#and it feels like i'm doing that thing where you spin plates on a stick but i'm spinning like 200 plates

[mkstrigidae]

Apparently, the solution to my APWH writer's block was just opening up a new word document and rewriting the whole damn next chapter.

[becsabillion4]

take it out on me (carmen berzatto x reader)

so this is my first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr since i was 14 and i'm slightly terrified by the formatting but i posted this on ao3 yesterday and someone told me to post here too (<3) so i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoy the thought of getting pounded by carmy in the walk-in

pairing : carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary : Carmy is having a terrible service, and you're sure some time in the walk-in will help him cool off (although it gets hotter in there than you might think).

word count : 4,410

tags: SMUT, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, choking, semi-public sex, ending with soft carmy which makes it all okay, 18+ only

note: this is explicit 18+ only and also this is NOT an advert for safe sex, it is merely a fantasy i have been playing with since my own days as a waitress and carmy has helped me to realise it. also i'm obsessed and i know y'all degenerates won't send help so instead i ask that you send me asks so i can write more about this wonderful man

Disorienting. Overwhelming. Stressful, painful, unrelenting. Burning your hand hard enough for it to stick to the pan, hard enough that you know on the way to the sink it’s too late, that you’ll bear the scar of that mistake for the rest of your life. Knives slicing always so close to your skin, living on the point of pain, focus trained so hard on the blade you can’t even blink. Shouting, screaming, the place could be on fire, and you wouldn’t look up from the art you’re creating. Flames licking at your apron. Beautiful.

Kitchens are the prison and the heart of a chef, and the one at The Bear is currently the pride and the bane of your life. Plating up your one billionth focaccia of the evening as Marcus rushes by holding a tray of cannolis aloft, you try to tune out Sydney shouting instructions to the new servers, trying to drill something, anything, into their panicked, under-developed skulls. 

But none of this worries you. What worries you is the ominous, creeping silence from the station to your right, where you know Carmy is cooking up not only the best food you’ve ever tasted, but an internal storm that is going to be unleashed any, second, now-

“Chefs! Where the fuck is my garnish? Tina, are you dead? ‘Cos you need to wake the fuck back up.”

Tina is already by Carmy’s side with the garnish, but the damage is done. She doesn’t bristle at his words, but shoots you a worried look as she slides by, murmuring, “Sorry, Chefs. Behind.”

Since you started working at The Bear six months back, you’ve witnessed a rare few Carmy outbursts, and you know everyone feels the same way when they happen. It’s like the moment you miss a step on familiar stairs, stomach lurching and fear sweeping through your body. Carmy is this kitchen, and his boiling point is the moment things tend to spin out of control. 

And yet, Tina’s reaction is everyone’s; disappointment in herself, instant forgiveness because she knows Carmy is doing everything he can for this team. Last week, after you and Sydney spent the evening getting wasted on her couch, she’d confessed to you how hard Carmy took his notorious opening night failure, and how he’s been struggling to make up for it since then. And it’s been working; his kindness, patience, and passion for elevating those around him have always outshone the occasional harsh word during service.

But this service is just bad. It’s been bad since 5AM, when you got here to take in the delivery and found out that the grapes needed for the welcome broth had somehow been left off of the order. It’s been bad since Marcus ruined three batches of cannolis in a row, and when Sydney tried to touch his shoulder and ask him what was going on, he stormed out. Since Sydney snapped at Richie for singing Taylor Swift badly during family. The hundred little underlying frissons of tension that normally dissipate as soon as service rolls around have congealed today, like oil in balsamic vinegar, rubbing together but refusing to meld into the team you know everyone can be.

And you know Carmy can feel it. His anger is a physical thing beside you, like standing next to a hot pan with too much oil in it and just waiting for it to start spitting at you. Knowing you have to keep stirring it anyway.

“Four top, two steak, one bucatini, one fish,” Sydney rattles off, and everyone responds “Yes, Chef!” a little too loud.

“Can I get some hands for this focaccia,” you shout through the din, pushing the two boards forward, but nobody responds. “Hands, please, get these off my station before I eat ‘em!” you call, trying to bring some levity to the atmosphere before-

“Hands, fuckin’ hands, Chefs, FUCK!” Carmy explodes, appearing by your side so suddenly you almost jump. His hands hover over the foccacia boards like he wants to adjust something on them, fix something, but you know as well as he does that they’re perfect already.

And of course, this just makes things worse.

Carmy properly looks up for the first time, straightening out of the “chef about to have an aneurysm over plating this fish” posture and into his “everyone here is about to get fucked” pose. “These are good to go, why are we not? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Go fuck yourselves-” one of the new waitresses approaches with trembling hands and Carmy pushes the boards at her, disgusted, almost taking them over the edge of the pass, “-all of you, what is the point of any of us being here if nothing is leaving the fucking kitchen!”

“Carm, it’s okay, they’re going out,” you can’t help cutting in, but you should know better than to try to soothe a wild animal. Carmy doesn’t say anything, turns back to plating up his fish, but his beautiful artist’s hands, which you often find yourself trying to draw in the margins of inventory checks, are shaking now. You’ve never seen him this bad. The whole kitchen waits on a knife edge. You glance up, watching the waitress leave with your focaccia, and have a brief but fervent desire to be her as the doors swing her out of this hellhole.

The fish is beautiful as Carmy puts the finishing touches to it. A server steps up to take it as other dishes for the same table coalesce at the front of stations, all elegant, all perfect, all more than worthy of the restaurant’s Michelin star.

Carmy is completely still. Staring. And you know it’s too late.

Plunging his fist down, he crushes the fish into sea-scented pulp. The shells of oysters, hand-selected, crack into broken-mirror shards; the sauce is peppered with shoddy scraps of lobster tail.

It’s still not enough for Carmy, as he picks up the plate and sends it spinning into the back wall, narrowly missing Sweeps’ head. “ Shit, ” Carmy mutters, turning back to his station and searching for more things to destroy. You watch him contemplate the knives, and you can’t stay out of it any longer.

“Carmy. Chef. Carmy,” you say as you reach out to grab his muscled arm, pulling him round to face you. You can feel the tension corded deep under his skin, see the sheen of sweat coating his tattoos. Normally, any skin contact with him sends your brain into overdrive, but you can’t afford to be anything but calm right now.

His eyes are wild, but you watch him steadily, and he watches you straight back. You’re not sure why, but the moment reminds you of how you felt on those rare occasions he invited you and Syd over to brainstorm new recipes in his cramped kitchen. Especially that time Sydney couldn’t make it, and you were midway through describing your idea for a yuzu-infused scallops course to him - “with maybe, like, a garnish of broccoli just absolutely smothered in hollandaise” - when he reached forward, tucked a scrap of hair behind your ear, and the very idea of food whisked straight out of your head - but you still felt hungry. And whilst he’d tried out your broccoli idea over and over again that night, you found yourself blushing every time he passed you a spoon to taste it. 

You never could get that dish right. Every time you thought about it, you couldn’t separate the flavours from the curious look in his eyes, the way he drank in your ideas, absorbed them before he responded, how his eyes tracked every thought that crossed your face.

Now here you are again, staring at that measured, thoughtful man turned savage, and you wonder if you have the guts to do what you’ve been thinking about doing for a while.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur beneath the clatter of plates behind you, just for him. You don’t look away even when you hear something shatter. You move your hand from his arm, up over his shoulder, push your palm into the curve of his neck and hold it there. 

Then you wait, feel his shoulders jumping up and down with his rapid breathing. Wait until he leans into it a little, chasing your solidity, and it’s all the response you need.

“Come with me.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Sydney, you got this?” You ask, never taking your eyes from Carmy’s face, worried that if you do, you’ll lose whatever grip you have on him right now.

“Yes, Chef,” she replies, and you feel her edge round the side of Carmy to put another fish on rapid fire. He catches her eye as she passes, and brings his hand up to his chest, rubbing it once in what has become the team’s official way to apologise during service. She responds in kind, and he lets you drag him off the station, past the others shooting him worried looks, straight into the walk-in.

You shut the door carefully, recalling the stories of Carmy’s previous imprisonment. It’s still securely closed, giving you both some calm and privacy to cool off.

Except cooling off is not really what you have in mind.

You turn to see Carmy slumped in the corner, curled in on himself and running his hands through his already-chaotic hair. He stands again suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall behind him as if to remind himself they exist.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah, shit. Sorry, I just need a second. It’s just, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was thinking about doing something with ceviche, but I couldn’t figure out what fish would work best, and then that sorta spiralled into a panic attack which kept me up whisking eggs for something until three, and then-” You watch his eyes darting over the shelves around him as he talks, and you realise he’s taking stock of what’s there. Even during a full-blown meltdown, he cannot stop working, stop thinking. He starts pacing.

“Carmy,” you say again as you try to catch his eye. He’s staring at some spare T-bones like they’ll explain to him whatever dish he was whisking eggs for last night. Fuck it. You grab his chin, tilt it until he has to look at you.

“D’you know the best way to calm down?”

“Lock yourself in the walk-in for three hours?” He’s trying to relieve some tension, but you have other ideas on how to handle that.

“Sex, Carmy.”

There. You’re terrified that you finally acknowledged it, finally confessed to what you’ve been thinking about for months, but thank God it’s out in the open. You’ve been blushing at his compliments on your food for far too long, ignoring how good he looks in a white tee for even longer. And today has been such a shitshow it can’t possibly get any worse by admitting to this too.

You wait for Carmy to shut it down, laugh it off, maybe even fire you, but he just looks shellshocked. Then again, that is his default look.

“I, um…” He rubs a hand over his forehead, glances up at you almost shyly. “I mean, um. What?”

“Listen, you’re fucking up service. You’re distracted, tired, stressed beyond belief. I want to help you, and I won’t pretend it’s just out of the goodness of my own heart. I’ve been interested in you for a while, Carmy. You can take that or leave it or kick me out of this walk-in if you want, but I’m here. I want to help you work through things, through all this anger. And…I want you to know you can take it out on me. And maybe even feel better at the same time.”

Carmy is flushed, and you’re all out of words. You kind of wish he was still looking at the T-bones.

“We, uh, we can’t.” Carmy leans back on a freezer for support, crossing his arms in a pose you normally associate with him working something out in his head, deciding what a dish is missing or what it needs to take it up a notch. “I mean, not now. Not here, at least. And I don’t know, we work together. I’m your boss. It’s not a good idea.” He reaches a hand round to his back, starts massaging the strain away there. It’s an especially effective position as he doesn’t have to look at you as he does it, as he says, “Sorry.”

You shrug a little, smile. Try to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Keep it professional, or as professional as you can get in a kitchen. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Get some sleep, Chef.”

You turn to go, hoping that stirring and slicing and plating up will shake off the embarrassment currently burning through to your bones.

But you don’t live to regret the offer as Carmy grabs your arm, spins you and shoves you hard enough into the walk-in door that it rattles on its hinges.

“Hey, everything okay in there Chefs?” you hear Marcus call, and it’s a reality check you absolutely don’t want right now. Carmy doesn’t even seem to have heard him, trailing kisses down your neck, collarbone, shoulder as your body arches into the feeling. You’ve had one too many fantasies about this walk-in since you started, but the actual feeling doesn’t begin to touch the dream.

“Yeah, all good Chef!” You manage to reply, but you barely get the ‘Chef’ out before Carmy’s lips slide over yours, pushing, demanding entry as his body keeps you pressed up against the door. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, is all you have time to think between kisses.

There is no room or time for playing around. Carmy needs this, and you intend to provide, but you’re damn sure getting everything you can out of it just in case it never happens again. One of your hands curls deep into his hair, pulling his head back as your teeth click together in the ferocity of the kiss. You swear you can taste blood, but neither one of you pulls back, the saltiness only urging you on. Your other hand is busy loosening his belt, and you tug it hard to pull the silver prong free of the leather, hard enough that his hips jerk forward into yours and you moan, long and low.

Gravity suddenly spins on its axis as Carmy lifts you, turns and drops you down onto the freezer Fak installed last week. And for once in your life, thank you, Fak. The movement seems to shake Carmy out of it for a second, and he pulls back, hesitates. A hand curves around your cheek, and you can feel an apology coming, see the reticence forming in his eyes. And honestly, fuck that.

You hook fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer and then using them to tug his trousers down. You’re not gentle as you reach into his underwear, wrap a hand around his cock, and you can tell that’s what he needs as he hisses, his head drifting back.

Removing his hand from your cheek, you guide it slowly down to your neck. His head snaps up, and there’s a darkness, a need, that wasn’t there before as you move your hand slowly, torturously, down his length.

“Hey,” you whisper, reluctant to interrupt the low grunts spilling from him with each of your movements. “I’m not going to break.”

You squeeze his fingers around your throat a little tighter, and it’s this that has him surging forward, messy mouths pressing together again and everything condensing into a rippling, burning, rightness as the fingers of his other hand shove themselves between your legs.

He lingers there for a moment, breaths short and sharp in your ear as he breaks free from your kiss and whispers, “If we had more time, I would clean up the mess you’re making all over my freezer, Chef.”

“My apologies, Chef,” you pant, the sweetness of the apology marred slightly by your fingers tugging hard through his curls. Then you’re pushing up his white shirt at the back, reveling in the heat of him, the muscles straining under your touch. “What’s my punishment?”

Carmy hesitates, then withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and it feels like the calm before the storm. One hand is still pressed loosely around your neck as he brings the other up to your face, runs the edge of his still-wet fingers over your lips. Asking or demanding, you don’t know, but you’re happy to comply. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue behind them, and when you slide your mouth over his fingers, taste yourself on him, he closes them in momentary bliss. And it’s so beautiful to see that you can’t resist pulling him in to share.

A Michelin-star chef with one of the most sophisticated palates on the planet. A renowned food critic once wrote of him, “In my next life, I’d like to be just one of the taste buds in Carmen Berzatto’s mouth.” And here he is, savouring you, tongue searching out every corner of your mouth as if he wants to figure out each and every component of your taste. Add the recipe of you to his menu, and make it every night.

You’re both done waiting, and the clock is ticking. You can faintly hear Sydney calling orders through the wall, although she sounds steadier now. You don’t know whether anyone out there knows what you’re doing, but a rampaging elephant couldn’t stop Sydney when she’s on a roll.

Carmy pulls you closer to the freezer’s edge, jeans and underwear falling to his ankles and suddenly he is right there, and-

“Oh, fuck,” is all you can say as he pushes forward in one swift, animal movement. And oh, pain flickers down your spine as he slides almost free of you and thrusts back, relentless, and this is exactly what you signed up for.

“ Fuck ,” he echoes, hand sliding down your neck to settle over your racing heart. “Fuck, you…I don’t know how you do this to me,” he pants, and you try to keep your moaning down so you can hear as words spill from him, “When you come in with your hair down before a shift, when you - ah - when you borrow my knife and I see you using it all service, when you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. Shit. You drive me crazy on purpose, and you wanna know what the worst part is?”

You can’t breathe, let alone answer him.

“The worst part is I eat that shit up every time, ” he snarls, punctuating every word with a short, sharp thrust.

This is the animal you saw tonight, spitting curses, destroying his own food, all sharp edges and uncompromising will. Grunting as he bottoms out inside you, fingers clenched around your upper thigh hard enough to bruise, littering bites over your neck as if your colleagues aren’t an unlocked door away.

But the animal isn’t the end of Carmen Berzatto. There is more to him than the bear, and you intend to remind him of that before you’re through.

“Look around you,” you pant as he thrusts again, harder, sweeter, and you have to get this out before you tip over the edge. So you risk bringing the hand you were using to support yourself forward to turn his chin towards the walk-in’s walls, to beyond them, to the restaurant hard at work and the satisfied diners metres away who have no idea what’s going on in here, and fuck if that doesn’t make it all the more delicious. “Look what you made. Look who you are.” You watch his flushed face, hope he understands the praise, but you can’t hold on anymore to see your words land.

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, Carmy,” is all you manage to choke out as every muscle in your body lights up, tenses and releases in a flood so strong you wonder if you’ll ever surface, and if you even want to.

Carmy fucks forward into you twice more, and his head drops onto your shoulder as he groans, shudders, relaxes fully for what may be the first time in his life.

You stroke a hand over his head, pull him closer. You’re not quite sure when this stopped being a no-holds-barred quickie and became a quiet, intense embrace, but it feels right. All the desperation, the keyed-up energy, is gone from him. And if he never wants anything more than that, even though the idea is more than a little disappointing, you can take consolation from the fact that you at least managed to stop a raging Carmy in his tracks.

Although it is a little quiet.

“Carmy?” You ask, hesitant to break the silence. Thankfully, it still sounds like it’s all bustle outside. You wonder how long you’ve been in here, and try not to think about how you’re going to emerge with any shred of dignity intact.

Carmy pulls back, and you can’t define the look on his face, but it worries you. His eyes shine slightly, and his gaze skips across your face, down your body, not holding your stare.

“Are you okay?” You ask, praying this isn’t about to get really awkward really quick. The man’s still inside you, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah. I, um, I should be asking you that.” Carmy’s hands skim down your sides, fingers pressing in randomly as if to check for bruises. He tilts his head to look under your chin, as if to check he hasn’t caused any permanent damage to your neck. “Jesus. Are you alright? I’m sorry, that was rough.”

“I’m totally fine.” You don’t know what to do to reassure him, so opt for two big thumbs up. “See? Voice working and everything.”

Carmy chuckles unevenly, takes a careful step back, and you try not to consider how empty you feel and how cold and slippery the freezer now is underneath you. You hop off, catching yourself on the side when you realise just how shaky your legs are. When you glance up at Carmy, he’s just staring at you, which is, frankly, unnerving.

“Do I look that bad?” you ask, pulling your hair out of what’s left of a ponytail to start again.

“No. No, I’m just…I’m just taking you in.” The raw honesty in his eyes pins you in place for a moment. But of course, Richie shouts “ Cousin!” before you can read into it too much.

There is a moment of panicked dressing and clean-up, a nod to each other to confirm you both look relatively sane and not totally fucked (even though you doubt it), and then a collective deep breath as you push open the door of the walk-in.

You don’t catch anyone’s eye for a second as you head to your station, Carmy’s presence like an open flame behind you.

“Corner. Corner. Behind, sorry Chefs,” you call as you slide back into place. Two quick glances calm you; one at the clock - seventeen minutes - and one at Sydney, who doesn’t look like she’s about to throw up and only has three tickets in front of her. You spare a final one for Fak in his position by the door, who you are positive would be grinning gleefully if he, or anyone else in the kitchen, knew what just went down in the walk-in.

“What do you need, Syd?” you ask, picking up the familiar back-and-forth of the kitchen again with some relief.

Carmy is quiet, focused, for the last half hour of service, but you can’t keep your mind clear. As soon as last orders are sent out, you slink to the back for a cigarette, hoping the smoke will at least wipe out your brain fog. It does the exact opposite. When you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. You exhale, waving the smoke away as the words churn through your brain. I eat that shit up every time.

“Hey,” you hear, and you’re almost thankful to speak to the real him just to distract yourself from thinking about earlier.

“Hey.” You offer him a smoke, and he takes it, sinking onto the step next to you. The brush of his leg against yours is a lot more comforting than you expect it to be, relaxing a secretly worried part of you.

He takes a long drag, the kind of drag you only take when it’s been a shitshow of a day. “I just want to say I’m-”

“Sorry? It’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen again,” you finish for him. It hurts less that way.

“What? No.” He looks at you until you reluctantly meet his gaze. “Not for that. I’m not sorry about that.” He lets that hang there for a second, holds your eye. “But I’m sorry for losing my shit earlier. Nobody deserves to be around that, and…I want you to know I’m working on it. I wanna be…I wanna be good at this.” It’s a stilted apology as he thinks through every line, and it feels all the more sincere for it.

“That’s okay. I know. We all know.” You reach a hand out to touch his arm, and after a second, he lowers his head to rest on his knee, although his face is still turned towards you. You see his eyes flicker from your hand on his arm to your face.

“Although that wasn’t exactly how I expected that to go by the way,” he says after a moment.

You don’t try to pretend you don’t know what he’s referring to. “What, in the walk-in?”

“Oh, no, I’ve thought about it in the walk-in.” You ignore a pulse of feeling at his casual confession, at the idea that he’s thought about you. “I just didn’t imagine it so…heated, I guess.” Carmy raises his head again, traces a finger along your hand where it rests on his arm until you shiver. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

You hesitate for a second before replying. Before extending the branch. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be other times, Chef.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to watch his thoughts flickering there, watch as the fog clears, the idea forms, and he says, “Yeah. Next time.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

wow guys thank you for reading i pray through the act of writing this that my jeremy allen white obsession will calm the fuck down, but i fear i've made it worse

if you'd like to keep up with me on ao3, you can find me here and please do send me any comments or feedback or prompt ideas, i would love to hear them <33 thank you!!

[mx-pastelwriting]

Blonde Haired Stranger

Carlisle Cullen x GN! Reader

Summary: Hitchhiking your way through forks, luck hits you at night as a kind man offers you a ride.

Warnings: Hitchhiking, Stranger

Moist air hugged you as the wet sky chilled the air, walking on the moonlight-lit road, holding yourself from the endless shivers. The silent void of the night broke as the rubble of a car drove behind you, instinctively raising your hand then sticking up your thumb.

Walking backward, looking at the car, biting the inside of your cheek, holding what little hope was there. Sighing in relief as it slowed, pulling up, watching as the window rolled down, a handsome blonde-haired man greeted you with a gentle smile.

"Need a ride?" His voice is calm and friendly. Nodding, he opens the door from inside. Getting in the car was clean; there were no knickknacks in sight. Easing into the warm seat, forgetting the stranger, "Where to?" His voice breaks your moment. Looking at him, smiling shyly, "As far as you can take me, please," he nods, then drives away.

Finally, out of the cold, relaxing in the stiff car, no air blasted you in the face. Looking at the air vent, then seeing the air wasn't on. Quickly, you see his hand move to the warm setting, then turning it on. The warm air melts your cold cheeks, making you sigh quietly.

"Where you headed for?" Looking at him, you saw his face more clearly, with smooth skin that accompanied his light eyes lit by the car's logo lights. "Away from Seattle, they don't very much like people like me." You laugh, having your fair share of experience being a hitchhiker there.

The air went still for a second, knowing you might have messed up your ride. "Sorry, I did mean-" "No, it's a sad thing to hear is all," he says to your damage control.

"Yeah, it is, but what's your story?" Earning a laugh that makes your cheeks flush, "I'm coming from work." His words perk your interest. "Oh, what do you do for work?" "I'm a doctor at the hospital here," he said, nodding to the information, knowing he's not out of the clear from being a killer just yet.

Telling about your dreams and wants, he listens, even inputting his thoughts without judgment, looking out the window and watching as the forest flashes by never changing. Your eyes grow heavy, as did your head, laying it on the cold window, then closing your eyes. As much of a fight you put up, sleep won in the end.

Waking in warmth, feeling the soft fabric underneath you make your body jump up, scanning the room in a flight of panic, the cream-colored surroundings flood your vision. Looking down, seeing the bed you laid in before, the sheets colored the same, its soft fabric curled around you.

Calming down, slowing your movements out of bed, realizing your shoes were no longer on your feet, biting back a curse, then looking around for them, seeing them nowhere in sight, you ditch them, walking on your toes, not wanting to make the wood floor creek. Quietly opening the door, then walking out into a dim hallway with only one exit.

Turning out of the hallway, a big living room greets you, its wall of glass windows letting in the early morning light. Jumping at the noise from behind, making you spin, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," said the same blonde stranger standing in the connected kitchen. The noise was the glass he had put down, watching as he opened the fridge, pulling out some juice, then pouring it into the glass, then moving it to the plate of food.

"Please eat," he says, then turns back, putting the juice back. Slowly walk to the food, weighing your care if it's poisoned. Seeing as he hadn’t done anything last night, you sit at the counter. Digging in the food went down fast, it being your first real meal in days. "I also got you some clothes; you can keep them," he says, pointing to the folded clothes that sat on the counter next to you.

"Thank you," you say tiredly, then go for another bite. "You can freshen up in the room you came from if you need to." He says with a smile, then walks off, "Wait." You choke out, causing him to turn. "I didn't get your name." Your words made him smile. "Carlisle." He responds, then disappears into his house.

Looking around the house, you see the doctor is very well off, finishing up, then grabbing the clothes while saving your thoughts on how the fuck you got here for the shower.Hitchhike

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is and grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

[bbyquokka]

I loveeeee love LOVE that last Binnie thing omg my baby

Could you write something like it's the next day and he's sleeping in and you got up to make breakfast for him because big boy needs to eat a lot to maintain those muscles and he wakes up all grumpy because you were not in bed but then he's all shocked that you made him breakfast??

