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theladyofdeath · 3 years

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Tempting the Fates {Chapter 4}

Summary: It’s the final semester of Aelin Galathynius’ collegiate career and she is so beyond ready to be done. Her schedule is packed full of nursing classes and labs designed to test her knowledge and hone her skills for the real world and her “big girl” job. However, she needs one last elective to graduate, so she decides to study a subject she’s always been fascinated by: Mythology. Who would have thought that a class about gods and goddesses living complicated lives would end up complicating her own in such an unexpected way?

Word Count: 2550

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday.

Tempting the Fates Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

Apollo

– God of light, prophecy, inspiration, poetry, the sun, music and arts, medicine and healing

Aelin tried to convince herself that she got up and got ready two hours early for class because of her busy schedule. She kept telling herself it was for the meeting she had with her advisor, about a possible internship at the end of the semester.

She knew that both reasons, while extremely important, were full of shit. She knew she’d showered, blow dried and curled her hair for Rowan. It wasn’t that she was trying to impress him. She’d already done that and the chance she had to be with him had come and gone.

No, now it was about proving to him that even though this class may be a gen ed, she was taking it seriously.

Dropping the class had crossed her mind. She really didn’t need to take it, she could still find a different one to pick up. But she didn’t want to think about the sort of impression it would leave about her.

If there was anything to know about Aelin Galathynius, it was that she was not a quitter, nor did she run from her problems.

Or heartaches.

With one last look in the mirror, and a whistle from Lysandra, Aelin was out the door and hurrying across campus. She grabbed a coffee on the way, but avoided her usual place, knowing full well that Rowan enjoyed the same famous cafe that she did.

He wasn’t there yet when she got to the hall, but she took the same seat she had the class before.

She wondered if Rowan would be looking for her this time.

She quickly shook the thought away.

With her hot coffee on the corner of her fold up desk, she was pulling out her notebook and a pen, waiting anxiously for class to begin.

For him to walk through the door.

Apparently he liked to be right on the dot, though, because students continued to wander in, but he did not.

She was tapping her pen against her notebook, doing her best not to stare at the clock. She was just anxious for her day to start. It wasn’t that she wanted to see Rowan.

Professor Whitethorn, she amended in her head. She had to quit thinking of him as Rowan. She couldn’t think of him like that anymore, his body pressing into hers, lips on her neck, as he—

Shaking her head, Aelin sighed and suddenly realized that the rest of the class had hushed. She was so focused on reprimanding herself for her highly inappropriate thoughts that she hadn’t noticed him come through the door and begin setting up for class. When she dared to glance towards the front, she found his eyes on her. He quickly looked away, going back to his laptop and setting up the PowerPoint on screen.

Maybe he hadn’t been looking at her.

Maybe it had all been in her mind.

But she didn’t think it had been.

He had been watching her.

“Happy Thursday, class,” he began, as the title page of his presentation flashed onto the board. “Glad to see you all showed up again. Must mean my first class didn’t suck.” Quiet laughter thrummed through the room. Aelin couldn’t muster a laugh, though. “On Tuesday, we covered the basics. So, today… Sorry, we’re doing that again.”

More laughter, especially from the pretty, flirty girls up front.

Aelin couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Which, when she settled her eyes back on Rowan, he definitely saw.

Come on, get your shit together, she chastised herself. With her back straightened, she gave him her full attention.

She took dutiful notes, but his slides didn’t hold much in the way of information. They were mostly headers, with a few bullet points. Most of the important information, information she knew would be critical for homework or exams, came straight from Rowan’s mouth.

It was clear that he loved mythology, that it wasn’t just a class his aunt had tossed his way and told him to figure it out. He was a trove of knowledge and she noticed he had a habit of going on slight tangents when he got going on a topic he was clearly interested in.

After a student asked him to clarify what he meant about Hercules not being Zeus’ only son, he ended up talking for nearly twenty minutes about what the beloved Disney movie had gotten wrong. Aelin had stopped taking notes and was watching him go on and on about how Hades, while god of the underworld, was not necessarily a villain. He just had a job to do. A job that had rules that must be followed, or the consequences could damn not only him, but others involved. His eyes found hers again and the amused smile on her face fell as she made the correlation between their own situation and the story.

They held each other’s gazes for far longer than was appropriate, and Rowan cleared his throat, going back to the PowerPoint, and the predetermined lesson plans he’d made, which didn’t include children’s movie breakdowns.

She watched him.

She listened.

And she found it all fascinating.

Rowan peeked at the clock after going on and on, and stilled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’ll end there. There is an assignment due by tomorrow evening. You can find and submit it online. It’s an opinion piece. I want a little insight as to why you were so interested to take this class, or what you’ve found fascinating so far.” He sat on his desk, his legs hanging over the side, his feet nearly touching the ground as he leaned back on his palms. Aelin found it charming. “You’re going to write a short essay telling me of your favorite deity. It could be one I’ve talked about so far, or one I haven’t. It’s your choice. But, tell me why they are your favorite. Give me a little depth. And, remember, this is a college course. Grammar counts.”

The clock struck nine-thirty and everyone began packing up. Aelin had been so captivated by his voice that she had to snap herself back to reality.

She quickly packed up her bag, alongside the other students around her. She noticed then how young they all were, and she was willing to bet that she may be the only senior on the roster. As she was descending the stairs, she found Rowan’s eyes on her again, but he looked away as his attention was taken, thanks to the group of girls who’d been sitting in the front row. She heard vague questions of whether they could all write about Aphrodite, since they all related to her.

The scoff Aelin thought she’d kept to herself had apparently been out loud, since not only Rowan looked at her as she passed, but so did the three girls. With his attention on her again, she decided to give him a little wave.

“See you later, Professor Whitethorn.”

If there was some extra sway to her hips, it wasn’t on purpose.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Two and a half hours later, Aelin was starving. She’d just gotten out of an extremely complicated lab and she could barely focus over the growling of her stomach. Twice, the instructor had looked over at her, half expecting to find a dog stashed under the table she was working at.

So when the class let out, she was hurrying toward the cafeteria ready to get a salad from the salad bar and a big ass slice of pizza.

It was all about balance.

As she was waiting in line to fill her plate with salad, she heard a voice behind her.

“Are you actually getting lettuce or just filling your plate with ham, cheese, and croutons?”

Aelin looked over her shoulder to find Chaol, her ex, suppressing a smile.

Aelin chuckled. “If it’s the same price, you may as well pile up on the good stuff.”

Chaol gave her a small smile. “Fair enough. It’s good to see you, Aelin. You look good.”

Things hadn’t ended the best between her and Chaol, but that had been just after freshman year. At least now when they ran into one another, they could have nice little conversations like this one.

No hard feelings.

“You too,” she said, and he did. He’d been in an accident the year before. They weren’t sure he was going to walk again. In all honesty, it was just good to see him on his feet.

“How long until your class?” He asked, sliding his tray along behind hers.

She glanced down at her watch. “About forty five minutes. You?”

“This is my long break,” he sighed. “I’ve got an hour and a half, but didn’t feel like leaving campus. Want to have lunch with me?”

“Sure.” Her smile wasn’t forced, it was easy and she was glad they could even do this, when three years again, they could barely be in the same room.

“I assume you’re getting a piece of pizza after this,” Chaol said with a smirk, nodding towards her plate. “So I’ll grab us a table while you get the rest of your lunch.”

She scoffed but nodded, and went off to get a slice of pizza. When she ordered her pizza, she also got a slice of cheesecake. It was his favorite, something she hadn’t forgotten, but it didn’t hurt that she liked it, too.

Finding him in the cafeteria, she sat down at the table across from him. “How’s Yrene doing?”

He blushed, and Aelin had to admit it was adorable. After his accident, he’d fallen for his physical therapist, and she was just as smitten with him. It must have been all the one-on-one sessions, because Chaol had never been one to let someone in. Aelin had met Yrene early in her med classes, but Yrene had specialized in PT and graduated in less than three years, taking as many classes as she could manage and even studying through the summers as well.

“It’s going good,” he said, at last. “We, uh, just moved in together, actually.”

Aelin lifted a brow. “That was fast.”

Chaol shot her a look.

Aelin laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, good for you. I like Yrene. A lot. You two are good together.”

Chaol cleared his throat before taking a bite of his salad. “Thanks.”

Aelin chuckled, taking a bite of her pizza.

Chaol blinked. “What?”

“You get so uncomfortable when it comes to feelings,” she said. “Always have.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “That’s not true.”

Aelin stopped mid-chew and raised a brow.

Even Chaol couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. What about you? Seeing anyone?”

Aelin hesitated, then said, “No.”

A slow grin appeared on Chaol’s mouth. “Didn’t sound so sure about what one.”

Aelin shrugged. “Better be nice or I’m not sharing this magnificent cheesecake with you.”

Holding up his hands in placation, Chaol went back to his salad. Rowan was a dangerous topic, one she wouldn’t share with anyone but Lysandra, so she summed it up quickly. “Met someone I thought I hit it off with. Turns out we didn’t work.”

He slowly nodded. Aelin knew he’d had a couple failed relationships between her and Yrene. “I get it, I’m sorry. Still sucks.”

Shrugging again, she turned to her salad. “It happens. Not a big deal. So if you’re living with Yrene, does that mean you and Dorian broke up? Or is he playing house with you, too?”

Chaol leveled her with a look. Chaol and Dorian had been best friends long before they came to the University of Orynth. They were both from Adarlan, both trying to get away from overbearing fathers, and decided college across the country was the way to do it. They’d been roommates every year and Aelin couldn’t even imagine Chaol living with anyone except Dorian. But now he was. “He moved into an apartment with Manon this semester when I moved in with Yrene.”

Aelin blinked. “Blackbeak? He moved in with Manon Blackbeak?”

Nodding, Chaol went on. “Apparently, they’ve been dating for about a year, without anyone noticing.”

Something in the way he said it told Aelin that he had noticed, but when Dorian had his mind set on something, there was no stopping him. And apparently, he’d decided to date one of the most terrifying women on campus.

Aelin’s response was eloquent. “Wow.”

Chaol grinned. “I like it when you’re caught off guard. It’s satisfying.”

With a scoffed she nudged his leg with the toe of her sneaker. “Well, I don’t. Dorian will be getting a very angry phone call this afternoon.”

“I’ll be sure to give him a warning,” Chaol promised.

Aelin chuckled, taking the last bite of her pizza. “It’s good to see you all happy, though. Really.”

Chaol’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Aelin.”

She nodded. “Even if I am terrified that Dorian will get eaten alive.”

Chaol laughed, and she had forgotten how nice Chaol’s rare, hearty laugh was.

She meant it. She was so happy for them, both of them. It was interesting how things changed over the course of a few short years.

Their conversation continued, as did the laughs, and before she knew it, Aelin glanced down at her watch. She had less than fifteen minutes to haul ass back to the nursing building for her next class. Chaol, who had much longer to sit with nothing to do, assured her that he could handle her trash and told her to get to class. With a hug, and a promise that they’d have dinner soon, all of them, even Manon, Aelin was hurrying out of the cafeteria building.

Somehow, the entire time she’d been having lunch with Chaol, she hadn’t noticed the set of pine green eyes watching her.

Rowan’s own break had been at the same time as hers, but the gen ed building was much closer than wherever she was having to run off to, so he had longer to sit and— there was no denying it— brood. They were halfway across the room, so he couldn’t hear any of their conversation. He had no clue who the tall man was she smiled at so often, but clearly they were very familiar with each other with how easily they talked. And he made her laugh. A lot.

Rowan wasn’t sure why that was what grated on his nerves the most, but it unsettled him.

Seeing Aelin with someone else, someone clearly her own age, it all unsettled him. He didn’t like it. Almost as much as her parting words in class had.

See you later, Professor Whitethorn.

It’s like she was mocking him, yet at the same time, she clearly wasn’t. She was doing exactly as he’d asked of her, seeing him as her professor, not as her boyfriend.

No, he reprimanded himself. Not boyfriend. Hookup.

They’d had sex one time, that didn’t give either of them any claim over the other. It was a hookup and nothing more. And she was his gods-damned student.

She was off limits, in every way possible.

Yet he couldn’t figure out why seeing her with someone else, someone she should clearly be interested in instead of him, had him seeing red.

#rowaelin #rowan #aelin #fanfic #fanfiction #tog #throne of glass #modern au #professor au #college au #sjm #snacmc collab #snelbx x tacmc collab

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emwritesfootball · 3 years

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Her Majesty's Men 2 | Mason Mount

Word Count: 1,512

Warnings: mentions of drugs, but that's about it. An intro to the Men

- - -

Notting Hill, London, England

Declan double- and triple-checks the address that Mason sent him as he walks the streets of Notting Hill. It’s for a pub he’s never been to before, but he’s heard rumours about a secret underground club modeled after the American Prohibition Era that has exotic dancers.

“Dec! Hey!” Mason greets Declan the moment he walks into the pub. “How have you been?”

Declan shrugs, hating that he has to break the news to Mason like this. The two of them grew up at Chelsea’s Academy together, remaining friends even when Dec got let go. A few years later, Mason was let go, too, and the boy in front of him seems to be doing fairly well. “West Ham let me go last week.”

Mason curses, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, mate. Can’t believe they can just let us go like we’re expendable.”

“Yeah.” Declan smiles ruefully, sighing. “I’m staying with my sister but I know she wants me to get a job - I want to get a job - but I don’t know where to start. I remember at that party last year with the rest of the Chelsea Dropouts where you mentioned something about working for the Queen and-” Declan pauses, confused as to why Mason is howling with laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“You think- ahaha - you think I work for the Queen?! Oh, my god!” Mason wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “I guess you could say I work for Liz, but not in the way you think that I do…”

“Liz? You call the Queen by a nickname?!”

Mason snorts, the laughter threatening to return again. “How about I show you instead?” He looks at his watch, draining his beer, and Declan finds himself doing the same thing. “Follow me, Deccers.”

Declan follows, his mind slightly occupied with the fact that he saw Mason drop two £20 bills on two pints at the bar before walking away.

The rumours were true. Declan can’t figure out how he couldn’t hear the raucous laughter and thumping bass from the DJ in the booth. He’s pretty sure he recognizes the DJ, but he’s impossible to place from so far away. Instead, Declan focuses on Mason, watching as his ex-teammate weaves through the crowd. It’s all women, he realizes, but then someone slaps his ass as he walks past and he turns to find an older woman looking at him appreciatively.

“Are you one of them?” She asks, shouting over the music.

“Who?” Declan responds, confused.

Before she can reply, Declan feels Mason’s hand wrap around his wrist and pull him through a door. The music dampens, seeping through the door, but only to provide a backdrop. “Don’t stop for the vultures, mate. Although, I think that one’s more of a cougar than anything.” He laughs at his own joke, shaking his head.

“Hush! Like you haven’t thrown yourself to the cougars more times than any of us!” Jack Grealish’s Brummie accent gets Declan’s attention.

“Sod off!” Mason rolls his eyes, turning to Declan. “Don’t pay Jacky Boy any mind - he’s just here for the brainless hen party pussy. You might remember him from a couple friendlies between our academy teams, but I guarantee you that Jacky here probably doesn’t remember you; poor boy doesn’t even remember his own name half the time.”

Jack flips off Mason, but he keeps talking. “These are the lads that make up Her Majesty’s Men. We’re all football-academy rejects, so it’s like a family since we all know what the other’s been through. Stonesy - you’ll meet him in a bit - kinda brought us all together. It was pretty much his idea.”

Declan looks around the room, realizing where he is. The room looks like a changing room except instead of kits and boots and training gear, there’s costumes everywhere. A ratty futon that’s seen better days is against one of the walls; Jack ‘Jacky Boy’ Grealish sits on it, and something about the way he’s sitting on it tells Declan that the futon isn’t for anyone but the ex-Villa Academy player.

“Right. Anyway, this is Happy Ending Harry. Gave his youth to Tottenham, but she was a cruel mistress.” There’s a mirror with lightbulbs around it that looks like it was either stolen from Marilyn Monroe or a fifteen-year-old girl, Declan isn’t sure which. Harry Winks sits in front of the mirror, checking out his reflection as he puts on...blush? Declan wants to ask but can’t bring himself to form the words. Harry’s too lost in his own world to do much of anything, almost resembling a Ken doll in a way that both intrigues and intimidates Declan.

“Big Dick Dier. Loaned from Portugal to Everton, but you can see how that turned out. Man can speak at least two languages but there’s not a woman out there who cares about that once they catch a glimpse of what the Big Man is packing.” Eric Dier picks himself up off the floor after doing a round of push-ups, giving Declan a nod in greeting and going back to the sewing machine to work on… a g-string? Declan’s a little disgusted but he’s glad he’s not the one handling that. The man’s wide shoulders and large hands radiate Big Dick Energy and Declan would be lying to himself if he wasn’t at least a little curious to take a peek at that pecker.

“Last but not least: Tarzan Ty.” A man with dreads stands in one corner, stretching. He’s got tattoos and a massive scar on his knee that Declan’s curious about but knows better than to ask about. He looks familiar but he’s definitively older than the rest of the lads Declan has met so he’s not sure he recognizes him from any sort of training academy. Mason starts his introduction, but Ty cuts him off.

