woman of no rank.  You literally can mold her into anything you want her to be at this point.”

     “I don’t want to mold her into anything.  I love her as she is,”  he whispered.

     Josh hummed, drawing his attention back to his brother.  “Then we should protect her and her own as is, shouldn’t we?”

     He felt his eyes close for a moment and relief poured in.  His brother was accepting the situation and offering a life line.  This was his Joshua.  His hand came down on Jake’s arm, giving it a bit of a squeeze.  It was an acquiescence of events that had to be buried in the past and never revisited.   

     “I know you want out, same as I,”  Josh said quietly.  “It is still the goal.  What I am trying to do, Brother, is to never have to return to this life.  Once we are done here - we are done.”

     Jake nodded slowly.  “It’s going to get messy.”

     “Let’s be honest and say what it will be, Jacob.  It’s going to be a fucking bloody matter.  The bank is just the first of many steps.”  

     His throat constricted as he opened the office door.  Josh was right, of course.  It was juvenile to think that they were going to be able to leave the life unscathed.  Sam was just coming in the shop door, his face full of light as Jacob refocused his thoughts to the task at hand.

     “It’s here, Jake!”  his younger brother’s voice was full of excitement.  “You’ve got to see this.”

     Change was not high on Jake’s list of likes.  Since the last disastrous run of the Earl, it was clear that his baby needed to be replaced.  Josh was right behind him as he walked quickly past customers with his best professional smile.  Sam was already around the corner and through the alley, while the twins tried to keep cool.  The first he saw was the shiny black and chrome, followed by the sheer size of the vehicle.  Sam was full of glint as he was already in the engine, making sounds of delight as he poked and prodded.

      “It’s a goddamn roadster!  I can already tell you it’s too fucking heavy!”  Jake grumbled, his eyes on the bulk of the car.  “There’s no way to have this shit ready for the next run.”

     “We’ve got work to do, sure,”  Sam said with a shrug.  A demon grin came across his mouth.  “But I can get this bitch up to sixty five, maybe seventy.  We’ve just got to get her skinny.”

      Jacob felt his jaw slacken.  “One week, Samuel.”

     “Considering it’ll take forever to bring the Earl back to life…”

     “Then let’s get to work, Sam.”

Chapter Eleven: Pt. 2, Cora POV

     Jacob did not arrive on time to collect the box.  Instead of waiting for him, or stowing it in the locker, Cora decided to take it around to the shop office herself.  Gathering her things, she took hold of the cashbox and headed out, waving at Marcus on her way down to the main door.  The bouncer had taken a shine to her since she showed up unannounced.  He would drop her treats and sandwiches with a grin, just to let her know he was there.  She started bringing him bits of scratch biscuits and jam in trade.  His beam at the sight would last her through the entire evening.  

     Making her way up the alley, she could hear Sam cursing up a storm, underscored by Jake scolding him for being a dumbass.  She stepped into the store to find it closed and Renee was already gone.  She could smell fresh tobacco, so she was sure Mr. Joshua was still in his office.  

     “Mr. Kiszka?”  she called out before she reached the door to alert him of her presence.

     “Good evening, Cora,”  he said with a smile.  His face warmed as he stood up.  “I think it would be fine if we dropped the formalities, even for work, don’t you think?”

     Cora nodded as she held out the box.  “It was a really busy day back there and I didn’t feel right leaving this in the locker.”

      He took it from her and moved towards the safe.  “I didn’t think that Jake would get back there at closing time.  Means you didn’t see the new lady.”

      “Lady?  Did you hire another shop girl?”  she asked, looking over her shoulder into the shop.  

      “No.  Come on, lovely.  Jacob got himself a new toy today,”  he said.  “I’m quite curious to see how it’s panning out actually.  Shall we?  I wanted to speak with you anyway.”

      “Me?”

     He nodded as he stepped out of the office with her and locked the door.  “I spoke with Jacob earlier.  Sunday, we will be going to the Archer residence.  It will just be the three of us, however.  I fear that we will have to be a little pushy and use some subterfuge to get ourselves inside, but the man honestly does not like a public scene, so there’s that.”

     Cora took his offered elbow as they moved outside and locked the heavy shop door.  He waited until they were around the corner in the alley to continue.

     “I will be reaching out to our Aunt Dotty.  She’s good people, Cora.  Her distance from here will provide safety.”  She turned and looked at him as his words began to sink into her mind.  “Sunday, I need you to assess if your sister is well enough to travel.  There are events coming up that will take some finesse, but if it goes right - I will send her to Wisconsin, away from that fuck of a husband.  Is that well with you?”

     Her jaw dropped as Josh turned his dark eyes on her.  This man was offering his help in the only way he knew how - abrupt, precise, and well-planned.  She nodded and he patted her hand on his arm.  The language spilling out of the garage made her stomach feel sour.  The tones were hard and angry as tools sounded like they were smashing on benches and the concrete.  

     “There’s just one thing,”  she said as they stood away from the carriage building doors.  “If she wants to leave.”

     Joshua’s face grew still, reflective.  “Cora, I think I know you well enough to speak plainly.  Harold Archer is a villain.  Do not underestimate that man.  There’s a reason why he has ‘lost’ three wives in six years, and it’s not due to childbirth.”

     Shock percolated under her skin.  She swallowed words that wanted to bubble out.  Joshua smoothed his fingers across her hand once more.

     “Sounds like they are going to rip each other apart in there,”  he said with a smirk.  “What fun.”

     They stepped in to find both men red faced with heaving chests.  Sam was the first to spot them, his lip curled in anger.  Cora drew in a breath at the sight of Jacob, hand drawn back with a heavy metal tool.  He whipped his head around, eyes flared on her the moment Sam moved.