Lmao I'm so weak for him, yes I'll do the cooking yes I'll do the cleaning 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

tysm hun! ‹3

FLUFF BELOW CUT – MDNI

part one

warnings: gn!reader, mentions of the gym & food, changbin is soft af, this is just sickeningly sweet :)

10:10 am. your eyes slowly peel open, squinting in the harsh morning light. you bring a fist up to your eye, softly rubbing the sleep away. you let out a yawn slowly sitting up to look down at your sleeping lover.

flat on his stomach, head turned to you. his arm bent just above his head showing off his biceps. his lips parted as soft snores escape his lips, duvet covering his bottom half, his curly hair tousled and face puffy with sleep.

you melt. sure, changbin is very attractive, but seeing him in his natural, sleeping state where he is at his most vulnerable – is beautiful to you.

you slowly shuffle out off bed, feet hitting the cold wood floor. you walk out of the bedroom, closing the door slowly behind you. you do your usual bathroom routine before settling on cooking you and changbin some breakfast.

you know changbin inside and out. you've been living with him for two years now so you know his morning routine by now. that also means you know what he likes to eat in the morning.

changbin would typically wake up, get dressed for the gym, have a big breakfast stacked with protein and nutrients before heading off for the gym for an hour.

you start by cooking him some breakfast, boiling a pot of water for your tea/coffee. whilst cooking, changbin stirs in his sleep, his eyes fluttering open.

he groans softly, reaching out to the side as he expects you to be there for him to be disappointed when his hand comes into contact with your cold side. he sits up, brows furrowing together as his bottom lip sticks in a pout.

changbin cannot start his day off right without a cuddle with his fave person!

feeling himself get grumpy, he gets out off bed. he ruffles his hair, walking out of the bedroom. the smell of breakfast hitting his nostrils, his grumpiness disappearing as he approaches the kitchen.

his heart melts as he watches you cook for him, plating his plate high with food before making his protein shake. he sighs softly to himself, making a mental note to buy an engagement ring on the way back from the gym.

he walks behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“oh! morning sleepy head.” you giggle, looking at the clock that's hung on the wall. “or should I say afternoon?”

“i slept that long?” changbin mumbles. you hum softly, nodding.

“i think you needed it bin. did you sleep well?”

“mhm, I did. although, I was sad to see my darling wasn't with me when I woke up.”

“im sorry love. I wanted to make you breakfast before you go to the gym.”

“you did all this? for me?” changbin's heart beating against his ribcage, his body melting against you. you nod slowly and giggle.

“of course darling! cooked to perfection, just how you like it!”

“fuck y/n.” changbin gently spins you around so you're facing him. you blush softly, changbin tracing your jawline with his finger before placing his hand on your cheek gently. “marriage material.”

“oh hush bin.” you flush pink as Changbin leans in slowly, pressing his lips against yours gently in a sweet and delicate kiss.

“never.”

→ TAGS [open]: @chaneomma | @sstarryoong | @laylasbunbunny | @oshimee | @septicrebel | @bbujiikseu | @cixrosie

→ m.list – → tell me what you think here!

[randomvarious]

Today's mix:

Fuse Presents Hell by Hell 2000 House / Techno / Deep House / Electro / New Wave

Goddamn, man, I'm not gonna say outright that this mix in particular is the greatest shit in the world—although it's pretty close!—but the ethos behind it certainly represents what has ultimately led to some of the most astonishing sets that we've ever had the pleasure of witnessing as a species. There's this late 70s-and-80s-rooted spirit that's equal parts unpredictable and eclectic, in which the overall route of the set doesn't feel pre-planned at all, because the DJ takes risks by linking tracks together that you yourself would never expect to hear in succession. The overall journey from point A to point B that you get taken on is one that's long and winding and full of surprises, and the DJ themselves doesn't really have any particular destination in mind to begin with either, because the perpetual question that's always most immediately on their mind is, "hmm, what banger do I want to play next? 🤔"

And I feel like this flying-by-the-seat-of-its-pants approach to DJing has largely faded from the limelight and has gradually been replaced by either the DJ who specializes in one specific dance subgenre that's in one specific range of BPMs for a whole set, or the DJ who just plays mindless EDM claptrap from a pre-loaded USB stick 😒. All of it's so safe and hermetically sealed shut. Where's the danger, the fun, and variety of it all?

See, what you really have to understand here is that there was no place on the planet that was more sonically diverse than your typical late 70s and 80s dancefloor. House, freestyle, synthpop, disco, hi-NRG, pop, post-disco, art punk, art rock, art pop, electro, hip hop, funk, boogie, post-punk, new wave, dance-pop, dancehall, two-tone ska, glam rock, sophisti-pop, soul, alternative dance, R&B, etc., etc., etc., all had the potential to be played at any given moment during a set, and the ultimate job of the DJ was to craft a breathtaking sonic collage out of any of it.

And that's exactly what Germany's DJ Hell channeled here with this commercial mix from 2000 for the second ever installment in Belgian club Fuse's own series. But what's more is that while Hell was deriving his inspiration from an attitude of a bygone era, he also happened to have about an extra decade of music at his disposal that his spiritual predecessors didn't. And the 90s ended up seeing a mega-expansion on the frontiers of electronic and dance music entirely, so while Hell certainly picks out his classics from super popular acts like Donna Summer and Frankie Goes to Hollywood, on here you're also gonna find stuff from contemporary dance legends like Todd Terry and Carl Craig, different flavors of rock from Tuxedomoon, Sparks, and the Flying Lizards, Brazilian-sampled techno from Andrew McLauchlan, and deep house from Bougie Soliterre. In reality, almost none of this track list makes any lick of sense on paper, but that's the inherent beauty of the whole thing, folks! Once you put it on and get a taste of Orange Lemon's (Todd Terry's) "Extended Club Mix" of "The Texican," you really start to get a feel for the vision that's been laid out here, and it's one that's mindbendingly motley, and more in the vein of how a lot of old DJ sets used to be!

The best DJs to me are the ones who appear to be doing it purely off the dome and are just living right in the moment while barely thinking ahead. They know how to wow a crowd with a memorable blend of classics, a contemporary hit, and obscurities from any decade, place, or genre, but they make adjustments if and when they feel the need to as well. And above all else, they possess an uncanny ability to play songs that you don't see coming—or that you never even knew existed in the first place—while also convincing you that the choice they made is one that's both thrilling and logically sound. It's a tough act to balance, like a halftime gimmick who rides a unicycle and spins plates on a long rod that sits on their chin while also juggling bowling pins, but DJ Hell is someone who clearly has the knack for it and puts it on full display here.

The world could always use more of this kind of DJing in it, especially when so many of us now have access to more music than we know what to do with that's all sitting right at our fingertips.

And by the way, I didn't really get into specific tracks with this post here, but "Desire," by 69, which is just a nice alias that was used by Carl Craig, is one of the most stunning combinations of string synth and drum break that I think I've ever heard in my life. Good lord, what a tune that is! 🤯

Listen to the full mix here.

Highlights:

Speedy J - "Evolution" Ché - "The Incident (Wet Dream Mix)" Orange Lemon - "The Texican (Extended Club Mix)" Liaisons Dangereuses - "Avant-Après Mars" Tuxedomoon - "What Use" 69 - "Desire" Mitsu - "Shylight" Donna Summer - "I Feel Love (Patrick Cowley Megamix)" Sparks - "Beat the Clock" Phuture - "Rise From Your Grave (Wake Side)" Foremost Poets - "Pressin On" Bougie Soliterre - "Superficial (Main Vocal Mix)" G Strings - "The Land of Dreams" Frankie Goes to Hollywood - "Two Tribes (Annihilator Mix)" Dopplereffekt - "Rocket Scientist" Andrew Mc Laughlan - "Love Story" Filippo "Naughty" Moscatello - "Disco Volante" The Flying Lizards - "Steam Away"

[trolloled]

⏰ Argumi + when he was first realizing his psionics?

A troll's fourth wriggling day isn't especially important, all things considered, but it's still at least momentous for being a time where most people are finally getting their bearings and forming their first memories. It is a time when, for many trolls, their powers finally come into existence (if they had not already) as their minds mature enough to unlock their hidden potential.

Argumi's wriggling day party was going to be great, he just knew it. He had invited a bunch of his friends to come hang out with him at the park. He was still too young to bake, but he had saved up enough of his allowance to get a nice cake for everyone to share. He waited happily at the picnic table, dressed in his best funny t-shirt (it had a picture of a stick figure pointing to a sign which read 'Bad', beneath which was written "Well that's not a good sign") while his lusus observed from above a nearby swingset.

The custodian knew enough to keep its distance, but Argumi was still happy to have it in attendance. The bird's eyes swung back and forth across the park as the guests started to arrive, a mixture of lower-rung castes that Argumi had run into outside of schoolfeeding hours. Argumi eagerly accepted any gifts offered to him, talking excitedly with his friends while waiting for the last of them to arrive. Once it they had, he quickly got the cake from his fetch modus and placed the pre-baked good on top of the bench.

His wish for this sweep was an easy one, of course. He wished the next one would be even better than the last one! The candles burning atop the cake he politely snuffed out not by himself (with spit) but with a little miniature fan he had brought with him. Some of his friends joked that he couldn't possibly get his wish doing it that way, but he preferred not to accidentally make some of his friends sick.

"What a dork. Who even buys miniature fans?"

Argumi blinked, smile faltering slightly as he looked around. Everybody was looking expectantly at him to cut the-

"-Cake! When is he gonna cut the cake? Oh man, I'm so hungry..."

One of his hands clutched his stomach as pangs of hunger suddenly ran through him, and the other hand went for the knife. Right. He needed to cut the cake. He was hungry. Of course he was.

Above him, his lusus's eyes turned towards him as it cocked its head.

He began cutting the cake into roughly equal slices-

"Ugh, I just know I'll get a small piece. He's not cutting them right!"

"C'mon, c'mon, hurry it up, man!"

"I really hate math, god, there's a test tomorrow too... Boring..."

His grip fumbled on the knife as his smile fell into a frown, but he still forced himself to keep going. He didn't have a math test coming up, did he? His lusus would have mentioned it, so why was he...? He shook his head, putting the slices of the chocolate confection onto disposable paper plates. Yet, no matter how many slices he handed out, the thoughts, and the feelings, didn't stop coming.

He sank into his own seat, head in his hands as he felt like at least twenty brains of thoughts were being jammed through his lonely single one. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm down- and was immediately hampered as his mood swung between content, to giddy, to excited, to bored, back to content, then generally happy-

"Are you okay?" someone asked, putting a hand to his shoulder. Argumi opened his eyes, looking into the face of the troll concerned for him.

"What a little weirdo. At least he's the funny kind of weirdo."

Argumi's face froze. "What did you say?" he asked haltingly.

"I asked if you're okay? You're looking pretty out of it," they repeated, frowning.

"Man, he better not be sick. I do not need him giving me something. I just got over the flu last week!"

Panic began to spread through his chest, squeezing Argumi's heart tightly as the thoughts seemed to come spinning through faster and faster. His eyes began to bulge, his palms grew sweaty even as the nerves in his arms and all over his body felt like they were on fire.

There was a shriek in the air, and something else swooped down next to him. Argumi squeezed his eyes shut again as tears welled up in them, while his lusus continued to shriek and scream at all the guests until they fled in confusion. After several minutes of calm, Argumi was able to open his eyes again.

He saw his lusus, watching him with concern, and otherwise no one else. He was entirely alone. His gaze blankly shifted to the table in front of him.

Someone had stolen the rest of the cake on their way out.

"I hope he's not hungry anymore..." Argumi said softly, without really thinking about it.

[nock-nox]

An excerpt of a fic I'm working on:

Donna and Bane popped the three of them to the dining room, where Lily and Lance were both waiting by a plate of sandwiches, apparently deep in conversation. A water pitcher refilled glasses on their own, and both elves stuck around for just long enough for Harry to catch the edge of a brewing argument, “Elf youngling can'ts be forgetting his duties just because he’s excited to have the young Master back in—“ And then they were both gone with a crack and a brief displacement of air.

“Harry! Where on earth were you! I’m starving here. Positively wasting away,” Lance declared.

Harry flushed, “Sorry! I had intended to just skip lunch, but apparently that’s not allowed or something?”

“Ah, yeah, the elves can be a bit pushy about that kind of thing. What were you doing, anyway?”

Harry paused in the middle of transferring a sandwich from the tray in the middle of the table to his own plate. “I was—exploring.”

The pair of them exchange knowing glances.

“So how’d that turn out then?” Lance asked.

“I—“ Harry started, intent on giving a rough account of the things he’d seen. But now that he was really considering how he felt about the whole thing, he found himself spinning into a completely different direction, “Okay, I understand that magic is supposed to break the laws of physics. But there’s breaking the laws of physics, and then there’s whatever the hell is  going on inside this bloody house,” He exclaimed, gesticulating wildly.

Lance and Lily both laughed. “That was about my reaction the first time,” Lily admitted.

Unwillingly, Harry felt a growing sense of camaraderie at the statement— unusual for him, as it was coming from Lily. “How do you— How do you reconcile it? How do you not feel— I don’t know, exposed? It’s such an alien feeling to not know the edges of your own territory. I feel—I just don’t know.” He rambled, baffled.

“It takes some getting used to, but you’ll get there. Remember that this is a magical household, and family magic at that. It knows you, it loves you, and it’s going to take care of you as long as you’re here. You can sense that—,” Lily pointed to his chest, “—on some level anyway—if you just listen closely. It’ll get easier once you can really feel that.”

Lance hummed in agreement around a large bite of sandwich.

“James used to theorize that every Potter just had a new room built when they had need of one rather than try to find one to use somewhere, and that’s how we ended up with such a magical monstrosity.” Her tone was wistful.

Harry swallowed. Her gaze had dropped to the table, food forgotten. Loss gathered around her like a shroud, weighing her shoulders down into a hunch. Though he never knew him, Harry missed his father like an ache in his chest. To have company in his grief was comforting, but he wondered if it was worse for her in some ways—to clearly recall all the small ways James was missing from her life, here, in this house they once shared. Across the table, Lance mirrored his own expression, and for once they did actually look like twins.

She cleared her throat, “But I was never sure if that made that much sense. I thought perhaps the house just comes up with new rooms as you come to open doorways, based on what you both need and expect. And perhaps the rooms that stick around are the ones that we remember the most clearly. There’s a room… kind of like that in Hogwarts, on a much smaller and more contained scale.”

“No one knows for sure? I mean, there have to be records about the house being built. Blueprints, building codes. Entries in old Potter journals, maybe?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps there would have been, for any other wizarding property. But the Deothwích is special. The rooms we stay in may be newer and more updated, but the property itself is old magic—very old magic. I’d guess it predates Hogwarts at the very least. There aren’t any records that we can find, and even when James’s parents and grandparents were alive, they had no idea either. Just theories built on generations of Potters having lived here for a long time.”

Harry sipped his water thoughtfully. The Potter family was an older line, but Harry knew from his trip to Gringotts and his lessons with Ms. Bennett that its notoriety and longevity actually came from being a branch of a much older house—

“The Peverells?”

Lily looked up at him, surprised. “Yes, actually. How did you—“ She stopped, thinking. “Lyra’s lessons I suppose.” She looked back at Lance, who just looked confused. “You should know that too, little lion.”

“Er…“ Lance started, lifting from his chair, “In my defense, genealogy is boring.” And in a flash, he was gone from the room.

“That’s not an EXCUSE TO NOT LEARN IT!” Lily called after him, exasperated. She turned to look at Harry, and then smiled.

Harry started, realizing he was smiling openly at her. His expression dropped into something blank, but it was too late—he’d been spotted.

By his count, that made strike three of not-quite-hating-Lily for the past hour, which meant it was past time for a tactical retreat. He hopped up from his own chair.

“I’ll have Bane show me the library,” he said shortly, and left the room before she could make it strike four.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 131.4: Tease (Part 4)

(you can start with part 1 if you’d like.)

Harry was set upon by reporters the moment he stepped out of the door at the Ministry.

And perhaps he should have been better prepared, he should have realized that Kingsley starting their meeting late would mean that the papers would have seen the news from the Quibbler already.

"Is it true, Mr. Potter?" the nearest reporter shouted at him as soon as he was out of the door. "Are you running for office?"

"Uhh," he said, blinking at the flash of cameras going off in his face. "Harry is fine," he added. "Yes, it's true."

There was a general flurry of motion, voices shouting and cameras clicking.

"Sorry," he said, taking a breath and forcing himself to relax, "I have some time, I'm happy to take questions, but could we do them one at a time?" he asked. He looked around, "Pansy," he said, spotting her in the crowd, "for The Prophet, right? Go ahead."

She looked surprised for a moment, then asked, "What prompted this decision? Did you feel like your fame was waning?"

He laughed humorlessly, "Not at all. I just felt like maybe it was time to do something useful with my fame." He pointed to a wizard next to the witch who'd asked the first question on his way out of the building. "What's your name?"

"Andre," he replied eagerly, "Weekly Brief," he added.

"Nice to meet you, Andre," he said, repeating the name in his head to try to get it to stick.

He smiled, "What are some of the things you'd like to accomplish?"

(Read more below the cut)

Harry grinned at him, "I'm glad you asked," he said, "thank you." He took a deep breath and started giving his answer. He found that he could never quite get through the whole answer before someone else was talking and he was fielding questions left and right.

After nearly an hour, Harry's voice was hoarse and he was running late for a planning meeting.

"Sorry," he said, glancing at his watch, "That's all I have time for, I've got another meeting this afternoon."

"Who are you meeting with?" someone from the press asked.

He glanced over, "Tom, right?"

The man nodded.

"I'm meeting with Hermione Granger first, she's helping me with logistics and making sure that I don't bollocks everything up. Then I've got a meeting set with Headmistress McGonagall to talk education reform." He nodded at them, "Thanks for your time."

Reporters continued to ask him questions on the way to the apparation point and Harry tried not to feel irritated with them. He needed them on his side, he knew that, and Draco's words from earlier that morning rang in his head.

There was a pang in his gut, a longing to see the other man, to let him sooth the constant tension and fear rolling through Harry's gut. He pushed it away, though, he didn't have time for it at the moment.

The meeting with Hermione and Minerva ran smoothly. Harry took plenty of notes at both and tried not to let himself get too overwhelmed with all that he needed to do.

By the time he stumbled through the floo, he felt like his head was spinning.

Draco looked up at him from where he was sprawled on the sofa, reading a book, and clucked his tongue. "You haven't eaten all day, have you?"

He shook his head, "I don't want to eat, I just want to go to bed."

"No," Draco said as he stood up and took Harry by the hand, pulling him into the kitchen. "You have to eat first or you'll hate yourself in the morning. Come on, I left risotto under a stasis for you."

Dutifully Harry trudged along behind him to the kitchen and plopped into the chair at the island. Draco pushed the plate across to him and he moaned around the first bite, he really was hungry. "This is good."

"Tomorrow," Draco said, as he filled a glass with water for Harry and passed it to him, "You need to assign this as one of the jobs that someone does. Making sure you take the time to eat is critical, who's keeping track of your calendar?"

"Err," Harry said, scratching his head, "Me?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "Who's on your team? I can help you pick the best fit for that."

"Well," Harry said, brow furrowing, "we've talked about a lot of different people that would be good for a variety of roles once I'm in office, but I haven't talked to them yet. Shouldn't we get-"

Draco shook his head, "I mean who is on your team right now?"

Harry blinked at him, either this was a trick question or he was too tired to comprehend what Draco was talking about.

"Who is helping you run your campaign?" he asked, like Harry was being intentionally obtuse.

"No one!" he exclaimed. "I mean, Hermione sat down with me today to help me understand exactly what I need to be doing, and I met with McGonagall-"

"What?" Draco asked. "Harry, you need a staff. You need a group of people dedicated to getting you elected. You need someone to run operations, someone to help with advertising, someone to run your fundraisers, someone to make sure that you're reaching all of the different demographics, someone to help with each of the areas that you care about, someone to help you write speeches. You need a bloody secretary who is going to make you eat, take your owls, manage your calendar-"

"What?" he asked incredulously. "Draco! That's a ridiculous number of people! How-"

"Did you think that you could do this by yourself?" he asked. "Did you think you'd just announce that you were running, give a few speeches, kiss a few babies, and that would be it?"

"Well, we'll have the right people for different things once I'm elected-"

"You won't get elected if you sound like an ignorant teenager!" Draco exclaimed. "Harry, this isn't just a popularity contest. You're really passionate about a lot of important issues but what's going to happen when you have to debate Kingsley and the other candidates? How are you going to talk about issues that you don't personally care about? You can't do this alone."

He dropped his head to the table and let the weight of one more massive task fall on his shoulders. "Help me," he said, words muffled by the wood.

"I'll make you a list of positions and make some suggestions-"

"Be my head of whatever is most important," Harry said.

"We've talked about this," he replied. "I can't be. You're already starting out behind; even in the preliminary poles that have gone out. Everyone at the Ministry thinks you're a joke, Pansy said that you were mediocre at best with the press-"

"Thanks," he snapped.

Draco sighed, "I'm not trying to antagonize you."

"Well you're doing a pretty piss poor job at it."

The other man was quiet for a moment, "Don't do that," he said, voice very calm, and Harry picked his head up off the table. "Don't take out your frustration on me."

"Sorry," he said softly, reaching across the table to take Draco's hand in his and press a kiss to his palm. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm just feeling overwhelmed."

"I forgive you," he said easily. "I know you're frustrated. Having a staff will help. You need a campaign manager who can help you to get your foot in the door first and foremost, they'll be able to help with logistics and calendaring, and they'll know what's important for politics and for you."

"Be that," Harry said. "Please Draco," he begged, "be my campaign manager. You steady me, you help me feel balanced, even just having you around helps me to function better. And you know everything-"

"Harry, we can't," he said. "I will only serve to hurt your reputation. The people who are going to vote for your starry-eyed ideas aren't the sort of people who want to see me running a campaign. I can-"

"Please, Draco," he begged, holding his hand in both of his own. "I hear what you're saying, but," he shrugged. "You're the right person for this job."

"Maybe Hermione-"

"You," he said firmly. "Draco, you know everything about this. I'm lost," he added, "today has made that abundantly clear. And I'm just going to feel like I'm running around in circles-"

"There are plenty of people who know what they're doing-"

"Great," he said. "Be my campaign manager and hire them for all of the other roles."

"You know I want to-"

"Then do it," Harry interrupted. "Godric, Draco, what are we waiting for? I'm so tired of letting everyone call the shots, of waiting and biding time, and hoping that someday things will change. Come on," he pleaded. "Say yes."

Draco looked at him for several moments that seemed to last an eternity. "Fine."

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed, heart leaping in his chest.

"But!" Draco said, "There have to be ground rules."

"Ground rules," Harry agreed, moving around the table so that he could kiss him. "Whatever you say."

"None of this," Draco said, even as his arms wrapped around Harry's waist and he pulled him closer. "Blatant public displays of affection with someone you aren't married to will only hurt your image." He tucked a curl behind Harry's ear, "And honestly, one of the biggest draws is that you're like royalty who hasn't been married yet. There's a little bit of fantasy to that."

Harry wrinkled his nose, "I'm not interested."

"Good," he said, nipping his chin, "since we're seeing each other, I'd rather not mess that up, but-"

"Can we talk about this in the morning?" Harry interrupted. "I'll schedule a meeting with my campaign manager first thing but," he shook his head before leaning their foreheads together, "I'm so tired."

"Alright," he replied, tipping his head to capture Harry's lips in a sweet kiss. "But we start planning first thing," he said.

"First thing," Harry agreed, glad to be putting this day behind him, and even more glad to have Draco by his side.

--------------------

Part 3 | Part 5

[severelytalentless]

Chemistry Part 1

FlirtyFuckboy!Gojo x VirginLabPartner!Reader

I have the fattest crush on this idiot. This is mostly me fantasizing about interacting with him in college. I'm obsessed.

Probably going to keep this going. Maybe get Suguru involved later.

18+ Content: sexual scenarios and strong language, sexual harassment?, exhibitionism, teasing, dirty talk, dubcon, fingering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(swoon - beach weather)

"Gojo, please. We have to focus." you plead with him, exhausted, as he plays around on his phone. The stick of his lollipop rolls around to the other side of his mouth. He shoots you a sideways glance over those trendy shades and smirks.

"Do you have a mouse in your pocket?" his eyes track down the scrolling screen in his hands.

"What?" you furrow your brow in confusion. You don't have the energy for his games right now. What is he on about?

"You said WE need to focus," he leans the chair back onto two legs, kicking his feet up on the table, "who is we? You and the mouse?" his nose wrinkles as he snickers to himself. His snarky grin is giving you a headache.

You huff and fix your glasses back on your nose.

This is absolutely pointless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When your chemistry professor pulled you aside after class, you expected to chat about your senior thesis. Instead, he all but got down on his knees and begged you to work with Gojo on the midterm lab.

"I have no one else for him." You groaned and turned away.

"That's not my headache." You stuffed books into your bag, ready to leave this conversation.

"Listen, I know he's a bit troublesome but if you just-"

"Troublesome? A bit troublesome? Really, professor?" he sighed at the look you gave him.

"Y/N, can you please just do me this favor? You owe me for pushing that late submission through last trimester." he's still holding that over your head?

"Oh come on! That's nowhere close to a fair trade." You have too much going on right now to have Satoru Gojo dropped onto your plate.

He crossed his arms, "I've already paired everyone up."

You scowled at him and threw your bag over your shoulder.

"He's yours."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You look at your watch. 8:30pm. Jesus.

"That's it." You drop your pen into the spine of your textbook. He raises his eyebrows as you push back your chair and stand up.

"Wai-wait, where are you going?" He watches you let your hair fall out of the bun on top of your head and you walk out of the library study room without another word.

You run your fingers through your hair and sigh, releasing your frustration. You have a long list of problems in your life and he will not be making that list tonight.

"Not so fast tiger" he strides up beside you out of nowhere. You roll your eyes and keep walking.

"Where we goin'?"

"I need coffee."

"Oh, when did this become a date?" he straightens the collar of his button-down and puffs out his chest.