“Tyrone Mings,” he says, introducing himself for Declan. “Southampton Youth ‘til oh-nine. They let me go ‘cause I was too short - joke’s on them.” Ty laughs and Declan joins in. “Got a serious question,” he continues, shoving his non-scarred knee in Declan’s face. “That look ashy to you?”

“Uh…”

“Here,” Mason giggles, tossing him a bottle of what looks like self-tanner but Declan doesn’t question it, squirting out some of the lotion and preparing to massage it into Ty’s knee. It’s the oddest thing he’s done since being let go, but Declan just tells himself that he’s rubbed weirder substances on his own joints. He realizes that Mason was right - this place, this group of ex-footballers, really does feel like a family. He’s only been here a few minutes but already the camaraderie is there. Big Dick Dier teases Happy Ending Harry’s appearance like the two of them were teammates at Tottenham or something; Tarzan Ty has what appears to be a ritual, shoving Declan’s hands off his knee once he realizes the new boy was actually going to do it.

“So, here’s how it works. We do a group act first, then solos, followed by hot seats. If everything goes well, we get these birds all jacked up and then we raise the price of the hot seats so don’t fuck it all up for us, all right? That’s it, that’s all ya gotta do.” Declan tries to focus on what Mason is saying but it’s damn near impossible as he watches Eric stick his dick inside of the contraption and start to pump, his cock stretching to an absurd length. He quickly realizes that Eric’s got his dick inside a penis pump, watching as the big man’s already-big cock grows like the Grinch’s heart. Eric’s sporting the most insane look, his jaw slack but his eyes intense like he’s focused on something else, taking deep breaths as his cock stretches longer.

A voice entering the room cuts Mason off, the DJ coming into view. He’s speaking, but Declan can’t understand him. “This is Kyle, our DJ. Kyle, Deccers; Deccers, Kyle. He’s gonna be giving you the cue before each act.” Kyle hands Mase a water bottle filled with something and Mason’s eyes light up. “Pregame! That’s what I’m talking about!”

“It’s the love potion,” Kyle says in a weird voice, giving Declan a wide-eyed look.

“What is this? Strawberry?” Mason inspects it, pouring some of it into the cap and downing it.

“It’s a little mixture,” Kyle explains at Declan’s confused expression. “Got the recipe from a friend in Miami. He calls it Hey Juice.” Declan’s been around enough drugs to know that it’s GHB, but he keeps his mouth shut. “If you drink the whole bottle you’ll go ‘Hey!’” He flamboyantly sways and snaps his fingers. “You’re gonna like it, bro. Give it a sample.”

Declan holds up his hands, taking a step back. “I’m good, mate. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“That’s cool. More for me, I guess.” Mason shrugs, downing another cap.

The sounds of the crowd cheering start to seep through the walls, a man’s voice coming through too. “All right, all right, all right!”

“That’s Stonesy. Let’s get you ready.”

<< >>

#her majesty's men series #declan rice imagines #mason mount imagines

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mygoo · 4 years

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Man you really should have thought this through. You had spent your life as a closeted gainer. Frustratingly unable to ever put on weight that would stick.

Like many in your position you found some solace in works of fiction online describing guys blowing up and packing on doughy lard. Sometimes the stories were gradual and realistic, but others would feature something that would produce rapid, massive gains, those were always your favorite.

So one day when a message came across your inbox on your favorite gainer site that seemed to promise these types of results, your interest was piqued. The message was big and flashy, noting in several places to guarantee immediate, permanent gains of your choice. It's hard to take any message like this seriously, but when you saw the price it seemed reasonable. You decided to indulge, even though it'll surely turn out to be just a bit of harmless fun.

The site linked to the message offered brightly colored vials of its special gain formula in three options, chubby, huge, and blob. You of course chose the latter. In your fantasies you often dreamt of possessing a body near the four digits, a far cry from your current 151. A mountain made to consume and produce lard.

When the box arrived on your doorstep a few days later, you excitedly brought it in and ripped it open. Putting aside your doubts to further the fantasy you examined the vial inside while plopping down onto your bed. It's purpleish hue was enticing, but when you popped the rubber cork off the top you were dismayed to realize it smelled just like grape koolaid.

Hah, well what were you expecting? This must be the most expensive grape koolaid I've ever bought. "Well, might as well not let it go to waste" you say to yourself as you gulp it down.

You shuffle back to the head of your bed as you sulk about this latest letdown. This feeling however doesn't last long as you start to feel a bubbling deep in your stomach. You lift your shirt up and find your belly starting to pout out. The feeling quickly spreads to the rest of your body as the same transformation beings to take place elsewhere.

You're stunned. True to its word, the formula was increasing your weight rapidly. Within seconds your clothes were toast. Your eyes dart around your body, first back to your belly surging forward and taking up more and more of your lap, from your arms billowing out with saggy flesh, to your moobs, my god you had moobs, spreading out atop, all nestled on an ever widening base. A minute in you have to be closing in on 500lbs with no signs of slowing down, you continue to sit and admire your impossible gain. Just shy of another minute later you feel the changes tapering down.

"Woah" you gasp loudly, partially due to the situation you just went though, but also partly due to the fact that your breathing, well, it's just like that now, your lungs buried under piles and piles of new flesh.

You gaze out over your expanse, your monstrous belly dominating it. You feel it resting on the tops of your pudgy feet. A tiny story detail you had always relished in, but this, this was real. You guessed your weight to be close to, if not more than your goal weight. A gain of around 800lbs in the course of two minutes, you'll say it again "woah." A blob to be sure.

You go to lift your arm to touch your belly and find that you have to exert a lot more force just to move its heft. You push and lift it up partially, your saggy arm flesh never losing contact with your moobs and side rolls. You slam it back down after simply letting go and letting its flab rocket it back down. The motion causing ripples and waves across your expansive flesh that to your delight take a long time to dissipate. You smile as you realize you have finally gotten everything you could have wanted and more. The end...

See, here's the thing to know if you somehow find yourself in a real-life gainer story such as myself that you don't know going in. While your favorite stories find a way to wrap up on a high note like that, you'll find that reality is a much crueler bitch.

Coming down from your bliss you ponder on what to do next. You really want to take your whole body in, so a trip to your spare room with the full length mirrors is in line. You instinctively go to move your body as you normally would 10 minutes and 800lbs ago, but in what really shouldn't be a surprise, you don't move at all.

The new weight really finally lands on your shoulders to crush you in more ways than one. Oh fuck, of course I'm immobile. You don't get to this size without it. Concern sets in as you try to think of what to do next. You scan your room to find your phone so you can call for help.

You heart sinks as you see it sitting on your desk. Mere feet away it's no problem in any other situation. "Fuck" you say to yourself out loud this time, but getting your phone is your only option.

With reignited fervor you resolve to find a way to propel your body there. You start rocking back and forth as best you can, hoping you can scooch yourself to the edge of the bed. From there, well, we'll think of what to do next if and when we get there.

The rocking of course turns you on despite your duress. Deep inside your new fat pad, you become aware of your dick rock hard and leaking. At least it's still in the fantasy, but in reality it's yet another problem you are powerless to resolve, albeit much less of a priority.

Several minutes and buckets of sweat later your plan has worked and you find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed with your pudgy feet assumedly touching the floor. Your mass covered in a sweaty sheen is really a sight to see. "Goddammit, huff... I would love... to be able... to enjoy this... right now," you curse to yourself.

So what to do next. Can you walk? It seems risky. Your desk is really only a step away (for a normal man), you think you can reach your phone if you extend your arm out as far as you can. You start to reach, exhausted by the work it took to get you here and by the effort required to keep your ham hock in the air, let-alone stretching out to reach. You're miles away from grasping your phone. You lean your whole body forward since your belly is not giving you a lot of leeway in the bending department.

You stretch and wiggle your pudgy digits in a feigned effort to reach just a little further. The thought of your sausage roll fingers not being able to grasp or operate it if you reach it flashes across your mind, causing your dick to tingle.

You're mere inches away from your phone now, your lifeline to call for help. Which who knows, may come in the form of a food delivery man instead of emergency services, you think as your spirits are lifted again due to your progress.

This, however, is short lived as you reach a literal tipping point where your belly avalanches downward, pulling you helplessly with it. You slam to the floor with a loud thud, with additional sounds of the wooden beams of your floor splintering due to your ponderous mass.

Fuck, you really should have thought this through.

#wg #weight gain #gainer fiction #gainer stories #wg stories #immobile #ssbhm

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jeonsbun · 4 years

Text

lover boy ─ p.jm [m]

rating ↬ 18+

word count ↬ 1,970

pairing ↬ jimin x reader

genre ↬ enemies-to-lovers! au, arranged marriage! au, marriage! au, husband! jimin, fluff (if you squint), angst, & some smut

warning(s) ↬ jimin being a dick (he really isn’t), jimin has a big 🍆, protective sex (pls be safe!), semi-public sex, oral (m receiving), usage of princess (like once or twice, dat’s it), cursing, love bites (y/n tries to cover them), slight dom!jimin, lip-biting, & lots of kissing. just pure filth 🤧 lower-case intended

summary ↬ when your parents marry you off to someone that you don’t know, you never expected it to be him.

a/n ↬ hi! welcome to the official oneshot of “lover boy”! i hope that you guys enjoyed the little teaser that i had set out. major thanks to @chimknj for beta reading this <3 this is a part of “dishonest love” monthly prompt from @thebtswritersclub. this is also a little valentine’s day gift. please enjoy! also note that in no way is any members mentioned in this fic are what they are in real life. this is just all fictional. as always feedback is appreciated~

“what?!” you yelled into the phone.

“y/n, calm down. it’ll be over in a year’s time,” the voice on the other side said.

you scoff, “you gotta be fucking kidding me, you’re really marrying me off to some douchebag who you think is good for me? someone that i don’t know?”

“y/n!” yelled the voice, “he is a good man, give him some time, get to know him. it’ll only be a year before it blows over. we’re doing this to protect you, y/n, we love you too much to see you suffer again,”

you sighed into the phone, sliding your hand across your face in defeat, “fine dad, you said only for a year, right?”

oh, how wrong you were. you never excepted it to be him. oh man, the man that you hate with all your gut, park jimin.

he was your rival from another gang, his parents and yours were good friends, they were the ones who suggested you get married off together.

before you knew even knew it, it had be more than a year. your parents thought that having a man in your life will bring in honor among the mafia members you called a family.

you thought this was ridiculous, really. you were always independent and you wanted it to stay that.

when you had met your soon-to-be husband, it was during a party that your family had hosted. they wanted to impress some important people that you didn’t bother to care or know about.

your mother was the one who picked out your dress for the evening. a golden dress, decorated with sparkles shone in the dim light of your room. a sequin v-style dress, that hung low upon close inspection.

“this dress is amazing,” you whispered to yourself as you ran your fingers through the soft fabric. you soon put the dress on, along some gorgeous pair of earrings and a pair of white heels to match. you looked in the mirror, “wow, mom’s got some good taste,” you whisper again, admiring yourself as you brush your hair.

few minutes later, you texted your makeup artist friend holly to help with the touch-ups and hairstyle.

“did you see who’s here?” your friend holly asked you as you heard her heavy footsteps near. “who? who the hell are you talking about?” you reply, confusion on your face.

“park jimin,” she says as she shakes your shoulders. “THE park jimin. he’s here,”

you gasped. you sprinted out of the room as fast as your legs could carry you. she was right. there he was, standing tall near the entrance of the building. He was sipping on a glass of champagne, talking to someone.

you gulped down a lump in your throat that you didn’t even know you had. your father ran up to you. “ahh my beautiful daughter, let me see her,” your father held his hand out toward you. you take it, him spinning you around, laughing happily.

“father, stop. i’m getting dizzy,” you smile him at him. “there’s someone here that I would love for you to meet,” your father takes your hand again, tucking your arm around his, whisking you away.

you approached a tall man, wearing a dress shirt that was tucked away in his pants, his jacket hanging down on his broad shoulders. “namjoon, I have someone here I would like you to know, my daughter y/n,”

“ahh mr. jeon. Nice to see you again. How have you been?” the man, namjoon was it? asks as he hugs your dad. Then his eyes shifted to you, “And you must be Y/N, your father has mentioned a thing or two about you. But, he never told me how stunning you are,” namjoon takes your hand and kisses the back of it.

you blush and looked away sheepishly. you looked at the man, leaning on the wall, near the entrance, staring right back at you. you gulped again.

“y/n, y/n?” someone yelled out, bringing you back to reality. “Yes?” you replied back. “What were you looking at?” replied your dad, as he tried to look around at what you were staring at. “nothing dad, i’m going to get a drink,” you dismiss the question, as you walk toward the open bar, saying goodbye to namjoon.

your brother jungkook was nowhere to seen. ‘He’s probably banging some chick again,’ you thought to yourself as you sigh and facepalm. then you felt a presence, watching you from afar.

you turn around, catching his eyes. his stare is intense, but you don’t dare look away. you start to walk towards him, eyes filled with lust and determination. who does this man think he is?

“what do you want, park?” you say as you stared him down. “nothing, darling. Just admiring a beautiful girl, drinking alone,” he answered back. you scoff.

“as if, you asshole,” you roll your eyes. he suddenly grabs your arms and presses you against the wall. he looks into your eyes again, looking for something. “let me go, you dick!” you yell as you try and get out of grip.

His grip becomes tighter as he leans forward and whispers, “let’s get to know each other.” He then leads the two of you into a closet down the hall, away from the party.

it was quick. so quick that you lost your footing for a second. before you even realized it, his lips were on yours. you pulled away quickly, catching your breath.

“what?” you heard him ask. “what the fuck, park? you don’t go up to people and start drag them into a closet to kiss them?!” you push him as you screamed. He just chuckles. “princess, i’m planning to do more than that,” he smugly says as he smirks.

“you wish, i’m leaving,” you start to turn around when you felt a hand rest upon your wrist.

“wait, look i’m sorry, okay?” you hear him sigh, “your parents told me that we’re married and that i had to marry you or else our whole “family” will go to shit,”

You turn back around, “they said what?” this was the first time you were hearing this. “by the face that you are making tells me that you didn’t know,”

you shook your head, blinking a few times. “why though? i just want to know why, and why you of all people?”

he felt offended but he didn’t show it well. “they told me that it was for the sake of our family and shit, i’m 100% not sure anymore,” he shrugs.

you kissed his cheek, looking at him sadly. next time you knew, you were pulling his shirt off. he didn’t pull away at all. he started to kiss your lips again and down to your neck.

you move your head, giving him more access. you sigh heavily as he sucks hard near the area where your neck and shoulder meet.

he pulls down the back of your dress, releasing you into just your bra and panties. he stares at you again, you stand there sheepishly.

you slowly bend down to your knees to pull down his dress pants. he looks down at you, just running his hands through your hair. you then pulled his boxers down, his member slapping his lower stomach. your mouth waters at the size.

as you start to pump him, you grabbed his balls. you can hear him breathe in deeply, ‘looks like he likes it,’ you then go faster.

“put it in, please,” he says faintly. “i’m sorry what did you say?” you tease.

“don’t tease, y/n please,” he says a little louder, bucking his hips a little to create friction. this was your turn to chuckle. you eventually start to put his member into your mouth, bobbing your head, slowly.

“y/n, go f-faster” he pants. you listen, going faster than before.

you then go for his balls again, massaging them as you go even faster.

“yes, just like that,”

you felt his hand at the back of your head, you hollow out your cheeks as you let him use your throat. you then felt something shoot the back of your throat.

you shallow the salty contents (i’m so sorry 😔), and stand up with your mouth open. jimin smirks at you and kisses your lips.

he reaches behind you to unclip your bra. he then go ham on your breasts, marking them and massaging them. he takes his mouth to assault your nipple and massage the other, you sigh heavy again, dragging your hand through his scalp.

he suddenly stops, whilst you whine from the cold air, surrounding you, and then goes to his pants, searching for something. he comes across his wallet.

you see a wrapper, eyes quickly scheming around at his face, eyes looking suspiciously. he looks up at you, pulling the wrapper out completely, and then putting it in his mouth.

“can never be too careful, am i right?” he chuckles as you roll your eyes again, giggling. he then puts it on his member.

he picks you up and presses you against the wall again, kissing you again. your little makeup session was interrupted when you silently gasp as he slides inside. he takes this opportunity to bite your bottom lip and pull.

he then pushes you up and you sink back down. you moan out his name, creating red scratches across his back along the way.