     “I was going to use the term ‘gentlemen’ but, here we are,”  Josh remarked smoothly.  “Perhaps I should walk you home, Cora, let these two beat some sense into each other.”

     Jacob straightened up, glaring at his younger sibling as he set the implement against one of the workbenches, close to his shirt and jacket.  Sam remained on guard, albeit not as tight as Jacob slid into his dress shirt.  

     “Right, so Cora,”  Josh whispered as Jacob dressed,  “tomorrow night, I would like you to come down to the Lantern with us.  I think you’ll like the canary that will be visiting, and if Sammy doesn’t break any fingers fighting, he’s going to be playing as well.”

     Cora found that she could not look away from Josh’s dark eyes.  This was not professional businessman Mr. Kiszka.  There was a humor in his eyes that she had never noticed, a mischievousness that Jacob did not possess.  “I’d like that,”  she answered with a nod.

     “What’s that now?”  Jacob asked as he was yanking at his tie.

     “Your girl will be accompanying you tomorrow night to the Lantern,”  Josh remarked with a toothy grin.

     Jacob paused, eyes froze on his twin.  “Really?”

     “Why Miss Cora, you comin’ to see little old me play tomorrow?”  Sam called from across the garage.  “The girls are going to love having you there.”

Chapter Eleven: Pt. 3, Molly POV

     “I have something I want you to try, dolly,”  she said, dragging Cora towards the spare bedroom of her house.  

     “I was going to wear the rose gold number,”  Cora remarked, giving her a bit of resistance.

     “While that is very lovely and all, you’re visiting the Lantern,”  Molly reminded, achieving her goal of getting to the clothes den.  “You need something… more.”

     When Cora raised her eyes to the ceiling, Molly knew this was more about her friend’s need to do things for herself.  She more than understood the need - having had to carve everything out for herself.  However, to be able to provide for her friends - her sisters - was beyond anything that Molly could have dreamed of achieving.  She knew there would be resistance, so she made sure to leave the little black number on the bed specifically for ease of access.

      “Trust me, Cora love,”  she said with a wave of her hands.  “This one is specifically for the Lantern.  Your silk number is perfect for The Boudreau, even the tea parlor, or church and Sunday visits.  This chiffon is what is required at the speakeasy.”

     She watched as the woman’s jaw dropped.  The black chiffon had intricate Art Deco designed glass beadwork that covered the entire piece.  Cora picked the material up, her eyes closing against the feel of the textile.  

     “And look at these oyster fruits - aren’t they the cat’s meow?”  She held up the choker that had strands that hung down the back.

     Cora looked skeptical until she held the cocktail dress up and turned it around to reveal the extreme low cut that would expose the back until just above the swell of the bottom.  Her eyes bulged.

     “Now hold it there, missy boo,”  Molly was quick to say as her friend was shutting down the idea of wearing the garment.  “This is the Lantern.  This rag will be more modest on the attire spectrum that you will be seeing tonight.  The difference here is, Cora, you can pull this off without garment aids.”

      “Molly!”

      “I want you to just try it on, don’t worry about the choker, or the lovely hair piece that will go with it,”  she held the feather and pearl and beaded band up for her to see.  “Just put the dress on.  Give it a chance.  Susannah will be here to do your hair any moment.”

       Cora made a sound as Molly hurried from the room.  Honestly, the girl needed to figure it out.  She was less of a prude than she knew, or at least needed to be.  Molly was sure the moment she had the dress on, she would change her mind.  The moment Jake saw her would be the tipping point.  The man would most likely melt on the spot at first sight.  He would also probably be fighting every other man in the room who happened to look at her a certain way.

      Susannah was just walking into the house as Molly walked back to the main room.  She was dressed in a sleek steel blue number that complimented her pale skin.  Molly smiled as she tried to not listen to Cora’s scoffs and guffaws.

     “What’s going on?”  Susannah asked, setting her small bag of supplies down for doing hair and makeup.  

     “I’ve got Cora trying on something a little different,”  Molly whispered with a devilish grin.

     The two friends laughed quietly as Cora let out a huff before opening the door.  

     “I can’t do this!”  she trilled, unwilling to walk out.

     “Come on, dolly.  Let us old hens be the judge of that,”  Susannah called out.

     Molly felt her lips drag in between her teeth to keep from getting upset.  The woman was more stubborn than need be at times, and it was one of those times.  Finally, she stepped into the light of the sitting room, her face stoic in her upset.  Susannah’s head tilted as the air seemed to escape from the room.

     “Might as well start calling you ‘Sticks’ because you got fucking gams, baby,”  Susannah said, her tone shocked.

     The dress hung on Cora’s frame exactly how she had imagined it would;  clinging to her hips just right to lay against her legs to make them look like they were long and strong but delicate at the ankle.  The high neckline made her torso look long and lean.  Molly let out a soft breath.

      “Maybe that dress was not the right one.  You’ll make the two of us look like we’re dressed for the slops,”  she said softly.  “Damn.  You’re beautiful.”

     Cora’s cheeks flushed red.  “Are you sure it’s not too risque?”

     Both women shook their heads slowly.  Susannah set in to doing Cora’s hair while Molly dressed in her ruby colored mini that had the fringe that kissed her calves.  She was thankful that the two women were laughing by the time she finished, bringing out shoes for her and Cora.  Susannah made gooey eyes at her as she slid into the black heels to complete her look.

     “Looks like you were right, mama,”  Susannah sighed as Cora stood up to reveal the completed look.  “The rest of us might as well check out tonight.  All eyes are going to be on this one.”

     “Jacob is so going to be gobsmacked,”  Molly cooed.  “That poor man is not going to know what hit him.”