'Insufferable' you keep your mouth shut. You refuse to react, turning the corner towards the library cafe.

"Slow down babe" he pops the sucker out of his mouth and takes a couple big steps with those freakishly long legs to catch up to you.

"Not your babe." Your face feels hot.

"You could be.." he leans forward and flashes you a flirty grin as you walk side by side up to the counter.

"Ugh" you scoff and shoo him away, stepping up to order. He clears his throat and nudges in front of you.

"Yes! Good evening, I'll have a large hot chocolate with extra whip," he gestures to you, "and for the pretty lady?" you glare at him.

"...macchiatto, double shot, please." You turn and spit fire at him, "this is not a date, jackass."

He smugly whips his card from his wallet, "And yet, I'm paying for your coffee.." The wink he throws at you is lethal.

There's no way he isn't pleased by the blush in your cheeks. You try to convince yourself that it's the rage...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You just cannot stand him. Always disrupting class with stupid jokes. Erupting into obnoxious laughter out of nowhere in the back with his buddies. His whole devil-may-care attitude might pull other girls, but there's no way you have any feelings for this idiot other than irritation.

You've seen him in action all over campus. Tickling some little freshman under the chin outside the dining hall, making her giggle and flip her hair. Another poor clueless girl falling headfirst into his trap. You roll your eyes and go about your business. You don’t need any of that from him. You have purposely kept your distance for the last 3 years, doing your best to stay off his radar.

That didn't stop him from trying to peek under your skirt last week in lab. You were leaning over the table, reaching up for a beaker. You didn't notice him tilting back in his chair to lift the fabric with his finger until Suguru snorted out a squashed laugh. You whipped around and swatted at his hand. He shook his fingers and sucked his teeth,

"Ouch..I was just lookin’ honey..wasn't gonna touch.." that nasty little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"GOJO. GETO. Knock it off!" Your professor barked from his desk, hearing the laughter.

"Sorry teach! She just looks so cute in this skirt today." He called out with absolutely no shame, eyes trained on your flustered face,

"GOJO! That's enough."

“really fuckin’ cute..” he added under his breath, rolling his lollipop on his tongue.

You'd never been so embarrassed. You flipped back around and snatched the beaker, holding the back of your skirt down, before rushing to the other side of the lab bench. Your cheeks burned through the rest of class. You will not be wearing that skirt to lab again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stares after you. Your hair sways back and forth as you strut down the hall away from him. It brushes just shy of your belt loop. He bites down on his lollipop watching the way your hips swing.

You’re so fucking hot when you're mad...

He hums a groan under his breath and jogs to catch up.

"Okay stop.." He grabs your icy shoulder to try and slow your roll. You sip your coffee and shrug his hand off, you don’t even look at him.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I know I tease you too much.” You’re not buying it. Gojo is many things, but sincere isn’t one of them.

“Hey! I was just messing with you, you don’t have to be so-“ he trips a few steps past you when you stop dead, leaving him to spin back around.

“SO WHAT? So serious? So mean? Do you think I’m a bitch? How would you like me to act Gojo? HUH? What would please you? I’m not a little freshman play toy. I’ve had ENOUGH of your bullshit! We need to get back and get this fucking midterm done because I will NOT let you drag my grade down! Is that clear?!”

Your shoulders heave and your hands feel shaky from the cathartic release. That felt good. You’ve never raised your voice at someone like that. You tend to avoid confrontation, but he just brings the fire out of you. You glare at the open-mouthed dumbstruck look on his face.

Silence fills the hallway. He’s stunned. You’ve never seen him so still, or quiet. He finally shuts his mouth and you see his eyes flick to your left.

He moves toward you with a stern look on his face. Your stomach flips.

Is he mad? He’s never mad.

“Come with me.” He takes your arm.

“No, why?” You yank away and furrow your brows. He takes his hand off you and raises both in surrender. He lets out a heavy sigh, walks over, and opens the door to your left.

“Just come on.”

You stay put and examine him, weary of his change in demeanor. It’s not anger. Almost smells like defeat. You relent and pass through the doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(drew barrymore - bryce vine)

You look around to find yourself in an unfamiliar, dimly lit area of the stacks. The school library is a labyrinth and you’ve never been in through this door before. The nearest light sits on a desk by the windows about 6 or 7 rows down.

You turn to see him placing his coffee cup in a gap on the shelf. You swallow hard, suddenly nervous and regretting the way you shouted at him. He doesn’t seem like himself. He steps forward and you step back, maintaining distance. You try to step back again but the shelves block you. You clutch your coffee as he gets closer than you’d like him to be.

“I’ve never heard you swear before.” His remark surprises you. He takes the cup from your hands and sets it on a shelf. His voice is hushed and you're not sure you like the way he's looking at you.

“Well you were pissing me off..” he’s in your personal space and you’re suddenly conscious of your breathing.

“Mm, that’s fair. Just didn’t know you used those kinds of words.” He gently teases you again and your face grows hot. You roll your eyes at him for the millionth time, trying to shake off this weird tension between you.

“Gojo, what are we doing in here?”

“You were making a scene.”

“I wasn’t, you just wouldn’t-“

“Have you ever been fucked?”

Your heart dives into your stomach.

His eyes flick down to your lips.

“I bet you haven’t.”

Is he messing with you again? This is outrageous.

“That’s none of your business.”

He clicks his tongue and drops his chin, leaning forward just a little more.

“Nah, I can tell. No one’s ever touched you.”

You hold your breath as his fingers ghost over the goosebumps on your arm. Sparks fly off your skin and your heart races around in your chest. His words tie a dirty little knot into your guts.

“Have you ever touched yourself?”

You huff at his audacity. Now he’s just being rude. He hums back and lightly bumps his hips into yours. You bump back into the stacks.

“Mhm, I bet you do it all the time. Does it make you feel good?”

Your eyes dart away to escape the intensity of his eye contact. He really has no shame. You see his grin widen out of the corner of your eye.

"D'you make yourself cum?"

Heat surges up into your face and down between your legs in the same instant. You try to hide it but you're completely flustered. He can see it all over your face. His cock throbs against his zipper, picturing you touching your own body.

His hand comes up by your head and he leans against the shelves, caging you in.

“Wonder what kind of pretty sounds you can make.” He just keeps going, you shift your weight, and flinch when his hand lands on your waist.

“What d'you think about with your fingers in your cunt?” Your eyes jump back to him at the vulgar words. He squeezes your waist and the little knot twists again. You pull a quick breath when he leans in next to your ear.

“D'you think about me?” He whispers too close, it triggers a wash of chills over your skin. Your walls tighten inside you. His hand starts sliding up the curve of your waist and slips under your shirt. Your exhale catches his ear as he cups your bra.

“Is that a yes?” He squeezes and his other hand moves to skate around your shoulder and under your hair. He blindly unclasps your bra through your shirt like he’s done it a thousand times. His fingers then quickly find their way to your nipples and start to play.

You bite hard into your lip to stifle your moan but he hears it in your throat. He smirks. This is your first time and it fucking shows.

“Your imagination ain’t enough, is it?”

His impish sneer wrinkles his nose and he bites down on the stick of his sucker before pulling it out of his mouth. Your mouth falls open with a sigh when he pinches a little harder and he drops it on your tongue. It’s cherry-flavored and you don’t think twice as you fold your lips around it.

Gojo likes what he sees.

“Pretty girl, I can think of so many things to do with that mouth.”

His knee nudges between your thighs and pushes up against your heat. You hum and your tongue curls around the lollipop. His hands leave your breasts to squeeze your hips and rock you on his thigh. You crunch down on the candy and grasp at his shirt at the sudden friction. Your breath comes out hot and you look up at him with big puppy eyes.

“You like that, hm?”

You nod automatically. Waves of pleasure radiate from your clit, and tug on the knot in your core. You drop your weight down onto him against your will.

What has gotten into you?

"D'you want me to play with you? Want me to show you how good this can feel?"

"Hng..ah.." he pushes into you, pressing you against the stacks. You paw at his shoulders to steady yourself as he adds even more pressure between your legs.

"There we go.." he sweeps your hair off your neck and his lips hit your skin. Electricity hums through your nerves.

"Ohh.." a hushed little moan rolls off your tongue. His hands slide back up under your shirt and continue groping your breasts.

"Such a frustrated little virgin.."

"Mmmh.." that moan came out a little louder, your whole body feels like it's resonating. He drags his tongue up your neck.

"I can fix that.."

It's just too much. Your head thumps back into the books.

"Oh my god.."

You've never felt anything this hot. It's similar to the times you've laid in bed exploring your own body, but this just feels so much better. You don't even care that it's him.

Maybe it's better because it is.

Gojo can’t believe the sounds you’re making for him. He’s finally caught his mouse and you aren’t even putting up a fight.

Little do you know, he's been simping over you since freshman year.

There’s something about you. The sweet innocence is there, but you also have this sharp little attitude that he just can't resist. The combination has always intrigued him.

And you don’t even realize what you do to him. You don't know how much you turn him on. He can't stand it when you walk into class wearing those overall shorts that hug your ass just right. That headband you wear is ridiculously sexy. And you’re so damn smart.

He daydreams in class about fucking you on every surface in the lab.

You’ve deflected every one of his advances, yet you always storm off with a flush in your cheeks. You’re the one thing he’s not allowed to touch. The toy on the shelf that he hasn’t been able to reach.

Until now.

"Don't play coy with me anymore," he whispers in your ear.

"Be honest. You liked it when I lifted your skirt last week, didn't you?"

You hum as he squeezes your ass.

"I saw those lacey little panties, y'know.."

He moves his thigh out from between your legs and you're embarrassed by the needy feeling that hits you. He looks at your desperate blushy face and grins.

"Are you wearing them right now?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You blink and he's already unzipped your fly. Your heart punches at your ribs when you feel his hand slide down inside. His fingers start rubbing into your slit through your panties and your entire body shudders. Your hands fly onto his forearm when he bumps into your clit. He pauses there and eats up the fervent arousal painted on your cute face.

“You can tell me to stop..” He knows you won’t. He keeps rubbing.

The sexual frustration is radiating off you like a heater.

He's so right. You’re dying to be touched like this.

Your mind is running in a hundred different directions, trying to decide what to do, but the way he's massaging your throbbing clit is melting your focus and dismantling your will.

He pushes in on your sensitive bud and you gasp, gripping his arm and shaking your head.

“Use your words, what d'you want me to do?” He rolls it around under his finger, pulsing pleasure through you like you've never felt before.

He bites the end of the stick hanging from your lips and takes it back. He rolls it to the corner of his smirk and waits for you to give in and answer him.

You know what you should do but the aching twist in your core won't let you.

“Mmph...don’t stop..”

“That's what I thought..”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

[calif0rnia-lovers]

Lover of Mine #5.5 | Angel Reyes.

Series Masterlist | join my gc for updates since tags are acting weird

title: For Better, or For Worse.

rating: 💙 💔

As long as you're feeling the same, I'll follow you into the flames

sum: angel fears once it's out, his secret will be the final push you need to leave. instead of confessing, he sticks out the couple's retreat to give himself a few more days with you. he makes himself a promise: he'll tell you once you two return to santo padre. but a ghost from his past pushes angel's agenda forward a few days.

words: the standard for this series....long af (that's why I break it into sections so you know where to come back to when you take a break...but seriously, please take breaks on these long ass chapters)

Ez Reyes is a smart man. There is no denying it. However, Ez never thought he would struggle to tie a tie.

He is currently outside of his father’s truck. Kneeling before his nephew, Ez concentrates as he works through the instructions he Youtube’d earlier. A usually chatty Jeyson has been silent. He slept the entire hour's drive to school. When his Uncle woke him, Jeyson shot Ez a glare that reminded him of you.

Jeyson was fine the entire weekend that you were gone, but the moment he woke up this Monday to find you had not returned his entire mood changed. He has fought Ez tooth and nail the entire morning.

Ez glances up from the tie to Jeyson. “Hey, you sure you wanna go to school today?”

“I have to go to school” Jeyson mumbles.

“Yeah, but sometimes it doesn’t hurt to take a break.” Ez offers Jeyson a smile. “If you’re not having a good day, it’s okay to stay home.”

“I don’t want to stay home with you.”

“That’s okay,” Ez chuckles. “What about Izzy?”

“I don’t want to stay home with her either.” Jeyson releases a huff before glancing down at his now fixed tie. He bends down to pick up his backpack. Slipping it onto his shoulder, Jeyson steps around his Uncle. “I want my mom to come home.”

Tommy’s gaze remains on the sleeve of his blue Stockton uniform. His fingers tug at the loose string resting against his wrist. He ignores the smirk on his older brother’s face. The passing of time has muddled the bruises on Tommy’s skin. The mixture of black and yellow stood out on the parts of him he's allowed to remain visible. No matter how he sits, the pain in his ribs is inescapable. Sleep has fallen to the way-side, the inability to get comfortable meaning he only gets it once he’s passed out from exhaustion.

“You didn’t tell me she was hot. Now I know why you were sticking up for her the other day--”

“I didn’t notice. I’m more worried about her getting me out of here.”

“Uh-huh.” Leo’s eyes roll as he watches his brother’s eyes pass over the crowded visiting center. “I’m just saying—”

“What’d you find?” Tommy’s fingers massage his temple, the irritation in his voice amplified by his brother’s antics. Lack of sleep and around-the-clock oversight and antics from Rogers has cut his fuse short. “If you didn’t find anything, you could've saved yourself a trip up here—and I could be asleep.”

“She’s not married—unless she has a habit of leaving her rings at home.”

“What? On the table?”

Leo shakes his head. “No. A jewelry box in the bedroom.”

“What about the kid?” “He has to be about eight, or nine? Name’s Jeyson. You were right, he’s definitely Angel’s. Wish I could show you the picture. He couldn’t deny that kid if he tried.”

“Yeah.” Tommy nods impatiently, motioning for him to continue. “What else?”

“Kid goes to some boujee ass prep school up north. Gilman something? Embroidered blazers, ties, the whole nine. His mom’s paying a pretty penny too, apparently, it's the best in the state. He’s into the typical shit kids are into. Star Wars, Spider-Man. Plays the piano, apparently, he’s actually really fucking good. Awards and all. His mom’s got him pretty busy. A lot of after-school activities. Looks like she and Angel rotate transportation...She must not be around right now tho.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Apart from the fact you’re still not transported to a new unit?” Leo scoffs. “The kid was with someone else when I was scouting. A girl and a kid with a prospect patch.”

“Mayans?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe his little brother...last I heard he was hemmed up here. Haven’t seen him around tho.”

“Maybe he got out?”

Tommy dismisses Leo’s suggestion. “Most cop killers don’t walk free. What else?”

“He’s not doing a good job of keeping his nephew safe. I talked to the kid.”

Tommy’s eyes open. “You did what?”

“He walked right off with me.” Leo quietly explains. He mistakes his brother’s silence as a cue to move forward with his story. “His uncle was so into his date he didn’t even notice the kid walk off with me--”

The sight of Tommy’s hand running down his face tapers the rest of Leo’s statement.

His voice comes out low, through his clenched teeth. “I didn’t tell you to touch the kid.”

“I didn’t touch the kid,” Leo’s eyes rolled. “I got him a funnel cake—” “I don’t give a fuck—” the slamming of Tommy’s fist against the table brings the room to a brief silence. The eyes that he has attracted linger on Tommy as his glare nearly burns a hole through his brother. Rogers shrugs off the wall nearby. He takes a step of warning in Tommy’s direction. “—what you did, Leo—it was stupid.”

“How else was I supposed to get him to talk to me?”

Tommy’s response comes out slowly. Each passing word increases his irritation.

“You didn’t need him to talk to you because I didn’t ask you to talk to him. Buying him a funnel cake, or whatever the fuck your grand plan was allowed the kid to see your face. He can open up his mouth and ID you—”

“ID me,” Leo snorts, dismissing Tommy’s claim. “Relax, Tommy. He’s not a state witness, he’s a kid—“

“Yeah, and according to you and his 'boujee ass prep school,' he’s a smart ass fucking kid, Leo.” Tommy lets out a long sigh. “The last thing I need is the kid opening his mouth to his mom about some random guy approaching him.”

“Don’t worry, I played it cool. Told him I was a friend of his dad. Maybe, if you had told me exactly why I went there I wouldn’t—”

It was something Tommy had explained to his brother during their last visit. The less you know, the better.

“I already told you,” Tommy rubs at his temple, the sudden throbbing causing his jaw to clench. “I needed to double-check something.”

“And that’s what I did.” Leo sighs. “What I want to know is, why the fuck you called me all the way down here to check pictures in some house.”

Tommy studies his brother for a moment. He shifts forward, his elbows settling against the table.

“You wanna know why I didn’t tell you? You don’t think, Leo. I ask you to do one thing—one fucking thing—and you almost fuck it up. If I wanted you to think I wouldn’t have told you exactly what to do.” Leo’s jaw tightens as his brother continues. “You trying to think leads to you doing dumb shit like kidnapping her fucking son—”

“I didn’t kidnap him,” Leo mumbles.

Tommy’s fingers massage his clenched fist. “You’re lucky I can’t reach across this fucking table right now.”

Leo’s gaze drops from his brothers. The look that lies in Tommy’s eyes is one he’s seen before—at least not directed at him. It’s the look that accompanied the acts that earned Tommy his nickname. Leo’s gaze nervously shifts towards Rogers who is still watching Tommy from his post.

“What do you want with her? Thinking she’s gonna give you a shot? Criminal is her type, and she’s definitely yours.”

“It’s not her I need. It’s Angel.” Tommy starts, his jaw tightening as his gaze remains on Leo. “And if you want Angel, you need her.”

“If she’s as good as you say, what do you need Angel for? You’ve been talking about her like she might actually get you off.”

Leo steals a brave glance at his brother. He watches as Tommy looks up from his tattooed knuckles.

“No matter how hard you pray, people like me and you don't come out on the right side of the law. No matter how fucking good she is, she can't get me out of this. This shit is stacked too high against me." Tommy’s gaze shifts to the clock overhead. “Did you find the necklace?”

Leo nods as Tommy stands.

“Good, go ahead and do what I asked.” Tommy pauses, his voice lowering as his gaze meets his brothers. “Nothing else, Leonardo. The time I'm looking at right now, I’ll fucking kill you right here if you pull some shit like that again.”

At some point Monday night, Angel abandoned his spot on the sofa to crawl into bed with you. His intention may have been to take one side of the bed, but to no surprise, he has failed.

You came to this revelation at two o’clock in the morning when you tried to roll over but found it to be impossible. You have been stuck on your back ever since. You attempted to fall back asleep but have not been able to.

Cheek pressed against your chest, arm wrapped around your waist, Angel hasn’t moved. He doesn’t move when your alarm goes off at 7:30 or when the knock comes on the door at 8:00.

The sleep Angel lost, the past two days over Tommy seems to have piled onto him. He only wakes when your fingers brush through his hair, the warmth of your touch lingering against his cheek.

“You have to get up and eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” Angel mumbles. The sunlight peeking through the curtains prompts him to burrow his face against your neck. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you smile softly. “But, I’m hungry, and I can’t get our food with you laying on top of me.”

Your words are met with a huff before Angel rolls over. Resting on his back, he watches the fan spin as you get out of bed.

His first instinct is to check his phone. He pushes himself up, his body protesting with the sudden movement, once he realizes his cellphone is not where he left it.

“Where’s my phone?”

His palms pressed against his eyes as he pushes away the enticing thought of laying back down for a few more hours of sleep.

“It kept going off,” you look up from the plate in your hand. “Ezekiel kept texting you.”

“What did he want?”

Angel watches you shrug. “I don’t know. I put it in the drawer. I tried to wake you up, but you were literally dead.”

Angel releases a sigh of relief before reaching over to open the bedside drawer. Facedown, his phone has several notifications. He ignores the rest, focusing on those from his younger brother.

2:30 a.m. 📲 : You still up?

2:35 a.m. 📲 : Talked to Bishop. Found out what the shipment was

3:00 a.m. 📲 : Pretty sure I found something else

3:02 a.m. 📲 : Don’t know if this is the guy. If it is we might have a problem

3:03 a.m. 📲: Found this in the paper

3:04 a.m. 📲 : Check it out and call me back.

The last incoming message was a photo, the front page of the Daily Imperial Gazette. Angel scans the article as you climb back into bed. A few phrases stick as he reads, “Man charged in Santo Padre murder…” “Thomas Flores, 30, has been charged…” “...obtained representation from Lorente & Rothman…” “...Friday, Flores was denied bond…”

“I have to tell you something.”

Angel instinctively hits the power button on his phone. Glancing up, he realizes you haven’t even bothered to look up at him. Your focus is on the half-eaten croissant in your hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you explain as you take another bite of your croissant. “The case Samuel gave me—the one Aiden is helping me with—it’s for this guy. His name’s Tommy Flores. He has some pretty...intense charges, so you’re probably going to hear people talking about it soon. We had court Friday, and the judge...he’s pretty tough. He denied any form of a bond, he didn’t even bother trying to set a ridiculously high one.”

You glance up to find Angel’s eyes on you. His unreadable expression causes your brow to furrow. You mistake the look in his eyes as uncertainty.

“I honestly don’t think it’s anything you have to worry about.” Offering him a smile, you lightly roll your eyes. “But I’m going to have to start working late when we get back, so I need to know that what happened Friday won’t happen again.”

You wait for Angel’s response, but it doesn’t come.

“If I take over morning drop-offs, can I count on you to pick Jeyson up after school?” You continue. “Or, do I have to ask Isabela to do it...Angel?”

Angel blinks as your fingers snap.

“Are you listening to me?” The irritation he finds as his focus shifts to you causes him to nod.

Angel nods a second time as he takes in the look of skepticism on your face.

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

“So, you’re good with picking Jeyson up from school?” You clarify. “Every day of the week?”

Angel unlocks his phone, nodding for the third time. “Yeah. I’ll pick him up.”

“And if you can’t,” you reach forward. You catch Angel's chin forcing him to look at you. “You call and let me know the moment you find out?”

Nodding, Angel drops his eyes the second your gaze meets his. “I gotta call Ez.”

Despite his admission, your hand doesn’t drop preventing him from getting up. For a moment, Angel thinks you’ll let it go. For once, you will ignore the feeling you get each time you notice a change in him. It is something no one else in his life can seem to do. It is something you’ve been able to do your entire life. It is something Angel wishes you couldn’t do.

“What’s wrong?”

Angel shakes his head as you release him. He keeps his eyes trained on the plate in your lap avoiding your gaze as your touch brushes through his hair. It's a habit. Angel knows the moment he meets your gaze he’ll tell you whatever is on his mind. It’s impossible not to do when he knows you can read him best that way. He picks up what’s left of your croissant and takes a bite.

You sit your plate aside before closing the distance between the two of you. Angel’s eyes lift to meet yours as you settle on his lap. The warmth of your palms finds his cheeks as you take his face in your hands.

“I’ve known you nearly my entire life, Angel. I know you don’t believe it, but I can tell when you’re lying to me. Just like I can tell when you’re upset and anxious. And when you’re going to annoy me.” The soft smile on your lips brings a weak one to his. “There’s no point in trying to act like I don’t. What’s wrong?”

“You were right about Friday night. I wasn’t with Samuel. I wasn’t even in Santo Padre.” Angel lets out a deep breath. His voice low as your fingers toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Ez and I were in Mexico. I left when you were in court. I knew we weren’t going to make it back in time, but I didn’t want to have to tell you because I knew you’d be pissed.”

“What happened to your hand?”

He watches you lift it. Your finger traces the bandage.

“Cut it on a shovel.”

Your gaze lifts to find his focus on the path your finger traces.

“...okay.”

Angel shook his head. “It’s not okay—I fucked up. Forreal this time—“

"What? On Friday?” You let out a deep breath. “Angel, I know I freaked out. Missing the recital—yeah, it was fucked up—but it is not the worse thing you’ve done.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that.” Your eyes watch him release a tired laugh, his gaze down. "You defend me, even when you shouldn’t.”

It is true. Defending Angel has been second nature your entire life. Often you do it in response to others. But also in response to him. When you were teenagers, you learned a valuable lesson about him. Angel is his worst critic. He’ll talk himself down harsher than anyone, even those who hate him.

“It’s because I love you.” Your arms wrap around his neck pulling him into a hug. “Just because we fight and say stupid things to each other doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, Angel. If I haven’t been able to stop doing that our entire time together, I don’t know why you think a fight in a therapy session is going to be the final straw. Me not talking to you is just the easiest way for me not to say something I’ll regret later.”

Angel’s grip tightens around you as your lips press against his skin.

“At this point, there isn’t anything you can do or say that’s going to make me stop loving you.” The reassurance in your voice lifts his gaze to yours. “Okay?”

Your lips press against his in a soft kiss. You leave a second against his forehead before getting up.

“I have to take a shower,” you announce as Angel’s arm wraps around your waist guiding your body back towards his. Your fingers drift into his hair as his head rests against you. “There’s more food you should eat before we go out.”

The two of you stay that way for nearly a minute. Angel releases you as the sound of your ringing phone fills the air.

Silence from Angel Reyes is a bad sign. Such a rarity, it wrings your stomach into knots. It has been hours since you woke to find him sleeping against you. Angel has said just as little as he did in the morning. When you stepped out of the shower, you found him fully dressed and brushing his teeth.

You glance over your shoulder to find he’s standing where you last left him. Arms crossed over his chest Angel rests against the wall as far from the line as possible. With his sunglasses on, you can’t tell where he’s looking. The corner of his lips turns up into a small smile as you come to a stop before him.