“oh my god, right there,” you moan out. you didn’t care that you were loud, he was hitting that one spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

after hitting that spot again and again, you finally came undone. but he was not done, at all.

he places you back down and bends you back, just a slight bit. taking you from behind, he goes faster and faster, and getting rougher. you felt his hand start rubbing circles onto your clit, jolting your insides again.

you felt your second orgasm coming, jimin could feel it. your walls clenching his member sweetly, you cooed at him, “i-i’m close jimin,”

“i am, too,” he pants, you look back at him. he looked so handsome, his sleek black hair sticking to his forehead, lips bruised and swollen from all of the kissing and lip-biting, and chest, sweaty and soft to the touch.

after one last thrust and a flick of a finger, you both came together.

kissing your neck one last time, jimin pulls the condom off and threw it away. getting dressed, you saw yourself in the mirror. you looked awful, your hair was disheveled and your makeup was smeared. jimin looked up at you as he puts on his pants, laughing.

you playfully punch his arm, you watch as he puts his shirt back on and then disappear. you put your dress back on and try and fix your hair as best as you could as you wait for him.

jimin came back a few minutes later with a wet cloth, handing it to you. you use it to fix your makeup, wiping away the smeared mascara and lipstick.

knock knock “fuck, who is that?” you whisper yell at jimin. he shrugs, “y/n? jimin? i know you guys are in there, i saw you two,” the voice said. “open the door, now,” you gulp, shaking uncontrollably. jimin places his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it as you slowly open the door of the closet.

you smile fondly as you remembered this moment.

a/n ➳ this is my first time actually doing a full length fanfic that including smut like this, oh my gosh this is just pure filth! i really hope you guys enjoyed this. this really made me nervous and made my heart pound. anyways as always, feedback is appreciated~

☙ masterlist

#thebtswritersclub #ksmutclub #bts #bangtan #bangtan boys #bts jimin #bts park jimin #park jimin #jimin #jimin x reader #jimin imagine #boyfriend jimin #jimin oneshot #jimin boyfriend material #jimin smut #jimin angst #jimin fluff

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Losing

This was written as a request for the eternally lovely @samwisethegr8. Hope you like it, baby! Idk where the chipmunk stuff came in, I must’ve had forests on the brain or something. As always, I’d love any advice or critiques!!

Title: Losing

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3283

Summary: Losing her hair following a spell makes it challenging for the reader to feel like herself.

Warnings: swearing, fluff, hair loss

Dean knows better, by now, than to say anything about the beanie you straighten as you get into the backseat, giving you some soft eyebrows in the rearview mirror that are maybe worse than if he’d kept joking about it. Typical, for the spell making your hair shed like some cartoon pulling out fists in a temper tantrum to be one of the few you’d seen hang on after the casting witch died. You’d been doing research for weeks now on ways to get it back with nothing to show for your efforts except a few stomachaches from attempted potions (and one influencer-inspired collagen and ACV concoction you’d dumped out after feeling ridiculous). Sam had convinced you that getting back into the swing of things might make you feel better, and was trying a little too hard to be cheerful next to his brother in the front seat.

“The weather’s so nice today—sometimes you forget how good the sun feels, being in the bunker for a while.” He flashes a smile over to Dean expectantly, willing him to say something encouraging too. Dean looks exasperated for a fleeting second before relenting.

“Yeah, uh, great day for a drive.” You catch the tail end of his tiny eye roll in the rearview mirror.

“If you guys are going to treat me like an invalid I’m out of here.”

“Invalid? I just think it’s a nice day out,” Sam says, trying for indignancy through his put-on ignorance and not quite hitting it. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he’s able to hold onto it for about 2 seconds of eye contact before his face relaxes into more familiar kindness. “Okay, fine, sorry. I’m just happy you’re coming.”

He’s unphased by your glare back at him, keeps up the sympathetic puppy dog eyes because he knows your snark is coming from a pit of frustration and self-consciousness. Just like Dean’s tenderness of omission in not saying anything about it today, it’s simultaneously comforting and annoying. You feel a lump forming in your throat. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Sam seems a little hurt.

“Like I’m dying or something. Both of you. I’m serious, you’re making it so much worse.”

Dean catches your eyes in the reflection. “Kid, you just seem so fuckin’ bummed. It’s only hair, it’s probably even going to grow back.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not going fucking bald! So, are we going or are we doing group therapy in the driveway all day?” You can hear that you’re being too harsh but can’t muster up the energy to stop, flopping into the seatback with your jacket balled in your lap. Sam and Dean exchange a look and Dean turns the key in the ignition.

It really is a nice day, sun streaming through the windows of the Impala and cutting the still-slightly-chilly spring air just enough to be pleasant. You make a conscious effort to let go of your indignation, counting farm houses on the way out of town as a sort of meditation. Dean starts singing along to the Deep Purple tape playing, and when he catches a glimpse of your smirk he really hams it up, banging out the drum line on the steering wheel and pulling faces that would make Billy Idol jealous. After a few bars you can’t help yourself and start to laugh, the excited accomplishment that breaks through Dean’s act to light up his eyes sending a pang right to your heart. He holds his fist up in a facsimile of an invisible microphone to Sam, who plays along. By the end of the next song the Impala is rocking like Madison Square Garden, radio up so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts as you scream-sing until you’re laughing so hard you can barely catch your breath. The music changes over the next few hours, the volume turned down for snippets of conversation or debriefing about the upcoming case from Sam then back up for one of Dean’s favorite B-sides, and by the time the sun is going down you’re genuinely only thinking of how hungry you are while Dean turns into a diner that stands alone sharing a parking lot with a strip mall.

Dean’s two steps toward the restaurant by the time Sam has the back door opened to offer his hand to you. He looks surprised when you don’t take it right away, standing there awkwardly for an extended beat with his palm outstretched and his head tilted like a curious dog.

“I’m not going in.”

Through the windshield you can see Dean stop and turn back toward the car, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets like he thinks he’ll be waiting in the chilly evening for a while. Sam wraps his fingers around the top of the door and runs his other hand through his hair. “Babe, come on, it’s just some stupid diner. No one will even notice.”

“Sam, I’ll notice. Forget it. I’ll wait here, you guys go—grab me a sandwich or something.”

His lips tighten into a sympathetic but frustrated line and he looks over the car to his brother, who shrugs without taking his hands out of his pockets. Loud enough that you can hear him through the windows and around the car, Dean calls out, “How’re you planning on talking to the sheriff if you won’t even walk into a diner, hot shot?”

You match his volume. “Good point—I’m not planning on talking to the sheriff, I’m staying in the motel.”

Sam takes a deep breath and winces. “You don’t know anyone here and we’ll never see them again. You’ve gotta eat something. Please?”

“You’re not the fuckin’ Elephant Man, you’re a chick wearing a hat,” Dean offers loudly, absolutely not helping. Sam shoots him a look that says as much and clenches his jaw. Dean shrugs and opens his jacket with pocketed hands as if to say ‘what?’ Sam jerks his chin toward the diner and Dean nods, spinning lazily on his heel to walk in alone. When Sam moves forward, you slide over on the bench seat to allow him to sit next to you in the backseat.

“It’s just hair.” He says, low and soothing, just above a whisper. “You’re still the same person.”

You let your head roll back onto the seat behind you. “You don’t get it—my hair was the only pretty thing about me.”

Sam’s face contorts in disbelief like you’ve just told him not only are unicorns real, but you have one in your duffel bag. “What?”

“You heard me,” you repeat, training your eyes Dean through the diner window, winking at a woman in her mid-twenties whose cheeks are full and cherubic under bright, friendly eyes. You can see even from here that she bites the inside of her lip to keep from beaming back at him, holding onto his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before taking her tiny notepad back to the kitchen.

Sam shifts to put himself more directly in your line of sight. “Baby, the pretty thing about you is you. These hands are beautiful because they’re yours, because they, I don’t know, put an extra dryer sheet in with the laundry so it smells amazing, scratch Dean’s back when he can’t fall asleep. Your eyes are the first ones I want to see every day, not only because they’re beautiful—and don’t argue with me about this for once, please—but because they’re the same ones that always seem to notice that last symbol we’re looking for after I’ve read a stupid book of runes 400 times. Your lips—” he pauses, touching your lower lip with his thumb so light it could be a feather, “—are beautiful because they’re the only ones that I can hear your voice through. Was your hair beautiful? Of course. And it’ll be beautiful again.”

“You don’t kno—”

He rolls his eyes. “I do know, but even if it isn’t, you’ll still be you. You can borrow mine if you want.” Sam’s eyes are so earnest, so sweet as a tiny smile tugs at his mouth, that you can’t help yourself as you lean forward and press your lips to his. The way he kisses you back is such naked affection and relief, slipping a hand around the side of your neck to cradle your jaw, that it’s hard not to believe it’s how he really feels.

The moment is broken when Dean opens the driver’s side, startling you enough to take a sharp intake of breath against Sam’s cheek. “Quit sucking face and look alive,” he says, nonplussed as he hooks an arm over the front seat to hand you a paper bag filled with Styrofoam boxes.

“That was, ah, fast,” Sam replies, and it’s almost steady enough to hide the stammer.

“3 BLTs, not like they fucking built the Great Wall. Waitress in there said there’s a motel in the next town over, 10 minute drive.” He waits until you have the bag supported with a hand on the bottom and one taking the handle from him. Sam squeezes your thigh once before slinking back into the front seat, but Dean’s eyes stay trained on you. “Touch my fries and die.”

You manage to keep your mitts off everyone’s fries until you pull into Walnut Suites a few minutes later, thinking to yourself it sounds like some kind of hotel for squirrels and hope sort of absentmindedly it’s one of the kinds of motels that decorates to a theme; even when they’re stupid—maybe especially when they’re stupid—anything to break up the monotony of thousands of motel rooms over the years is welcome in your book. Sam coming out of the office dangling a room key attached to a plastic walnut is evidence that you might be in luck, and you grab the food as you get out of the backseat.

Dean already has your duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “This feels light; you bring your gun?”

You wait a second to see if he’ll figure it out himself, but Dean only raises his eyebrows and juts his chin out like you haven’t heard him. “Hardly need a blow dryer now, do I?”

If there was more light in the parking lot you’d probably have been able to see Dean’s cheeks flush as he cleared his throat to cover. “Uh, right. Do still need a gun though, so as long as you’ve got that.” He offers Sam his bag and shuts the trunk as his little brother reaches the parked car.

“Apparently we’re in the chipmunk room.” Sam’s going for above-it-all but he knows you secretly like this kind of shit and drops the key into your palm with a wink. “It’s the only one with queens instead of fulls.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles. “I’m hungry enough I’d eat a damn chipmunk.”

“What does that even mean?” Sam asked, annoyed in a way only a sibling can be as the brothers trail after you to the room.

“That I’m fucking hungry, what do you think?”

“A chipmunk is like, the smallest animal you could possibly say. It doesn’t make any sense; anyone could eat a chipmunk.”

“You trying to chow down on a chipmunk kabob, Sammy? Aren’t you like 99% vegan now? It’s the principle of the thing.”

Sam rolls his eyes in over the top sarcasm. “Yeah, I’m vegan now, that’s why I’m about to eat a BLT with mayo, dumbass.”

“Bacon doesn’t count. And it’s about timing; you said chipmunk room, I said I could eat a chi—you know what, I’m not explaining this to you. You either understand comedy or you don’t.”

As you open the door, the light from the room illuminates Sam’s bitch face kicking back on his neck. Winchester bickering had already put a smirk on your lips but the décor was everything chintzy you could’ve hoped for; forest embroidered quilts on the beds and a chain of hand-holding chipmunks that appeared to be hand painted in a waist-high border around the walls. The bed frames were made of those stripped logs that could look very chic in otherwise minimalistic Scandinavian architecture, but here they looked impossibly cute and dorky with chipmunk stuffed perched on each bedpost. Dean seems not to notice any of it at all, throwing his duffel on the bed closest to the door and snatching the bag of food out of your hand.

The three of you eat watching Alf while sprawled on various furniture. When the half-hour flips the programming over to Mork and Mindy, you offer Dean the rest of your fries and get up to stretch your back. “Either of you dying to use the bathroom? I want a shower.”

Both shake their heads so you grab your ditty bag and head to the reasonably sized bathroom, trying not to be startled at the large Chip and Dale portrait painted onto the back of the door that reveals itself in the mirror when you go to set your things down. It’s clean and the water pressure is good, which is far more than you can say for many similar places you’ve stayed in, and you linger in the shower longer than you need to, shaving your legs twice for an excuse to stay under the water and out from under the oppressive weight of your self-consciousness here where the boys can’t see you. Washing your remaining hair as quickly as possible and chuckling once, mirthlessly, at the lingering reflex to squirt the amount you used to need into your palm, you finally leave the shower with only momentary nausea at the amount of hair you have to grab from the drain to let the water empty. For the ever-growing list of pros and cons for shaving your head you’d been building in your head: no more shucking these sopping hairballs into tacky little wastebins across America. You wrap a towel into a turban around your head more as a reflex of propriety than anything, marveling again at the amount of rituals there are—were—around hair. Maybe being unburdened by that would be freeing. And it feels sentimental in an annoying pseudo-useless way staying attached to the hair that remains, like lingering in the victimization of this stupid spell when you could just as easily shave your head and be done with it, become some kind of Tank Girl badass version of yourself and pretend you’re too cool and tough to care about girly shit like ponytails and the way Sam held his nose to the crown of your head sometimes, took a deep inhale of you and smiled so you could feel it laid on top of your hair like a tiara more precious than any you could imagine. In any case it won’t be right now, so you throw the loose t-shirt you’d gotten from your bag over the towel on your head and slip on some athletic shorts before heading out to the room.

You were in the shower for even longer than you thought because Dean is in his standard “just-before-sleeping-on-the-road” outfit, having lost the flannel he wore that day as well as his belt. The jeans will come off just before he gets in bed, pooled on the floor with neatly set boots beside the mattress so he can jump into them like a firefighter if he needs to, an old habit that you’d stopped making fun of the Winchesters for when it actually had come in handy a few times. Sam usually folds the jeans and sets them on top of his boots next to your bed. Dean grabs one of your hands and flips it over for inspection as you walk by. “Surprised you’re not a raisin. Going to send this county into a drought.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly and toss your toiletries on your bag as you head to your bed, watching Sam brush his teeth in the kitchenette sink. Dean follows with a tight handful of clean tee and boxers as Sam comes back to you, the younger Winchester grabbing the back of his collar to tug off his t-shirt and toss it on top of his bag in one fluid motion before folding back the sheets and getting in. Over your shoulder, the shower turns on and you can hear Dean humming through the door. The beanie you’d taken off was exactly where you’d left it, and you flipped your head over to take off the towel on your head and replace it with the hat as inconspicuously as possible.

“Babe, you don’t—” Sam starts softly, stopping when he sees you turn back to him with your jaw set.

“Can we just go to sleep?” you reply, almost succeeding at keeping the sting out of your voice. He bites his lip and nods mostly to himself, flicking the covers on your side back in invitation. You crawl in, turning your back to him partly to be wrapped up by the warm shell of his body and partly so he can’t see your face. A large hand covers your hand where it lays on your sternum, intertwining your fingers in his and pulling you back into him a touch. After a long minute of listening to the shower-dampened noise of Dean going through Skynyrd’s greatest hits, you feel Sam’s voice through the knit on your head.

“I feel like we’re camping.”

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“You wearing a hat to bed, you only do that when it’s freezing.”

“I really don’t want to tal—”

“I know you don’t, but I just…you’ve been boxing me out for weeks now. Listen, I know I don’t get it, I know it’s not the same as if it had happened to me, and I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this, but I don’t care about your hair. I mean—fuck—not like that, I care about it because I care that it’s affecting you, but I just wish I could get you to understand that nothing about the way I think of you has changed. You’re always going to be the sweet, funny, badass girl I’m beyond lucky lets me hang around. It’s like this spell took your hair but the real punishment is putting this wall up around you.”

You take a deep breath to steady your voice and realize there’s no way you’re going to be able to talk without it cracking, instead just yanking the hat off your head and letting it fall to the ground beside Sam’s jeans. He hesitates for a second before pressing his face to you, and you can feel the smile against your scalp. It’s a struggle, but you manage not to wince when he kisses a spot you know is effectively completely bald.

“You smell good,” he murmurs against you, and you don’t know why it’s that simple statement, after all the flowery poetic things he’s said for weeks and especially today, but there’s something about the total acceptance, no hint of the disgust you thought was inevitable no matter how hard he tried to insist wasn’t there, that melts you. It’s enough to unwrap some of the defensive prickliness you’ve built up, and the amount of emotional energy you’ve been putting into keeping it there dissolves the way it sometimes does the second your body realizes the adrenaline of a hunt is no longer needed and you crash in the backseat of the Impala. The heat from Sam’s body and the delicate sound of his heavy breathing on your neck puts you to sleep before Dean’s out of the shower.

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madswritingvoid · 3 years

Text

Say You’re Sorry

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Words: 3k (oops haha)

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ only. Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, fingering, swearing, slight choking, first time writing smut should probably be a warning itself, sexism, Max Phillips is a warning probably.

You knew it was a bad idea. Well, actually, no you didn’t. Not fully. The voice in your head was just screaming at you to stop - there were other ways to get his attention. Other ways to make Max feel bad for what he did during the Synersavers presentation that didn’t require you stooping this low. Fuck it, you figured, if he can go around and do whatever he wants to get his way then so can I.

Fixing your hair and outfit in the mirror one last time, you went back into the office looking for the desk you usually avoid like the plague. Max Phillips, fuck you.