     Much like the evening of taking Cora to the dancehall, the three friends walked into the evening together.  Danny met them outside of the dancehall, leading them through the crowded space towards the employee only door.  Molly held her lover back to allow Susannah and Cora to walk ahead of them just to take in the reaction of those who saw her handiwork.  

     They all said hello to Marcus as they took the back stairs down to the Lantern.  The bouncer tipped his hat to Cora who laughed and reached out to hand the man something from her clutch.

     “Thank you, Miss Cora,”  he said smoothly as he watched them go down the stairs.  At Molly’s raised eyebrow, he laughed.  “The woman is kind enough to bring me cookies and biscuits.  You lot don’t do that – at all.”

     “I’ll remember that, Marcus, for next time!  Promise!”  Molly called out as Danny held the door open for the ladies to pass.

     Danny’s hand landed in a press against her hip as they walked into the speakeasy.  “I don’t know what you’re expecting tonight, but you really did up Cora, didn’t you love?”  he asked as they trailed behind Susannah.

     “No expectations, just dolling her up for the evening,”  she answered with a grin and a batting of her eyelashes.

     Jacob was on his feet before they had crossed the dance floor.  His dark eyes were shimmering as they took in the sight of his girl.  Molly felt a little smug.  Putting the window dressing on Cora gave her such pleasure in seeing the impact that she could have on those around her.  She watched as Jacob moved around the table, walking on a collision course with them.  The sheer possession that radiated out of the man’s face reminded her of the rare times that she could elicit from Danny.  He reached for her, slamming his mouth into hers, effectively letting everyone in that room know it was hands off of little Miss Cora.

Chapter Eleven: Pt. 4, Cora POV

     The nerves that jolted her stomach as she followed Susannah into the Lantern made her want to vomit.  She felt ridiculous as the first eyes to take her in seemed to stay glued to her.  The smell of the room was tobacco and liquor and an assault of several perfumes blending together to make an overwhelming musk.  The air was hot with a current that could only be described as a Saturday night - expectations of fun and music filled the air.  The laughter was loud and the jazz band was louder.  Unlike her previous appearance, Cora felt as if she was still trespassing, but only because the space was new to her.  Her eyes went right to Jacob to find that he was already moving towards her.  The look on his face was nothing like anything she had seen from him.  

     Before she could say hello, he had her around the waist, his fingers pressing into the exposed skin of her back and his mouth against hers in a deep kiss.  Her heart thundered in her chest as his heat pressed against her, rooting her to the spot.  There was no one else in the room.  Just him holding onto her.  She was slow to open her eyes to look at him.

     “You look like you’re a heroine in a movie,”  he whispered, dragging a finger down her cheek as his other hand ghosted down her back. 

      Sharp notes on the piano pierced the air as the lights dimmed.  Jacob grinned as he nearly seemed reluctant to lead her to the table, but he held a chair out next to his seat.  A waiter brought a few bottles of wine and glasses for the table.  Joshua whispered a hello and shared a smile.  Cora felt the nerves fall away to finally allow her to realize that Samuel sat at the piano.  The room hushed as he settled himself in.

     “Rhapsody in Blue,”  he said without looking out at the crowd that waited.  “Gershwin.”

     The notes that started to fill the space made her heart feel like it was journeying through a space that was crowded and wonder filled.  Samuel’s face was full of concentration and his body was rigid as he played.  Not a sound was uttered by anyone.  It was like he held the room enthralled.  Pressure on the pad of her thumb drew her attention down to her lap.  Jacob tugged the digit along, before caressing across the back of her hand, only to flip it and trace the lines of her palm.  Looking into his face, she wanted to touch him, trace the lines of his cheekbones and jaw and brows.  Instead, he continued to trace her fingers, the ridges of her knuckles, the planes of her palm.  

     She twirled her fingers into his, and he let her turn his palm up in her lap, running the pads of her own fingers across his, only to have him enclose her hand and take over.  Looking up into his eyes, she discovered he had shifted to return her gaze.  Cora felt her insides grow anxious.  Her breath grew hot as her brain seized on one notion - she was in love.  Her eyes began to tear as his brow flinched with concern.  Sniffing, she felt silly and reached for a sip of wine to tear herself away from the moment.  It was not like the wine Joshua had during their Sunday suppers, this was sweeter and lighter.  Cora swallowed it down, only to look back at him and find herself wanting.  

     Gently, he tugged her back against him so that his mouth could land against her ear.  “What’s happening, Finch?”

     “I’m all jumbled up,”  she whispered back.

     He cupped her cheek as he placed a chaste kiss against her temple.  “”What’s causing that, baby?”

     “I’m in love with a good man,”  she whispered into his ear, watching as the skin of his cheek became a soft shade of pink.  

     His eyes widened for a moment.  Cora’s heart raced all the faster as he stared back at her, his face blank of emotion.  He brushed his thumb across her jaw before cradling her cheek in his palm.  A small smile graced his face as his brother played furiously to a crowd that seemed just as mesmerized as she felt.  The room erupted in cheers, but all she could do was stay in stillness with Jacob.  He barely leaned forward, his mouth pressing against her for the briefest of moments.  

     “You’re my beautiful finch, aren’t you?”  he whispered into her skin.  

     Her heart swelled as he looped his finger through a curl by her ear.  She felt loved.  Her body hummed with each touch and caress.  Her brain barely registered the intricate song that flowed across the air, but knew the moment was something special.  The night twirled around her and Jacob, filled with wine and dance and music and friends that had become her family.  Her heart did not just feel full.  It was brimming out into the air, tethering her to a moment that she dared not forget.  Not ever.

Chapter Eleven: Pt. 5, Cora POV

     The anxiety spiked in her belly as the housekeeper blocked the door.  She tightened her hold on Jacob’s elbow, capturing his attention, albeit briefly.