“Who knew smoothies took forever to make,” he sighs as your arms wrap around his waist.

Resting your cheek against Angel's chest, you tighten your grip. You listen to the steady rhythm of his heart as his lips press against your hair.

“I want you to come somewhere with me tonight.”

“No,” Angel chuckles. You tip your head back, pouting as his gaze drops to yours.

He shakes his head as your weight shifts to your toes.

“Please,” you ask, your lips pressing a kiss against his.

“Last time I did that, you ripped me to shreds,” he laughs. “I haven’t even had time to recover from that.”

“It’ll be fun,” you promise. The second kiss you leave morphs Angel's smile into a grin. You leave a third, this one against his cheek. “I promise.”

Angel releases a long breath as you take a step back, a grin on your face.

“It better be,” he shakes his head as you quickly press a final kiss against his lips before turning to retrieve your order.

As you reach the corner, your cell phone vibrates in your back pocket. You don’t bother checking who it is. Aiden has called you three times. You had sent him a text message in response to his first three calls. Telling him to ask Isabela for help on whatever he needed.

The moment the call goes to voicemail, the vibration picks back up.

You force yourself to take a breath as Angel leads you outside.

“Hi, Aiden--”

“I know this week is supposed to be for you and Angel,” Aiden's voice comes out in a rushed whisper. “But, I need your help.”

“Where are you?” You ask as you take a sip of your smoothie. “And, why are you whispering?”

“I’m at the courthouse,” Aiden sighs. “I’ve been here all morning, and they’re giving me the run-around.”

“About what?”

“The Warden called the office this morning. You weren’t there, so I answered your desk phone. He didn’t give me many details, just that Flores was detained last night. They couldn't get him to say anything—to no surprise—but one of the guards said he was involved in an altercation with another inmate. Apparently, Tommy messed him up pretty bad—like...transported to the local hospital bad.”

Angel glances over at you as you slip out of his grip. You take a seat at the table he stops alongside.

In the short time, you’ve worked with Aiden, you’ve learned one thing. The moment he thinks there is something to panic about, Aiden will panic. So, if you sound stressed it kicks off his panicking.

Resting your face in your hand, you speak quietly. “So, he wasn't transferred on Friday as I'd requested? If he was he couldn't have gotten in a fight.”

“I know. Apparently this isn't the first one he's been in. The Warden said he looks like he’s been roughed up in the past few days. I’ve been here since first thing this morning—”

“Let me guess.” You rest back against your seat. “They told you there’s nothing they can do, with the prison being at full capacity they don’t have a cell for him?”

A brief silence falls over the receiver. Aiden’s brow furrows.

“Yeah—how'd you know?”

“That’s because it’s bullshit,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Judge Miller was hoping you’d leave and not press the issue.”

“Shit,” Aiden mumbles. “Shit, should I call Samuel—”

“God no. Aiden, I’ll tell you what to do, and say, just relax.”

“I lied to you.”

Angel glances down at you as your lips press against his knuckles. “About what?”

“About wanting to wait to get married.”

Your admission leaves Angel quiet. He opens his mouth to speak, but it closes as you place a second kiss against his skin.

You tilt your head back to find his eyes focused on the water.

“I was talking to Izzy the other day—not about getting married—but about you and...I mean...we’re trying to have another kid.” You backtrack as his gaze drifts to you. “That’s not the only reason, but I don’t want to spend another seven years playing house with you, Angel. I have tried so hard to find reasons why we should just leave each other in the past, but it’s impossible. I can’t help thinking that we’ve wasted so much time trying to fight it we should just get married.”

If he is excited by your words, Angel doesn’t show it. If he’s anxious by your words Angel doesn’t show it. The only response he gives is the furrowing of his brow as his pace slows before coming to a complete stop.

“I thought you’d be...a little happier,” you admit. The butterflies in your stomach seem to double in size as Angel's gaze focuses on your interlaced fingers.

“Right now?” Angel gently squeezes your hand, the smile slowly spreading across his lips causing you to shake your head. “A fancy place like this I’m pretty sure we could find someone to do it tonight.”

“Preferably with your son there,” you giggle as his lips press against your forehead.

“Just so you know,” Angel mumbles as he leaves a kiss against your lips. “You can’t take it back.”

“It’d be pointless,” you admit, your eyes focused on the incoming tide. “Regardless of what I say, you’re impossible to escape.”

“Like you said, it must be fate,” he teases as you step back towards the security of the shore.

“I didn’t say fate. I said I was tired of trying to outrun you.”

Angel’s eyes roll. “Okay.”

Pushing against his chest, you cause him to stumble backward making it impossible for him to avoid the incoming tide.

“Fuck—”

Angel’s scream is drowned out by the sound of your laughter. He tries to escape the chilled water but realizes it’s pointless as a second wave rolls through.

“Is it cold?” You ask the grin on your face prompting him to take a step in your direction. “Because it looked like it was cold.” The look on his face causes your laughter to return.

“You’re about to find out how cold it is.” The promise in his voice causes you to take a step back.

You catch sight of Angel’s smile before you take off running.

Between the giggles that leave you breathless and the sand between your feet, you don’t get very far before Angel’s arms wrap around you.

“I’m sorry, okay. Let me go, please?” Angel’s grip loosens as you turn to face him. “I really am sorry.”

A gasp escapes your lips as your feet leave the ground. Blood rushes to your head as Angel tosses you over your shoulder. It only takes a second for you to realize he’s turned and is carrying you back towards the water.

“Angel Ignacio Reyes put me down now!”

“Be careful what you wish for, baby girl,” Angel chuckles as he carries you into the water.

It doesn’t matter that you’re both fully clothed Angel carries you out until the water is waist-deep. He comes to a stop. Shifting you in his arms, he grins as your arms instantly wrap around his neck.

“You think this is far enough?” He asks as you take in your surroundings.

“I hate you,” you giggle as you meet his playful gaze.

“I could go further out,” he takes a step forward.

“Just do it.”

Judging by the mischievous grin on his lips, you expect him to drop you in. For whatever reason, Angel spares you a dunking. Instead, he carefully lowers you to your feet.

The chill of the water causes your grip to tighten around him. He waits until you’re standing to let go of you.

You can’t suppress the smile that finds your lips as he kisses you.

“You’re lucky you buttered me up beforehand,” he chuckles as you step around him.

He follows you back to shore watching as you glance down the beach, back towards the lights of the hotel. Your pace slows as you start in the direction of the hotel.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Despite the nod of reassurance, you force yourself to take another breath. You shake your head slightly, a tiny smile finding your lips. It takes a third breath for the feeling to pass. “I just—got lightheaded for a second.”

“Uh-huh. Funny how you get ‘lightheaded’ the second I take my shirt off. I don’t know why you still try and play this game at this point.”

Your eyes open in time to allow you the moment you need to react. Catching the shirt tossed your way, you watch Angel unzip his jeans.

"Angel put your shirt back on–I’m serious.” The warning in your voice stretches the smile on Angel’s lips. Your eyes leave him, long enough to drift back to the glow of the hotel’s lanterns still visible. The laughter and music cause you to step in his direction. “You are not getting naked on the beach! Are you trying to get us kicked out of here—”

“I wasn’t planning on going in naked,” Angel laughs. It is an admission of truth, but the sight of your panicked gaze causes a mischievous grin to take over his features. “But, I’m down to if you are—“

“No—"

“You know what?” Angel nods as he tugs his foot out of his jeans. “Your plan is better.”

“Angel—“

There’s no point throwing in a protest. Angel has fully stripped down to his briefs.

You step forward as he moves to push them down.

“I am serious, Angel. Do not do it.”

He rolls his neck before letting out a loud, and exaggerated, “fine.”

“But the only way that’s coming back on,” he nods towards the shirt in your hands before taking a step back. “You gotta join me.”

“I’m not doing this.”

Angel shoots you a look of skepticism as he takes another step towards the water.

“You’re already wet,” he chuckles. “Might as well get in.”

You remain where you are as Angel turns and makes his way into the water.

He waits until he’s waist-deep to start swimming out. He disappears out of sight as you drop his shirt to the ground. Stepping out of your flip-flops, you roll your eyes as you watch him resurface under the moonlight.

“Hurry up!” Even with the distance between the two of you, you can see Angel’s grin in your mind perfectly.

Despite your initial protest, you stay in the water for nearly an hour. Angel stands alongside you. His right-hand rests against your spine, his left interlaced with yours as your float. He watches you, his eyes admiring the moonlight against your skin as you focus on the stars above.

“I can’t remember the last time I looked at these,” you admit.

He smiles as your eyes drift shut. “Mom used to freak every time she caught us sneaking onto the roof to look at them.”

“That’s because you fell off one time. Nearly gave her a heart attack.”

“Wouldn’t have been the first time.”

You bite back a smile as Angel’s lips lightly brush against yours. They drift to the bridge of your nose as you release a soft giggle.

“Speaking of mom’s, yours came by last week.” Angel watches as the smile on your face slowly fades. “You were at work. I was taking Jeyson to school. She said she’s been calling you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you admit. “She’s blocked.”

“I was thinking...since we’re heading back a day early, we should stop by your mom’s on the way back–”

“No.”

Angel releases a deep breath. He wasn’t naive to think you would jump at the idea. But, since seeing her, Angel couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.

“I know ya’ll don’t get along, but my mom’s not here to see Jeyson grow up. I think he should be able to know the grandparents he has left.”

“I get that, but I’m not doing it.”

Your eyes remain closed as you concentrate on the waves gently pushing against your skin.

Angel doesn’t say anything else on the subject. He knows your response will stay the same. It has for the past nine years. He also doesn’t say anything else because he knows he’s the reason you won’t budge.

The hatred your mother has for Angel may be misplaced, but she is too stubborn to admit it. She has always blamed Angel for many of your actions, starting when you were kids. Anytime you didn’t go through with what she had planned for you, Angel was to blame. You missed curfew in high school Angel was to blame. You skipped school on your birthday Angel was to blame. You didn’t attend the college she spent her entire life preparing you for Angel was to blame. You got pregnant out of wedlock Angel was to blame.

It had all came to a head at your baby shower. Angel wasn’t there, but it was the first time he’d ever seen his mother truly angry. Sure, Marisol had gotten mad at Angel countless times. But seeing how mad Marisol was as she recounted the fight she had witnessed between you and your mother, Angel was shocked.

He never asked what words were exchanged, and he didn’t have to. All he knew was that from that moment forward, everyone avoided the subject of your mother.

“I get what you’re saying, Angel,” you sigh. “But, if my mom truly wanted to get to know Jeyson she would apologize. I can’t bring our son around someone that has said the things she’s said about you. If she can say them about you, she can say them about him because Jeyson is your son.”

“Shit, I really look as bad as I feel?”

The smile on Tommy’s face grows as you look up. The heat covering your skin seems to rise as you start to speak.

“No—” You wince. “I’m sorry for staring—it’s rude.”

“It’s all good,” Tommy chuckles as he watches your eyes leave his.

He watches as you bite your lip. Whatever is on your mind, you don’t share it. Instead, your eyes linger on the bruise beneath his right eye. You’ve seen enough damage on Angel to know how bad it must have looked a few days prior.

“Hey, relax.” Tommy shifts forward in his seat, the sound of his shackles dragging across the table causing your attention to refocus. He meets your gaze. “The Doc cleared me—gave me my two Advil and sent me back to my cell. I think it’s safe to say I’m not gonna die.”

Despite the smile on his face, your head still shakes.

“Yeah, but I still feel bad that it happened. I was supposed to double-check the clearance of your paperwork.”

“Trust me, it’s not your fault,” Tommy chuckles. He watches your eyes drop to his freshly bruised knuckles. “It’s mine. The funny thing about this place is, you always run into people from your past. My mom used to said I never knew when to stop talking. I might have said the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

You watch as Tommy’s eyes briefly drift over your shoulder to where Rogers sits in the corner. His smile returns as his gaze drifts back to you.

“So, I take it you had fun.” He notes your raised brow before backtracking. “The Warden said he called your office and your boyfriend answered, said you were out of town.”

Your eyes roll. “Hey, go easy on my boyfriend. He’s the one who went to the courthouse. From what I hear, he slammed Judge Miller hard because your paperwork has been approved.”

You take in Tommy’s skepticism. You slide the signed form across the table, allowing him a better view.

“Signed by the Warden as well,” you point out. “Thanks to Aiden as soon as we’re done here, you’re being moved out of the unit.”

“No shit?” Tommy chuckles. He nods in approval as he scans the form. “I’ll be sure to thank Aiden when I see him. Guess you were right. He’s got some balls after all...Look, I know I’m not the easiest client….so um….Thanks for pushing for this. Making sure everything was straight. Most people would’ve just left me where I was.”

“Yeah, well I can’t have you die before I get fully paid.”

The laugh Tommy releases brings a smile to your lips. He settles back against his chair as you pick up your pen.

"I need you to understand that this new assignment may not be your favorite," you explain. "You're being moved to a new unit, but I can't get you moved again. That means, you can't do anything else, Tommy. Do you understand me?"

Tommy nods. He looks up as your hand finds his.

"This," your lift his hand forcing him to take in his swollen knuckles. "The shit you pulled. You're lucky they didn't throw you in AdSeg. That's 23 hours in your cell. No phone calls, no visits. Nothing. The only reason they didn't throw you in there is because they messed up, and didn't want Aiden to draw a motion against the judge. I don't care what you have to do, but you better learn to walk away from a fight. Now."

"I know." Tommy sighs as you let him go.

“Then do it. My job is already hard enough as it is. I can't have you trying to kill someone while you're already here for murder. Plus, the judge is pissed because of the paperwork Aiden had to file. That's not good for either of us. So, that means I need your help.”

His brow raises, the corners of his lips turning up into a smirk. “I thought I was supposed to be the one asking for help.”

“True, but help is a two-way street.”

Tommy hesitates for a moment. His eyes drop to his knuckles as he lets off a light shrug.

“What do you need?”

“For you to tell me why you were meeting with Alexander Maddox the night you were arrested.”

Tommy’s smile fades quicker than it came. His jaw tightens as he shakes his head.

You sit forward resting your elbows on the table.

“Tommy, if it’s about the MC.” Tommy’s eyes lift for a brief second. Long enough for you to catch a glimpse of the shock in his eyes. You lower your voice. “I know you’re with the Horsemen—”

Tommy shakes his head. “Look—I get you got a job to do, but—there’s just shit with the MC I can’t talk about—”

“I know how this stuff works—”

“Got a lot of personal experience with an MC?” Tommy asks.

His question causes you to release a deep breath.

“If you don’t want to tell me anything, fine. But when it comes down to it, Tommy. People will cut you off to save themselves.” The irritation in your voice lifts his gaze. “That shipment you were carrying, was not a dime bag. Your brothers will let you go down for this. Hard. They will let you rot in here for the rest of your fucking life if it means avoiding a R.I.C.O. case.”

Tommy’s brow furrows. “What’s a R.I.C.O.?”

His question throws you off. The pure confusion on his face causes you to backtrack.

“You seriously don’t know what that is?”

“I mean—I’ve heard of it...how do you know what it is?”

“It’s what you pay me for,” you remind him.

“Then I guess I’m paying you to explain it to me.”

The moment you step outside of the elevator, you come face to face with a wide-eyed Isabela.

“Is your phone dead?” She asks the irritation in her voice causing your brow to arch.

“Off—I had a client meeting with Tommy. I thought I told you—”

Isabela ignores your response, her eyes focused in the direction of your office. “Yeah, whatever. I’ve been calling you for the last freaking hour—”

“Sorry—ow.” You wince as Isabela catches your arm. She pulls you to a stop. “What?”

She releases her grip, but she sidesteps. Blocking your path, Isabela places both hands on your shoulders. She ignores the look of confusion on your face, her gaze studying yours.

“How are you?”

Her question causes you to hesitate. “...Fine...why?”

Isabela takes another moment to study your eyes as if she doesn’t fully believe you before nodding.

“Just so you know,” she sighs as she takes a step back. “I did not let her in. Aiden did. He didn’t know any better—bless his heart—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your mother.” Isabela winces at the look on your face. “She’s in your office. Promise me you won’t make a scene.”

“It’s never me you have to worry about,” you mumble.

When you enter your office, you find your mother is not where Aiden asked her to sit and wait for you.

She is standing behind your desk studying a photo that she holds in her hands.

“Put it back.”

She jumps at the sound of your voice, her body turning so that she faces you.

“Put it back, please.”

Her eyes return to the photo of Angel seated on his bike. A grinning Jeyson is seated in front of him, clinging to the handlebars.

“He looks so much like his father.”

You cross the room. Taking the photo, you place it back in its original resting place before dropping your purse onto your desk.

“What do you want?” You ask as you watch step around your desk.

“Is that a way to greet your mother?”

“According to the last time we spoke, I don’t have one.” You recollect as you take a seat. “It’s been...nearly nine years, so my memory might be a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what you told me.” Your brow furrows as she moves to take the seat across from you. “There’s no need for you to sit. This conversation won’t last long. I have a meeting in a few minutes. What do you want?”

Your mother’s jaw tightens as she remains standing. Her eyes roll as she speaks. “I take it he didn’t pass along my message.”

“He did pass along your message, actually,” you admit. “Believe it or not, Angel said I should call you and listen to what you had to say. I just chose to do what I’ve done for the past nine years—ignore it. If you’re not going to answer my question, mom, then you can leave.”

“Your father and I want to see our grandson—”

“No.”

She expects more, but your attention has already moved on to the papers you’ve dropped onto your desk.

“See, I told you the conversation wouldn’t last long.”

“Y/N,” your mother objects. “It’s been nearly nine years.”

Your fingers interlaced as you force yourself to take a deep breath. You surprise even yourself as your voice comes out quiet and calm.

“I told you before. I do not want you near my son, and I meant it. I don’t care what excuse you’ve come here to give today. I’m not changing my mind. Your only hope is to speak with his father, and hope he’s more forgiving than I am.”

Aiden stops in the doorway, his eyes widening as he reads the room. He takes a step back but pauses as you give him a warm smile.

“Hi, Aiden! Please tell me you haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“No,” Aiden clears his throat. His eyes briefly pass to your mother whose gaze remains on you. “I haven’t.”

“Good. Can you order two of whatever you’re having? I’ll pay. We have to go ahead and look over this case.”

Aiden nods as you add, “great. Can you also escort my mother downstairs? She’s ready to leave.”

“I’m sorry for ruining your retreat.”

Aiden’s apology breaks your concentration.

Seated on the floor of your office, Aiden has his back pressed against your desk. His usually polished appearance is disheveled. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His tie and jacket are discarded on the back of your chair.

His apology is one he has been working himself up to share for the last three hours. Each time he thought of sharing it, he’s backed out. At this point, he’s run out of pointless conversation and has reached the bottom of your takeout container that he took over.

“What are you talking about?”

Aiden’s eyes remain on the chopsticks in his hand.

“Isabela told me not to call you about Tommy,” he clears his throat. He steals a glance in your direction. “She said it should wait until you got back—but as usual—I panicked and called you. Now you’re back early--”

“Aiden, you didn’t ruin my retreat,” you sigh. Your palms rub against your tired eyes. “It was rocky was to begin with.”

The admission silences the office. Aiden nods before opening his mouth.

“So,” you smile as you lightly bump his shoulder with yours. “Please, don’t worry about it. Angel was probably happy you called so he could leave.”

Your gaze returns to the slow-paced printer. Upon learning you were coming home early, Aiden had sent you a text message.

📲: I have some stuff to show you about Tommy.

And by “some stuff” Aiden meant a board. He had stolen one of Samuel’s whiteboards from the conference room. The entire surface is covered in your notes and information from Tommy’s files.

“I can’t believe you did all this while I was gone,” you stare at the board. “Your girlfriend might think you’re spending too much time on me.”

Aiden’s smile is sheepish. “If I had one, I wouldn’t have had time to do this.”

“Well, remind me to find you one because this is amazing.” The tease causes Aiden’s smile to grow. “I’m serious, Aiden. I can’t believe you thought you couldn’t be any help.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” he shrugs, his gaze focused on the paper in his hand. “They’re all your notes, I just organized them.”

His eyes widen, a grin finding his lips as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Call it whatever you want,” you smile. “But I still get to say thank you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he rubs the back of his neck before glancing over at you. “We’re a team….speaking of...I found this.”

The picture he lifts is not new. It is one you’ve seen before. Your brow furrows as you take in the pregnant woman on display.

“I already know who that is,” you admit. “It’s the girlfriend of—”

“Alexander Maddox.” Aiden nods. “Right. I kept going back to your notes. You had one question. Why was Tommy meeting with Maddox in the first place?”

Your head shakes the confusion on your face prompting the rolling of Aiden’s eyes.

“How is this the answer?”

“You were asking the wrong question.” A mischievous grin slides onto his face as Aiden realizes you’re still not following his train of thought. “I can’t believe I figured something out before you—”

“Oh my goodness, Aiden—”

“When he was arrested, Tommy was carrying a shipment--”

“Yeah, something he shouldn’t have been doing by himself.”

Aiden’s brow arches. “You got a history of drug trafficking I don’t know about?”

“You’d be surprised what you pick up on this job.”

Aiden shakes his head as you motion for him to continue.

“While I was working, I kept thinking back to our conversation at the courthouse,” Aiden continues. “You said Tommy’s smart—"

“He uses people to get what he wants.”

“Exactly,” Aiden grins. He lifts the picture in his hand. “Why would Maddox meet up with someone from a rival club, in the middle of the night, with his pregnant girlfriend in tow if he was threatened by them?”

Aiden doesn’t bother answering the question. Instead, he waits for you to make the connection. The smile on his face remains as your eyes widen.

“Because he was there to make a deal.”

“Exactly!” Despite the smile on your face, Aiden’s face dampens. “...but that’s as far as I got. I don’t really know what made Tommy kill him—”

“Of course you do, Aiden.” Despite your reassurance and the confidence in your voice, Aiden’s expression hasn’t changed. “Your brain just needs a second to catch up. Maddox didn’t keep up his end of the deal. He probably tried to screw Tommy over. Not realizing that Tommy would kill him, girlfriend in tow.”

"Well, now we know why Tommy's been tight-lipped about that night. Probably doesn't want it to get out that he was skimming from the club's business."

The hug you give him brings the same response as before.

“I should help you out more often.” Aiden chuckles as you give him a squeeze.

“Careful,” you tease. “Angel’s not too fond of sharing.”

“Speaking of Angel…” Aiden’s gaze meets yours. “I know you asked me not to say anything to him about Samuel—”

“It’s okay.”

Aiden nods, but he continues. His rambling brings a soft smile to your lips.

“Yeah, but I just...I didn’t want you to think I was okay with what Samuel did.” His words come out quietly as he shakes his head. “The way he talked to you...it wasn’t right. You work harder than anyone here—including him—and for Samuel to do that was fucked up. I didn’t say anything in the meeting, and I should have. So, I just...I told Angel when he asked about it.”

“He would have found out eventually,” you laugh softly. “Besides, now Angel likes you.”

“For real?” The smile on Aiden’s face stretches into a grin as you nod.

A silence falls over the office as Aiden’s head rests against the desk. His brow furrows as your eyes fall to your hands. There is a final question on his mind. One he’s tried to find a way to raise since he started flipping through your notes on Saturday morning.

“Are you pregnant?”

The question lifts your gaze.

Aiden reaches into the pocket of his shirt. Your eyes widen as you take in the white card he produces. It is a card you spent the entire morning trying to find. The scheduled appointment one you have yet to share with Angel.

“It was in the notebook you turned over for me and Samuel to review,” Aiden explains as he passes the card over. “Don’t worry. I saw it before he did...I figured he was the last person you wanted to know.”

Your eyes focus on the date. A week and a half away. The initial scheduling may have been premature, but you couldn’t shake the feeling Angel was right.

“Uh...no—I mean, it’s too early to tell.” You turn the card over before looking up. “I should know by this date, so can you not tell anyone about this? I haven’t even told Izzy...or Angel for that matter. I don’t want to say anything until I’m a hundred percent sure.”

Aiden nods, a soft smile on his lips. “Of course.”

“Thanks.” You allow your head to rest back against the desk. “I don’t want to get Angel’s hopes up too early.”

It was the only thought you’ve had from the moment you woke up alongside Angel that moment. But as you glance back at the card in your hand, you know the truth has nothing to do with Angel. It’s not his hopes that you’re afraid of letting down.

You place the card aside, pulling your knees to your chest. Your gaze drifts to the board before you. The two of you sit in silence, eyes focused on your work. Silently willing your brains to come up with one more revelation before packing it up for the night.

"Alright," Aiden huffs. "I think we've gotten as far as we can get tonight."

HIs brow furrows, a chuckle filling the air as he fingers brush against your arm.

"Didn't take you for a tattoo person."

You glance over at him, following his gaze to the ink on your arm.

"Yeah, well, you've never been dragged to a tattoo parlor with Angel," you laugh. "Now, I try to avoid them at all cost."

"It's pretty cool," he grins, his eyes lingering on the design. "He has one too? Matching?"

"Yep," your eyes roll lightly. "Please don't tease me about teenage decisions."

"I won't," he chuckles. Aiden sits forward, lightly patting your leg before moving to collect the trash.

“Aiden?”

“Huh?” He glances up from the takeout containers in his hands.

“How long was he in Chino?”