Earlier That Day

“So you see, Mr. Jacobson, our third quarter projections have us coming in on top by two million dollars and the fourth quarter is looking even better. I mean really champ, if these numbers were anymore amazing they’d be as hot as your associate there in that fetching skirt,” Max winks at the woman taking meeting minutes for your potential new client, causing her skin to blotch, “fucking unreal. Pardon my French,” he finishes, earning a big laugh from the CEO of Synersavers, the new bullshit placebo pill that was supposed to alter the brain’s natural neural pathways to promote synergy. You weren’t sure what dreams synergy was helping pathetic humans to achieve, but it meant a bonus if they signed on so you made sure that PowerPoint presentation was the best slides of your career.

You scoff, worried that if you roll your eyes they’ll get stuck. You know Max Phillips was quite the charmer, you knew better than anyone in the office. This past year saw him go from being just your hot vampire boss you had a crush on, to your hot vampire boss that was now your boyfriend.

While you never made an official statement to your coworkers, you quietly signed the papers Amanda in HR needed signed and let the sound of you screaming Max’s name in his office while he was balls deep inside you let the rest of your coworkers know of your relationship. Overall, Max was a great boyfriend. Better than expected even - attentive, caring, protective to a fault, all while still being that loveable (?) piece of shit frat boy extraordinaire he had been at the beginning.

You knew he still had to lay on the charm to close sales from time to time, never actually violating your relationship in any way, but after the fight you had this morning you didn’t think flirting with the only person in the meeting who did not actually control whether or not this partnership was going to happen right in front of you was the best move.

“Mr. Phillips,” Jacobson says, once again only acknowledging Max and completely ignoring you as he had been for the entire presentation, “you got quite the silver tongue. But I like that about ya, I think you get what our product is all about and I wanna make this partnership work. I’m surprised your presentation is as good as it was, because if you’ll pardon my French, if my secretary looked as delicious as yours does I’d be too busy fucking her left, right, and centre to even think about the fourth quarter anything!” He laughs and claps Max on the shoulder and you tense up, sure that Max is going to say something. Not even because he’s your boyfriend, but because he landed the sale and doesn’t have to be as sleazy as this dickhead is.

“See that’s where you’re wrong Jacobson, it’s almost like I’m working double to avoid her. Just doesn’t get the mojo flowing, y’know? Maybe we should switch, what do you think sweetheart?” He looks over at the still flustered secretary, “Come on and work for me and we’ll work on some new ways of making synergy happen,” he wags his eyebrows and you’re surprised this poor woman hasn’t slid right off her seat. You’re stunned. Even as Mr. Jacobson laughs and brings a laughing Max into some sort of capitalist bro hug, you can’t bring yourself to move. It isn’t until you hear the squeak of the wheels from the chair Mr. Jacobson’s secretary was sitting against the shitty meeting room carpet that you snap back to the present and shut everything down. By the time you finish everyone is long gone, leaving you to stew in your rage.

A hesitant knock on the meeting room door makes you jump as you’re met with a sheepish looking Evan in the doorway. You were never a big fan of Evan when you started, kind of thought he was a wimp but he was nice enough. After getting with Max and learning their shared history, you couldn’t stand Evan, but were able to be far more professional when needed until Max.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was still in here after Max and the Synersavers people left,” he shrugged. “What the fuck do you mean Max left with them?” You asked through clenched teeth. Scratching the back of his neck nervously, Evan took a deep breath before telling you, “yeah, um. They left for a late liquid lunch from what it sounded like, Max said you would be too busy learning how to make a paper clip bracelet to join them… Sorry, he’s such an asshole. You don’t deserve that, especially not from that bastard,” He couldn’t meet your eyes. Even though he still tried to tell you to leave Max every single day, you appreciate him being there this time.

There were many things you could be mean to Evan for, but deep down you knew he didn’t deserve the wrath of your anger this time.

Later That Afternoon

After taking the elevator up to the office to mentally cleanse his mind from that mindless lunch with that absolute creep Jacobson, Max was trying to come up with the best apology for you. He knew he didn’t have to be so forward flirting with that secretary, what the fuck was her name anyways, in order to win the sexist CEO over. But he was feeling petty after your fight while you were getting ready for work he figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind you that many other women find him quite the catch.

“You’re lying! You have to be lying!! There’s no way that happened oh my god,” Max stops dead in his tracks as he hears your giggles from inside the office. “It is! I totally saw Tim practising the dance moves the day after that Kelly Clarkson concert in the men’s washroom. I didn’t even know she had dancers, but from what I saw it really must have been a hell of a show,” Evan says as you throw your head back and let out another over-the-top cackle. You’re sitting on top of Evan’s desk, resting your hand on his shoulder as he sits in between your open legs, clearly enjoying the attention.

You’re hamming it up, he knows that, he knows that’s not what your real laugh sounds like - the laugh he gets to hear when he really does something that you like. He knows you don’t mean it but he’s immediately flooded with anger and guilt. He obviously didn’t realize how much the day had taken a toll on you and now you must be really mad if you’re going to Evan to get back at him.

“Oh my god Evan that’s too funny,” you giggle and place a hand on his shoulder, “you just made my day! I won’t tell Tim anything, it’ll be our little secret,” you wink. Evan’s blush deepens at the touch, maybe you weren’t so bad after all and if Max (and Amanda at this point) didn’t look out he would maybe ask you out for a drink sometime soon. Bring you back to the land of the living.

Deciding he’s absolutely had enough, Max quietly comes up behind Evan and slaps both hands on his shoulders after seeing you move yours back to your lap, causing him to freeze and let out a little squeak. “Slugger, I’m sure whatever’s going on here is just too funny, but didn’t I ask you to finish up that presentation for tomorrow’s meeting with NuevaWeight?” he pouts, “I really thought you were taking this job seriously buddy, but maybe I should just get Andrew to take over…”

“N-no Max, sorry. Yeah the presentation is almost done, it’ll be ready before the end of the day,” Evan stammers. Max finally meets your eyes and smirks, “and you can meet me in my office. Apparently you think you can stop doing your job and distracting my employees.”

You can’t even speak, your jaw set and eyes burning from the absolute rage you feel right now. Yeah you’ll meet him in his office, but it won’t be so he can lecture you about whatever bullshit he’s already thought of. “Of course Mr. Phillips, meet you there,” you manage to snap back, calmly making your way to his office. Anyone walking by you immediately gets out of your way, your anger coming off in waves making your undead coworkers shiver.

Clapping Evan on the shoulder one more time, Max saunters over to his office, ready to make you beg for his forgiveness after that little stunt. As soon as he opens his office door he realizes that won’t be happening.

You’re sitting in his chair, legs propped up on his desk in a way that makes your skirt ride up and expose more thigh than what HR might deem office appropriate. “Ah, Mr. Phillips, so nice of you to make it,” you smirk. “Sweets, I think there must be some sort of misunderstandi-'' you cut him off with a dark look and stand up. Walking up to him you close his office door and push him against it, “No champ,” you sneer, “I think you’re confused here. I’m not the one who decided to be a very, very bad boy by flirting with someone else and insulting me in front of new clients.” Chest to chest, your hand slithers up to grab Max’s throat. Even though he is a vampire who could toss you around like a ragdoll, you know he’s letting you be in control. He likes it.

“While you were out entertaining I’ve been thinking about what I could do to make you really sorry, baby. You were already on thin ice from this morning, but now you’re drowning,” you squeeze a little harder on his throat making his eyes roll back. “What are you gonna do? I’m so sorry,” he whispers. You take a moment, just looking into those eyes you love so much, before answering.

“Maybe I’ll sit on your cock. Let you fill my pussy up but not let you cum, because only good boys get to come, you know that Maxie. Maybe I’ll just use you like my own walking, talking dildo. If I’m so replaceable you won’t mind not getting to fill me up? Right?” You smirk again as he whines, his hands clenching because all he wants to do is make you feel good now.

“You wanna run that mouth, Phillips? You wanna make everything think you’re so fucking special when I know you’re really just a scared little vamp, huh?” You say with a pout. Grabbing his hair, you force his head up so you can look right into his eyes that are now almost completely black from lust. “Come on big shot, if you wanna be a big boy then you gotta show me that mouth can do something other than just spew bullshit, slugger.”

That’s all the permission he needs. He hoists you up in his arms and thanks to vampire speed you’re now sat on his leather couch, skirt up around your waist, underwear ripped clean off, fully exposed to his hungry eyes. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” he pouts, “let me make you feel good. I just want you-” You’ve heard enough, pushing him down so his mouth finally reaches your core. Moaning at finally tasting you, Max wastes no time taking your clit and sucking hard, already teasing your entrance with one of his long fingers.

“Y-Yes Max, fuck! Be a good boy and make me cum just like this,” you moan and clench around the finger inside of you, knowing you’re absolutely dripping onto the couch underneath you. He adds a second, then a third, making you arch your back until you’re almost sitting up from how good he’s fucking you with his hands. His mouth doesn’t stop, sucking and licking, spelling out his apologies against your body. Knowing you’re close, he starts focusing on that spot inside of you that drives you wild.

“Oh! Oh, Maxie yes. Such a g-good boy,” you pant, meeting his hand thrust for thrust trying to reach your high, “make me feel so good please please please baby I’m right there, I-” you can’t finish that sentence as your vision goes white and all you can do is let out a strangled moan that sounds like his name.

Once your legs start shaking you pull both of you up, undoing his belt and pushing him onto the couch so you can straddle his waist. You wrap a hand around his neck and start nipping at the area, rocking your soaked pussy along his aching cock that was now free from the confines of his dress pants a few times before sinking down on him. A wicked grin stretches across your face as his moans get louder. He chokes when he feels you gush around him, not expecting you to come again so soon but you were still sensitive from his mouth, the hair above his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit, but you wanted more still.

Picking up the pace, you squeeze around his throat again and start taunting him, “You gonna replace me baby? Yeah? You gonna find a pussy that takes you this good? Be my guest. Go right now and find something better, or show me how goddamn sorry you are.”

Granting him permission to take over, Max flips you on your back, making sure your head is supported by one of the couch cushions. He immediately wraps your legs around his waist, angling one leg to let him sink even deep inside of you, your moans mixing together as you both revel in the feeling of him finally being inside of you. Wanting to prove himself he wastes no time pulling out just to start slamming back into you.

You moan and clench around him, making him hiss and he doesn’t let up. Watching him disappear inside of you over and over again, he starts babbling his apologies. “N-Never baby. Could never replace you. Never gonna find a pu-pussy this fucking good. Look at you, so perfect, so so perfect taking my cock like that. I’m sorry. You’re so good. I don’t deserve it, it’s- fuck it’s so fucking good. Best pussy of all time,” he moans as you clamp down on him, your third orgasm ripping through you.

“Yes - yes Max, that’s fucking r-right. I’m the best pussy you’ll ever have,” you moan again from being so full. You know he’s sorry so you decide to let him finish after all. Taking your hands off his shoulders, you start tangling your fingers in his hair and bring his face close to your so your lips are almost touching, “you did so good Maxie,” you coo, “you cock made me feel so fucking good I know you’re sorry now.” He shudders at your words but keeps his steady pace, trying to make you cum again, still holding back his own impending orgasm. “Thank you baby, ‘m so so sorry, I love you and I just wanna be good for you-” “shhh shhh Maxie, I know I know. You did good baby, now show me how good you are and cum inside of me.”

That’s all he needs.

Something between a groan and growl comes deep from within Max as he finally lets go, pushing himself as far as he can inside of you as he starts painting your walls. Coming down from his high, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck as you start peppering him with kisses wherever you can reach, carding your fingers through his hair.

“I’m really sorry baby,” you hear him mumble into your neck, “I love you.” He kisses along your throat and you hum, moving your head to give him more access. “I know Max, I love you too. I forgive you. But try that again and I’ll cut your dick off in front of the whole office,” you laugh.

He chuckles too, continuing to shower you with love. “As much as I want to stay right here forever baby, let’s go home and I can keep showing you how sorry I am,” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows to earn a giggle from you, “sounds good Maxie, you’re lucky I’m just sooooo forgiving.”

Untangling from each other and making yourselves as presentable as you care to be, you leave the office hand-in-hand, ready to see what the rest of the night has in store.

#max phillips #max phillips x reader #max phillips x y/n #max phillips x you #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal imagines #bloodsucking bastards

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miss-dr-reid · 3 years

Text

This is calm, and it's, Doctor #8

Warning: some domestic abuse, but nothing gory

On the drive home, my head was filled with memories of yesterday. How cute Spencer was when all he wanted to do was win a game of chess. Pretty much passing out on his lounge while waiting for dinner. Dancing the night away and waking up surrounded by fuzzy, cuddly, Spencer blanket. My heart beat hard, my head filled with joy.

Does Spencer feel this way about me? There's no reason he would. We barely know each other.

I arrived home and jumped straight in the shower. Washing my hair felt so good, I stood there, massaging for a while, relieving my head of the stress from the last week. I scrubbed my body and shaved everything baby smooth.

Stepping out of the shower, I reached for a towel from the rack, grabbed it and patted myself dry. I wrapped it around myself and looked in the mirror, memories of the first night I spent with a guy after leaving my ex.

~ I had arrived home and was finishing up having a shower, I reached for the towel rack, only looking when I couldn't feel one. When I looked, I was surprised to see my ex sitting on the toilet. A look of anger on his face...

"Have a good night?" he retorted.

"Doesn't matter to you, but it was great." I retaliated, hating that he made it in to my house without my knowing.

"As if. No one can make you feel the way that I can. I make you feel so good, baby, don't I?" He said, getting up off the toilet seat, coming toward me, one hand hiding behind his back.

"Fuck off. I don't want you anymore. I already told you." I said, backing up, ripping a folded towel off the counter behind me, "You need to leave, right now." Even though my voice was stern, he was still coming for me.

I didn't want to fight, so I ran, he tried to grab me on my way past, but I was still wet, so I slipped out of his grip. I ran straight for the front door, flinging it open and banging on my neighbours door. She didn't hesitate to open it, seeing me on the other side. I shoved my way in and she locked the door.

We moved away from the door, to her room and she grabbed me a spare shirt, I dropped the towel to put it on and was shocked to see red all over the towel where my hand had been pressed to my chest. I looked up at her who noticed it as well. She was on the phone to emergency serviced and asked for an ambulance to be added to the people on dispatch.

I didn't even realise he had got me as I pushed past him. the adrenaline was pumping through my body. I picked the towel back up and pressed it to myself once again. Waiting. He was banging on the door, demanding to be let in. He left soon after, knowing how this would end if he didn't.

The police arrived after what seemed like forever, followed by the EMT's. They were let into the apartment and the EMT suggested I go to hospital. I opted to get myself there after they deemed that the cut was not bad enough to need emergency surgery. I gave my statement to the police and thanked my neighbour for letting me in to her place so quick. ~

That was the last time I saw him. I moved out 2 weeks after that, changed jobs and finished studying. I looked at myself in the mirror, lowering the towel, lowering the towel, revealing the scar I still have on the outside of my breast, right where it meets my chest.

I covered up and went to my room, deciding what to wear.

'Something nice, but casual enough to walk places.' I tho9ught to myself. I landed on a semi-fitted sun dress and my favourite lime-green bikini. I wore some flats that I was easily able to slip on and off. I threw my hair into a messy bun and decided it was good enough.

I grabbed a few things, like sunscreen and a towel and popped them into a beach bag that I had stored away. I was ready to go. I checked my watch 11:15. Taking one last look around the place, I took my stuff and left. On the drive, I couldn't help but drive past Spencer's place, just for fun, and only 2 minutes later, I arrived at the cafe where I had met the boys for the first time.

The clock on my dash read 11:37, plenty of time to sit and wait before the boys would be here. I closed my eyes and rested my head back on the head rest. My mind wondering back to last night, wish that Spencer would think of me the same way I think of him. Maybe I'm just being desperate, but thinking about Spencer causes me to smile, every single time. I can't help it.

The loud knock on my window cause me to jolt from my thoughts. I looked out the window, seeing Morgan's face on the other side as his hand reached for the handle. Once the door was open, I climbed out and locked the car. Derek hugged me, which I returned, squeezing him slightly, he smelt good. We let go of the embrace, stepping back from each other, he looked me up and down.

"Looking good, mama." He says with a wink.

"Ha, you too." I winked back, "I thought you only had eyes for Garcia."

We stood there laughing for a bit, until I saw Spencer come around the corner, his face buried in a book, he was only ever looking away from it to see if there was an obstacle in his path.

"Ah, pretty boy." Morgan said, turning to look at him. Spencer's face still glued to the book, he didn't look up until he was inside. Derek decided it would be a good idea to sneak up on him and we entered the cafe behind him and stood there watching. He looked around to try and find Derek and I, to no avail. He pulled out his phone and started dialing. Derek and I giggled to ourselves, but Spencer wasn't paying attention as he was listening to the ringing on his phone. As Derek's phone rang, he didn't even reach for it, instead watching Spencer as he spun around to see us right behind him, all of us giggling.

We greeted each other, and Spencer walked toward me, his arms going outward as if coming in for a hug. I gave him a puzzled look, and accepted his embrace. The familiar smell of his cologne filling my nose, I took in a deep breath before releasing him.

Morgan bro-hugged him and we all laughed at how silly everything had just been.

"Let's grab lunch!" I exclaimed, I was starving.