     “Mr. Archer is not receiving visitors today,”  the woman remarked, but Josh was already standing in the way of the door.

     “I have a receipt of appointment, Mrs. Meyerson,”  he said, holding out a piece of heavy writing paper.  “We have private business to speak about and we are already running tardy.”

     She took the slip, looking at it skeptically.  Cora realized the woman was simply looking for her employer’s mark, her eyes obviously unable to read.

     “The girl is not welcomed as Mrs. Archer is ill and unable to-”

      “Unwelcomed?”  Jacob breathed his tone incredulous.  “This is Mrs. Archer’s sister.  Perhaps instead of looking after her yourself, she can look in on the woman.  Tend to her for you.”

      “Give yourself a respite,”  Joshua echoed.  “Lord knows you deserve one, Mrs. Meyerson.  This big old house to run by yourself.  With no help and all.”

     Cora shoved her nerves to the side, placing as much warmth into her smile as she could muster.  “Absolutely.  Please, Mrs. Meyerson - I’m more than happy to provide you with assistance in June’s matter,”  she said calmly.

     She looked down at the appointment receipt once more.  Nodding slowly, she moved to the side, admitting them into the foyer.  She waved at Cora to stay, while she led Joshua and Jacob into the parlor.  Standing alone, she tried to not fidget, not appear to be anxious.  Mrs. Meyerson returned, motioning for her to follow her up the stairs.  Three closed doors down the lavishly wood clad hallway and the woman stopped.  Cora noticed a sour smell in the air that made her stomach churn.

     “Perhaps if your sister knew how to take better care of herself, she would not be in this predicament,”  the woman replied with an air of dispassion.

     Cora did not look at her, instead opening the door to the dark room beyond.  She heard a whimper that prickled at her heart.  The fear that flooded her in the air made her sick.  Mrs. Meyerson let out a scoff before turning and walking away.

     “Junie?  Junebug?  It’s me, Cora,”  she whispered as she stepped inside.

     The slab of a bed surprised her.  As her eyes adjusted, she realized the bed was little more than bales of straw with material covering the top of it.  June was curled onto herself, her tiny frame shivering.

     “Junie?”  Cora asked once more, trying to sound anything but scared.

     The form in the makeshift bed quivered but did not make large movements.  The frame of the girl was sickly, her belly swollen, but her limbs were near bones.

     “Oh baby sister,”  she cooed as she drew closer.  “It’s Cora.”

     Junie’s shoulders tensed as Cora reached out to touch her arm.  Recognition flitted through her wild eyes.  Cora choked as a shattering realization crashed into her chest as her heart strangled with pain.  Her sister looked near inhuman from wounds and bruising that stemmed from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.  The smell of urine and feces struck her nose as Junie tried to hide herself in the flimsy, soiled nightdress she wore.  Again, Cora tried to wrap her hand around her sister’s frail arm.

     “Junebug,”  she soothed.  “Junie, it’s me.  I’m here.”

     Junie’s eyes were little more than voids as she wildly looked at her.  It was obvious the girl had come to know cruelty.  Her lips were heavily scabbed and her cheeks were sunk against her once pretty face.  The pain that her sister was experiencing turned her skin to flame with hopelessness.

     “Cora?”  the word came out as a dry, fragile shriek.

     Cora cursed under her breath before she could stop herself.  She turned towards the door, waiting, listening to anyone who may have heard.  Bringing her hands back up so that Junie could see she meant no harm, she tried to lean in closer.

     “Junie, just listen to me.  Be strong.  One more week, and I’m coming for you,”  she whispered, trying to keep her features calm.  “One more week and a bit.  Ten days.  You count the days.  I will be coming for you and you’ll never set foot in this damned house again.  But it has to be our secret.  Just ours - do not tell anyone.”

     “Sister…”

     Cora hushed her.  There were footfalls approaching.  “Ten days.  I’m coming back for you, Junie.  You be strong and hold on.  Do you hear me?”

     Her sister’s haunted eyes flared as Mrs. Meyerson stepped inside.  “That’s quite enough of this lot, miss.  You’re obviously only upsetting her.”

     Cora had never wanted to cause anyone harm of any kind before that moment.  Not even Kilbourne and his smarmy ways of taking advantage of the family caused her such a wish to do harm.  The woman before her sent fury through her veins and punched at her spirit.  Glancing back at Junie, she shored up her emotions before following the housekeeper back into the hallway and down the stairs.  Jacob and Joshua were standing just inside the doors of the parlor, their voices hushed as she descended.  She could hear Archer’s voice, low and threatening but the actual words were muffled across the distance.

     Jacob caught her gaze, tapping his twin’s elbow before he turned his body towards her.  Silently, he offered his hand for her to take.

     “Thank you, Mr. Archer,”  Joshua was saying in a smooth, professional manner.  “I look forward to the board meeting next Wednesday.  I think you and I have some wonderful opportunities to grow these plans, sir.”

     Jacob had her out the door before Archer could see her.  Cora felt her eyes and mouth twitching as she forced herself to remain stoic.  Her chest started heaving by the time they reached the white fence of the front lawn.  She heard him curse as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

     “Let’s get you to the house,”  he whispered, holding her up as he started walking quickly.  “Hold on, baby, just a little further.”

     She heard him call out for his brother and the fast clack of heels on the concrete walk rang out in answer.  The two men worked together to get the three of them to the Kiszka household without allowing anyone to notice the mess that they actually were at the moment.  Inside, Jacob whisked her up the stairs to his room.  Josh was right behind, pouring glasses of amber colored liquid on the sideboard.  She had not realized that she was gasping for breath in between sobs.  Jacob helped her to sit on the edge of the bed before kneeling before her, hands wrapped around hers tightly.  The two gently patted and rubbed against her in an attempt to soothe.