“Tommy...uh, hold on.” Balancing the containers in his left, Aiden quickly rifles through the stacks of papers spread across the floor before him. “Says here...he was in Chino for....30 months.”

“Any way we can figure out where he was housed?”

“I don’t know,” Aiden admits as his eyes scan the wrap sheet. “His charges were nothing compared to now. Petty crime, so he wasn’t housed at maximum. Why?”

Once his question is met with silence, Aiden glances over his shoulder at you.

“What’s wrong?” The concern in his eyes slowly morphs to fear as he takes in your expression. “Did I miss something?”

“No, I did.”

“What do you mean?”

Before he can pose the question, you’re already pushing yourself to your feet.

“Go home, okay? It’s getting late—don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up in the morning.”

Although you’ve managed to mask your expression, the trembling of your hands causes Aiden’s brow to furrow.

“You sure?” He objects. He quickly stands, stopping you from grabbing your keys from your desk. “I can send an email about his placement in Chino—”

“No.” Your response comes out more panicked than you want. You quickly backtrack. The reassuring smile you give Aiden not holding the weight it’s meant to. “I’ll do it in the morning. I have to go see Angel.”

“Okay.” Aiden nods. He passes over the sheet watching as you excuse yourself.

Jeyson Reyes sits at the table in the center of the clubhouse, his math homework abandoned. His attention is devoted to the bowl of skittles in front of him. He has spent that past minute carefully picking out his least favorite skittles—the yellow.

“Word on the street is you got a birthday coming up,” Angel accepts another yellow skittle before popping it in his mouth. Jeyson’s eyes widen as he briefly pauses the task at hand. Angel’s brow furrows as his eyes study his son’s face. “How old are you turning again? Five—”

“Nine!”

“Nine? Nah--that can’t be right.” Angel shakes his head as he takes in Jeyson’s broad grin. “I don’t believe you—”

“Uh-huh,” Jeyson nods, dropping another skittle into his father’s palm. “I turn nine in seventeen days.”

“Shit—”

“That’s another dollar in the swear jar,” Jeyson reminds him as he passes Angel another skittle.

“I know,” Angel chuckles. He rests back against his seat, his eyes lingering on your son as he quietly admits. “I can’t believe you’re that old.”

Jeyson’s nose scrunches. “I’m not old.”

“Yeah, you are,” Angel laughs, his hand brushing against Jeyson’s hair. “You’re almost an adult.”

“I’m still a kid,” Jeyson giggles as his eyes lift to meet his father’s. “You’re old—”

“Hey—I am not old,” Angel retorts, the feigned look of offense causing your son’s giggles to increase.

Jeyson reaches over pointing towards the beard Angel’s hand passes over. “You have gray hair—lots of it.”

His father’s gaze narrows as Jeyson’s grin stretches as far as his cheeks will allow. As if to soften the blow, Jeyson drops two more skittles into Angel’s palm before eating one of his own.

Angel’s smile remains as he watches Jeyson redirect his attention back to the bowl of skittles on the table.

“Have you thought about what you want for your birthday?"

Jeyson shrugs. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Angel’s brow raises. “You’re counting down to your birthday, but you don’t know what you want?”

Jeyson lets off a second shrug, his concentration on the skittles causing Angel’s brow to furrow.

“You know we’re gonna end up getting whatever it is you want,” Angel smiles as he ruffles Jeyson’s hair. “You’ve been doing everything you’re supposed to in school.”

Despite Angel’s words, Jeyson’s gaze remains down. He chews on the inside of his cheek. The action causes his father to slide the bowl of skittles aside.

“What’s up? You don't think you can get what you want?”

Nearly a minute passes before Jeyson answers Angel’s question. His voice comes out quietly.

“I want you to stay at home.”

Angel’s brow furrows. The response is not what he’s anticipating. “I am staying at home.”

“My home, not yours.” Jeyson clarifies. “Where mom and I live.”

“That is where I’m staying.”

“You didn’t Friday. Is it because you don’t like living with us?” He asks quietly

Angel’s eyes drift shut, the tightening of his throat causing him to shake his head.

“Your mom and I—” Angel’s voice trails off as Jeyson looks up from the table to meet his gaze.

It is a conversation neither of them has breached before. One Jeyson has found himself thinking about more and more. One Angel knew he would eventually have with his son, but he hadn’t anticipated it to be now. He had also hoped you would be around to help him.

“You having two homes has nothing to do with me not wanting to live with you—or your mom. You don’t remember it, you were too little, but your mom and I...we used to fight a lot.” Angel continues. “I wasn’t nice to her, and I made her cry a lot. So I had to leave. I didn’t want to leave you or her, but I also didn’t want to hurt you or your mom. It took me a while to learn how not to do that. Friday...I couldn’t come home because I didn’t want to fight with your mom.”

“You still made her cry.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Leaning over, Angel brushes his hand against Jeyson’s hair. His touch forces Jeyson’s eyes to meet his. “You know how you and your friends get mad at each other? Sometimes we get mad at the people we love because we don’t see things the same way. But your mom being mad at me has nothing to do with you. Okay? Just because your mom and I might fight, it doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

The soft smile Angel offers him prompts Jeyson to give him one in return.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m staying with you and your mom or at my house. I love you. That’s not ever gonna change. Never has, never will. Got it?”

Jeyson nods, his smile growing as Angel places a kiss against his skin.

As Jeyson's attention returns to the bowl of skittles, Angel reaches into his kutte. He pulls out the white envelope that he found in the mailbox upon your return home.

He studies the unfamiliar handwriting. Printed in block letters are his name and your address. His gaze passes over the generic American Flag stamp and date pressed into the right corner. The lack of a return address causes him to flip the envelope over.

Angel waits until he comes to a stop outside of the clubhouse to give the envelope a second glance. Tearing the side, he reaches inside pulling out a single index card. The handwriting matches that printed on the envelope.

An anniversary gift for the Old Lady.

Angel tips the envelope. His stomach tightens as the chill of a silver chain hits his palm. The buzzing of his phone in his kutte pocket goes ignored. He doesn’t need to unravel the chain to know who the necklace belongs to. He has looked at the necklace nearly every day since he was eighteen.

The continued vibration of his phone forces an irritated “fuck” from Angel’s lip before he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“What?”

“This is a prepaid call from Thomas Flores, an inmate at the state correctional facility. All phone calls are subject to recording and monitoring. To decline the call, please press nine. To accept the call and all charges that will be incurred, please press one.”

Angel doesn’t remember committing the act of acceptance. A moment later, Tommy’s voice echoes through his receiver. For a man locked inside the walls of Stockton, his voice is calm and lighthearted.

“Damn, it’s been a minute since I’ve heard your voice, Reyes. Can you believe I missed it?”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Angel growls, his grip tightening around his phone. “How’d you get this number?”

“Come on, Reyes--give me some credit. I got it the same way I got your address,” Tommy chuckles. “I had to make sure to wish you a happy anniversary. It just passed, right? What is it six—no—seven years? Hopefully, the two of you are doing better these days—”

“Why are you calling?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Tommy sighs, the smile on his face stretches into a grin. “See, I was in my cell a few weeks back, thinking to myself—got a lot of time for that nowadays—and naturally, that led to me thinking of you. And how I missed my old cellmate. Then I remembered...you owe me a favor.”

“A favor? I don’t owe you shit--”

“That’s not how this shit works. I think the person who’s owed a debt gets to decide when it’s paid in full.” Tommy pauses, the silence from Angel’s end allowing him to continue. “Funny thing, I wouldn’t have even thought to call on you for this, but you made a simple mistake all those years ago, Angel. You talked too much...If you don’t want someone to use your Achilles, you don’t share it.” Angel’s brow furrows as Tommy’s words slowly begin to sink in. “Now, you know I’m not a religious man, but I bet you can imagine how good I felt when I realized that God, himself, dropped Y/N into my lap. What are the odds that she and I got brought together? Huh? It’d be a shame to let this God-given opportunity go to waste, don’t you think?”

“What the fuck do you want, Tommy?”

“A lot of things,” Tommy admits. “A turn with your pretty wife for starters. The way you put it, she’d do just about anything for you--”

“She’s not doing anything for you--”

“That’s okay,” Tommy chuckles. “You’ve always had my back when it came down to the wire.”

Angel’s head shakes. “No—Fuck this—I’m hanging up. I told you that night. One and done—”

“I take it you got my gift,” Tommy ignores Angel’s declaration. “And...judging by the unnecessary hostility I’m sensing in your voice, you took a trip down South recently.”

“I want what you took—”

“And you can get it back—scout’s honor.” The sincerity in Tommy’s voice would fool a stranger, but not Angel. “After you help me out one last time. For old times sake.”

“I’m not helping you do shit.”

“Damn,” Tommy sighs. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“And you’re gonna leave her alone. Come up with an excuse, I don’t care. You’re finding a new attorney—”

“No can do, Reyes. See, I don’t benefit by losing her.” Tommy explains. “Unless you wanna consider my proposal. Last time I’m offering. I think you’ll find my way is the easiest—for everybody involved.”

A silence falls over the line. The trembling of his hands tightening Angel’s grip on his cellphone.

“Alright, well, my time is almost up,” Tommy yawns. His eyes pass to the clock overhead. “Plus, I know it was a lot to dump on you, so I'll give you the night to mull it over. Tell your lady I said thanks for visiting me today.”

Angel’s continued silence brings a grin to Tommy’s face. His chuckle fills this receiver.

“You haven’t told her yet….Tell me, what do you think she’s gonna say when your secret gets out? Do you think she’s gonna stick around this time? If that shit gets out, you’ll be facing more than some 18-month stint in Chino, Reyes. You’ll be facing some real-time. Ask your baby brother how that shit sits with you. All it’ll take is some rumors about the location of a missing state’s witness to start swirling...evidence anonymously getting dropped into the hands of the right people...then you and I just might be sharing a cell again.”

“Trust me, you don’t want that shit to happen.”

“Maybe...maybe not...only time will tell.” Tommy sighs. The calmness of his voice is the opposite of the feeling causing Angel to force out an unsteady breath. “Do me a favor, check with your old lady on how to get on my visitation list. I think you owe me a visit, make the shit quick, Reyes. Maybe she can get them to expedite the paperwork. You got a job to do, and your clock is ticking, homie.”

There is no need for additional words to be exchanged. Tommy hangs up, leaving Angel standing at the end of the driveway. No matter how hard Angel tried to resist—or tried to appear that he was—Tommy knew the hook was set the moment the call began.

When you pull into the clubhouse lot, you find Angel standing at the base of the clubhouse steps.

His eyes meet yours as you park, but he makes no move to meet you. The question is out before you can step around the front of your car.

“Do you know Tommy Flores?”

Angel’s eyes may be on you, but his mind is somewhere else.

“What?”

“Thomas Flores. He was serving time in Chino. Longer than you—thirty months—but you were there the exact same time. Did you hear about him while you were there?” Your question is met with silence. Angel blinks. His brow furrows as he watches you cross the lot. “I know it’s a random question, but Angel it’s really important. Okay?”

It’s common for people to cross paths. Chino is not a prison. It’s smaller than Stockton. Inmates flood in and out like clockwork. That's what your mind can produce in the time it takes you to come to a stop before him.

But it’s the look in Angel’s eyes that tightens your stomach.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once in your life.

Nearly two years ago. A night you hadn't revisited in quite some time.

When Angel had shown up unannounced at your house. This was nothing new.

Only this time, the pounding on your front door had woken you, Jeyson, and nearly half the neighborhood.

Your initial assumption was that he was drunk—it wouldn’t have been the first time Angel had shown up after a few beers and a shitty hookup only to find his way back to you. Begging you to let him stay the night, swearing to plead his drunken case, only to pass out against you the moment you were seated on the sofa.

Only this time—the moment you’d gotten the door open you were crushed by his weight. Angel's grip had been tight. The pressure caused you to wince as his face burrowed against your skin.

For once, you couldn't detect alcohol--just sweat and dirt. His grip had tightened as you tried to move back and take a better look at him.

You didn't get much out of him that night. The most you could get him to do was shower. Which was for the best because, by the time you'd helped him dry off, Angel's adrenaline crashed. He’d passed out in your bed a minute later.

In the morning, he didn’t produce much of an explanation.

"Sorry if I scared you last night," he'd mumbled as he headed to the door. "I know you asked me not to show up—unannounced like that but—I just wanted to see you."

“Yeah,” Angel nods. “I knew him.”

You wait for elaboration, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Angel takes a step back. He finds a seat on the steps, his left hand reaching up to rub his eyes.

“Yeah, I knew him? What the hell does that mean? You knew of him, or you kn—”

“No, I knew—I know him.” Angel releases a sigh, his fist crumpling the envelope he holds. “He was my cellmate.”

“No, he wasn't.” The response is automatic. The laugh you release echoes across the parking lot. The meaning behind Angel’s silence doesn’t fully register. Your brain is still reeling, trying to find a rational explanation to deny his statement and what it means. You shake your head. “No, he wasn’t. That is not fucking possible—“

“Cellblock D. That’s where they house all gang-affiliated inmates. They don’t give a shit if you’re an MC or not. It’s all the same.” Angel quietly explains, his eyes watching the realization begin to sink into your features. “They put you together with guys from other places, knowing you might not have a brother to watch your back if you need protection. Tommy’s cellmate had recently been discharged. So, after intake, I took the open space—“

“Angel, stop. I can’t have you telling me this,” you cut him off. The sight of your widened eyes not deferring Angel’s train of thought. “Do you know what this means for my case? Why couldn’t you just lie to me—”

“Because what I need to tell you is worse.”

series taglist: @angelreyesgirl89 @holl2712 @relaxing-najee @thedeviltohisangel @awkwardtayler @siempremamita @amorestevens @witching-hour @seize-the-droid @rosieposie0624 @sesamepancakes @est1887 @queenbeered @ticosas @blessedboo @helli4nthus @katjusja @melanicia @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @moneteguiza

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[kayluh1915]

I Miss You

Pairing(s): Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Female Reader

Words: 1,645

Warnings: Implied PTSD, mentioned former drug addiction, 18+ ONLY!

You and Frankie have a much-needed chat... and some unanticipated (but welcomed) alone time.

(Gif credit: @uuuhshiny )

I have no excuse for this. I'm fuckin' weak for Frankie and this is just my proof. 👀

I would apologize for my filth, but I'm not really that sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

As always, comments are welcomed and encouraged.

You can also follow me on Twitter if you'd like. My life is boring, but I try.

Enjoy, my fellow whores!

My Masterlist

Read on AO3

Frankie had been in his shed all afternoon.

Extra warnings: Oral sex (F receiving), rough (protected) sex, hair pulling, light sub/dom, and creampie.

____________________

He hadn’t quite been the same since returning from his spontaneous trip down to South America, burying himself in a multitude of projects ranging from small builds all the way up to fixing something on the car that really didn’t need to be fixed.

You didn’t complain. You’d rather him cope with that then his previous methods, but he’d still end up isolating himself for long periods of time, missing meals and countless hours of sleep.

He was laying under the car again when you took him his dinner that evening, only able to see his legs sticking out of the side as you heard him drop one of his wrenches.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, both sudden noises slightly startling you enough to emit a quiet yelp of surprise. Frankie heard you and rolled out from underneath the car, his eyes wide with concern. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” You sat his dinner down on his workbench and propped your back up against it, crossing your arms as you watched him stand up and start cleaning his hands with an old wash cloth. “What’s wrong with the car this time?” Frankie turned towards the battered sedan before answering.

“The oil needed changed and something was up with the axel. Was making some kind of weird noise.” You knew that the oil didn’t need to be changed and that the axel’s whirring was extremely mild, but tinkering helped him cope so you didn’t say anything. “What’d you make for dinner?”

“Chicken casserole. Didn’t really turn out the way I wanted it.”

“Anything you make is delicious, baby.” He commented, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.” This is when you’d usually go back inside and let him have his space, but tonight you couldn’t find the strength to move. Frankie would always come in afterwards with his clean plate and help you with whatever you needed in the house, but you missed him.

You missed the evenings where you would sit and chat about whatever was on your mind, the nonsense you’d speak together and the laughter you shared. You missed cuddling up with him on the couch, letting him play with your hair as one of you complained about the “horrible” movie the other had picked. You missed going to bed at the same time, Frankie’s arms snaking around your waist as he kissed you sweetly.

Most of all, you missed him .

The nights when his innocent kisses would turn passionate, your tongues swirling around one another as his strong hands touched you exactly where you liked.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Frankie asked while chewing his food, bringing you back to the present with a light jolt.

“Yeah, honey. I’m fine… just thinking.” He swallowed the bite he had in his mouth, holding another forkful up.

“About what?” He asked before taking another bite. Your heart spoke before your brain could.

“How much I miss you…” Frankie stopped chewing, his dark eyes quickly glancing over to look at you. You wanted to scold yourself for what you had said. You understood that Frankie was going through a lot mentally and have tried to be supportive, but it was taking its toll.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until a choked sob tore it’s way past your trembling lips.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Frankie cooed, setting his fork down and pulling you into his arms. You laid your head on his shoulder, gripping the back of his shirt tightly as you cried into his neck. Frankie began to gently sway you, kissing the top of your head every now and again.

“I-I’m sorry, Frankie. I know you need me… to be strong and support you but-” You paused for a moment when you sobbed again. “Going to bed without you is so ha-ard.” You began to cry heavier at the confession, Frankie gently brushing your hair out of your eyes.

“Shhh… I know baby, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Please do-don’t feel guilty. I know yo-you’re trying to cope, bu-”

“Shhh.” He interrupted you. “Don’t you apologize for anything, baby. I know I’ve been distant lately after what happened, but you have been wonderful. Cooking me dinner every night and letting me have my space to recoup after all of that? Not a lot of women would do that.”

You didn’t say anything else, allowing his soothing voice to comfort you.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been spending a lot of time with you recently. I’ve been thinking about things a lot and didn’t realize how much I was hurting you. I promise, from today on, I’ll start coming in earlier, start eating dinner with you like we used to and even help you cook if you want.”

You wiped your nose with your sleeve, nodding eagerly on his chest. Frankie pulled away from you and held your face in his warm palms, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. “I love you, my little dolphin.” He whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. You smiled at the pet name, the inside joke you haven’t shared in months bringing some joy back.

“There’s that smile.” He giggled, leaning back down to kiss you properly. At first it had only been a peck, but you were so hungry for him that you pulled him right back in. You threw your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, Frankie not denying you even for a second.

His hands left your face and moved down to your waist, pulling you close with a low hum of approval. Your hands raked through his curls, knocking his cap off so you could grip his dark locks to hear those delicious groans fall from his throat.

“Please…” You whined, barley pulling yourself away from him. “Touch me… plea-.” Frankie’s hands flew to your hips, lifting you up to sit you atop his work bench. He instantly yanked your leggings off, taking your underwear with them and leaving you naked from the waist down… minus your strawberry socks.

He knelt down to his knees without another word, spreading your legs open and instantly pressing his face into your cunt. He had moved so fast that it took you a moment to process what was going on, tingles erupting from your clit, down your legs and all the way to your toes.

It hadn’t been that long since you’d been touched, but they always say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. The same must be true for your pussy as well.

“Ohhh…” You breathed, his tongue making you lightheaded. “F-Fuck…”

Frankie hummed, the vibrations only increasing your pleasure as he looked up at you. You were already so incredibly close, the tingling in your clit rapidly growing in intensity until… he pulled away. You whined quietly, your pussy aching with need.

“Down.” He said simply as he undid his pants. You jumped down from the workbench, completely unprepared for him to spin you around and roughly bend you over the table. He pinned you down with his left hand on your lower back, his right hand rubbing his cock along your drenched folds before pushing in completely in one thrust.

You felt like you had been sat on fire, the heat spreading over your body as he fucked you rough. You heard a few things fall to the floor as the table began hitting the side of his shed with his thrusts, but both of you were already too far gone to care about his tools.

“Fuck, baby girl.” He growled, his hands tightly gripping your hips. “So fucking’ wet for me.” You felt like you couldn’t breathe, his cock hitting the perfect spot every time. You placed your hands on the table and rose up slightly, one of Frankie’s hands instantly leaving your hip to push you back down to the table.

“Don’t fucking move.” You moaned at how rough he was being, your pussy throbbing with an incoming orgasm. Keeping you pinned to the table, he tangled his fingers into your hair and pulled it, the painful pleasure and one last perfect thrust of his cock doing the job and sending you over the edge.

Your cunt fluttered around his cock, the waves of absolute pleasure feeling more intense than they had in a while. Frankie never slowed down.

“Y-Yeah… take it.” He growled. “Being such a good girl for me, baby… cumming all over my cock. You think- fuck - you think you deserve your reward?”

“Yes, please! Give it to me! I’ve been such a good girl! I deserve it! Ple-” He tugged harder on your hair, a whine interrupting your pleas.

“Good girl, begging for your reward. M’gonna fill you up so good.”

“Yes! Frankie, please! Give it to me! Give me your cu-uhhh… uhhh… ahhhhhh!” You exclaimed, cumming on his cock for a second time without warning. It was also the end for Frankie.

“Fuck, baby!” He halted his thrusts, growling low and loud and he shot his cum into your pulsing cunt. The warmth expanding in your abdomen prolonged your orgasm, your legs shaking and buckling out from under you. Frankie held onto you tight, pulling you up to stand as he placed kisses to the back of your neck and shoulder, his breathing still coming out in heavy puffs over your skin.

"Did I hurt you, sweetheart?" He asks, gently easing the grip in your hair.

"God no." You replied, still trying to catch your breath. "You-you have no idea how much I've missed that." Frankie eased himself out of you, a mixture of his and your own cum dripping out of your pussy. Frankie hummed at the sight, lightly gripping your ass cheek to spread you open to get a better view.

"I think I got a pretty good idea."

[lovecolibri]

I'm sorry i hope it's okay to vent but i saw people in the tarlos tag talk about how carlos needs to "pull his head out of his ass" and "he needs to tell his family about tk already" and now I need the straights to never speak about him ever again 😒

You can always come vent to me, nonnie! Full disclosure, I'm straight, but I would very much like to throw things at ANYONE saying mean things about my sweet son Carlos. Family is complicated. Especially once you move out and live on your own, but somehow when you meet up with your family you feel like a kid again, and not always in a good way (sidebar, it paralleled nicely with 911 and Buck saying two dinners with his parents and he felt like all his progress had disappeared). I actually really liked how the show let us see TK being upset, but removing himself from the situation before saying or doing anything too drastic. We got to see him reach out to his parents for help (not that he got any 🙄 seriously let Owen stick to being a dad, this storyline with Gwen has not painted him in a good light AND we haven't gotten to see her interact much with TK), and then go back to Carlos to talk it out once he had sorted through his feelings (maybe he could have given Carlos a heads up so a breakup wasn't assumed but no one is perfect especially when angry and hurt). And then that talk! 🥺 TK apologizing for his anger but standing his ground that his feelings are valid? We love to see it. TK making sure Carlos knows that his feelings are ALSO valid and that TK is all in to support him? WE LOVE TO SEE IT! I was worried the show was going to have TK totally spin out over this and I'm so happy they went in this direction instead where we get to see TK's growth and how having a real support system with the 126 have helped him, and letting us get to see Carlos be vulnerable, and TK step up to the plate to support him. I like that Carlos gives the perspective that two things can be true at once: he can be out and feel like he isn't hiding it, and he can also not talk about it to his parents, ever. Many people feel like the lives they live are separate from what their family knows about them, or the side of them they present to their family. In this case Carlos is struggling with this duality and I for one can't wait to see where that storyline goes (I want to know EVERYTHING about his family and their ranch) and I'm excited to see TK supporting him along the way. Because Carlos is always strong for everyone else and it's nice to see that the people he supports also support him back. Carlos deserves all of the soft love and hugs.

[muffindaddystyles]

HIP DISLOCATION AT FIRST SIGHT.

Summary: where you're a waitress at Harry's favourite friends-hangout spot, he secretly likes you and you're having a rough day.

Warning: angst and fluff.

You're a beaming sparrow rolling onto balls of your feet from one booth to another taking orders and being sure of customer's satisfaction at it's peak. Sure, managing a five to nine waitress job isn't anyone's dream but paying tuition fees and bills can make anyone work.

Harry loves to be at this resturant you work; perhaps there's something 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 he loves rather than goofing around with his friends at late hours in any of the booths in far corner.

When he first came here it was for a date who stood him up and you wouldn't lie that you kinda tiny bit of manifested for it but went through a broken heart seeing Harry's sad eyes after him lingering to that one hope that his date would show up.

He was relieved that you helped him at that time with you again and again popping your head just to ask him, if he needs any refills for which he would just kindly quip 'thanks love, bu' it's already tipplin' out from rim.' Or you askin' him if he'll like to fill his belly with some appetizers? Poor him didn't ate anythin' from menu just waiting for his date that day.

From that you got to know he's such a gentleman who got his heart stepped on.

He found you enticing. So, fuckin' beaming even with all of the customers tantrums. Them fussing around for the mess their kids created and Harry couldn't take his eyes away from the slight curve your body molded into when you walked away from him.

With his few more visits you got accustomed that what he likes and the one favourite dish of yours from the resturant you recommended him one time, he licked the plate clean giggling coyly at your reaction.

But today it's different. He's chatting around with his friends, they look super chill, comfy clothes, relaxed postures and a train of light conversation that never seems to end.

You were admiring them from your spot waiting for the tray of food for the table 201 ready to take Harry's and his friend's order after that, suddenly a whine escaping from your lips and you bended your calve to soothe out the drastic pain in your hip-bone.