We sat around a table, our chairs evenly spaced apart. The guys picked up menus, but I already knew what I wanted. After deciding, Derek and Spencer got up to order, insisting on covering my lunch. They came back and Derek decided small talk would be a good idea.

"So, Y/N," he smirked, "Is there anyone special in your life?" his eyebrows wiggling.

"Yes and No." I started, staring him in the eyes, not sure how to proceed, "I met this guy recently, I think he's great. I'm not sure if he's interested in me though. I'm also not sure if I should ask him how he feels. I mean, we only met not that long ago, so it might be too soon, you see..." I trailed off, rubbing my thumbs together, avoiding even a glance in Spencer's direction, so as though to not give anything away.

"Non sense!" Derek remarked, "If you feel a certain way about someone, you gotta tell them, babygirl. So, who is he?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, you don't know him." I replied, trying to brush him off, but he wouldn't have it, and insisted I give him the identity of the 'mysterious guy' that I was keeping secret from him.

I remembered back to the car ride with Emily, all the little things she told me about Spencer.

"Walter..." I trailed off, smirking at myself a little, "He's cute and tall and quite smart." I could go on about all the little things I found adorable and attractive about Spence, but if I made the list too specific, Derek would piece it together too easily.

Spencer's ears perked at the name, and he looked at me with a puzzled looked, and I couldn't help the small smile that came across my face. Derek was still trying to figure out who 'Walter' was.

Derek noticed us looking at each other, looked between us, his eyes narrowing as he examined my face. His concentration broken by our food being put on the table in front of us. We all thanked the waitress and started eating. I had a chicken salad wrap, Spencer had a cheese ham and tomato toastie, while Derek had a burger. We all ate, barely saying a word, enjoying our meals.

I was the first to finish, Spencer was done soon after. We started talking about work things. We started picking on Derek who was having trouble defending himself as he tried to finish his food quickly.

"At least I don't hide behind books to avoid my feelings." Derek spat back at Spence, who just shrugged his shoulders. "And how about you, miss Perfect? Sucking up to Hotch and showing off in front of everyone on your first day, making us all look bad! You can't fool anyone with your goody-two-shoes act!" he finished by taking a sip of his drink.

I clasped a hand to my chest in fake offence, "Oh no! ME make the fantastic Mr. Morgan look bad?! how could I? His beautiful physique and wonderful words which help him pull all the ladies, tarnished! what ever will he do?" I stopped when I noticed Spencer silently giggling to himself at the sight before him. I couldn't let him get out of this. "Oh no no, Doctor. You're not getting out of this that easily. Your big brilliant brain is beautiful, but you need to work on understanding innuendos. The amount of things that have been said to and around you, that go straight over your head, we need to get you cultured."

He was confused. He didn't understand why he needed to understand jokes, why it mattered so much, and really, it doesn't. He's perfect in my eyes.

We sat there talking for a bit more until Derek decided it was time to go. We got up, left a tip on the table and headed out. We walked to y car and leaned on it, Spencer choosing to stand.

"What now?" I asked.

"The beach." Derek answered, "Don't worry pretty by, we'll find somewhere with shade so you can sit and read." Spencer's expression calmed at the sound of not being forced to swim.

We decided to go in one car. My car was elected because it was closest. I climbed in to the drivers seat, Derek in the passenger and Spence, in the back.

On the car ride, I changed through radio stations, trying to find music. Derek was confused by it, but Spencer knew what was happening. With the back coming along the corner, we all kept our eyes peeled for a parking spot.

I saw a spot, near a decent sized tree, which had a bench in the shade underneath it. Perfect. I pulled into the spot and we all climbed out. Derek and I, grabbing our beach bags and Spencer with his satchel that he has with him literally everywhere he goes.

The three of us walked single-file, me leading, to the bench. Spencer quite happily sat and pulled out his book while Derek and I set down our bags. I took a moment to take in the scene. Closing my eyes, I listened to the water, the crashing of the waves, so welcoming and calming. The smell of the ocean was so refreshing, the scent filling my lungs with every breath.

Opening my eyes, I saw Morgan had started removing layers until he was just in his swim trunks. I followed his lead, undressing down to my bikini. My skin looked so pasty compared to his caramel skin.

I grabbed the sunscreen from my bag, and started on my arms, chest, legs but of course, I can't each my call back properly. I looked over at Derek, with almost output dog eyes and he held out his hand. I have him the tube and turned around.

"You know, Walter should be going this guy you.." his suggestive tone caused heat to rush to my face as my eyes lifted to look at Spencer, who's eyes were glued to the pages of his book.

As he finished, he threw the tube down to my bag and ye inlled,

"Last one in is a rotten egg!"

Without hesitation we both ran for the water, laughing the whole way. With sand flicking up behind us as we ran, we reached the water in no time. We leapt over the small wave as we reached the water, the splash from the land was cool and refreshing. After a few more leaps, I dove in under a wave, losing sight of Derek.

The Cool water consumed my body. The waves in my hair, the current caressing and flowing over me. As I resurfaced, I couldn't see Derek. I assumed he went under too, and started looking in to the water, trading to see his figure.

With my head still looking to the water, a splash came from my side, Derek sat there unleashing a wave of splashes as I tried to deflect and return. Laughter erupting from both of us as we unleashed a wrath of splashes on each other. He finally stopped with a breathy laugh and so did I. He started to swim toward me and I couldn't help but splash him one last time, playback for what he'd started.

"Alright," he laughed, "You win." He made it over next to me. As our breathing solved, we both looked at Spencer, who's attention seemed to never leave his book.

"How can we get pretty boy in the water?" He suggested. We decided a plan and set it in to play, and I was the bait. I watched Derek swim far enough away and began acting. It needed to be convincing or Spence Rodney buy it.

I started waving my hand in the air and started yelling out for help. Using his name a couple of times in the process helped a lot. His head finally snapped up to see me, my head bobbing under the water a few times, and to see Derek no where near close enough to help. He jumped up, ripped off his shirt and used his feet to remove his shoes.

He ran for the water and jumped in. He made it close enough to me that he was commited to swimming and I started laughing. Derek, who had been watching, had made his way over too and joined in with my giggles. It wasn't long until Spencer had his arms wrapped around me, trying to get my head above water. I looked into his eyes and batted my eyelashes, a small smile coming over my lips.

"Sorry." I said quietly as Derek patted him on the back, telling him of our plan.

"if you guys wanted me to swim so bad, you should have just asked." Spencer said, releasing me and staring me down with betrayal in his eyes.

"C'mon Reid," Morgan started, "you wouldn't have come in if I had simply asked. And besides, didn't it feel good holding a beautiful woman in your arms?" His eyebrows wiggling as Spencer studied me, both of our faces going red at the suggestion.

Derek swam off with a 'catch me if you can' look on his face.

"Sorry for doing that to you." I apologised to Spencer.

"No, he's right. I wouldn't have come in if he had asked. I'm not much for swimming, not in open experts anyway. I much prefer somewhere I can see the bottom. Even though the percentage of shark attacks is pretty low, the chances of getting stuck in a rip are quite high. I don't think I'd put up much of a fight against one..." His voice trailed off as he watched Derek get further away.

"I'll save you if that ever happens." I said, winking at him. He laughed and started after Derek, I followed. The swim turned into more of a race rather than us trying to catch Derek.

We stayed at the beach for a few hours. I could feel my shoulders and nose burning. We had been having so much fun, I had forgotten to reapply sunscreen.

"Maybe we should get going," I suggested, "at least in to the shade?" I noticed Spencer's face was also red and I felt bad because he didn't even apply sunscreen. The three of us retreated to the shade.

I picked up my towel and patted myself dry. I slipped on my dress and we packed up our stuff ready to go. We stopped at the public showers to wash our feet before getting to the car.

"Who's still keen for icecream?" Derek asked as we reached the car. My sunburn wasn't 'burning' as of yet and I was still keen on icecream.

"I'm keen, but we shouldn't be too long. The sooner I get some cream into this bad boy, the better." I replied, pointing to my nose and shoulders, while putting my seat belt on. Derek looked over his shoulder to Spencer who simply said,

"Sure." With a shrug of his shoulders, pulling his book out of his bag.

The icecream shop wasn't too far away, so o didn't burger with the radio. Instead, Derek and I joked around with each other during the drive.

This one is longer to make up for the day's I've been missing. It's been sitting in my drafts for days because I keep getting distracted. I'm so sorry, please enjoy. :)

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff

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nugnthopkns · 4 years

Text

tell you i miss you but i don’t know how

word count: 2.7k

warnings: insinuated fem!reader, a singular swear word, it’s kinda angsty i guess

recommended listening: the story of us | taylor swift

a/n: long time hockey fan, long time reader, first time writer. i’ve been thinking about posting for a while and decided to bite the bullet. no time like the present i suppose. tagging some folks i feel might be interested (but there’s literally zero pressure please feel free to ignore) @matbaerzal @davidpastrsnack @troubatrain @jamiedrysdales

Breaking up was for the best.

You repeat the phrase like a mantra. It’s the first thing you think when you wake up, in the back of your mind as you sit in your cubicle, and verbally repeated anytime you pass a mirror. Deep down you know it’s right; you and Tyson aren’t on compatible lifepaths, and that’s okay. You just wish it didn’t hurt so much to say goodbye. He’s an easy person to miss, with his infectious smile and quick wit. Tyson’s the only person who’s made you laugh so hard tears roll down your cheek; the one who always picked up a bag of pretzels on his way home from the rink so you could have a snack after work. Though you didn’t expect to get over him quickly, you had no idea you’d still miss him nearly a year later. Or that it would hurt so much every time you see him in public.

♠♠♠♠♠

The bar offers a reprieve from the brisk Denver wind. October has been unusually chilly so far, but the bodies packed like sardines in the open room create all the heat insulation you need. It’s a Friday night and you’re hoping to unwind after a stressful week at work. It’s audit season, meaning you’ve had to pull crazy late nights as you read over the financial records of the firm’s junior partners. Today was particularly terrible, with the computer system crashing, and you really need a drink. Your friends are supposed to meet you, but a text confirms that traffic is heavier than they anticipated and they’re running late.

Not wanting to waste precious time, you head straight for the only empty space at the bar. A bartender a few years older than you sees you approach and leans close to hear your order over the thumping bass. “Could I just grab a gin and tonic?” you ask, and she smiles before turning away to make your drink. A minute later a drink is placed in your hand and you scour the venue for a table. A small booth is available in the corner; the perfect size for your party. It turns out to be the perfect spot for people watching, and you casually sip your drink and occasionally scroll through instagram while you wait. A text from your friend alerts you everyone is fifteen minutes out. Though it’s pretty crowded everyone seems to be congregating on the dance floor so you don’t hesitate to leave your table and order a second drink.

This gin and tonic goes down easier than the first, and soon you’re on your third. There’s still no sign of your friends anywhere and the balls of your feet ache from the heels you wore to the office today. You abandon your plan to meet them at the door, firing off a text giving your location in the venue. Once sitting down, you take off your shoes and rub at your feet. Why did you choose today to abide by the dress code? You typically wore a discreet pair of sneakers and wished you could go back in time to change your shoe choice.

“I see you’re still drinking gin and can’t wear heels for more than two hours.”

His voice sends shivers down your spine. You look up to see Tyson smiling down at you, and the room spins around you. The entire reason you picked this bar was because it was the only one the boys didn’t frequent, but it seems they’re here anyways.

“I’m consistent,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. The sight of Tyson makes your heart clench. He looks good, glowing the way that means the team came out with a win and that he played well and put up some points.

Tyson nods to the empty seat across from you, and against your better judgement you allow him to sit. A small section of your brain thinks he’s going to confess he’s been miserable the last few months, that he’s still madly in love with you. It seems to be the part controlling the rest of your body. “That’s one thing that’ll never change. How’s work?”

You hum wistfully, wishing he wouldn’t make small talk. How is this so easy for him? “Busy,” you sigh. “It’s audit season so the department is swamped. The boys still causing issues?”

“They’re annoying as ever.” He smiles at you again. The sick feeling in your stomach doesn’t subside. Tyson gives you a quick recap of the Avs’ season so far, and you half pay attention. You’ve gone to great lengths to avoid seeing him: switched the way you drive home, where you hang out with friends, what grocery store you go to. It’s a little ironic he’d find you here of all places.

Idle chatter occurs for a while. Tyson’s talking to you like he’s reuniting with a childhood friend, not an ex-lover. As much as you find the conversation uncomfortable, you can’t turn him away. You miss sitting with him, talking about anything under the sun. Life hasn’t been as bright since the break up. No matter how hard you try, nothing fills the Tyson sized hole in your heart. In a twisted way his presence is comforting, a reminder of what once was. Eventually his teammates realize he’s gone missing and come to whisk him away.

“See you around Y/N,” Tyson says, a little bewildered because J.T is dragging him by the belt loops.

All you can croak out is a feeble “Yeah.” He doesn’t look back once he’s away from the table. You shouldn’t have expected him to; he seems to be doing fine. Well even. Every step he takes breaks your heart a little more, and you curse yourself for missing him and down the rest of your drink.

Your friends find you crying in the bathroom and usher you home.

♠♠♠♠

Despite being separated from Tyson, you’re still close with some members of the Avalanche extended family. Mel Landeskog continually reaches out, ensuring you’re doing the best you can given the circumstances. It isn’t easy when your ex-boyfriend is the pride of Denver, plastered over every billboard in a fifteen mile radius of the city. When she called to ask if you’d emergency babysit Linnea while she ran errands you jumped at the opportunity to help.

“Thank you so much,” Mel says, cooing to her daughter who’s comfortably placed in your arms.

“It’s not a problem,” you insist, “I’m just glad I can finally start repaying you for everything you’ve done for me.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, telling you to text her if you need anything picked up at the store. You’re then left alone with the baby who is luckily one of the happiest you’ve ever seen. The first hour or so is spent entertaining Linnea with various toys and games. Her smile and laugh melt your heart, and your mind briefly flashes to conversations you had about children with Tyson. You push them from your mind, not wanting to lose your focus. The child in front of you is the one that matters, not the hypothetical one from times past. Around two she gets fussy; a bottle and quick diaper change satiate her.

“You having fun pretty girl?” you coo. “I’m not always the most exciting to be around.” She doesn’t respond; just looks up at you with heavy lids. You pull her closer to your chest, rocking gently back and forth on your heels. Within minutes she’s soundly asleep and you head upstairs to place her in the crib.

Back on the main floor, you settle into the corner of the couch. The baby monitor is on the coffee table and you keep your laptop at a low volume to ensure you’d hear anything. You sift through the mess in your inbox, deleting promotional emails and replying to those that need your attention. After killing half an hour, you quickly check on Linnea before scrolling through social media. According to twitter the Avalanche are on a six game winning streak and are looking to keep it alive. You honestly could care less about hockey anymore; it’s a painful reminder that Tyson is no longer yours. In truth you’re happy for the team because they work hard and deserve it. Other social media platforms yield nothing of interest and you soon feel yourself nodding off. Looking at the clock you realize there’s about an hour left in the baby’s nap, so you let yourself sleep.

A knock on the door startles you awake. Careful not to cause a commotion that could wake Linnea you head in the direction of the entryway. The knocking increases as you approach, and you open the door to a disheveled Tyson.

“What are you doing here?” You didn’t mean for the question to come off so rude, but it does.

He pays it no mind. “Is Gabe home yet?”

“No,” you sputter. “I’m watching Linnea while Mel stepped out.”

Tyson looks stumped. “He should be home by now. We had plans to unwind before the game.” You make no attempt to stop him from entering, and he takes his shoes off without another word. Aimlessly trailing behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when he heads to the guest room. “I’m gonna take a nap, have Landy wake me up when he gets home.”

“Can do,” you sigh, but it falls on deaf ears. Tyson’s already got the door shut, and you imagine he’s climbing under the covers, blissfully unaffected by your presence. You can’t say the same. Knowing he’s less than fifty feet from you sends you spiraling. Flashbacks of pre-game cuddles grace the back of your eyelids, and you rub your temples furiously to get rid of the images. It doesn’t help. You want nothing more than to not be bothered by how much you miss seeing him. You miss the way his hands felt entangled with yours and how sweet his voice sounds in the morning. Being this hung up on a person so long after a relationship has ended can’t be healthy.

The baby monitor crackles, signaling the baby, and the only reason you haven’t fled, is once again awake. Linnea’s room is bright and cheerful; the perfect hideaway from Tyson. Sometime during your tenth reciting of Green Eggs and Ham Mel returns. She finds you upstairs and giddily sweeps up her child, missing her terribly even though she was only gone for a couple of hours.

“Did everything go okay?”

You nod. “She was a dream. The happiest baby I’ve ever seen. She might need to be changed soon though.”

Mel nods. “I saw Tyson’s car in the driveway, did he meet Gabe?”

“He’s actually asleep in the downstairs guest room,” you whisper, scared he’ll sense you’re talking about it, and by extension thinking about him, missing him.

“Oh. Shit.”

That’s the understatement of the year. “Yeah.” You quickly help put away the groceries before heading out, not wanting to disrupt the routine more so than you already had. Really though, you want to be as far away from the Landeskog’s as possible before Tyson wakes up. You’ll have to do a better job of avoiding him in the future, you decide on the way home. You’re heart can’t take seeing him this frequently – or at all.