     “They treat her like an animal,”  she cried.  “Worse than an animal.”

     Josh handed her one glass before bringing his own to his lips.  She mirrored him, taking a large sip of whatever it was he had given her.  She gasped and sputtered as the liquid shocked and burned its way down her gullet.

     “Not helping, Josh,”  Jacob scolded, taking her glass away.  “What the hell happened in there?”

      Cora realized the question was pointed at her and both men waited for her answer.  “It doesn’t matter if she’s strong enough to travel or not.  She’s dying in that house.  She doesn’t even know if she’s human.  She can’t travel - not alone.”

     Both men paused with heat in their eyes and curses on their lips.  Cora felt the defeat cool in her veins as Jacob slid his hand against hers, threading their fingers together.  

     “There’s no way for my family to hide her,”  she whispered.  “I can’t leave them behind.  There would be no way they could just go like that - it’s been so hard as it is…  Jacob, I can’t leave you behind.”

     He took in an audible breath and squeezed her hand, his forehead coming to rest on her knee.  Josh placed a calming touch to his brother’s back.

     “There are some pieces for me to figure out,”  Josh said, before taking down the rest of his drink.  “After we do this, it’s going to be important we all just keep to our roles.”

     All three froze hearing Samuel and Daniel banging around downstairs.  Josh picked up Cora’s glass and set them on the sideboard.

     “I’ll, uh, run interference with those four.  Cora, don’t worry about anything today,”  Josh said, his voice gentle.  “I’ll have something planned out soon.”

     “Thank you, Joshua,”  she said before he walked out.

     “It’s what we’re supposed to do for each other right?  Now that we’re family?”  Josh asked with a smile.

     The room was silent.  Cora found her fingers smoothing across Jacob’s hair as he remained still, resting against her knees.  

     “You can leave, Finch,”  he whispered.  “You can get Junie out of here.”

      “No,”  she said firmly as he sat back on his heels to look at her.  “Joshua said it himself, we’re all going to have to remain in the roles we play.  If I am gone, my family has no means for anything, let alone cover the rent.  I cannot leave them vulnerable.”

     “You can lean on me,”  he said softly.  “I’m more than happy to watch after them.”

     She was shaking her head.  “It’s my responsibility.”

     “Cora, I’m not saying leave forever.  Just get her to safety.  She is going to need someone she knows - someone she trusts - to be with her.”

     Cora watched as he pressed his mouth against her hands.  Her heart was fracturing.  “It would be selfish of me to ask you to come with me,”  she eeked out as he rose up against her.

      “Baby, I’d go anywhere with you,”  he said, his hand cupping her cheek.  “But this time, let me take care of your family while you settle Junie.  It is what I can do.  I’ll protect them, make sure they are secure.  You can do this.  Take care of your baby sister.”

     She nodded as a sob sighed from her.  He smiled before kissing her, slow at first, deepening as he tugged at her to slide down against his frame to land on his lap.  He passed his knuckles down her jaw before he wiped at the few tears that had escaped.  

     “I love a good woman,”  he whispered, studying her face, his fingers tracing the shell of her ear.  “I love a strong woman.”

     She threw her arms around his shoulders.  Josh called her family.  Jacob loved her.  She was going to shelter her sister.  A steadfast strength began to pump through her as he held tight to her.  Cora could not help but to cry and laugh and sigh against him, absorbing every ounce of confidence he would give her. 

Hi again.  I hope you liked today’s chapter.  Leave me a comment about your thoughts, or just a like.  I do have a tag list - you can find it here.  I will have Chapter 12 AND Chapter 13 up on Friday, sometime around noon CST.  There’s a reason for having both.  You’ll see.  

@lvnterninthenight @doodle417 @luverleaver @jakesgrapejuice @fictional-duchess @whitesuitjake @milkgemini @positivegvfthings @songbirds-sweet @streamingcolors-gvf @gretavanbitches @samsurfgreenbass @gardensgatedaisy @babyhoneygvfarchive @myownparadise96 @josh-iamyour-mama @starcatchercarol @loveisonaroll @jakesstarlight @myownparadise96 @reesetrippingthelight @kyrose11 @builtby-gvf @ignite-my-fire @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @wetkleenex-gvf @gold-mines-melting @starsasone @puzzle-gvf @mysticalstarcatcher @montenegroisr @takenbythemadness @brookes-so-done @way-to-go-lad @cal-a-bungaa @lightmylove-gvf @thewritingbeforesunrise @leftjudgeempathsuitcase @brokenbells11 @imborrowedshesblue @vanfleeter @sammysvanfeet @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @jaketlove @redsierra1960 @gvfmarge @becinabubblegvf @wildbluesorbit

[toasty-melons]

It was a good night <3

Eddie Munson x Reader

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

prompt: Waiting for your boyfriend to get back you decide to snoop around his van. After finding a steamy picture of you, you reminisce on the night the photo was taken.

warnings: language,, light nudity

other stuff: fem!reader,, kinda fluff kinda horny

╔═══════════════════════╗

╚═══════════════════════╝

a/n: “normal” you speaking “bold” Eddie speaking

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You sigh and wipe the sweat that had started to form on your forehead off. It was the middle of summer and it was hot. Even though the a/c to your boyfriend’s van was blowing at full force, it still wasn’t enough to stop the heat from seeping through. You look over at the empty driver seat and a small frown finds it’s way to your face. Eddie had stopped at a small gas station to grab some ‘important things,’ and he was taking forever. You try to see inside the large gas station windows and you spot Eddie leaning against the front counter, chatting away with the cashier about who knows what. You roll your eyes and groan. Taking a look around the van, you hand finds the visor in front of you. You pull it down and look at your face in the small mirror. Sticking your tongue out at your reflection, you decide to look at other things inside your boyfriend’s precious van. Opening the glovebox, then the console, looking down at the floorboards, then you pull down the driver side visor. You freeze. There was a small picture, a polaroid.. of you. But not just any picture you, no no, this was a picture of you, shirtless. In the picture you were holding your face and grinning, your shirt was gone, revealing a red lacey bra. Above your bra, over the top of your breast had the words ‘I ♡ Dio’ written across them in marker. You remember where and when this picture was taken very clearly.