Zoe one of the hostess gave you a sympathetic smile handing you the tray, "hurtin' like a bitch." You hissed to her toes curling. You've been having this pain for like a week but whatever exercises you're doing it wouldn't budge to ease out.

Maintaining a decent gait you headed towards the last table of your shift before closing, smiling at all of them sweetly, whatever you did not to lock your gaze with Harry it anyhow happened by Cupid's wishes.

"Hi everyone, I'm your waitress and will be takin' your orders." You chirped taking out the sequin notepad from the front pocket of your lace apron and Harry's friends couldn't help but to notice how the tips of his ears turned red, eyes glassy with adoring sheen and lips quirking up shyly.

You noted down everyone's littlest of details turning your head down towards Harry, your voice immediately cooing into a soft one softer than you usually use to be polite with costumers.

"And Harry you'll have your usual?" He cleared his throat coughing into his elbow and everyone stifled a fond laugh just for his sake, "yes, please." His please was so gentle that it melted you over the pastel mauve tiles almost making you forget your pain.

The moment you spinned with your back behind them Harry's loving female friend pinched his cheek, "looks like someone gotta girl crush."

Everyone was chatting but Harry's mind and heart was all for you, it didn't slip out from his sheer notice that you're having it rough today; ponytail loose, cheeks flushed not with the warmth you feel from Harry's presence but with the pain zapping in your leg like an electric shock.

His eyes stayed glued to the way your nails coated into hot red nail polish aren't drumming against the counter as they usually do when you wait for the order instead they're clutching around the edges tightly paling your knuckles and now Harry feels concerned.

Another contraction but you didn't startled yourself. No way you're gonna get made fun of yourself infront of Harry, it would be so embarrassing.

Harry peers up at you with a frown when you heads to their table for refills but you didn't meet his eyes. What his friends will say? That you're a cheap waitress drooling for a bambi eyed, hickorey curls, sunny guy.

But damn when your hands wavered while lifting the jug to pour a glass of water, and you sucked your bottom lip to swallow your agonising gasp Harry wanted to lurch from his seat and ask you what's happening because it's frustrating at this point looking you being so wrecked.

You weakly smiled at all of them. Harry wants to stop you by grabbing your hand but he wants to respect you and doesn't want him to cross his boundaries.

You're back with a tray loaded of food and you're putting plates onto the table when an unbearable contraction of pain twitched inside you badly and you cried out a scream of horror, the tray slipping from your hand to the far corner of the table. The pain's so much your breath has got stuck in your chest causing you too see white.

"Y/n!" Harry panics hot on his feet scooping your side in his arms when you lurch forward unconsciously, even the tears aren't falling from your eyes stayin' at the bayline and you cry out in spurts of breaths dropping Harry's heart to his arse when he got the indication you couldn't breath.

"C-can't...b-" Harry immediately rubbed your back in soothing circles whispering with his honey rasp, "breath fo' me yeah, darlin'?". "S'alright. Jus' breath alon' me." You nod and everyone watches you in shock pity. At Harry's countdown you exhaled and inhaled breaths, his friends are in awe a love-at-first-sight, baby-steps love story is unraveling infront of them.

Harry makes you sit at his seat and you giggle shamefully breathily eyes glossy, "Thank you Harry. Can you..can you call zoe for me? She's right behind the counter." The words burning inside your throat and you're expecting another zap.

Harry's a bit hurt. He doesn't even know why! He wants be the one to take care of you but why you aren't gettin' it, why!?

You want to apologise to his friends but all the words just vanishes when zoe comes padding hurriedly Harry behind her with ever sad eyes, "bubs what happened?"

You're about to speak but another contradiction like someone's pulling at your vein and you're a goner but Harry's by your side holding your hand ignoring the twitch from your hardcore grip as if you'll fracture his hand too, "ah fuck! I think so I broke my hip. I'm fuckin' sure, it feels like dying." You scream jerking your leg and even though Harry's friends shouldn't look at you two with so much awement at the moment but they're still doing so because fuck they all are planning the same sight of both of you at the time of your labour because it may seems like you're popping out Harry's child outta your vagina at the moment.

"M'takin' ye' to hospital." Harry says with stern firmness in his voice because fuck boundaries he can't see you in such pain, "s'okay zoe can you take me to hospital?" You hissed writhing but Harry cuts you off. he's loosing his shit, "I don't care, can't see ya like this lemme help ye'."

Next thing Harry's helping your limpy body outside into the backseat of his car and the whole ride he's beside you one of his friend driving the car, you were a blushing mess at some second but another arching your spine so hard and Harry's instantly wrapping you up in his arms whispering sweet nothings through your tears.

You've gone through a little surgery and it's hour after you're shifted into a room that Harry takes a sigh of relief, you groan fluttering your eyes open the very first sight of yours is Harry into his yellow jumper and plaid trouser looking a tad exhausted.

You're on anesthetic and you're sloppy.

"Hi love feelin' kay? You went through a tiny surgery." He informs you but you pouts in response ignoring everything coming straight to the point, sober you would have never got guts.

"A-are ye' me boyfrien'..?" Your words are bit lisped and poppish, Harry chuckles swiping his thumb at your forehead.

"No' yet. Will be if ye' wan' me to." You bobbed your head like a good little girl observing your odd surroundings and fat tears sticks to your cheeks.

"What happened buns? Should I call doctor? Y'hurtin somewhere?" But you denied lower lip swelling for no reason or maybe medication.

"I've so mu-sh uni work to do, an' I've nothin' to wear on our date." Harry giggles wiping away your tears kissing the apples of your cheeks, stroking your head and you mewled like a kitten making Harry's throat go dry.

"No worries bunny. We'll go on a date whenever you'll want to." He just wants to shower you in his undeniable affectionate kisses but he's holding back, "fo' now go to rest. I'll have m'sober bunny peeking from the meadow in mornin' yeh?"

"Promise me you wouldn't leave?" You asks with doe eyes and he just wants to smash his lips to yours. Fuck. He waited so long.

"Did I, before'?" He asks you kissing your forehead gently trying not to irritate the plaster of your hip. You shook your head tucking your chin inside the comforter, "then I wouldn't even now."

In the morning you find your fingers buried into soft mess of curls and he was already up before you could try to even move your finger, "Harry?" Your voice hoarse from the drowsiness and he cups your cheeks asking if you're feeling dehydrated but you chuckled shaking your head.

"I feel high." He tucks his bottom lip inside his mouth at the fact you look more ethereal from this close, "high from anesthesia." He quips.

"Do you remember anythin' from last night?" He's anxious now how he'll bring to actually ask you out, "I do, from me litreally shouting like a lady bout to give birth to crying for not havin' any dress for our date." He's amused not just at the fact your memory didn't slipped but that you're more chatty and bubbly outta your waitress persona.

"Then it's solid?" He asks timidly and you nod humming coarsely leaning to peck his lips but he grabs you by neck not letting you pull back, thumbs all stroking, mouth moanin' for you and eyes closed into bliss.

"Wanted to kiss ye' so bad from so long." He deepens the kiss not caring if any doctor comes marching right now.

"Now I'm all yours to kiss. Kiss me whenever you want to."

[yeongwvnhi]

》만나다《

Supernatural creatures AU

Taglist (send an ask if you want to be added): @twancingyunhoe @vickylamore @glxwingstar @se0--0ho @seohospepe

Genre: angst!!, fluff, suggestive

Rating: 16+

General Warnings: Supernatural creatures (vampires, werewolves etc), blood, violence, weapons, language, death, poisoning and just dark themes in general.

Chapter Specific Warnings: mentions of a funeral and a mortuary,talking about death, blood and talking about internal bleeding, needles, refusing to eat (mentioned once), talking about cause and time of death (mentioned once), mentions of a lack of anatomical activity, lots of crying lol

Pairing: ONEUS x fem reader 》 choose your ending

Synopsis: somehow you came back to life just about a day after dying, scaring the poor guys who work at the mortuary one late night as you flee, not knowing where to go before they found you.

Word count: 3k [thanks to @moongaera for beta-reading <3]

–> for reference: Y/N - Your Name,, N/N - Nickname

》Previous《 》Next《 》Masterlist《

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"Hyung, stop thinking about what could have been" Leedo interrupts the sorcerer's train of thoughts. "I know what you're thinking and it's not your fault. No one is mad at you for failing. You tried your best" 

Seoho remains silent and Leedo sighs, the two of them making their way back to their residence. 

"Oh you're ba- What happened?!" The owner of the house greets them first, almost losing it at the smell of blood and the way the two men's hands are covered in the now dark red/brown-ish substance. 

"Seoho Hyung was asked to try and save someone, but turns out the poor girl got so heavily poisoned he was powerless" Leedo explains. "I'll explain to you in a bit, we're just gonna go and wash up" 

The man just nods and watches the two of them walk away with pity swimming in his eyes. He knows how much it hurts his friend to not be able to help someone who so desperately needs it. 

—

"Hwanseok.." your mother speaks and puts her hands on your father's shoulders. "We should… organize Y/N's funeral" 

Yongjun hasn't come out of his room again after Haeryeong explained to him that you, his older sister he looked up to, has died. 

Your father just nods, knowing he has to let go. 

So about an hour later a van from the city's mortuary came and got your body. Your parents filled out all the papers regarding your burial and watched as the workers drove away. 

—

Everything was pitch black and so… cold. But not the kind of cold that made you shiver, no, that type of cold that keeps you cool but at just the right temperature. It's hard to describe, yet you found comfort in it. 

It's like you're dreaming of nothing but that nothing was still something. 

And you felt heavy. So damn heavy that you can't move a muscle, it's like you're paralyzed. 

The only thing that indicates you're still somehow awake were the distant voices. You couldn't differentiate them except for one deep voice. 

After that, you kinda flaked out and now you were just confused. What was happening? and why couldn't you wake up or anything? Because it felt like an eternity. 

—

"J-Junghwa please tell us you're pulling a sick prank on us right now" a close friend of yours says with a shaky voice. 

"Yeah! No way- No way did that happen!" Hae-in also says, tears welling up in her eyes. "You were with her, what happened?!" 

Junghwa rubs his face and looks at the three girls in front of him. "I'm telling the truth - I swear I am! I had to get the Necromancer but even his efforts were in vain. She died and her parents probably already had someone pick her up…" 

Hae-in breaks out in tears, sobbing into her hands before Yura takes her into her arms, also silently crying. 

"This feels so unreal" Hana says, trying hard to not break down as well. 

"I know… I'll miss her so much" Junghwa says, eyes getting glassy. "I just… thought I'd let you guys know.." 

Yura and Hana nod at him while Hae-in continues sobbing into Yura's shoulder. 

Junghwa turns around and wipes his eyes, making his way back home. 

—

"Seoho, how do you feel today?" 

"Numb" 

"You have to eat" He says, pushing the plate of toast towards him. "Woong is going to short-circuit when he realizes you are not eating the breakfast he prepared for you" 

"But I don't feel like eating, Hyung" The sorcerer fights back, hands going up to hold onto his head. "I just failed a very influential and nice man! I couldn't save his daughter because I didn't see what poisoned her!" 

The older one frowns and sits down next to his friend, taking his hands and looking him in the eye. "Listen Seoho, this is not your fault. Everyone makes mistakes and it does not help you one bit if you dwell on them. Instead, take them as a lesson for what you can do better next time. There is always a chance for you to prove yourself and this was not the last one, okay?" 

The sorcerer feels tears building up in his eyes at his Hyung's words and nods quietly, afraid his voice will break if he speaks. 

The older one gently guides Seoho's head to his shoulder and lets him cry it out. He understands the pain his younger friend feels almost too well. 

The younger one of the two quickly composes himself and wipes away his tears. "Thank you H-Hyung" 

Said man just smiles gently and pats his shoulder. "It's okay" 

"Seo-ie Hyung~ did you eat your food?" 

"Ah shit, here we go…" 

—

You could feel your senses coming back to you one by one, hearing being the first. 

"Cause of death?" 

"Spirit-Iron and Vampire-Root poisoning and rapid internal bleeding" 

"Time and date of death?" 

"4:37pm, January 25th 2920" 

"Name and age?" 

"L/N Y/N, 23" 

"Species?" 

"W-" 

The two men got interrupted by a loud banging noise. 

"Ah shit, what did the intern do this time again" 

"We should check it out, it's not like she's going anywhere" 

"You're right, let's go" 

That's when you opened your eyes, sterile white light shining down on you as you sat up. 

To your surprise you were still in your clothes which were soaked in blood, but luckily not sticking to you anymore. You sat up and your feet met the ground. 

You tiptoe around the examination table and towards the door, carefully peeking around before navigating your way through the building with the help of signs hung up. 

"HOLY FUCK!!" you hear one of the two men scream. "THE CORPSE IS GONE! WHAT THE FUCK!!" 

You were surprised you weren't panicking, but that was a problem for later as you sprinted outside and into the forest which was near the mortuary, not paying attention to your surroundings. 

—

"What?" Your father's voice sounded through the living room and your Mother peered up. "What do you mean 'her corpse is gone'???"

Haeryeong could feel the feeling of dread creep up inside of her as she listened to what Hwanseok was saying. 

"Oh god" he mumbles. "N-No I don't think you should try and find her body- I'll take care of it. Yeah goodbye" 

"What the hell happened?" Haeryeong asks, eyes wide. 

"The mortuary called and said Y/N's body is gone" Hwanseok explains, "this must be some sick joke" 

"Do you think the Necromancer has something to do with it?" 

"As much as I want to believe he's not at fault, he's the only one who's capable of such thing" 

"What do you plan to do, Hwanseok?" Haeryeong asks, eyebrows furrowed in worry. 

"I'm going to pay him a little visit tomorrow" 

—

You finally stopped running when you felt like you were far enough into the woods, sitting down against a tree. 

That's when you started noticing the details. 

No breathing, no racing heartbeat or pulse, no sense of fear or threat. 

What the hell was going on? Weren't you just on your way home from that frat party with Junghwa? Your drink tasted weird and everything was spinning until it just went black. 

Did someone put a weird potion into your drink? 

You don't know for how long you've been sitting there, but it somehow felt like an eternity and it dawned on you that you were most probably dead. 

The lack of a heartbeat and breathing was worrying and so fucking confusing, if your body would still be able to you would've totally panicked. Yet here you were, sitting totally calm against the bark of a tree, trying to grasp the situation. 

It was just so illogical how your brain is still working but your heart doesn't beat. It defies all the knowledge of the body's anatomy and it drives you wild. 

Slowly getting up again you try and see where you can go, but everything is just so dark and you can't see past the thick trees and small rays of light the moon provides, but you heard what felt like every little noise. 

And then the crunching of leaves and twigs snapping got your attention, head whipping around to look towards where the noise was coming from. 

You were on high alert as you kept your eyes on the spot. 

"Are you lost?" A male voice asks you, but you remain silent and press yourself against the tree. "Hey don't be scared" 

You hold your tongue at the snarky reply that was about to slip out when the man steps forward onto a spot illuminated by the moonlight. 

"Who are you?" You ask, getting ready to defend yourself. 

"I-" the guy stumbles over his words, probably not having expected this question, "I'm Seoho, the Necromancer" 

That's when you notice the black outline of the Spellmark around his left eye, a stark contrast to his light skin. 

You take a tentative step forward, more into the moonlight and you see the man's eyes widen. "No- No this can't be real" 

Furrowing your brows and tilting your head you ask him, "what can't be real? Do I know you?" 

He sinks to his knees in what looks like shock and you go closer, squatting down in front of him. "Hey what's wrong?" 

Seoho looks almost mortified as his eyes meet yours. "I-I watched you die just a few hours ago! There w-was so much blood!" 

A confused pout forms on your lips as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "That explains a lot…" You mumble, "I woke up in this mortuary and ran into the forest without knowing where to go" 

Your little explanation seems to have stirred something in the guy as a sob wrecks his body and you don't know what to do with yourself right then and there. "Hey- please don't cry!" 

He laughs dryly and wipes his eyes. "I'm sorry this is just- overwhelming" 

"But aren't you used to seeing dead people come back to life?" You ask. 

To your surprise Seoho shakes his head. "That's what everyone thinks, you know?" He sniffs a little and regains his composure. "But I have only ever revived one person" 

"Oh" 

"Yeah so… it's kind of new to me" He says, "and I actually didn't revive you, Y/N" 

"What? Hold up- what?" You're taken aback by his statement and look into his eyes, disregarding the fact that he knows your name. "What do you mean? Are you saying I came back to life by myself??" 

He runs a hand through his black hair, exposing his forehead briefly before answering you. "It looks like you did, yeah. I don't know how that's possible but-" 

"Hyung, where did you run off to?!" Someone yells from a distance away and you see the man tense. 

"You should go back to your friend, I'm sure he's worried" you suggest and stand up. "I think I'll go back home-"

"No!" Seoho frantically exclaims and you give him a surprised look. "I mean- don't go home! I should check up on you first!" 

Playing with your fingers, you think about it for a second before the new voice calls out again. 

"Seo-ie Hyung~" he chimes. "Where are you~" 

The sorcerer gives you a pleading look as he also rises back onto his feet, his taller figure slightly towering over you. 

"Fine" you give in and a smile breaks out on his face, a cute eye smile hiding his eyes in a crescent moon shape. 

"Hyungie I found you!" The voice exclaims from behind Seoho and quick footsteps approach you two as the guy jumps onto the older one's back. "Ohhh who's that?" 

The guy is shorter than Seoho and his hair a bright pink, his eyes flashing yellow for a second as he curiously blinks at you.

"Uh.. hi?" You awkwardly greet and wave your hand at him. 

He hops down from Seoho's back and approaches you, circling around your figure. "How would you never want to die?" 

The question catches you off guard and you furrow your brows while watching his movements. "I guess being burnt alive sounds pretty gruesome" 

He starts laughing hysterically only to stop after a few seconds. "I see~" he says and stands in front of you, holding out his hand for you to shake while Seoho watches you two closely. "I'm Hwanwoong! What about you?" 

You take his hand cautiously and shake it, his strong grip startling you slightly, not having expected someone of his size to be so strong. But then again; never judge a book by its cover. "I'm Y/N" 

"Your hand is awfully cold, N/N-ie" He comments. "Are you sick?" 

"Uhm-" 

"Woongie, that's enough" Seoho finally steps in, "we should head back, yeah?" 

Hwanwoong releases his grip on your hand and nods with a big smile. "Should I hurry back first and tell Grumpy Hyung about your guest?" 

You hold back a laugh at what he called his older friend. 

"Yeah, do that" Seoho nods and cracks a smile. "But don't call him Grumpy, you know he hates that" 

"That's why he is grumpy hyung! But okay, I'm going~" Hwanwoong giggles like a child and starts running away. 

"I'm sorry for this… weird encounter" The sorcerer turns to you with a sheepish smile. "You know how shapeshifters are" 

"It's fine don't worry" you wave it off, "he's actually quite alright" 

Seoho snorts at what you said and clears his throat. "Just wait until he has a fit… then he's not so alright anymore" 

"Wh-" 

"We should go now" 

You bite back the question you were going to ask and opt for just nodding as you follow beside him, navigating through the woods. 

—

"Are we there soon? It feels like we've been walking for days" You complain and Seoho chuckles. 

"Don't worry we'll be there in 2 more minutes, Y/N" 

Then you suddenly realized that he knew your name before you even told him or his friend. 

"Wait.. you knew my name before" 

"Did you forget what I said? About watching you die under my hands?" 

"No.." 

"Your father had someone get me" 

You remain silent, since it made perfect sense now. 

Seoho leads the way through a particular dark part of the forest before a giant building comes into view. 

"That's it" He says and looks at you. 

"Woah" You comment in astonishment and meet his gaze. "This is where you live?" 

The sorcerer gives you a proud smile and nods. "Yup. I live here with five other friends. They're my family" 

A soft smile also reaches your face. 

"Ohh Seo-ie Hyung is back!" Hwanwoong's voice is loud as he practically yells that. 

Both Seoho and you turn your gazes to the front door, Hwanwoong's bright pink hair standing out against the dark interior, a taller man in a red suit standing next to him. 

Seoho takes a hold of your wrist and drags you towards them. "Hey Hyung" he greets the taller one. "Did Woongie tell you?" 

"Yeah" the guy nods, his attention then on you. "May I ask for your name?" 

He speaks very… formal, detached even, you notice. "I'm L/N Y/N" 

The man gives you a tight smile. "You can call me Ravn for now. Nice to make your acquaintance" 

"Ah, me too" you awkwardly bow a bit, making a chuckle erupt from the tall guy. 

"Let's head inside" Seoho speaks up again and enters with you first up, practically shoving you inside before the other two follow close behind. 

He shows you into a hospital-like room and makes you sit down on one of the four beds. "I'll be right back okay? I just need to get my assistant" 

"Alright" you nod and watch him leave, closing the door behind him so you decide on just looking around the room. 

It looks pretty sterile, IV-Bags next to every bed but without fluid, monitors of all kinds and also a sink next to the door. It looks like they took lots of instruments from a hospital room. 

You don't remember where you heard it, but you're pretty sure someone once told you that the Necromancer's healing abilities were pretty weak, so he had to rely a lot on potions and normal things like they are in here. 

Just when you finished your thought, the door opened again. 

"No way" a green haired man says and looks at you, calmly sitting on the bed while Seoho closes the door behind them. "You- How?" 

"I told you, I don't know. That's why I got you to help me check her up" 

The two guys go and grab some stuff from around the room and put it on the table next to the bed you're sitting on. 

"Hey uhm" you speak up, "I heard you're not that good with healing stuff" 

A pang of hurt flashes across his face for a second after your comment. 

"Ah! I'm not making fun of you! It's just that-" with frantic hand motions you try to explain yourself, "I'm one of the best healers in this land so maybe I could help you out..?" 

The hurt in his face immediately gets replaced with relief and he exchanges glances with his companion. "I mean, I don't see why not" Seoho bashfully smiles at you. "It would mean a lot to me" 

You smile back at him. "Okay we can talk about that later, right? What kind of stuff do you need to check?" 

"Well first of all we need to check your blood" the green haired guy starts explaining, "then we need to check your vitals and brain activity and lastly abilities" 

"No physical tests or anything?" You ask and raise a brow. 

"What Leedo forgot to say" Seoho now answers, "is that yes, we will do physical tests, but they come after the stuff he listed" 

"Ohh I see" you nod in understanding. 

Seoho goes to grab a syringe and you watch him closely. "I hope you're not afraid of needles" 

"Actually I am" you reply, bending back a bit to get away from the instrument. "I've always hated them" 

A frown pulls on the sorcerer's lips. "I'm sorry. We do need a bit of your blood though…" 

You fight yourself for a few seconds before giving in. "Please make it quick" and the man nods, patting your knee briefly. 

[memesiders]

Ghost AU Part 2 :)

(This was the last part I had saved so figured I'd post it :) Will be working on Part 3 soon!)

Hazel eyes stared back at Mel as she studied herself in the bathroom mirror, setting down the eye liner and studying her work. The dark circles under her eyes refused to go away, no matter how much high coverage concealer she packed on. Her normally rich olive skin was so pale she almost looked like a ghost herself. "You look miserable," she sighed to her reflection, smoothing some highlighter onto her cheekbones and up her temple. She reached into her makeup bag and pulled out a dark wine colored liquid lipstick, carefully running it over her lips. Not sure this helps make me look more alive, but oh well, she thought, looking over herself once she was finished. Another loud sigh left her lips and she pushed away from the counter, bundling her vibrant hair into a messy bun, shorter strands escaping the hair tie and framing her face.

The hairs on the back of her neck immediately stood on end, a primal emotion washing over her that made her heart beat faster.

"Fury," she said softly, eyes darting around the small room. Something pink flashed in her peripheral vision and she spun on her heels, grabbing onto the doorway to steady herself. "I... I'm sorry about last night. You didn't even do anything and I yelled at you. But..." She took a deep breath, her shoulders slumping.

"When you get like that around Lawson, I... You can't be like that around my baby brother." The phantom took form then, standing only a few inches away from the girl. Jaw clenched and arms crossed, the woman studied Mel.

"I know not to harm the brat; you know this by now," she replied, but her words fell on deaf ears. "You've made it more than clear he's completely off limits. Besides, I'd like to stay far away from that creature..." Fury uncrossed her arms, reaching out a tentative hand. Her fingers curled around a few of the bright loose stands, wrapping them around her finger before giving them a quick tug. "You're the worst creature of all." Mel smiled at this action and Fury couldn't help but give a small smirk.

She and the child had almost never gotten along, but the mortal had still managed to wiggle herself into Fury's small, cold heart; not that she'd ever admit it.

"Melinoe," her mother called. "Come eat, your bus is almost here!"

"Coming!" Mel shouted back, flipping the bathroom light off. "Alright, let's behave today, agreed?" Fury scoffed, stepping aside as the girl dashed down the hall.

"I'm always behaved, when it matters."

Mel hurried into the kitchen, throwing herself into the empty seat at the table that waited for her. She quickly tore into her breakfast, shoving a giant forkful of egg, cheese, and tomatoes into her mouth. "Easy, killer," her dad chuckled, looking up from the folder spread open in front of him. "Don't want you to choke."

"It's moms Huevos Rancheros; I literally cannot control myself," she shot back, following it up with another big bite from her breakfast. Her father laughed, reaching over and messing with her bun.

"Well try and show at least a little restraint, alright kiddo?"