♠♠♠♠

You would rather be anywhere than the Pepsi Center. It’s the first time you’ve been in the arena since breaking up with Tyson and you’re downright miserable. However, you promised your younger brother you’d take him to a game the next time he visited Denver with your parents and you aren’t about to break his heart. Ryan is borderline obsessed with the Avalanche and hockey in general. At eleven he’s showing significant promise and you know he works hard.

“Ry, slow down,” you huff, desperately trying to keep up with him. The kid is swaying through the throng of people at lightning speed, desperately trying to make it to your seats to catch warmup. Wanting to make the experience special for him, you purchased seats along the glass across from the Avs bench. Your brother halts, tapping his foot impatiently as you join him and match his stride.

Contrary to what Ryan thinks, your seats have not been stolen and warmup is just starting. His winter jacket is soon placed on the seat, revealing the too big jersey underneath. The number seventeen nearly sits at his elbow and the name-bar is askew because one side keeps slipping down, but your brother’s happy. He’s preoccupied with watching players do passing drills, hands pressed against the glass, and you allow yourself to look around. Virtually nothing has changed since the last time you were here. The banners are still the same, the energy electric. One small difference is your seating arrangement: the better halves’ box is no longer a luxury you have available to you. A quick glance in that direction confirms they’re enjoying themselves, laughing and no doubt in the midst of planning the next off-season wedding.

Ryan grips the hem of your sweater to get your attention. “Look Y/N,” he squeals, “Tys and J.T are coming over!” Sure enough, the two friends are making a beeline in your direction. Tyson waves and Ryan eagerly reciprocates. You’re reminded just how much he misses Tyson; they were the best of friends whenever they could get together. Another piece of your heart breaks in that moment, as you realize you aren’t the only hurting from the breakup.

“You’ve got him in the wrong jersey Y/N,” J.T smirks. “Think he’d look better with thirty-seven plastered all over.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll remember that Compher. You got the spare change lying around to buy him one?” There’s no malice in your voice; you truly miss joking around with him.

Tyson throws a puck high enough to clear the plexiglass. “Ry-Guy, catch!” It lands unceremoniously at Ryan’s feet, but he beams as he picks it up. The two boys share a makeshift fist bump and quickly catch up with each other. It’s been over a year since they’ve seen each other at this point, and Ryan has so much he wants to talk about. J.T tells a joke that makes the younger boy laugh, and Tyson turns his attention to you.

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, doing his best to convey his sincerity. The energy of the area and the adrenaline have Tyson shaking slightly, and he rocks back onto his blades.

You study his facial features as you inhale. He’s still incredibly handsome, just slightly more defined, like he’s growing into himself. “Likewise,” you exhale. You know you shouldn’t lie but you can’t help it; for Ryan’s sake you need to pretend that seeing Tyson doesn’t make you want to curl into a ball and cry. He smiles sadly, like he knows you’re putting on a show. He probably does – you’ve never been good at hiding your emotions from him. Has been able to see how much you hurt every time you interact?

Ryan recaptures Tyson’s attention for a few final moments before he has to return to the locker room. With a high-five and a promise to call soon he skates away, leaving your brother to gush about his idol. The game goes better than you could have ever imagined; the Avs gain a landslide victory and Tyson gets a hatrick. After each goal he points in your direction and Ryan goes berserk. You catch yourself smiling, proud of his accomplishment, before you realize you won’t be at the celebratory afterparty. That isn’t your life anymore.

The traffic out of the arena is terrible, and Ryan’s asleep in the backseat before you hit the interstate. In some sort of daze you think about what you’d be doing with Tyson right now if you were still together. Maybe you’d be getting ready to make an appearance at a club to celebrate the big game, but it’s more likely you’d be pressed together on the couch, watching a nature documentary to unwind. It’s moments like that you miss most; where you were both too comfortable and enamored with each other to care about your social obligations. A single tear escapes and flows down your cheek. One turns into ten, and soon you’re sobbing over lost love.

♠♠♠♠

Tyson Jost isn’t someone you could ever stop loving. He’s the human equivalent of the sun, and even now your life revolves around him. It’s centered on missing him, sure, but that’s a part of him nonetheless. You can only hope it gets easier to deal with.

#tyson jost imagine #tyson jost x reader #tyson jost fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #cwrites

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 4 years

Photo

“Panorama Helsinki / Finland - Dom und Parlamentsplatz“ by tap5a

“We only do this for Fergus!” is a short Outlander Fan Fiction story and my contribution to the Outlander Prompt Exchange (Prompt 3: Fake Relationship AU: Jamie Fraser wants to formally adopt his foster son Fergus, but his application will probably not be approved… unless he is married and/or in a committed relationship. Enter one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp (Randall?) to this story) @outlanderpromptexchange

Chapter 6: Absence. The state of not being physically present (2)

When Claire turned around, she looked into the face of Mrs. Curtius.

"Claire, I understand that you are queasy about this task. I know how much Mr. Fraser loves his son and ... now you have the responsibility for Fergus. It's not easy. But I assure you, we will support you in everything."

The housekeeper gently put her arms around Claire and huged her.

When they had disengaged from each other again, Claire replied:

"You're right. It's like he put a 100-carat-diamond in my arm and said, 'Take good care of it!" However, this little diamond is very much alive and not always controllable ..."

Mrs. Curtius smiled.

"That's very much to the point. Believe me, the last time I had to watch him, I didn't breathe a sigh of relief either until Mr. Fraser came back."

The two women looked at each other for a moment, smiling. Then Mrs. Curtius continued:

"Will you come with me to the kitchen? I have to prepare breakfast for the security people, and if you'd like, you can join me for a cup of coffee?"

“Kitchen” by shadowfirearts

Claire nodded and followed the housekeeper. She had been living in the house for a few months, but until now she had never had a chance to talk to the housekeeper in a quiet and detailed way. Shortly thereafter, she sat on one of the raised counter stools at the kitchen counter in front of a steaming cup of coffee, watching Mrs. Curtius prepare huge portions of scrambled eggs and fried ham in large cast-iron pans. It looked as if the housekeeper had never done anything else, so easy seemed her work. She was a joy to watch and Claire suddenly wished she had similar skills. She followed the individual steps with interest, noting also how easy it seemed for the housekeeper to carry on a conversation on the side.

Claire had already emptied her second cup of coffee when, at 6:40 am, the alarm on her smartphone reminded her that she had to wake Fergus in twenty minutes. She thanked Mrs. Curtius, then set the dining room table for Fergus and herself.

The day went almost exactly as she had expected. After breakfast, she took Fergus to school, accompanied by two bodyguards. Afterwards, she lay down again to catch up on some lost sleep. Around noon, she picked up the boy from school, again accompanied by two bodyguards.

At lunch with Fergus, she watched him closely. But the little curly-haired boy was bright and chipper as ever. After a short break, they set about doing his homework together. An hour later, Claire noticed his concentration waning. She suggested they take a nap now. When they got to Fraser's apartment, she showed the boy that she had set up in the guest room for herself and that if he woke up during the night, he would find her there.

"Where's Papa today?" asked Fergus, to Claire's surprise.

"Today and tomorrow your Papa is in Iceland. He should have arrived by now, he may even be in his first meeting. But we'll find out when he calls us tonight."

“Island - Green Rush” by KarinKarin

"Are you taking a nap too, Claire?"

"No, or I won't be able to sleep tonight. I'm going to sit here in the living room and read some more. And when I wake you up, we can play a game together."

"What kind of game?"

"It's a surprise."

Fergus gave her a slightly annoyed look and rolled his eyes.

"Ooch Claire!"

"No way! There are two surprises today. But not until there's time."

A little reluctantly, Fergus crawled into his bed. Claire handed him the little beige bear that Jamie had purchased at a Swedish furniture store and brought back for the boy from his last business trip. Clearly, "Stuffy" had become Fergus's favorite stuffed animal. Claire closed the window blinds. Then she stroked Fergus's hair once more.

"Sleep now. You still have a lot of growing to do. That's sometimes exhausting and you need time to rest every now and then. I'll wake you up later and after tea we'll play. I promise."

Quietly she closed the door of Fergus' room. When she reached the hallway, she stood indecisive for a moment. Then she checked the door to the stairs again. It was locked. Good, she wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. Claire decided to take a little tour of the rooms on Fraser's floor. To the right of Fergus' room was the library, which also served as Fraser's study. From Fergu's room and from the library, one could access a narrow balcony on the south side of the house. But this balcony was very rarely used. A window also led out to the garden from the side of the room used as a library.

“Library” by moritz320

Claire closed the door behind her. On the left side of the hallway now followed the door to the stairs and then an open space - open to the hallway with a window facing the west side of the house. She stopped for a moment and looked at it. I wonder what it was for? What reason had there been for not providing another room here? She took a few steps to the window. From there she could look down to the street in front of the house. Once again she looked around. What sense this free space should have, she did not understand, but she took it upon herself to ask Jamie about it. On the right side now followed Fraser's private living room, which was also called the 'fireplace room'. She passed it and reached the door to the guest room on the left, where she had made herself comfortable for the time of Fraser's absence. Then she stood in front of Fraser's bedroom. She looked for the matching key on the key ring he had given her, opened the door and turned on the light. What Claire saw next amazed her. While most of the rest of the house was modern and decorated in bright colors, she now had the impression of having entered a museum. The focal point of the room was a four-poster bed made of dark wood. The bed was the size of a marriage bed and clearly came from another century. She estimated that it dated from the beginning or middle of the 18th century. Two antique chairs stood in front of a large window whose view led out into the garden. To the right, Claire spotted a table with a mirror that was clearly the forerunner of what was called a 'dressing table' in the present time. On the opposite wall was a narrow, tall chest of drawers, richly carved. At the foot of the bed had been placed a chest whose iron fittings indicated that it was much older than any of the other pieces of furniture. Claire ran her hands over the wood and over the hardware. From its shape and texture, the chest appeared to be at least one hundred years older than everything elese in this room. All of the furnishings were crafted of dark wood. The only other color in the room was blue. This was the color of the wallpaper, as well as the bedding. As Claire looked more closely at the wallpaper, she realized that it only gave the impression of being as old as the furniture. A layman would certainly not have noticed the difference, but Claire had spent too much time at her Uncle Lambert's side, and as the niece of the noted Oxford historian, she noticed the difference immediately. This wallpaper was a very accurate reproduction of a wall painting that was at least two to three centuries old. But why did a man of Fraser's age have wallpaper made that showed such a wall painting? Was he desperate for wallpaper that matched the antique furniture in his bedroom? And why had he furnished his bedroom with furniture of this type in the first place? Slowly, she walked around the large bed until she came to a stop in front of the nightstand on the side where Fraser was obviously sleeping. Next to a bedside lamp, which was of more recent date but also in antique style, was a book. On the dark blue cover was written in white letters "The Complete Poems of John Donne." Without thinking further, she reached for the book and was about to open it. Then she saw that there was a bookmark sticking out of the top of the book. She opened the book at that point and read:

That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation

Against thy strength,

Distance and length:

Do what thou canst for alteration,

For hearts of truest mettle

Absence doth join and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality,

His mind hath found

Affection's ground

Beyond time, place, and all mortality.

To hearts that cannot vary

Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motion

Which now within

Reason doth win,

Redoubled by her secret notion:

Like rich men that take pleasure

In hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain,

That I can catch her

Where none can watch her,

In some close corner of my brain:

There I embrace and kiss her,

And so enjoy her and none miss her.

That Time and Absence proves

Rather helps than hurts to loves

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation

Against thy strength,

Distance and length:

Do what thou canst for alteration, ��

For hearts of truest mettle

Absence doth join and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality,

His mind hath found

Affection's ground

Beyond time, place, and all mortality.

To hearts that cannot vary

Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motion

Which now within

Reason doth win,

Redoubled by her secret notion:

Like rich men that take pleasure

In hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain,

That I can catch her

Where none can watch her,

In some close corner of my brain:

There I embrace and kiss her,

And so enjoy her and none miss her.

In the second paragraph, all the lines had been underlined with a pencil. Once again, she quietly read the entire poem. It was not unfamiliar to her. Her uncle had owned a complete edition of John Donne's works. But it did surprise her a little to find such a book on James Fraser's bedside table. And why had he underlined that verse? Was there a woman in Fraser's life after all? Claire took a deep breath, then closed the book and put it back the way she had found it. Once again she looked over the bed. Then she carefully stroked the covers and looked around. A door contrary to the bed led from Fraser's bedroom into his bathroom. Claire looked through the open door, but did not enter. This room too, was held in blue and withe. She left the room, locking the door behind her.

When it was time for tea and she went to wake Fergus, she found the boy playing in his bed.

"Do I get my surprise now?" asked Fergus firmly.

"Now first there's cocoa for you, tea me, and fresh sandwiches for both of us."

"Oh yes!"

A moment later, when hunger and thirst were satisfied, Claire removed a box from a burlap bag.

“A game of Settlers of Catan” by Yonghokim - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77327301

"What's this?"

"It's a game, it's called 'The Settlers of Catan' and there are many versions of it. This is the edition that fits your age and look what this is on the box."

"It's a parrot. He's wearing a pirate tricorn and he's got a map in his claws."

"You did a good job of recognizing that," Claire praised the bright boy.

"Yes, I know parrots from the zoo. In Dresden. I've been there with Papa. The zoo is huuuuuuge!"

Fergus stretched his little arms as far apart as he could - to make it clear to Claire that the zoo was really ‘huuuuge’.

Claire nodded with a smile. Then she unpacked the game and explained the rules to Fergus.

After 40 minutes, they had finished the first round of the game.

"Well, shall we play another round?"

"Do we have that much time? When is Papa going to call?"

"Yes, we still have quite a bit of time. Your Papa can't call until after dinner, and before that there's another surprise for you."

"Another surprise?"

"Yes, but not until after dinner."

Fergus rolled his eyes while Claire rearranged the game pieces.

When they finished the second round as well, Claire let the boy play with his train set some more while she went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Curtius set the dinner table.

After dinner and a shower afterwards, Claire took Fergus to his room.

"Do I get my second surprise now?"

"Yes, you little rascal, but you'll have to move aside to get it."

Fergus made room and Claire sat down next to him on the bed. Together they sat leaning against the wall of the room when Claire pulled out her tablet and asked:

"Do you know 'The Show with the Mouse,' Fergus?"

"No, what is it?"

"The mouse is a cartoon character and there are shows with the mouse for kids on TV."

"No, I haven't seen that yet. Papa doesn't like me to watch too much TV. Are we going to watch a show like that now?"

“Children and The Mouse at the WDR broadcasting studio” at the launch of the first podcast episode - Von Superbass - Eigenes Werk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84390983 Source: Von Superbass - Eigenes Werk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84390983

"No, but the mouse also has a podcast for some time, a kind of radio show, and that's where the mouse tells goodnight stories."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, and tonight and every night as long as your Papa is on his business trip, we'll listen to one of those good night stories."

"Aren't you going to read to me from our book?"

"No, we'll do that when your Papa gets back. Otherwise he'll miss so much, won't he?"

Fergus nodded in agreement, then asked:

"What story are we going to hear tonight?"

Claire tapped on her tablet and the page 'Goodnight with the Mouse' came up. She pointed to it and read aloud:

"Today we're going to listen to a program about trees - with forest workers at work, a tree in the rainforest, and, of course, the mouse. Are you ready?"

Fergus nodded and Claire pressed the button.

The last chords of the podcast's closing music had just faded away when that familiar sound announcing an incoming video call was heard.

"Papa! It's Papa for sure!" exclaimed Fergus excitedly.

Claire opened the app and moments later Jamie appeared on the screen. He too smiled when he saw Fergus and Claire. Fergus waved enthusiastically and Jamie waved back.

"How are you, Papa," Fergus asked.

"I'm fine and how are you?"

A stream of information immediately poured out of Fergus' mouth, starting with today's experiences at school, to the new game he had tried with Claire, to of course listening to 'The Show with the Mouse' together, from which he had learned many new things about trees.

Jamie followed his son's report with great interest. He wanted to ask something, but before he could, he was bombarded with questions by the boy. Witty, but at the same time careful and descriptive, Fraser tried to answer his son's questions.

Twenty minutes later they said goodbye to each other and Fraser promised, if he had the chance, to call again the next evening.

Claire wrapped Fergus in his bedclothes, stroked his hair, and gave him a light kiss on the forehead.

"Sleep well, Fergus. If anything is, you know I'll either be in your father's living room or the guest room. There's a bottle of water next to your bed and I'll leave that little string of lights on."

"Hmmm."

"Good; I'll see you in the morning then."

Claire turned to go.

"See you in the morning. ... Claire?"

"Yes, Fergus?"

"Thank you for the nice day."

Once again, Claire walked back. Smiling, she looked at the child and stroked his head once more.

"I was happy to do that for you."