It was at a small party that you had dragged Eddie to. This was before you two had started dating. Before the sweet words of a confession. You had been drinking, not too much but enough to let Eddie write across the top of your boobs. His face was red, your face was red. Both of you giggling and laughing while his hands slightly shook writing the words. Grabbing the picture and pulling it closer you look in the background and see a bedroom setting. More details of the night come back. Eddie had taken you upstairs after you declared loudly to the room of partying teenagers that you were going to vomit. Once getting to the quieter, empty room you fall back onto a strangers bed. Eddie copying your movements and laughing when his back hit the bed. “I think we partied too hard tonight.” You laugh and nod sitting up and turning to body to face him. “Do not throw up on me or you’re walking home.” You giggle and punch his shoulder playfully. “I’m not gonna throw up.. yet.” You both laugh, still feeling the effects of alcohol but not as heavily as before. Eddie sits up and pushes himself off the bed, making his way around the room. Touching everything in sight. The music from downstairs is still audible but muffled from the closed door. The song fades and a very recognizable one comes on. You start to hum along to the song. ‘Straight Through the Heart’ by Dio is a song Eddie loves to play in the van. Out of the corner of your eye you see Eddie whip his head around, facing you. “You know this song?” You look over at him and nod, rolling over on the bed to your back. “Yeah you play it all the time. It’s started to grow on me.” He smiles widely and makes his way over to you, dropping to his knees in front of the bed so he’s eye level with you. “So you like Dio? You know that’s like my favorite band.” You smile and shake your head ‘no.’ “Nope… I love Dio.” You tease and roll over onto your stomach. He grins and tilts his head. “Oh yeah? Do you love them more than me?” You nod and laugh. “Prove it.” You whisper a soft ‘how?’ He bites his lip and shrugs telling you that a true Dio fan would know how to ‘prove their loyalty.’ You rest you head on your hand and think. Not very hard but you think. You suddenly remember a time when you were in Eddie’s room, snooping around and touching all his stuff. You remember the magazine beside his bed that contained inappropriate images of girls. In one of the pictures a girl had a vulgar phrase written across her chest. You grin and quickly sit up, startling Eddie in the process. “Find a marker.” He helps you look and after opening a drawer to the bedside table he holds a black marker up. “Found one!” You quickly make your way over to him and lift up your shirt. Eddie freezes, his face slowly turning a deeper shade of red. “Woah.. uhh. what are you doing?” You slightly drop the shirt, to look at him. His eyes shift back and forth between your face and your chest, because he can still clearly see your bra. “I’m proving i’m their number one fan. So write ‘I love Dio’ on my boobs.” He looks at you with a shocked face, his eyebrows furred and his mouth slightly agape. “Why would you… wait, why do I have to write it?” You huff, a bit frustrated and a little embarrassed. “How would I write it on myself? You have to do it. Then we take a picture and show people.” He takes the cap off the marker. “Show people? Your gonna show people a picture of you in your bra? Didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff.” He steps closer. “Whatever just write it.” He chuckles and nods mumbling a teasing ‘okayyyy.’

Your face is burning hot and so is Eddie’s. Your best friend and secret crush is writing that you love his favorite band across your boobs in marker. He guided you to the bed where he sat down and you stood between his legs. The marker felt a little cold against your burning skin, causing you to flinch. He places a hand on your waist to keep you still. With the way he writes you can feel the side of his hand on the top of your breast as he slowly draws the ‘I.’ You look down and watch his hand. Trying to focus on something other than his hands on your body. His large, warm hands. You catch his eye and he looks up at you. He whispers and you can feel his breath on your upper stomach. “You okay? You seem uncomfortable.. do you want me to stop?” You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no.’ “No. Don’t stop.” Eddie tenses and after a long moment he nods and goes back to writing. Slowly. He’s writing so slowly. Its only four characters and a heart. You don’t know if you hate it or love it. But once Eddie makes the heart, making sure that the bottom point of the heart just barely dips between your cleavage, you know that you love this. Moving onto the next and last word, Eddie shifts his hand on your waist for a better grip. You close your eyes and hold your breath. Trying to stay focused on your breathing. “Hey.. i’m done.” You barely hear him. You’re so distracted, your mind all over the place. In places that your mind should definitely not be in. He’s your best friend. You come back to reality and nod turning around and looking at your self in the mirror near by. There it is. Eddie’s messy but pleasing handwriting across the top of your breasts.

“I found a camera. Polaroid too. Still wanna take the picture?” His words tear your eyes away from the mirror and you grin. “Of course. I still have to prove i’m a bigger fan than you.” He grins and comes over to you. Holding up the camera, you laugh and completely take your shirt off. You hold your face in your hands and smile widely. Then a flash blinds you for a couple of seconds. You both hear the whirring of the polaroid camera and you grab the photo before Eddie can. You shake it and watch as the picture of you slowly fades onto the polaroid. You smile and show Eddie. He takes it from you and grins, a blush creeping up his neck. “This is totally badass. I’m keeping this.” You push him playfully and roll your eyes. Grabbing your shirt and pulling it over your head. “Whatever.. just take me home before i throw up all over a strangers bedroom floor.” He laughs and pulls his keys out of his pocket, replacing them with the picture.