"No promises!" They both chuckled and continued on with their morning, nearly oblivious to the beings that entered the room.

"Ooh, Huevos Rancheros," Strife groaned, staring at the dish longingly. "I can see it, I can smell it, but damn do I want to taste it; just once!"

"Maybe if we were corporeal," War grumbled. "I'd love to be able to feel my sword sink into the gnarled body of a demon just once more, feel my blade pierce its putrid heart." Strife looked at his brother, cocking his head slightly.

"Riiiiight... I mean, that sounds fun too." War sighed and reached out, grabbing one of the dining chairs. With a gentle tug the chair was sent flying across the kitchen, crashing into the wall. Mel's mother shrieked in surprise, a hand flying over her chest as she attempted to calm herself down. Mel choked on her food and quickly glanced from the broken chair to her mother and back again.

"It's an accident," she rushed out, her pulse jumping slightly. "It's War; he just doesn't know his own strength! I- I'll work on it with him-"

"You shouldn't have to work on anything!" her mom snapped, quickly clamping her lips together. The woman closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Mel looked down at her half eaten plate of food, picking at the remaining eggs. "I'm sorry, sweetie." Her mother was calmer now, and had regained some of the color she'd lost. "You should probably get ready to meet the bus." Mel nodded quickly and pushed her plate away taking a last gulp of orange juice before standing.

"It wasn't her fault," War grumbled his hands balling into fists. "Why must they treat her this way?" The air in the room swirled, the kitchen cabinets fluttering open and closed. The adults in the room quickly looked at each other with wide eyes, fear palpable in them.

"War," Mel said, spinning on her heels. "Please, stop." The ghost seemed to ignore her, the rattling only getting worse.

"Brother, stop," Strife ordered, his usual cheerful tone now completely stripped of humor. "This won't help her."

"They've upset her!" War exclaimed, one of the cabinets slamming closed. Everyone jumped and Mel gulped, her heart beating faster.

"War, please, stop! We- We have to get to school!"

"You'll only further upset her if you don't cut it out," Strife warned. "Look at her; does she look okay with this?" War glanced over at his human, studying her. The worry etched on her face, her small frame trembling, the shine in her eyes as tears began to build; and just like that, all was calm in the home. War sagged forward, grimacing.

"Thank you," she breathed, a sense of relief washing over her.

"Go," her mother said suddenly. Mel looked at her mom.

"I'm so-"

"Please, just take your brother and go." Her mom turned away from her then, gripping the counter to keep steady. "Have a good day at school." Mel furiously blinked back tears, grabbing her brothers hand and leading him to the door. The two backpacks next to the door levitated off of the ground and Mel swiped them up quickly, noting the faint smell of gunpowder.

"Thanks, Strife." The siblings stepped out into the crisp autumn air, the cold biting into her nose and cheeks.

"Are you okay, Meli?" Lawson asked, looking up at her curiously. Mel dabbed at her eyes and forced a smile, nodding.

"Yeah, I'm fine! It's just my allergies acting up." She tried to sound as cheerful as possible but the look on her little brothers face told her that she wasn't doing a good job of it.

"Is mommy mad at you?"

"No, she's not. She just doesn't want us to miss the bus." As they reached the end of the gravel driveway, a loud engine roar shattered the silence, a large yellow school bus turning down their street. "See? We would've been late!" Law smiled and wrapped his little arms around her side, squeezing tightly. She smiled and smoothed down his messy hair.

She looked up and spotted a familiar black blob sitting on the power lines across the street. The crow had been around for as long as she could remember, seeming to follow wherever she went. She'd offered the bird a few shiny bits and baubles and though it seemed grateful for the gifts, it would never get to close or allow her to pet it.

Death sighed from beside the two humans, staring longingly at the crow across from them. "Dust, you fool. Why do you continue to stick around? There's nothing left for you here." The animal cawed loudly in reply, attempting to tell him off, and the reaper chuckled. He missed the bird, not that he'd ever admit it; missed stroking his midnight feathers, the feeling of his talons sinking into Death's shoulder when the creature was too tired to carry on flying or felt lazy, missed the occasional peck or two; he missed everything.

"That thing's still around," Fury asked, moving to stand next to him. "How long has it been now?"

"Fourteen years since he tracked us down."

"And he still hasn't left; you two must've been great friends." Death hummed in reply, his gaze torn from the bird as the school bus pulled up. The door hissed and opened, the children quickly climbing on. Fury groaned quietly, following the humans onto the bus. Her lip curled immediately as she studied the scene before her, her hands rising to rest on her hips. The children on the bus were loud, wild, and disgusting, nothing unusual; still, it never ceased to amaze her just how annoying human offspring were.

"Just five minutes with these brats and they'd reconsider raising their voices above a whisper," she grumbled.

"You'd also scar them for the rest of their lives," Strife chuckled, popping into the bus. War followed close behind, barely hopping on before the vehicle pulled forward, leaving the house behind them.

"At least they'd be behaved." One particular child shrieked just then and Fury snarled, grabbing one of the girls pigtails and yanking it hard. The girl nearly flew from her seat. "Shut up!"

"Fury," Death warned. The girl pulled herself back up, her eyes wide with fear. She clutched the pigtail to the side of her head and quickly looked around, searching for the culprit.

"What?"

"Can we not go one day without you harming an unsuspecting child?"

"Can I not go one day without the incessant prattling of prepubescent children?"

"Someone get this girl a Snickers," Strife muttered, jokingly elbowing War's side. Fury cut her gaze to him, reaching for her whip, when she remembered it wasn't there. It was with her body at... She frowned to herself; where was her body? She still couldn't remember. None of them remembered how or where they died. The only thing she could remember was waking up tethered to an infant. Her eyes drifted to the teenager in the back, oblivious to the ghost that was watching her. Sixteen long years with no knowledge of how she and her brothers had perished. It irked her every single day, and she would never be able to get answers; not while she was attached to Melinoe.

"Fury," War said cautiously, careful to not provoke his temperamental sister. Fury hissed softly, turning her attention back to her siblings. Without saying anything, she disappeared from view, leaving only a wisp of pink smoke in her wake. The others exchanged glances but said nothing; their sister would calm down eventually. Hopefully she wouldn't cause any harm before then.

[thompsborn]

I'm ~indecisive~ so either parkner, parksborn, or ot3 (Peter/harley/harry), OR just something Harley centric pleeaassee love you hope you're doing well 😊💗💗

wasteland, baby by hozier

be still, my indelible friend

you are unbreaking

though quaking

though crazy

that's just wasteland, baby

[send me a character/ship/dynamic/etc. and i’ll put my music on shuffle and write a drabble/one shot based on the first song that plays!]

-

i have literally no clue what happened with this, literally i saw the song and was like wow yes hozier song for a harley centric ot3 one shot? perfect! and then it just. devolved? evolved? developed. somehow. into this gay panic lonely tennessee boy meeting two dumb fucked up and traumatized boys on a road trip before they start college and ??? i have no fucking clue tbh

tw: internalized homophobia, classic southern rose hill homophobia, a much thicker version of southern accent typing than i usually do, vague mentions/hints of toxic/abusive home life via one mr harry osborn, basically just canon based trauma but only talked about in passing

-

Harley feels life like a pressure pushing down on his chest.

It isn’t heavy, per se, but it isn’t light, either - rather a constant weight, comfortable at times, overwhelming at others. He will carry it down the street like a backpack strapped around his shoulders and pressed into the dimples at the base of his spine and he may wince and he may want to whine, but he’ll just smile with the warmth of sunshine radiating from his skin like he is the sun itself, and he will nod his head in greeting at any lonesome soul he passes.

Lonesome as him, at least. Lonesome as lonesome could ever really get.

He’s got his Mama, is the thing—and he loves his Mama with all he’s got, feels it seize up in his chest sometimes, his heart palpitating rapidly as it tries to process just how much love he holds in his chest like a secret he can’t quite share. Got his Mama and his sister, Annabelle, and her missing teeth that she loves to show off with every dimple cheeked grin that she flashes them, a nine year old girl who loves to have her hair braided back and resting between her shoulder blades like a signature, something that is solely hers. Harley can’t see braids without thinking of Belle and her crinkly nose and the laugh lines around her eyes when she can’t stop the chortles that rise from her chest. Belle and their Mama are all that he’s really got, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

But he wonders if there’s anyone out there who would really understand what he means when he says, “Life just feels a bit heavy today.” His Mama tries to, but she doesn’t get it, feels the pressures and the struggles of life differently than he does, because he knows she feels the aches and pains just as much as him, if not more so, but she has an energy that he doesn’t seem to have access to, an ability to chime a laugh without feeling like it’s too heavy in her poor lungs to make much of a sound. Belle doesn’t show any of the signs that Harley did when he was her age of any sort of weight pushing down her shoulders, because he felt it early, early, early—far too early than any child ever deserves, but he saw his father walk out that door with a half-assed smile and an unconvincing promise to return and that weight appeared like a lump in his throat and a stinging of tears behind his eyes and it’s only grown and shifted and intensified since then, really, but Belle doesn’t seem to have that weight, or any weight at all, and Harley hopes to the heavens above (that scare him shitless on a good day, really) that she never has to feel like him.

Because he is horribly, terrifyingly alone, sometimes. Sitting on the sofa with his Mama sitting to his right, his sister curled up in between them, letting out endearing little snorts when something funny happens in whatever show they’re watching, and his Mama could be brushing back his hair like she did when he was a kid, Belle could be snuggled in his lap and laughing into his chest, he could be surrounded by the two most important people in his life, the only two people in his life, and he could still stare at that television screen and feel a gaping wound in his chest that nothing can fill. There’s weight, pressure, heaviness--and an emptiness, in the center of it all. A vacancy that may never be filled. Like the eye of a hurricane that never seems to rest.

Then a far too fancy looking car rolls up in Rose Hill, parks itself in the dirt lot of the only motel in town, and everything seems to shift.

“I’m Harry,” one of the oddities tells him, when Harley stops by Rita’s Diner because his Mama is taking Belle to a doctor’s appointment in the next town over but wanted him to pick up her paycheck for her. The guy looks nothing like anyone in Rose Hill ever has, a sleek black blazer over a white shirt with a slogan that Harley can’t read from where he’s standing, dark blue skinny jeans and a fancy kind of tennis shoes that don’t have a smudge of dirt on them, his hand extended towards Harley, head tilted to the side, eyes green and piercing as they scan over Harley in some kind of intrigue.

Harley’s been born and raised to be polite, so he shakes the guys hand and says, “Harley Keener. Nice t’meet you, Harry...?”

The ends of Harry’s lips curve, twist. “Lyman,” he fills in, brow quirking. There’s a quiet snort that fills in the gap of silence that follows, and then Harry is turning, hand still clutching Harley’s in an almost hand shake, looking at the guy sitting beside him and reading the menu with amusement on his features. “What?”

“Nothing,” the guy says, glancing towards Harry before immediately looking away and having to smother a laugh in his palm. Harley takes a moment to examine this guy, too - sticking out just as much as Harry is with his beige skinny jeans (kind of like khaki’s, but nothing like them, at the same time) and a dark grey hoodie, looking far too thick for the sunny day outside. His hair is swooped across his forehead in wisps of curls, brown eyes glimmering. “Nothing,” he says again, more insistent, though it doesn’t sound convincing as he giggles more.

Harry rolls his eyes, turning back to Harley with a grimace, though his eyes shine in a way that makes it obvious that he isn’t actually annoyed. “Don’t mind him,” he says, gaze flickering down to where Harley is still clasping his hand. Harley pulls back as soon as he notices, yanks his hand away a little too fast. It makes Harry’s nose crinkle, for a second, and then smooth. “That’s Peter.”

Giggles waves a hand vaguely in Harley’s direction, then looks away. Harley isn’t sure what to make of that. “What’s he laughing at?”

“Nothing important,” Harry assures with a shrug. “You’re from here, I’m guessing?” Then, with his newly freed hand, he gestures towards Harley’s clothes, the smudge of dirt on his cheek, the slight sunburn on the bridge of his nose and the freckles dotting his skin. “I don’t mean to assume, you just look a lot like a local.”

“Well, I’d bet I do, since you definitely don’t,” Harley muses, brow quirking, resting a hip on the edge of the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t mean to assume either, but neither of you are from ‘round here, huh?”

Harry’s smile widens while Peter flips a fork round and round between his nimble looking fingers. If Harley looks closer, he thinks he can see those fingers shaking, yet it doesn’t seem to hinder Peter’s ability to spin the fork with a flawless sort of ease. It makes him intrigued. Confused, too. A bit unsure. He doesn’t get the chance to voice any of it, though.

Julianna, the manager that’s working today, brings Harley his mama’s paycheck, wrapped up in a neat white envelope with Keener scrawled across the front in scratchy script. Harley tips his head in parting when he leaves, and he catches a glimpse of Peter leaning towards Harry with something forming through a whisper of his lips, so close that he brushes against Harry’s ear as he speaks.

He thinks of them the rest of the day. He isn’t quite sure why, but he does.

(Maybe it was the hand in his, or the way Peter couldn’t stop giggling under his breath like there was a joke that no one else knew but him. Maybe the curiosity that Harley felt bubbling in his chest had, for even just a fraction of a moment, filled that cavern the slightest bit.)

-

“You seem distracted, honeybun,” Margaret Keener says over dinner that night, swooping blonde bangs out of her eyes as she glances towards her eldest child, her eighteen year old son with his shoulders hunched down on himself as he uses his fork to push his food around his plate. Maggie keeps her eyes on Harley, but turns her head to address Belle as she says, “Doesn’t he look distracted, Tinker Bell? Looks a little lost in his head, don’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Annabelle responds, nodding her head politely before shoveling a bite of broccoli salad into her mouth. She speaks around her food, using her own fork to gesture towards her brother, and tells their mama, “Candy Jones was tellin’ me that her daddy saw Harley talkin’ to those city boys stayin’ at the inn.”

Harley shoots his sister a sharp glare while a flicker of understanding sparks in their mama’s eyes. “I see,” she drawls, setting her fork down to prop her chin in her hand, resting in the curve of her palm as she smiles at her son.

“It’s nothin’, Mama,” he grumbles, shrinking in his seat under her knowing stare.

Sounding amused, Maggie says, “Doesn’t sound like nothin’, honeybun. If Annabelle can tell me about her crushes, then you can tell me about yours.”

Instantly, Harley is looking at his sister in bewilderment. “You got crushes?”

Annabelle shovels more food in her mouth. “Maybe,” she says around it all, brows raising in a way that challenges him to say something about it.

“But you’re a baby,” Harley says.

“I’m almost ten,” Belle corrects. “Mama said it was okay, Harls. Right, Mama?”

Maggie nods. “Yes I did,” she says, though her eyes are glued to her son. “’Cause there ain’t nothin’ wrong with having crushes. It’s a natural part of life. So, Harley, why don’t you tell me about these city boys?”

“There’s nothin’ to tell,” Harley insists, looking at his mama with wide eyes. “Honest, Mama. I talked to ‘em for a few minutes while I was waitin’ for Julianna to bring me your check, but nothin’ happened. We just talked. I don’t even know how y’all know that they’re from a city.”

Belle lets out a huff. “Word spreads fast in this town, Harley,” she tells him. “You’d know that if you had any friends that you could talk to.”

“Annabelle Ray Keener, you watch yourself,” Maggie scolds, turning her eyes to her daughter with lowered brows. Belle ducks her head, looks away with red creeping up the back of her neck. “You say sorry to your brother. That was uncalled for, little miss. We don’t talk to each other that way, you hear me?”

Belle sighs. “Sorry, Harls,” she murmurs.

Harley’s head is bowed, ends of his lips tugged down in a frown. “S’alright,” he mutters in response, glancing up at Maggie through his lashes and sounding like nothing but a boy rather than the fresh adult that he is. “I ain’t got nothin’ else to say, Mama. We just talked for a few minutes. They seemed weird, but nice.”

“If you say so, baby,” Maggie softly replies, smile gentle and kind.

He doesn’t say much else for the rest of dinner.

-

Only a few days later, as Harley is strolling down the streets leading from his house to the mechanic shop that he works at part time during the summers, he sees them again. It’s a particularly hot day, and the weight of life is particularly heavy, and he sees them in the only park resting near the center of Rose Hill, small and meek but all that the town really needs. Peter is siting on one of the swings on the old rickety swing set that Harley has personally had to fix dozens of times since learning how to at the age of eleven, and Harry is pushing him, the two of them looking bright and happy under the sunlight. Laughter chimes in the air when Peter says something that has Harry doubling over, and the smug sort of grin that grows on Peter’s face says that he was hoping for that reaction.

Harley stands there for a few short moments, just watches in silent curiosity, and then he walks over without a second thought. Takes his time, doesn’t want to interrupt but can’t stop himself as he approaches, until they spot him, no more than ten feet away, and they quiet quickly, watching as he slows to a stop just a short distance from them. “You’re from the city,” he says - first thing that comes to mind, and the silence makes him itch, so he throws caution to the wind. Adds, as an afterthought, “My sister heard people in town talkin’ ‘bout it. Is that true?”

There’s a short pause, where Peter looks over his shoulder and Harry meets his eyes briefly, and then they’re looking back and Peter is saying, “Yeah, it’s true.”

“Which one?” Harley questions, curious. He makes a point of raking his eyes over their outfits, which still stand out just as much as the ones that they were wearing last time did. “Doesn’t look like anywhere in Tennessee, I assume?”

“Good assumption, cowboy,” Harry grins. “We’re New York, born and raised.”

Harley tilts his head, brows raising. “Cowboy?”

Peter clicks his tongue, tilts back on the swing until he’s practically hanging upside down, hair brushing against the wood chips of the playground, and then he kicks out his legs and uses an odd sort of momentum to swing back up until he’s sitting, grin wide and toothy as he meets Harley’s eyes. “Southern people use nicknames,” he says with a light laugh. “We thought cowboy suited you.”

“It does?” Harley asks, even more confused. “Y’all were talkin’ about me?”

“Y’all,” Harry repeats, an overjoyed and amused sort of look on his face.

Peter cocks his head slightly to the side, brows quirking, just a bit. “Of course we were talking about you,” he says. “Not everyday you meet a cute cowboy, right?”

That makes Harley freeze, heart stuttering over a beat in his chest, and it feels like what he always thought a stupid high school crush should feel like, his lungs weak and his face warm as he looks away, brings up a hand to run his fingers nervously through his hair. “Oh.”

Harry yanks Peter’s ear lobe lightly and snarkily asks, “What happened to subtlety, Parker?”

“What happened to transparency, Osborn?”

Instantly, Harry is shoving Peter’s shoulder, not too harsh but not exactly kindly, either. Peter exaggerates the push and falls out of the swing dramatically, tumbling into the wood chips with a bright laugh. Harry murmurs, “You’re such a dick,” even as he rounds the swing to help pull Peter to his feet, brushing off the dirt from Peter’s shirt and shaking his head with a sigh.

“You chose me,” Peter counters, grinning.

Harry rolls his eyes, but a smile pulls at his lips, like he can’t quite fight it. “Dumbest decision I’ve ever made,” he says, pulling Peter closer to him, until they’re chest to chest. “And I let you talk me into this trip, so that says a lot, Pete.”

Peter huffs. “Play the part of the Negative Nancy,” he says, leaning in until their noses brush. “Act like I don’t know any better. As if I don’t know you better than you know yourself.”

“Cocky,” Harry grins. “Y’know, we could put some of that confidence to work if you—”

And then Peter kisses him.

Harley feels like he’s intruding on a moment that was never meant for him, standing a few feet away, feeling frozen and unsure. Part of him knows that the proper thing to do would be to walk away, to leave the situation before it can get too awkward, but there’s a pull, something in his gut that tugs and insists he stay exactly where he is. Not that he could resist that insistence even if he wanted to, because his feet are rooted to the ground like a tree that’s been growing in place for centuries, an unwavering and unmovable object.

Warmth climbs up his neck, blossoms across his cheeks as he simply watches, unable to do much else, while Harry brings up a hand to cup Peter’s jaw, as Peter rests his hands on Harry’s waist and they mould together, like they’re filling in the spaces of one another. It looks as natural as breathing, the way they lean together, the way they pull away in sync, how everything seems to be perfectly timed with one another. Harley feels it clog in his throat, that suffocating lonesome feeling he carries around so much—has to clear his throat in order to breathe around it, but the noise just draws two pairs of eyes to him.

There isn’t any surprise or embarrassment, like they had forgotten he was there—rather, there’s an equal sense of content, as if they were happy to see he hadn’t fled. He clears his throat again, looks over Harry’s shoulder to stare unseeingly at the trees behind the swingset. “I didn’t know...” he trails off, tongue tied.

“We don’t usually flaunt it,” Harry offers, hand sliding from Peter’s jaw to his shoulder, keeps it there even as they step apart. One of Peter’s hands continues to clutch the fabric of Harry’s jacket, like he simply refuses to let him go.

Harley swallows roughly. “Usually?”

A smile tugs at Peter’s lips. “Usually.”

“Huh.” Harley looks away, over his shoulder, rubs at the back of his neck. They’re intriguing, is the thing—something about them is pulling him in, making it impossible to walk away. He can’t place his finger on it. “Um, I... I heard—you said trip? That’s why y’all are here? On a trip?”

“A getaway,” Harry offers, tilting his head back and forth, nose crinkled. “Of sorts. I’m emancipated and told Pete that I was thinking about spending a few weeks away from the city, just to take a break before we start our first year at college. He thought of a road trip, and we just... we just started driving. No destination in mind, you know? Just enough shit to last a couple weeks and enough money to keep the tank full, and then we ended up here.”

Harley looks back at them suddenly, because that... he has always wanted to do that. To leave, if just for a little bit, and take a break from how empty and lonely he feels in Rose Hill. He’s always wanted to drive to the nearest city, drive out of the state, explore. But it costs so much, it takes so much time, and his mama... his sister... leaving them, even temporarily—

That’s why he stays. For them. Always.

It takes a moment for him to string together a response, struggling to remember the conversation, what he wanted to say. Eventually, he manages to ask, “Why here?”

Peter rakes his eyes over Harley, the farthest thing from subtle. “Seems interesting,” he says.

“Why not?” Harry asks, his grin wide, toothy.

Harley smiles back—slow, careful, but he does.

-

There’s an old backpack thrown over his shoulders, dusty and dingy from sitting in the hall closet for so long, but it’s stocked up with snacks, jams and jellies and crackers and a couple jars of his mama’s homemade lemonade, lids screwed up tight.

He tells himself he grabbed so much food because he knows he’s gonna spend the whole day at the pond near the edge of Mr. Samson’s property, the one that Harley helps maintain during the winter months that he’s been given permission to go swimming in whenever he wants. He tells himself that he goes to town first to grab a loaf of bread because he has the feeling he’ll be craving jam sandwiches later, too. Tells himself all these lies until he finally comes across them, sitting besides the road with ice cream cones in hand, chatting to themselves under the warm sun.

As soon as Harley sees them, he freezes, doubt creeping into his mind. None of this was for him, he knows—he packed so much and came up with excuses to wander around town in the hopes of seeing them, of inviting them, but now that they’re in front of his eyes, nerves start to crawl up his throat and lock his jaw shut. He tightens his fingers around one of the backpack straps, knuckles turning white.

Harry happens to see him while glancing around, and then he grins, featuring lighting up as if he was hoping to see Harley just as much as Harley was hoping to run into them. As soon as Harry’s posture changes, Peter spins around, scans their surroundings until he finds Harley, too, and then it isn’t a matter of Harley approaching them—rather, the two of them scramble to their feet and make their way towards him, instead. The hands that aren’t holding their ice cream cones are twisted together between them, swinging lightly.

“There’s—” Harley falters, scrapes his teeth over his lower lip and looks around anxiously. “I just... there are a lotta not-so-friendly people here. People that... frown on—on gay people, y’know? I dunno—I just... if you care, I, um—”

The sun bounces off of Harry’s emerald eyes on a way that might have been menacing, if it weren’t paired with the small smile gracing his lips. “People can think what they want,” he says with the wave of his hand. “We don’t care.”

Harley shifts his weight from one foot to the other, keeps glancing around nervously. “I don’t think you understand. They’ll get violent, if they see—if they see y’all holding hands. They’re ruthless. You could get really hurt.”

There’s something sharp and understanding in Peter’s features. “Have they hurt you?”

“I’m not—” Harley stops, bites back the instinctive denial that tries to claw it’s way out from the back of his throat. It’s been years since he told his mama and his sister, since he spit bloody globs of saliva onto the contrete and cried because the bullies weren’t just ruthless, they were right, they knew, somehow, what he refused to admit for so long. It’s why he hides it now, from everyone other than Mama and Belle. He never knows if they’ll hurt him or not. But there’s a genuine knowing reflected in both Harry and Peter’s eyes, like they could see his pain, like they’ve felt it. He doesn’t feel the need to lie to them.

That fact terrifies him endlessly.

He clenches his jaw, juts his chin up in a choppy sort of nod. “They used to,” he says. “Before I learned how’ta fight back. Still spout shit ‘bout me all god damn day, but words don’t matter. I know better ‘en to listen to ‘em. But y’all... you’re city boys, right? The guys in town, they’ll think you’re weak. They’ll start shit, and they always finish whatever shit they start.”

“I can take ‘em,” Peter assures.

Harley pauses. “Um...”

“He looks scrawny,” Harry says, “but he’s right. If anyone bugs us, he’ll win.”