Then she left, closing the door behind her. She stood listening for a moment longer, but all remained quiet in Fergus' room. Claire looked down the hall, considering for a moment how to spend the rest of the evening. Then she made the decision to sit and read in Fraser's living room for a while longer. When she entered the room, it was still warm, although there were only embers glowing in the fireplace. Claire glanced at the small round side table that stood near the small seating area in front of the fireplace and held a selection of Fraser's whiskeys. It was tempting to help herself to it, and Fraser wouldn't have minded, she knew. But the responsibility she bore for Fraser's son held her back. Claire had just sat down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace when the tablet she was still holding reported the arrival of another skype call. She opened the app, and to her surprise, Jamie appeared on the screen.

#We only do this for Fergus #Outlander #Outlander Fan Fiction #Outlander Modern AU #Berlin #Potsdam #Germany #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Fergus Fraser #Ian Murray #Jenny Murray #Ned Gowan #Frank Randall

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babyboy-cody · 4 years

Note

What about Roman being anxious at his first thanksgiving at your family’s house? He would be overwhelmed by how nice your mom is and your grandma being interested in his work. At one point you notice he’s gone and find him in the bathroom just kind of losing it for a second because everyone is SO nice and he’s freaked tf out at all the affection😩🥺😩🥺

Roman looked at himself one last time in the mirror and began to over analyze his appearance. His outfit wasn’t the right color, it’s too dark. His hair was in the wrong style, it’s too slicked down. Should he put his tie inside or outside his jacket? Every little thing made him second guess himself. He cleared his throat and buttoned his cuffs. He breathed slowly out of his mouth and nodded stiffly at himself. The only thing he didn’t notice was your beautiful self standing at the doorway, all dressed to perfectipn and ready to go. You can tell that he was miles away in that dark head of his. It always happened when he was put in a situation that made him feel like whatever he did wasn’t good enough, and you always tried your hardest to steer him away from going into a negative headspace.

“You look very handsome,” you told him, your voice soft and calm as to not scare him. “We match perfectly.”

You stood in front of him and straightened his tie, smooth your hands down the front of his fancy jacket. The maroon color of his tie and handkerchief tucked in his suit pocket goes well with your maroon dress and black heels. Roman stared down at you silenty, taking in every feature that he loves and every imperfection that you hate. You can tell by the stiffness of his jaw that he was nervous, although he doesn’t want to admit it. Roman Godfrey was never nervous, for anything. He was calm, cool, and collected, most of the time.

“I’m gonna fuck things up, I know it,” he starts doubting himself with an emotionless chuckle, but you press your thumb against his pink lips and cupped his smooth shaven cheeks.

“They’re gonna love you,” you gently told him, smiling brightly when his large hands slide around your hips to pull you closer. “And you’re gonna be amazing, okay? I’m excited for you to finally meet my family and they’re excited to meet you. So don’t be too much of a worry butt, yeah?”

“You’re a worry butt,” he mumbles and lowers his head to kiss your lips, grinning and feeling the tension in his body lessen at the sounds of your sweet giggles.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

The car pulls to a stop inside the driveway of your mother’s beautiful home in Easton, Pennsylvania. There were other cars already parked and you recognized your grandparents newest minivan, as well as your sister and brother-in-law’s black Pathfinder. You were practically buzzing with excitement because you get to see your nieces and nephews. You unbuckled your seatbelt and made sure you had your purse in your hand. You looked over at Roman and saw his hands rubbing up and down his thighs to wipe away the sweat on his palms.

“Hey, look you me,” you gently told him, leaning over the console to hold his smooth jaw in order to tirn his head to yours. “I’m with you, okay? I’m not gonna leave. If you want to go at any time, we’ll go.”

He nods and leans over to peck your lips, breathing in your comforting scent and feeling himself get back down onto earth and be in the moment with you. When you both exited and locked the car, you intertwined your fingers with Roman’s surprisingly warm ones, despite the cold weather in Pennsylvania. He stood behind you as you both stood in front of the large red door that had a wreath hung up with cute little gold and red bells. When you rang the doorbell, you can faintly hear your niece and nephews running around and laughing, along with music playing in the background. As the door open, you heard Roman quietly mumble to himself, “Lets do this.”

Your mother stood in the doorway with a dirtied apron protecting her Thanksgiving outfit. She quickly wiped down her hands and immediately pulled you in for a tught hug, you groaning and laughing in her shoulder as she excitedly sways you back and forth quickly. She gave both of your cheeks a big kiss and held your face gently as she took you in.

“Look at how gorgeous you look. We really do have some good genes, huh?” She winked at you as you jokingly rolled your eyes. She looks past your shoulder and you noticed her looking Roman up and down with a pleased grin. “And you must be the handsome beast Y/N’s been yapping about.” You playfully slapped her arm and moved aside so she can greet him. “It’s finally good to meet you, honey.”

“It’s really good to meet you too, ma’am,” he tells her with a charming smile as he reaches a hand out to shake hers, but he’s pulled down by her arms that wrapped around his broad shoulders for a hug. He carefully hugs her back and looks at you in shock at how welcoming she is. You send him a wink and walked inside your mom’s warm home with her pulling Roman inside eagerly by his hand.

You hung up your coats and entered the living room where the others were at. Your sister and her husband were sat on the sofa drinking wine while your grandparents stood at the Christmas tree, admiring the twinkling lights and ornaments.

“Where’s my little monkeys?” You called out and immediately heard the fast running steps of the kids barreling towards you. “There they are!”

You knelt down and englufed them in your arms. You haven’t seen your nieces and nephews in almost a year and you’re in partial shock at how much they grown. They all talked over each other, each one telling something new about themselves. Whether it was a missing tooth, a new cool scar, or even a new friend. You listened with wide eyes and animatedly butt in every now and then. And you looked past their shoulders at your sister, who is now standing with a bright smile and her arms wide open. You fell into them and groaned as she rubbed your back.

“I missed you so much,” she tells you, squeezing her eyes shut as you chuckled in her shoulder. “Did your boobs get bigger? You look hot.” She held at arms length and whistled. You rolled your eyes and tugged on Roman’s arm.

“This is Roman. Rome, this is my big sister and her husband, Matt,” you smiled as they exchanged hello’s and hugs. Matt firmly shook Roman’s hand and pulled him in for a bro hug. You loved how different he stood out from everyone else, so dark and mysterious compared to all the bright colors.

A small tug at Roman’s slacks caused him to look down. It was your seven year old nephew, Mason. His little eyes were wide as he stared up at the stranger in his grandma’s home, his head tilting all the way back to take the tall man in.

“What’s up, bud?” Roman grinned and waved down at him.

“Are you a giant?” Mason bluntly asked, looking at Roman’s large hand in awe. “You’re big.”

“Yes, I am,” Roman grinned. “Do you know how I became a giant?” He knelt down at the eager little boy who frantically nodded his head. “I ate all my veggies.”

Mason gasped and immediately ran as fast as the speed of light to the kitchen yelling, “Nana I want veggies!!!” Roman laughed to himself and sat on the sofa beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as you leaned into his side. Not even a minute later, your other nephew Dominic and niece Rose came into the room following after Mason. He was talking so fast that you can barely understand a word coming out of his mouth.

“Is it true?” Dominic asked Roman, his little lisp coming out from his two missing front teeth. “You’re a giant?!”

“It’s very true,” Roman chuckles to himself at the kids excitements at his large stature. He wasn’t always fond of kids. He always found them annoying, like little fruit flies or mosquitoes that can never seem to go away even after swatting at them thousands of times. But these kids made his heart gentle and soft. And he couldn’t help but to let his guard down for them. “The secret is to always listen, alright?” All three kids crowd around him, hanging onto every word he says. “When someone says go to bed early, you listen and go to bed early. Then when you keep doing that, soon you’re gonna be big and strong! Same thing with veggies. When you eat all your veggies, you’re gonna be just like me!”

“Nana, veggies!” All three of them ran to the kitchen.

You giggled and leaned into Roman once more to kiss his cheek, quietly mumbling against his skin, “You’re so good with them.”

Roman bashfully smiled and shrugged. “I’m alright.”

“Is that Y/N?!” You heard your grandpa say from across the room, him and grandma now noticing you after ten minutes of you and Roman being there.

“I’ve been here, Pop!” You laughed softly and stood up to greet them with warm hugs and kisses. Your grandpa’s hands shook as he rubbed up and down your back, gently laughing in your shoulder. “It’s so good to see you and Nana!” You bring your tiny grandma into a hug, grinning widely when she cups your cheeks in her wrinkly hands and pats them lightly.

“You look just like your mother, so beautiful and all grown up. And who is this handsome man behind you? Is he yours?” Nana asked and held onto Pop’s arm as she slowly took a few steps towards Roman, her little cane clutched in her hand.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Roman bent down nearly two feet to bring your grandma into a gentle hug, laughing quietly when she holds his cheeks just the same way she did yours.

“I hope you’re treating my angel over here how she deserves,” Pop rasped softly and chuckles as he pats Roman’s arm shakily.

“Of course,” Roman grins and wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into his side, your own arm wrapping around his back as you held onto his shirt.

“Dinner’s ready!” Your mom yelled from the dining room.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

Forks and knives lightly clinked against the antique plates your mom set out for dinner. There was everything you could possible imagine. Turkey, cooked ham, mash potatoes, rice, green beans, corn, biscuits, gravy, cranberry sauce, and so much more.

“This is probably the best home cooked meal I’ve had in a long time,” Roman politely tells your mom as he gives her a small smile. You lightly hit his bicep, to which he laughed at before leaning over to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, honey. Before you two leave, I’ll be sure to give you lots of leftovers,” your mom told him, reaching over to pat his arm lightly.

“Roman, what do you do for work, honey?” Your seeet tiny grandmother asked him as she shakily brought her spoon to her lips to eat some mash potatoes.

“I inherited my father’s company for Godfrey Industries and I’m currently the CEO,” he tells her.

“Oh goodness. Such a handsome young man to be a CEO! So mature and handsome. Isn’t he handsome, George?” Nana asked Pops.

He didn’t hear her. He just shoveled more corn into his mouth. You chuckled and reached over to wipe away some cranberry sauce on Dominic’s mouth. Roman grinned as he saw you interact with him, the act being so natural and motherly. Your mom didn’t miss the way he was looking at you. Her heart warmed because she can tell how deeply and madly in love Roman was with you.

“What do you do there, honey?” Nana asked him.

“Well I make sure everyone’s doing their job. I deal with a lot of paperwork sent to me from other companies and I either approve or deny them, whether they’re blueprints to improve another company building or if they’re reports and contain bank statements for my company,” Roman sounds proud as he had a charming smile and spoke freely with his hands.

Your mother and grandmother stared at him silently in awe, especially Nana. Her hands her pressed together in a praying motion with her elbows on the table as she looked at Roman with a smile you couldn’t explain. It made you so happy seeing him warm up to them as he was incredibly nervous.

“That sounds like a lot of work, Roman. How do you do it?” Your mom asked as she sipped her drink.

“I have Y/N by my side to help me,” he looks over at you with a grin reserved for you and for you only, and it makes you blush and giggle softly.

“You are so smart!” Nana gushed as she laughs, her eyes wrinkling even more at the sides.

“Um, may I use the restroom?” Roman suddenly asks your mom, removing the cloth napkin from his lap to lay it onto the table.

“It’s upstairs, second door to your left,” she told him.

He silently got up with a polite smile and nod and stalked out of the room. Your mom rose her eyebrows and reached over to touch your hand.

“We love him,” she told you sincerely, causing you let out a sugh of relief. “He’s perfect.”

“So handsome and charming, holy moly!” Nana interrupted, using her hands to fan her face. Pop was busy cheeing his mash potatoes to listen. Your sister rolled her eyes with a dorky smile.

“I see you guys lasting long like Nana and Pop,” she told you and nudged your ankle with her foot gently.

A few minutes later and still no sign of Roman. You briefly excused yourself and quietly walked up the steps to where the bathroom was. You lightly knocked on the door and softly said Roman’s name. He opened the door and went back to his position of leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“What’s going on?” You asked him, genuienly confused on why he left so suddenly. “They were loving you out there.”

“That’s the point!” He quietly exclaimed and held his hands out in disbelief, eyes comically wide. “They actually like me!”

“That’s...” you trailed off, not knowing what to say because you were so fucking confused. “Do you not want them to like you?”

“No no no, that’s not what I’m saying,” he muttered and shook his head as he rubbed his hands over his faces exasperatedly. “I’ve never had anyone be so interested in what I do or who I am, expect for you of course. And the hugging?! I didn’t even know that was a thing cause I’m so used to only receiving it from you. And your grandmother; sweetest little woman I’ve ever met!”

You watched in amusement as he quietly ranted on how great your family was and how their open arms made him so overwhelmed and have a mental breakdown in the bathroom while they’re all probably talking about him so highly downstairs. You stepped forward until you were pressed against him, your hands holding his wrists to stop them from waving around as he spoke animatedly and frantically.

“Rome,” you quietly told him, your soft and gentle voice stopping him completely. “They love you, okay? And they’re incredibly happy and blessed that someone like you is with me.”

“Someone like me?” He quietly mumbles, curling his hands around your hands as yours press into his chest.

“Yes, someone like you. Someone so intelligent and hardworking. Someone so good-looking and charming. Someone who’s good with kids and gentle. The list can go on and on, my love. I’m so happy that they see what I’ve always seen in you,” yoi sincerely told him.

You felt his heartbeat thump faster as he listened to your words. He cleared his throat and nodded. You can see his lips quiver for a moment before he nibbled on his bottom lip. You smiled and got onto your tippy toes to kiss his jaw, hearing him let out a slow sigh of relief.

“Lets get back out there, yeah?”

#THIS WAS SO LONG BUT IM SO PROUD OF THIS #roman godfrey x reader #roman godfrey

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

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1kook · 5 years

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skirt chasers

jjk x (f) reader

summary “Baggy clothes are in, but you wouldn’t know that, Miss I Draw Inspiration From Catholic School Girls.” tags f2l, triple texting king kook, ncampus crush kook who is also the weird gamer boy, the skirt aspect is forgotten towards the end tbh, dumbassery is a disease and we are all affected by it, confessions SO CORNY it could be a 2005 teen romcom warnings smut in the form of: unprotected sex, use of mirrors, mostly heavy petting as foreplay I’m sorry, mentions of Jk’s furry ways as a gag kinda, like an unnecessary amount of swearing wc 7.8k

to make a long story short, i saw this nsfw gif and wrote this entire fic between 2 am and 6 am anyway i actually really like how this turned out!! lmk when u think

Part of the ideology behind the pleated skirt was in hopes that buying a new wardrobe would somehow help you rebrand your image around campus. Truthfully, it was kinda too late for that now; you’d been here going on three years, your friends and anyone with eyes could see that the style of clothing you leaned towards favored comfort over fashion. However, someone—it might’ve been Taehyung—had gone on a drunken spiel the other night concerning the importance of presenting oneself via fashion. It wasn’t aimed at you, but it certainly left you wondering.

Which is how you find yourself shivering to the bone now, lingering around the west quad as you wait for Jungkook to come out of an anatomy lab. He’s at that point in the semester where grades mean nothing and everything to him at the same time, so Namjoon’s commissioned you and your other pals to take turns babysitting him once a week to make sure he gets at least some assignments done.

You don’t know where any of you would be without Kim Namjoon.

Anyway, your legs are fucking cold and if this is what it takes to be known as the fashionably cute girl around campus, you’d rather choke. The imaginary sound of your bones rattling is cut off when Jungkook throws the door nearest you open, his big dopey smile engulfing his face the moment he sees you. He barely acknowledges the gaggle of students that follow after him, all calling out a chorus of goodbyes to him, because unlike you Jungkook was the cute, campus boy crush with his suave looks and comfortable fashion. God, if only you could pull off sweats and mustard-stained Venom shirts like him.

“Lets go,” you yawn, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your long cardigan. Jungkook jogs over, slinging an arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you into the emergency telephone you’d been brooding by. “You smell sterile again.”Jungkook grins.

“That’s because I was touching dead people again,” he informs you, too giddy for someone who’d probably fingered the fuck out of a gallbladder twenty minutes ago.

“Ew,” you whine, the sudden urge to shove Jungkook and his dead people germs away from you. He cackles in your face, and you wonder again how he single handedly enthralls half the campus population with a laugh like a seagull.

You’ve barely moved ten feet when Jungkook finally notices your vibrating body, and it’s only because you’re nearly convulsing with shivers at this point. “Woah, what are those,” he exclaims, eyes pointedly eyeing your legs.

You know your bare legs are a rare sight when Jungkook has to resolve to overused memes to refer to them.

“They’re my legs, and they’re fucking freezing,” you calmly reply.

Jungkook seems shocked for only a moment longer, and you almost think he’s gotten over it when he suddenly snorts and scares the shit out of you in the middle of the crosswalk. “Why the fuck are you wearing a skirt in this weather, you dinglehead?”

You shove him, and he stumbles over the curb, but you get the feeling he’d do that without you pushing him. Jungkook was clumsier than Namjoon on his bad days. “I’m trying to be fashionable, you hater,” you huff, not even bothering to say thank you when he pulls open the coffee shop door for you. “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to someone who doesn’t even wear the right size shirt.”

Like always, he’s one step ahead of you and hands the cashier his card before you can even reach for your wallet. Next time. “Baggy clothes are in, but you wouldn’t know that, Miss I Draw Inspiration From Catholic School Girls.”