The sound of the driver side van door brings you back to the present. “I’m back. I got a lot of snacks too- What are you holding?” You can hear a slight surprise in his voice. “You kept this?” You turn the picture so he can see and he scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I keep a picture of my girlfriend half naked? What do you take me for? A dumbass?” You laugh and bite your lip to hold back a sweet smile on your face. “I don’t know it was just.. so long ago. And it was before we even started dating.” He carefully takes the picture from you and places it back on the visor. “I know.. but.. You have my favorite band written across your boobs. It’s hot. And.. ya know.. It was a good night. I wanna never forget.” He hands you soda he grabbed from inside the gas station and you smile. “Yeah.. it was a good night.” He grins and then he shows you everything he bought inside. You smile as he rambles on about how much he spent on all the unhealthy snacks. You look at him and bite back a smile. Your boyfriend was such a pervy sweetheart sometimes. But he was your pervy sweetheart.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[everythingisblue-if]

alright, here's the classic: ROs reaction to them trying to smooch the drunk!MC but the MC push them away because they "already have a partner" (which is the ROs but the MC cant remember them atm lol)

This the classic “drunk MC can’t remember partner” ask. I’ve seen dozens, I’ve liked dozens, and now I’m a part of the dozens 😃

~

Lane watches you move from the dance floor and stumble into his chest, as his arms instinctively fold around you. Looking up at him, you scramble out of his arms, an apologetic look on your face.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to…run into you.”

He shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his face. “No trouble at all.” He reaches for your hand, pulling you close once more. He dips his head, almost brushing his lips against yours. But you move away in a haste, give Lane a frown.

“No, don’t kiss me. I have a boyfriend.” You raise your pointer finger as if making a point. “And he would be upset if another man kissed me.”

Lane furrowed his brows, his lips pursed. “I don’t believe he would be upset if you kissed me.”

-

Simon stood back with his arms crossed, a disgusted look on his face as he watches you vomit all over the garden. He groans once you start sputtering again, and he thinks of walking away, but he knew you needed support. Physical support, as you were not able to walk the stairs alone.

You heave, and he took a step closer, making sure you completely stopped releasing fluids. Hesitantly, he puts a consoling hand on the back of your hunched figure. Giving it a little rub, a small laugh came from him. “I should’ve known that there wasn’t a limit for you.”

Huffing, you stand straight, your bones popping and aching. Bags hung under your eyes, and small drool was on the corner of your mouth. Simon gives you a small smile, wrapping his arm around your waist. “I apologize, gorgeous. I hope you’re alright.”

You nodded slowly as Simon brought his lips to your cheek. And as soon as he made contact, you scrambled away, upsetting your stomach again from the fast movement. You moan, clutching your abdomen. “Sorry, but no. Only Simon can…kiss me,” you say as you double over again.

Simon chuckled, placing his hand once again on your back. “And only Simon can carry you to bed tonight.”

-

Henery watches you trip over to round table he was seated at. He takes a cool sip of his water, peering at you through the glass. You take a hold of the table cloth, gripping it as you tried to balance yourself. Henery pulled out a chair beside him; one you instantly fell into.

You groan, slouching in the chair, rubbing your tired eyes. Henery sighed, pushing his glass of water towards you. “I told you not to drink your weight.”

You lean forward and lump yourself on the table. You pressed the side of your head down, as your eyes blearily looked up at Henery’s disapproving frown. “Thanks,” you tell him, but you ignore it, and don’t even touch the glass.

Henery scooted his chair closer to you, leaning his head down to press a doting kiss on your temple. Your mind was hazy until you understood the situation. Sitting up, your chair screeched across the floor as you pushed yourself away from him.

You swipe at your temple, trying to wipe off his kiss. “Don’t do that. I have a boyfriend.”

Henery quirked a brow, a small smile playing on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, taking a hold of his glass that you left alone. “You need to drink your weight in water tonight.”

-

B walks you down the hallway, as you drunkenly lean all your weight against them. B smiles at you as they walk you to your bed. You mumble groggily as you almost trip over your own feet.

“Careful,” B said. “We wouldn’t want your pretty face to get hurt.” They kiss you on the top of your head, smiling against it.

But that move made you pull away, losing all of your support. You fall into a wall, leaning on the cool surface. “No kissing…only my partner can do that.”

B rolled their eyes, but they were amused. “That makes me very proud I’m your partner then.”

You blink at them, no recognition coming forward. “…who?”

-

Samara grimaces as you dance with wild abandon in the hallway. You two were trying to make it to bed, but it was deemed impossible as you wanted to party. Samara held your hand, leading you up the large stairs. You laugh loudly, the sound echoing from wall to wall.

Samara shushes you, as you pass a group of guards. “Do not be so loud, dear. We have to act like actual royalty.”

You roll your eyes, letting go of her hand and skipping up the next steps. “Royalty, schm-oyalty.”

Samara rushed up the last steps to you, taking your hand back in hers. She tugs you back to her, giving you a quick kiss on the back of your hand. “Listen to me, dear. You—“

“No,” you say, pulling your hand back from her. “Don’t kiss my hand like that. I already have a girlfriend who does that to me.”

Samara scoffs, rubbing her temples with her slender fingers. “I’m too tired for this nonsense.”

-

M rustles through your wardrobe closet as tousle and turn on the bed. You moan incessantly as you kick pillows to the floor, and curl yourself into the cotton blanket. M loved having fun with you, but it became tiring once you got drunk.

M looked over their shoulder, watching you make a snow angel on the blanket. They shook their head, producing a pajama set from the closet. Closing the closet doors, they set the outfit on the bed, but you paid no mind to it. Sighing, M jumped onto the bed, stopping your snow angel activity.