Harley wants to protest that, mostly because Peter is at least three inches shorter than him and looks like he’d struggle to do a push up underneath the sweatshirts he keeps on wearing, but there’s so much confidence in both if their voices that Harley feels like it’d be stupid to disagree. Instead, he adjusts his backpack and wets his lower lip, battling internally for a moment before blurting out, “Do y’all wanna go swimming with me?”

There’s a short pause, before Harry shares a smile with Peter. “Come again, cowboy?”

Harley flushes, just a bit, and stares down at the toes of his shoes with narrowed eyes. “There’s a pond,” he says, tone almost defensive, already expecting this to go wrong somehow. “It’s a little bit out of town, but it’s nice, kept clean and looked after, y’know? And it’s never busy like the lake out past the school. I was gonna go, and it was brought to my attention that I don’t have any friends and I don’t wanna go alone, and I—I thought—”

“We’ll go,” Peter says. “Right now?”

Harley shifts the weight of his backpack again, glances up in surprise, but knows better than to question a miracle. “If y’all aren’t busy.”

Peter looks at Harry. “Are we busy?”

“Not at all,” Harry answers with a grin.

It takes a quick stop at the motel for them to change into something they can swim in and multiple stammered out reassurances that there’s plenty of food and drinks in his bag for them to share, but they eventually amble over to the pond on foot, Peter and Harry scanning over the place in appreciation while Harley sets down his backpack and starts to unload it all.

“Christ,” Harry says with a laugh when he sees just how much there is. “Were you planning on having a party or something? That’s a lot.”

Harley shakes his head, feels his face burn, just the slightest bit. “Nah, jus’ wanted to make sure there was plenty to last all day.” Then, holding out the loaf of bread, Harley asks, “Sandwich? I got blackberry jam, and raspberry, and—and some apple butter, and there’s—peanut butter and almond butter, so if either of y’all’re allergic to peanuts, I—”

Peter reaches over, settles nimble fingers around Harley’s wrist and smiles. “You packed all this food for us, didn’t you?”

“I...” Harley has to swallow the lump that forms suddenly in his throat. “I just wanted to make sure that there were plenty of options.”

“You’re so sweet,” Peter coos, bringing Harley’s hand down to rest against his chest, palm settled over his beating heart. Harley feels his own heart start to march over the contact, features burning with a bright blush that must look even more sharp under the summer sun.

Harley settles in that for a long moment, breathes in slowly, glances through his lashes to see the way Harry is watching them with intrigue and interest in his eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Harley just clears his throat and croaks out, “Y’all wanna go swimmin’ now?”

With a playful grin and something sharp shining in his eyes, Harry says, “Sure, cowboy,” and reaches down to pull his shirt off.

Harley should have thought this through.

He should have—Christ, does he feel dumber than all hell right now, looking like those idiot pre-teens that burn scarlet at the pool parties in all those stupid movies, the blush reaching the tips of his ears in seconds as he immediately turns his eyes upward to stare at the clouds, almost holding his breath until he realizes that’ll just make his face even redder than it already is. How had the fact that swimming would likely entail a lot of bare skin not crossed his mind? He could have thought of anything else, like going to a movie, or—or roller skating, at the rink a couple towns over, or—

Anything other than this, because it’s a lot harder to act like he isn’t a (mostly) closeted gay dumbass when the most attractive boys he has ever seen are standing five feet away from him, shirtless and grinning like sharks, powerful and hungry and knowing the power they hold.

At least, that’s what it feels like when one of Harry’s hands wraps ‘round Peter’s wrist while Peter’s other hand taps a knuckle lightly against Harley’s chin, a gentle gesture that encourages Harley to lower his gaze—which he does, after a few moments, having to remind himself to breathe normally as he brings his eyes down to glance between swirling chocolate’s and dazzling green’s.

“You can look,” Peter tells him, head tilted, corners of his eyes crinkled with a lovable, boyish sort of grin. “We don’t mind.”

Harley’s mouth feels dry.

Before Harley can try to string together an attempt at a response, Harry cuts in, sounds matter of fact and damn near professional when he informs Harley, “And you can like what you see. It’s okay. We like what we see, too.”

“That’s...” Harley trails off, looks away and looks back because there’s a gravitational pull that he just can’t seem to fight. “That’s... allowed?”

With his nose crinkling up, Harry laughs. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Harley wets his lower lip. “‘Cause y’all’re... you’re together, yeah? And on a trip, gonna be leavin’ soon, I bet, and I’m—I’m the idiot from the close minded Southern town. And you don’t... y’all don’t know me. I don’t know you, either, really, jus’ that I—I, um—uh—”

It’s Peter that steps forward, head tilting to the side, just slightly. Almost puppy like, if it weren’t for the sharpness in his eyes. The ends of his lips pull back, until he’s sporting a soft and gentle sort of smile, but something about it feels damaged, too, in a way that Harley can’t quite put a finger on. “Give yourself some credit, cowboy,” he says. “Harry thinks you’re hot and I can’t get enough of your accent, and that’s just what we thought after three minutes of talking at that diner, alright? Sure, we don’t know you, and, fuck, you definitely don’t know shit about us, but there’s something, right?”

The thing is, Harley isn’t an articulate guy. His brain is capable of endless things, he’s smarter than anyone will ever be able to give him credit for, sure, but when he’s nervous, in a situation that’s unfamiliar and hard to maneuver, his instinct is to duck his head and change the subject. Which is why he freezes completely, even though he knows this is an opening, even though Peter and Harry just fully and openly admitted to being attracted to him, at least on a surface level, and Harley—he’s never had anyone interested in him before. None of the girls at school ever swooned over him, none of the boys tried to woo him with flowers and cheesy dates. He was just the Keener boy, with the blond waves that sometimes dry in ringlets that hang in his eyes when it rains, the sloped nose that’s just a bit crooked from breaking it a few too many times over the years (clumsy, at times; unlucky run ins with bullies, for the most part), the jean jacket that almost always has on, pulled over plain t-shirts in the summer, thick flannels in the winter, dark blue jeans that are old and ripped at the knees, but he can’t bother to replace them. He’s a graduate barely two months out of high school and his future’s already set, laid out and chosen for him.

Stay in Rose Hill. Die in Rose Hill. Maybe grow old, somewhere in between. Hopefully content, at peace, but he ain’t bettin’ money on that. Probably work at the mechanic shop full time once it becomes clear that he’ll never afford to go to college and he won’t get anywhere without a degree. Besides, Mama says that Rose Hill is home, and he says that home is wherever Mama and Belle are, so there’s no real harm in just going with the flow of things.

But it feels like being offered a taste of forbidden fruit (and, Christ, would his Catholic grandma turn over in her grave if she heard him using such a phrase, daring to reference the holy text in his sin) when gentle fingers brush across his cheek, bringing him back to reality as he sucks in a sharp breath and finds green eyes looking into his, brown ones scanning over his features just as closely, as intently.

Harry smiles, all lopsided. “Wanna swim?”

It’s an offer, an ability to ease the nervous (excited?) churning in his stomach. Harley swallows roughly, waits until his tongue no longer feels tangled up and knotted in his mouth, before saying, “Y-Yeah. Okay.”

(They’re swimming ‘round the pond like little kids until sunset, and Harley walks them back to the motel, ‘cause it’s the nice thing to do, and by the time he gets home, his hair still hanging in his eyes in damp ringlets that Harry had called cute while Peter brushed gentle fingers through them with a grin, there’s a swelling feeling of contentment in his chest.

For a moment, it makes the pressure, weight, heaviness, and that chasm of emptiness in the center of it all that so often overwhelms him, pains him so much, seem like nothing.)

-

They go to the movies the next day, and rollerskating a couple days after that, just because Harley keeps wandering around town while his Mama is at work and Belle is with her friends, going to the lake and having sleepovers because it’s summer and she’s nine and, in a place like Rose Hill, kids start to wander off on their own around the place as soon as they hit first grade. Harley’s got the occasional part time shift at the mechanics, sure, but it’s only ‘bout fifteen hours a week if he’s lucky—five hour shifts, up to three days a week, and with his Mama working so much and Belle having the kind of social life that Harley has never been capable of grasping himself, it’s safe to say there isn’t much else to do to fill up his summer days. Usually, this leaves him terribly lonely, even more so than usual, spending most of his summers in the garage with things to tinker with and a haze over his every thought.

This year, though.

It’s that gravitational pull that Harley thought of before, an otherworldly source guiding him towards these city boys like it’s where he’s supposed to be. He’s always been in the belief that there isn’t a place for him, that he’s just a floater drifting his way among those who really belong, and these two... Harry and Peter are dating—have been for over two years, now, told Harley that they started dating when they were sixteen—and with them is, logically, the last place Harley should feel the most welcome. But, it’s like there’s a space with them, somewhere for him to nestle in, and it feels like it’s purely his own. It feels like his.

Peter is the first to kiss him.

It’s after a day where he wakes up feeling heavier than usual, brain hazed just a bit, chest caving in on that void of emptiness at the center of it all. Mama has a graveyard shift tonight so she passes him in the hall when he shuffles towards the bathroom, presses a kiss to his forehead like he’s a little kid and then makes her way to her room to sleep until it’s time for her to get ready for work, which means that Belle—and her plans to go a few towns over, to go to the sorry excuse for a mall that’s over there, with a couple of her friends—becomes his responsibility to drive around. Which is something he agreed to over dinner last night, but maybe he would have fibbed a bit and said he had his own shift at work if he knew he would wake up feeling like this.

But he takes them, Belle and her two best friends, and spends hours walking ‘round the mall, making sure they’re safe and don’t get lost, holding their bags and offering to pay for all their food when they get hungry at about lunch time, just ‘cause that’s how he was raised to be. By the time he finally parks in the driveway again, all of them having been dropped off at one of the the other girls’ house for a sleepover, his arms are tired, his limbs feel like lead, everything is unclear and slow in his grogginess. He sits behind the wheel for a long time, just trying to breathe like a normal human being, before making his way inside, being greeted bu lights off and silence—Mama already left for work, then. He’s alone.

He’s lonely.

This isn’t anything new—he’s been lonely his whole life, felt it carved into the cavity of his chest like a brand—but it really resonates as he stands there in the entryway, the only light in the room being the slowly setting sun as it shines through the window, illuminates the room with a golden sort of glow. His turns his head so that it’s angled down, curls falling in front of his eyes like a curtain, but even when blocking his vision he can feel it, can hear the distinct lack of sound like a gun shot, save for the distant sound of the washer spinning a load of Mama’s comfy clothes that echoes within his school like an eerie reminder of the fact that no one else is there, and it shouldn’t matter, he’s felt this before and been just fine, but he’s been getting all these little tastes and hints of feeling like he actually belongs somewhere when he’s with Harry and Peter, and knowing what a fraction of companionship feels like...

Harley doesn’t have a cell phone, ‘cause there ain’t no signal in Rose Hill unless you’re on the main road, but that main road is where the diner is, where the bars are, and, of course, the motel. And he happens to have the numbers of two city boys staying at that motel scribbled on a napkin from the rollerskating rink that’s sitting on his nightstand, only just upstairs.

There’s barely a minute of thought before he starts moving towards the staircase, grabbing the house phone along the way, and, a mere fifteen minutes later, he isn’t alone anymore.

He gives them a quick tour of the house after letting them in, mostly because he didn’t actually think of something to do, had only been aching with the need to have someone there, and now he’s basking in the warmth of their presence while trying to figure out something to do in order to not give himself away, but Harry seems a bit more softspoken, Peter keeps brushing fingers against Harley’s shoulder’s, the small of his back, and—

(“I just...” Harley had said over the phone, completely unaware of the empty tone to his words, unable to see the way that the couple had looked at one another, concern and worry and troubled fondness in their eyes. “I’m not busy,” is what Harley had settled on saying, not a lie, but certaintly not the truth. “Are you?”

Peter had been sporting pinched brows and a slight frown. Harry had said, “Never too busy for you, cowboy. What’s the plan?”)

And they end up outside, because Harley takes them out on the backporch for a quick view of the yard and the garden that the Keener’s split responsibility to tend to, and Peter had seen the little campfire set up and insisted they get the stuff for s’mores and have a bonfire. There’s such a simplistic sort of innocent excitement that lights up his features, and it makes Harley wonder— “Have y’all had a campfire b’fore?”

Harry shakes his head. “Always wanted to,” he says. “Pete’s Uncle was actually gonna take us both camping for Pete’s fifteenth birthday, but... um—it didn’t work out, I guess.”

“He passed away,” Peter supplies, when Harley’s brows quirk just slightly, curious but unsure if he should ask. Even Harry looks mildly surprised by the admission, giving Peter a wide eyed look, to which Peter just shrugs and says, “What? I can tell when not to trust someone.” Then, back to Harley, he explains, “My parents died when I was four, so I was raised by my Aunt May and Uncle Ben, but Ben got shot when I was fourteen. I tried to slow the bleeding enough to keep him alive until the ambulance got there, but—yeah. Wasn’t able to, I guess.”

Everything else from before—the heaviness, the loneliness, the ache—it all goes away in an instant, morphing into a shocked sense of dread as he looks into the eyes of the guy he literally called giggles in his head when they met. His tongue is tangled. He has to untangle it slowly before he can ask, “You were there?”

Peter shrugs again, but he looks away.

“Christ, Darlin’,” Harley chokes out, shaking his head. “Yeah, we can have s’mores. We can—so many s’mores, as many as ya’want. Jesus.”

“Shit cards,” Peter says. “They happen.” Then, perking up like they weren’t just talking about him witnessing his uncle’s murder, he looks back to Harley and asks, “Do you maybe have some of those jumbo marshmellows?”

Harry rolls his eyes and groans, and, just like that, it’s like the heavy topic never came up. Not in a let’s just ignore that and let it fester uncomfortably below the surface sort of way, but in a that’s all that needs to be said for now so let’s just move on kind of way instead. It feels natural and comforting rather than cold and dismissive, and it makes that chasm within Harley’s chest feel a little less empty.

It’s after the sun has set, when there’s a fire that’s glowing across them and softening their features in the gentle, flickering light. Harley is sat in the middle because they always seem to want him there, the corner of his mouth sticky from melted marshmellow and the taste of chocolate on his tongue, feeling warm and full. Harry’s leaning into Harley, just a bit, but Peter is sitting a couple inches away, features a bit pinched with a thoughtful sort of expression.

Before Harley can voice his curiosity, Peter glances over at them, practically melts at the sight of Harry settling his head to rest on Harley’s shoulder, and slowly says, “Har...?”

“Mm?” Harry responds, eyes fluttering shut.

“I think—I mean, I wanna—do you think—?”

Harry huffs, one eyes squinting over to look at Peter. “Just do it, Parker. Don’t be a pussy.”

Harley barely has time to murmur a confused little, “Um,” before Peter’s brushing gentle fingertips beneath his chin and turning his head and Harley sees beautiful brown eyes getting closer and closer and—a few freckles, dotting along the bridge of Peter’s nose.

And then they’re kissing.

It’s a basic kind of kiss—lips pressed to lips in what often is only a meaningless point of skin on skin, but Harley’s heart races in his chest as soon as he realizes what’s happening, a tingle running down his spine and—warmth, so much warmth that envelopes him in somethiny soft and cozy and his, it’s his in a way that nothing ever has been, and he pushes in, presses into Peter with a hitch in his breath and kisses back like his life fucking counts on it, ‘cause it does.

Christ Almighty, it does.

(Harry kisses him next, while Harley is still dazed and blinking away the stars in his eyes, but Harry is half asleep and doesn’t do much more than hum against his lips before slumping back down, head on Harley’s shoulder, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, and it’s so much different yet entirely just the same.)

-

He didn’t invite them to stay the night.

He also didn’t tell them to leave.

When Harley blinks awake, rising with the sun like he was raised to do, there’s hair ticking his nose and a weight pressed up against his side. It takes a moment for him to clear his eyes of grogginess and make them really focus, but when he does, he finds Harry’s head resting on his chest, curled up against him, snoring softly.

Peter is separate from them, curled up on himself on the far corner of Harley’s bed, wide awake and shivering lightly. Harley feels choked up with the moment and everything that it is, everything that it can be, but the worry clouds over that when he hears Peter’s teeth chatter.

“Cold, Darlin’?”

Instantly, Peter’s head snaps up, wide eyed and sheepish. “Um—I, uh—I’m good, I’m—”

Harley lifts the arm that Harry doesn’t have pinned beneath him, shifts the blanket that they must have fallen asleep on top of and somehow manages to maneuver it from underneath them to over them without moving too much, then keeps a corner held up as he looks to Peter. “C’mon,” he coaxes. “I’ve heard I’m like a heater. C’mere, s’alright.”

Peter hesitates, but then he’s moving, crawling under the blankets and curling into Harley with a shaky sort of sigh. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“Dunno how you’re so cold,” Harley mutters back, because you’re welcome feels a bit too obvious. “Summertime in Rose Hill can be brutal. Surprised we’re not all dyin’ of heat.”

“M’not actually cold,” Peter tells him. “Just had a nightmare. Almost drowned, once, and I always feel cold after I dream about it.”

Christ, Harley thinks—remembers so suddenly that he doesn’t really know these guys, feels it shock him like a taser. He doesn’t particularly understand why Peter is telling him this, or why he told Harley about his parents and his uncle last night—remembers the shock on even Harry’s face when he had—but it doesn’y feel scary or overwhelming. Just a bit hard to process, feally. Peter doesn’t really act the way Harley suspects someone would after that.

But Harry also doesn’t act like he’s all that traumatized, either, yet Harley can feel the exact moment he goes tense in the shoulders and his breathing takes a hitch. Peter lets out a hum, all too knowing and sad, and reaches out a hand to comb through Harry’s hair. “There he goes,” Peter practically whispers. “Almost had a full night’s rest, too. That would’ve been a god damn miracle, but he needs it, eventually.”

“What happened to you two?” Harley founds himself asking—not maliciously, not demanding, but curious and... upset, maybe, but not at them, of course, rather at the fact that he’s only know these two for a handful of weeks—a month, almost, which is just an odd thought to linger on—and if anyone deserves to never face a bad day in their life, it’s them.

Peter puffs out a sigh as Harry really starts to struggle, brows furrowed, features pinched. “I think we’ll tell you,” he says softly. “One day.”

Harry lets out a pitiful sort of cry in his sleep, and then that’s all that matters, Peter coaxing his partner awake while Harley tries to offer a soothing presence and coo calming words.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like Harley’s an intruder. It feels like he was always supposed to be right here with them, good mornings or bad.

-

Mama comes home from work with grizzy hair that’s sticking up at random spots and finds three eighteen year old boys curled up together on the sofa with a morning children’s cartoon playing on the screen. Despite the shock and the exhaustion etched deep into her features, she only blink once in surprise before smiling wide at them. “These’re the city boys, I’m guessin’?” she asks, plopping her purse down on the coffee table as she looks them over.

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter says before Harley can do much more than nod. “I’m Peter Parker. This is Harry Os—um. Harry Lyman. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Keener. You have a lovely home.”

“Honey, you can just call me Maggie,” his Mama assures. She flickers her eyes over to Harry, who is so obviously trying to offer a smile and focus on the conversation but is still so rumpled from his rude awakening, borrowed sweatpants and Peter’s shirt askew, eyes a bit glazed over and features a little sad. Still, his Mama gives Harry a smile. “Both of you.”

Harry looks a bit unsure and grateful by that, while Peter offers a quiet, “Okay, Miss Maggie.”

Mama chuckles, looks to Harley with a soft amusement in her eyes. “Honeybun, I think you must’ve found the only polite city boys around,” she says. “You boys have any breakfast yet?”

Harley feels scolded even before he gives an answer, looks down at his lap sheepishly before telling her, “No, Mama, we haven’t eaten yet.”

“Harley James Keener,” Maggie says—not just Mama, not with that tone of voice, sharp and sure but also exasperated and loving. “I know I raised you knowin’ how we treat our guests. C’mon, up you get, we’re cookin’ up some food before anyone starves into an early grave.”

It looks like Peter is about to protest, but he looks at Harry and bites his tongue, instead offering a grateful smile when Harley squeezes his hand lightly before getting up with a simple little, “Yes, ma’am,” and heading to the kitchen.

He’s flipping over the first of the pancakes when his Mama lets out a soft sort of sigh, glancing up from where she’s mixing together the egg wash for the french toast. Harley knows better than to voicea question just yet, waits patient and proper until she’s ready to speak up, though the last thing he expects her to say is a resigned, “You’re gonna be leavin’, huh?”

The spaltula damn near slips from his fingers in his haste to look at he. “Wh—Mama, what?”

“You were never a Rose Hill kinda boy,” she says, smile soft and sad as she looks back down at the bowl she’s mixing. “I knew it when you were just a kid, Harls. Born and raised don’t mean that it’s home, honeybun, and a small town was never gonna be your place. Too much smart in that brain of yours to stay here.”

“Mama...” Harley trails off, only looks away in order to avoid burning the pancake. “I’d never leave you and Belle here. You gotta know that.”

Maggie clicks her tongue and shakes her head, action sharp as her tone. “Harley Keener, there ain’t no way in hell that I’d let you waste your potential just to stay here with us. Rose Hill’s where I wanna be, where I fit—but it isn’t that for you and you shouldn’t make it be. Hard to tell with Tinker Bell, she could go either way, but you? Honey, the world ain’t ready for you, and you’ve been hidin’ yourself here and not usin’ up all that potential you’ve got for too long. You’re gonna leave, honeybun. Stayin’ here was never supposed to be your future.”

Harley wants to fight tooth and nail against this, but the more she speaks, the more her words start to settle over him like a blanket. He’s always wanted to leave, and he’s always felt awfully selfish for wanting it, but the way she says it... there’s not argument. He doesn’t belong here. Up until recently, he just assumed he wouldn’t belong anywhere at all.

“Besides,” Maggie adds, glancing at her son with a curl to her lips. “You’ve got two city boys sittin’ in the other room waitin’ for you.”

“I—I don’t know ‘em all that well,” Harley says.

Maggie shakes her head. “I didn’t know your Daddy all that well when I fell in love with ‘im. Of course, your Daddy changed—wasn’t the man I loved by the time he left us, but that’s not the point. Love ain’t knowin’ someone all the way, honeybun. It’s learnin’ as you go and lovin’ all those bits and pieces that you learn.”

Harley’s face is burning. “I don’t love ‘em, Ma.”

“Not yet,” Maggie says. “But you will.”

-

Two and a half weeks later, as June turns to July, Harley finds himself packing his things.

“I’ve got an apartment,” Harry says, looking far too put together to be the same guy who was damn near silent in the aftershocks of his nightmare (and the three other nightmare’s Harley has seen since). “If you think you wanna move to the city, you can just stay with me until you either find your footing or decide to come back here. Pete basically lives there, too, with how much he’s stayed over since I got emancipated and moved into their at sixteen.”

Harley looks up from the shirt he’s folding, a single brow arching. “Sixteen?” he questions. “Same year y’all started datin’, you mean?”

The ends up Harry’s lips pull up, amused beyond belief. Peter’s snorin’ on Harley’s bed, tired (couldn’t sleep super well the night befors, Harley was told) and completely unaware of the way that Harry’s eyes glimmer. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Probably got away with shit we shouldn’t have in there, but May was working and doing school to get promoted at the hospital, so there weren’t any adults giving us the you’re too young talk, you know?”

“Your dad...” Harley doesn’t keep talking, mostly because he’s only gotten a slight scratch against the surface with that topic, so he doesn’t want to push. Still, Harry nods.

“He wouldn’t have done much talking,” is all that Harry offers. “That’s why I was emancipated. I’ll tell you about it, probably, when Pete is up to sharing that shit.”

Harley glances at Peter, sleeping soundly still. “Peter had problems with your dad, too?”

Harry winces. “To put it lightly, yeah.”

“Any chance I can find this guy and beat his ass?” Harley questions—mostly for the way that Harry chuckles fondly, but it’s a semi-legitimate question, as well. He doesn’t take well to assholes who treat kids like shit, even more so when it’s his—when—when it’s Harry and Pete.

“He’s not in our lives anymore,” Harry says, stalks forward and brushes a kiss to the corner of Harley’s mouth. “No worries, cowboy. ‘Sides, Pete got a good few hits in, towards the end.”

Christ. “A sight to see, I’m guessin’?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t there for it.”

Harley shakes his head. “So many stories.”

“So much time to tell them,” Harry counters, a wide grin growing across his face.

From the bed, Peter groans. “Stop bein’ sappy,” he grumbles, words slightly slurred from sleep as he turns his face into the only one of Harley’s pillows that hasn’t been packed yet. “M’sleepin’. Can’t sleep if you’re bein’ all—all fuckin’ gay.”

A light laugh rumbles out from the center of Harley’s chest, while Harry just rolls his eyes and walks over to the bed, plopping down next to Peter with a drawn out sigh. “Dramatic asshole,” Harry grouches, even as he pulls Peter into his side and curls an arm around him, features going soft when Peter doesn’t hesitate to lean against him with a happy hum. “We’re driving back to New York in, like, five hours, Pete. You can’t just wait and sleep in the car?”

Peter cracks an eye open, looking absolutwly scandalized. “And miss out on showing our favorite cowboy all our car games?”

“I already know car games,” Harley says.

“Not ours,” Peter says. “Not yet.”

Not yet. Like his Mama said.

Harley smiles. He likes the silent, unspoken yet powerful promise that comes with not yet.

He likes it a whole lot.