They lean over you, a tired smile gracing their lips. “Are you ready to get dressed?”

You shake your head, turning away from them. They laugh softly, leaning over you once more and giving you a loud kiss on your neck. You gasp audibly and roll away from them.

You touch your neck, your mouth open in shock. “Don’t kiss me there. Or anywhere! My partner is the only one allowed to do that.”

M smiled and rolled over onto their back. They cross their arms underneath their head. “At least your epiphany gives me more room on the bed.”

~

Thank you for the ask, Anons!!! 💋👑

[beyondthegame]

A drabble (no one asked for) showcasing Cypress and E’s friendship—especially during troubled times. It also mentions why Cy has full custody of their siblings.

—

Cypress’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as they continue on down the street. Their fingers tap against it as they wait for E to pick up the phone, by the third ring they do.

“Cypress, you’re missing me already?” E utters down the line, their smile practically laced in their teasing words. And you know what, it’s the exact voice Cypress needs to hear right now.

“Are you at home?” Cy shoots back.

“I am.”

“Alone?”

“Yep,” E answers with ease. “Why do you ask?”

Cypress indicates left when E asks that. They change gears and turn the corner before they’re back on a long stretch of road. They know where they’re going, they know which penthouse complex they’re going to park in front of.

“Because I’m almost outside your home but I would’ve turned back if you were busy.” Cypress isn’t good at this, not even with E. The bit where you have to be vulnerable, where you have to admit you need help, that you need some love and comfort.

Though, it’s something E picks up on quickly. “Come on, de Vera. I’m never too busy for you.” They’re soft and tender words, but there’s worry in them too. “Are you okay?”

Cypress pauses because the real answer is no. They can’t be okay after the news they were given precisely twenty-two minutes ago. They open their mouth, close it as they drive through a green light, and eventually let the words tumble out of their mouth.

“My dad’s in London,” Cypress blurts out. It’s the first time they’ve said it out loud and it makes them want to vomit.

The fact that E hasn’t said anything proves they know the severity of the situation, even more when E murmurs out the words, “Shit. Looks like I’ll be needing an alcoholic drink.”

—

It’s funny how different Cypress and E’s homes are, how they practically match their opposite personalities too. Cypress has a family home, one with multiple bedrooms and a playroom for their little brother, Kenzo. E has a penthouse with large, tall windows, alongside a studio in the basement so they're able to make music in the luxury of their home whenever they wish.

They'd never admit it, mostly to ensure E's ego stays in check, but Cypress enjoys coming here to escape for a bit. It's almost a different life from the one they live, but it brings comfort to them all the same. Or maybe that's just a thing when they're in E's presence.

"The news I've told you doesn't warrant us to drink tequila at lunchtime, E," Cypress utters as they take a seat in the living room.

E rolls their eyes but obliges. They join Cypress and take a seat across from them, with no alcoholic shots in hand. "I disagree, but fine."

E looks completely different to how most usually see them. They're in loungewear, nothing designer, they're free of any make-up so their freckles are on show. It's a look Cypress has seen thousands of times, one they've even complimented when E has particularly bad feelings towards their appearance on difficult days.

"So, your dad just turns up out the blue?" E asks gently, almost trying to coax the story out of Cypress slowly.

"It seems so," Cypress mumbles. "He texted earlier and said so."

E's top lip quirks upwards. "What do your siblings think about it?"

Cypress blinks. "I haven't told them," they say candidly. "I know I have to but..."

There's something that bubbles within E. Anger would be too strong a word, protectiveness would be much better. They've always had that protective streak for the little de Vera family, and it's vice versa too.

"Your dad's an asshole, Cypress," E says, no hesitation in their voice. "No offence."

That's one of the last things Cypress could possibly get offended about. "Sure. But he's their dad, I can't exactly...just ignore him."

E's eyes roll before a heavy sigh falls from them. "You can do what you want, Cy. Good dads don't take off and fall off the face of the earth a year after their children's mother dies. He doesn't get to reappear in your life when he feels like it. Not to mention he left you to take care of your siblings whilst you were, are, grieving."

They're absolutely right. Cypress doesn't need a recap of the events from the last three to four years. It goes around in their mind at night when the insomnia hits, the way it happened so fast. How their mother passed away, their father left without warning or much contact, and how Cypress was left to pick up the pieces of their grieving, broken family.

"You're better off without him and you don't owe him a fucking thing, Cy," E voices.

Cypress lets out a sigh. "That's easy for you to say. You have a brilliant relationship with your dad."

E does, there are no lies in that. Javier Acevedo couldn't be a better father or human being to E if he tried.

"You do too. I'm positive my dad loves you more than me sometimes," E says, with the hopes that it'll pull a smile out of Cypress.

It does, a small smile that dances over Cy's lips, and it genuinely makes them perk up a bit—almost enough to make them forget the issues going on in their life. That's what the two of them do for each other; Cypress and E would break themselves in half to ensure the other was whole. They'd be there for one another at 4am in the morning when there are tears or haunting thoughts. They’re too much of a family to leave the other in ruins.

“You can rant to me,” E mutters, pulling Cypress out of their thoughts. “We can go out to eat, I’ll drive us somewhere. I’ll sing to you. I’ll pick the kids up from school and chill with them so you can be by yourself and think for a bit,” they list.

E gives Cypress a soft look. “I’ll give you a hug. Whatever you want, Cy. I’ll do whatever will make this easier for you.”

And there it is. The process of fixing that Cypress doesn’t have to do for themselves. Someone else will see them struggling and put them back together, and of course it’s E Acevedo running to their rescue.

Cy swallows hard. “I wouldn’t mind that hug.”