“For your information I bought this from H&M,” you retort, though you can’t hide the flush that warms your cheeks at his comment. “Also, what's the point of working out your hotbod if you’re just gonna hide it under shirts long enough to be a mini-dress, huh? Riddle me that, Jeon.”

You flinch when your bare thigh touches the cold seat of the booth, something Jungkook doesn’t miss. “Your skirt is mad short,” he points out, and you kick his shins.

You’ve already got a Google Doc open on your laptop from last night when you and Jimin had been going ham on a psych essay, but you also have a Fashion Nova cart on another window that’s just begging for you to check out.

“Short skirts are just a concept made by men with lingering eyes to demean and belittle women who don’t submit to their every want and need.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and you watch him muffle a laugh into his palm as he gets his own work out. “Do you think I’m gonna pull the meninist card out on you and call you a slut or something?”

You fake gasp, eyes wide and shocked as you give him your best disappointed face. “Jeon, how could you? I expected better from you.”

This time he does laugh, a dorky sound unlike his witch cackle from earlier, and you finally let a smile slip. Jungkook was funny, too sweet and kind hearted for his own good. A little dumb, but most cute guys were. He’s one of those guys who thinks girls are nice to him out of their own free will, and not because they’re trying to bag the campus hottie.

“Seriously,” he says once he’s pulled his fat anatomical reference book out, stuffed to the brim with worn scientific essays he’d printed out, and pictures he’d taken at every single one of his visits to the cadaver lab. His voice is earnest and genuine when he speaks again. “You can wear whatever you want, I was just curious about the skirt ‘cause you normally wear things past the knee and elbow.”

When he puts it like that you kinda sound surprisingly conservative.

You shrug, tapping away at your computer as if the sight of you in anything other than what he said isn’t really weird. “Just thought I’d try something new. Why, does it look too weird?” Your voice suddenly feels meek, and you’re not sure if your cheeks are warm from the chill outside or from something else.

Jungkook shakes his head, coconut hair bouncing from side to side. “Nah, you look cute,” he says, and then, as if an afterthought, adds, “weirdly sexy, too. Like you belong in a Brazzers video?”

“What the fuck, Jungkook,” you groan, sinking your head into your palms.

“What! You asked for my opinion and I gave you it,” he defends, too casual for someone spewing their unwarranted porn knowledge at you. You urge him to do his homework, drink his coffee, anything besides embarrass you further.

He does, but you don’t miss the goofy way he glances under the table one more time.

The pleated skirt makes it’s return three weeks later, this time accompanied by her best friend, the sheer pantyhose.

“Oh, who’s this sexy schoolgirl?” Taehyung exclaims the moment you step into the diner. Your cheeks flush red when the family beside you send you and your friends a disapproving look.

“That’s what I said!” Jungkook says as he gets up to let you slide into the booth. He has this incessant need to be sitting at the end of the booth just in case nature calls in the middle of dinner and he can’t usher the rest of you out fast enough.

(It almost happened once, and the sight of Jungkook shoving Hoseok flat on his ass had been too funny to forget.)

“Wait a minute, is that why you stopped using EOS and started using the Dove shaving cream?” Chaeyoung interrogates from across you. “So you could show off your sexy model legs?”

“No, Dove is just cheaper,” you reply, trying to sound as aloof as possible but if anyone at this table knew you like the back of their hand, it was definitely Chaeyoung. “Why can’t you guys let me live my best life?”

Taehyung scoffs. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” You snap back, but your level of sass can never seem to match his.

“We all know your ‘best life’ would be spent in those fuzzy Cookie Monster pajama pants and one of Kook’s big ass shirts,” he points out, and you hide behind your menu much to everyone’s amusement.

You whine, “why can’t you all just be supportive besties and tell me I look cute?”

“You look gorgeous, babe,” Chaeyoung assures you, gesturing for you to pass her the sugar for her coffee. “It’s just weird seeing your legs out. Almost weirder than if you randomly pulled your tits out right now.”

Behind her, you can see the same mom from the family glaring at you guys. You lower your head in shame.

“For the record, I’m team skirt, but I wouldn’t be opposed to the other,” Jungkook adds after being silent for so long. Taehyung fist bumps him as you slap your hand over your eyes. At this rate you’d rather just put a paper bag over your head.

“We’re sitting on the same side of the table, so you’re supposed to be on my side!” You groan, and Jungkook shrugs mid-milkshake sip.

“I am!” He splutters once he’s gulped down the thick substance. “I just said I was team skirt, did I not?” His scandalized pout twists into the same sneaky little smile he has whenever Taehyung has convinced him and Jimin to do something stupid. “But I’m also a man, and therefore, a skirt chaser,” he winks.

From the other side of the table Taehyung’s eyes twinkle. “Bro, your mind,” he says in awe. He reaches over to shake Jungkook’s hand as if he’s just presented the table with some riveting discovery in the medical field, and the fucker has the nerve to look smug about it too.

“You guys are so stupid,” Chaeyoung whispers right before the server sets her pancakes down.

“Hey, have you seen Joon’s book? He said he might’ve left it—oh, Jesus, fuck sorry,” Jungkook says before whirling around to face the wall.

You turn from your bent over position by your bed where you’d been rummaging around for a book you coulda sworn you stuffed there last week. Jungkook’s blazing cheeks don’t register with you until you realize your favorite skirt is draping over your rear, giving him a clear view of your dorky star-printed panties.

“Kook,” you stammer, quickly jumping to your feet and brushing your hands over your skirt. “H-How’d you get in?” You ask for lack of greeting.

“Um, uh,” Jungkook stutters, eyes laser focused on some point on your wall. “Chaeyoung let me in.”

“Oh,” you say, and then silence falls over the two of you.

Holy shit this was awkward.

Despite being friends for going on three years, you don’t ever remember there being any stale moments between you and Jungkook. You were the type of friends that just clicked, never having gone through that awkward phase before. But you’d also never seen each other in any state less than presentable. (Being drunk at parties did NOT count, and even then, you’ve always been pretty collected.)

To know that he’s seen your ass, covered or not, tilted your Golden Friendship with Jungkook scale extremely off center. Your fingers twiddle at your sides, not really sure if you should mention what just happened or… what?

He coughs, and you snap back to reality. “Um,” he drawls, still not looking at you but at the socks you’d thrown off the second you got home. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, voice soft and earnest in that Jungkook™ way that made all the girls swoon. “I should’ve knocked before coming in all rude.” He finally gathers the balls to look you in the eye, and the dude looks like a kicked puppy.

“No,” you wave him off, hands fluttering in front of you because standing like some Macy’s holiday mannequin certainly isn’t making this situation any easier. “It’s okay, the skirt—y’know this wouldn’t happen if I just wore pants,” you say, tacking on a self-deprecating laugh. It’s your turn to look away in shame.

Jungkook jumps at your words. “The skirt’s cute!” He basically shouts and you flinch at the sudden increase in his tone. Then you’re both left looking at each other wide-eyed again as he scrambles to assure you it isn’t your fault. “I like it, and it makes your legs look really nice, so don’t-“ he stutters, as if realizing the meaning in his words, “don’t stop wearing it...” he trails off, cheeks rosy. Your mind goes blank.

“R-Really?” You stutter, surprised at his compliment. It’s not like Jungkook never complimented you—dude couldn’t go fifteen minutes without telling his friends how much he loved them—but for some reason it feels different now.

“Yeah,” he assures you. “Makes you look nice, and um. Pretty.”

“Jeon Jungkook telling me I look pretty? Someone call TigerBeat magazine,” you joke, trying to ease the tension somehow. Your chuckle sounds awfully robotic to your ears, but it makes Jungkook crack a smile and that’s all that matters.

“Shut up. You know I’m not friends with ugly people.”

“Wooow,” you laugh, real this time. “How noble of you,” you retort, and he gives you his best snobby expression possible.

“Ya, you’re welcome,” he teases, and then suddenly remembers what he came for in the first place. “Give me Joon’s planner, I know you’re holding it hostage.”

You roll your eyes, and point over to the notebook on your desk that’s absolutely overflowing with sticky notes and bookmarks. “As if I’d want his nerd diary ruining the good vibes in here.”

“These good vibes smell a lot like Bath and Body Works perfumes, you cheapskate,” Jungkook says as he snatches the book off the surface. He’s at the door again, narrowing you with another faux uppity look when he adds, “this is a Victoria’s Secret Bombshell household.”

“Bombshe—you don’t even live here!” You huff in laughter, ushering him down the hall to the front door. He’s half a foot out the door when he suddenly whirls around, making you take a step back in surprise.

“The stars are cute, but I prefer hearts.”

He slams the door shut behind him so fast, that you almost don’t catch the smirk tacked on at the end.

You were many things, but a liar was not one of them. You couldn’t lie to your parents when you were younger and wanted to sneak out, to your teacher when she asked where your homework was, or to your friends when they asked you who you liked. You couldn’t even lie to yourself.

You’ll admit it, there was a time your eyes had lingered a little longer on Jungkook. When you would spend moments tracing the slope of his jawline, and memorizing the twinkle in his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, and you would be blind not to see it.

But that was before you became close friends—before game nights at Hoseok’s became a regular staple in your schedule, before your little makeshift picnics in the quad, before you all became Park Jimin’s dedicated fan club (it’s a rotating unit consisting of whoever’s able to go to Jimin’s showcases).

Those fantasies of kissing Jungkook and going on dates were stuffed to the back as you became pals. As you’ve mentioned a million times now, Jungkook was the campus dream boy. He was hardly the skirt chaser he made himself out to be, too sweet and romantic for his own good. Besides, there was no need to be when the skirts flocked to him.

He’d had flings, and even girlfriends, in the time you’ve known him, but he rarely mentioned them to his friends. And even though you pushed that teensy crush aside, you still wondered how Jungkook acted with girls he was interested in, if it was the same he treated you and Chaeyoung, or special on an intimate level a platonic friendship could never be.

It’s the middle of the night when you first get a glimpse.

[1:21 am] jk wyd

[1:21 am] you sleeping , u?

[1:22 am] jk same anyway I finally beat world 8 in super Mario bros

[1:25 am] you omg the 1 w dry bowser?? [1:26 am] you wait u said u wouldn’t play w/o me :/

[1:27 am] jk u suck at Luigi and u know it

[1:30 am] you fuck u [1:31 am] you ok but seriously what do u want I have a test tmrw morning and am pretending to be asleep

[1:32 am] jk damn ok can’t I just talk to my friend about my successes [1:33 am] jk but if u must know

[1:33 am] you I must

There’s a lull in messages for a while, and you decide you should finally actually go to sleep, dabbing some spot ointment onto your skin before hopping in bed. You turned off the overhead light long ago, so the only light illuminating you now is the lamp by your bedside. You tap your phone once again right as Jungkook sends another message.

[1:40 am] jk you looked really pretty today

Oh. Your entire body pauses for a moment to process the sudden message, cheeks slowly heating up. You roll your lips in to stop the squeal that threatens to rip itself out of your throat, scrambling for something to type. But it’s the first time he’s randomly thrown something like this on you, and your brain feels like that episode of Spongebob when everything’s on fire.

Before you can send the jumbled letters you’d convinced yourself was acceptable, your phone vibrates with another alert.

[1:42 am] jk I know its weird to say that but I gotta make sure someone told u at least once today

Your heart flutters at the explanation, and you have to slap a hand over your face to get rid of the goody smile that overtakes your features. This time, you’re a little less thrown off and quickly tap out a reply before he can say anything else.

[13:43 am] you thanks kook :) was it the red skirt lol

You’d been experimenting with different skirts lately, quickly growing bored of the black pleated skirt you’d originally worn. Your latest trip to the mall had you coming home with a variety of colors and styles, like the dark red denim one you’d worn today.

[1:45 am] jk no!!!! [1:45 am] jk maybe… [1:46 am] jk ok yes you looked gorgeous

The tiny letters blink back at you, and you set your phone down for a second to smile stupidly at your dark ceiling. You only let yourself wildly kick your legs around for five seconds because Chaeyoung was asleep next door.

[1:47 am] you haha well I’ll make sure to wear it again for u :)

It’s only after you’ve sent the message that the last two words have you stuffing your face into your pillow to hide your embarrassment. Girl, what the fuck!!!

Oh my god, he could’ve just been friendly and polite this whole time. Jimin had said the skirt looked cute on you as well, and you hadn’t responded like this. All it took was a few compliments from Jungkook to have you dopily acting like a clown for his affections.

Before you can scold yourself anymore, your phone vibrates and you have to sit up to retrieve it from where you’d tossed it across the bed.

[1:50 am] jk for me? I’m honored :) [1:51 am] jk anyway get some rest before ur exam!!! [1:51 am] jk night cutie

You squeal, and Chaeyoung kicks your shared wall.

You liked to clown Seokjin for being the president of his fraternity. He was already a stereotypical frat boy, so it wasn’t that hard anyway; he came from money, was ridiculously gorgeous, and played on your school’s soccer team. However, behind that facade he liked to put up, he, too, was infected by the dumbass disease.

“Wait, are those your legs?” He says the moment you step into his frat party. Normally, he wasn’t prone to the same stupid questions that regularly plagued Taehyung and Jungkook (sometimes Namjoon, but everyone had their weak moments), so you deduce that he probably had some alcohol in his system to openly be asking you such a question.

“Yes, now give me whatever’s in that cup,” you brush off, not bothering to stick around to watch him not-so-subtly grope Chaeyoung as she enters behind you. You trust him enough to hand you a drink that hasn’t been roofied, but you’re also aware that Jin drinks like he’s trying to die three times over. One sip has your face scrunching up at the sour bitterness of it all.

There’s a loud cackle of a laugh that you’d recognize anywhere, and you turn to find Jungkook leaning against the staircase banister looking like a wet dream. “Someone lost on their way to Weenie Hut Jr?” he sneers, cheeks a nice rosy color. You flick his forehead.

You don’t bother gracing him with a reply, instead shuffling over so you’re stood side by side observing the party before you. Yoongi’s here, which is an even weirder sight than your legs being out, so you wonder why no one is talking about that. But then you see the way he’s trailing after Seokjin’s cat, Jalapeño, and realize he’s only here to make sure no one hurts her (she’s more important than anyone else here). You honor his service with another sip of Jin’s whatever the fuck mix.

“Wow, getting braver every day, huh?” Jungkook teases after giving you a very intense once over. He’s referring to the skirt you’re wearing, a little black circle skirt that flows around you like the first one you’d worn a couple months ago. Call it a tribute to the one that started it all. You’ve definitely experimented with lengths a little more, the one you’re wearing now brushing just barely below your ass. Appropriate for the frat party, but definitely not for your theology elective.

You hum, stepping aside as a couple makes their way up the stairs. You’re tempted to go tattle on them to Seokjin, but decide against it when you feel Jungkook’s fingers brush against your thigh.

He grins at the surprised little gasp you let out. “Pretty,” he chuckles, deep and seductive in a way you’ve never seen before. You were used to giggly Jungkook, and Jungkook who laughs like the stepmom from Cinderella, but you’d never seen this one before, the Jungkook who looked and laughed like he was straight out of a Calvin Klein campaign.

You giggle like a teenager at his compliment, unsure of what else to do so you settle on chugging Jin’s death drink. You only get a good three gulps in before Jungkook’s tugging the plastic cup away from you and setting it down on the nearest flat surface. “Don’t get all drunk on me now,” he jokes, eyes the teensiest bit glassy. He doesn’t look drunk, and he’s certainly not acting drunk. He might be a little tipsy, you think, because a completely sober Jungkook would never have the balls to tug you closer by the waist like this one does.

Your hands fall flat on his chest, warm beneath the material of his shirt. Not one of his super baggy ones today, but still a bit loose where it could hug his build. “What happened to the little red one? You said you’d wear it for me…” he questions, lips playfully pushing out into a pout.

You struggle to meet his gaze, focusing on the mole beneath his lip instead. “I, um, haven’t got around to washing it,” you stutter, absentmindedly shifting your weight from side to side.

“Really?” Jungkook presses, sounding like he doesn’t believe you at all. After a moment in which he ducks down to catch your gaze, he seems to accept. “That’s fine. This one’s cuter anyway.”

His words are emphasized by his fingers, tracing along the edge of your skirt while purposefully making sure to graze your skin. You shiver, unconsciously arching your chest into him. It’s only afterwards that you realize when Jungkook smirks in triumph. “Easy access too,” he murmurs, and your heart leaps in your chest.

“Jeon,” you whisper, hyper aware of all the people in this house right now. You’re standing at a point where everyone walks by, and the idea of Jungkook groping you in front of these people, some of which are friends, seems horrifying. “People can see.”

Jungkook’s Cheshire smile grows even wider, and you muffle a yelp when his hand slips beneath your skirt to grope your ass. “Since when were you shy?” He says, voice soft and lilting over the hum of whatever music is playing now. “Weren’t shy when you had your ass in the air that one day in your room.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory, but your core surges with a newfound heat at his wandering hands and teasing words. “Remember?”

You nod, tucking your head against his neck in a last ditch effort to hide your embarrassment. From here, your senses are bombarded with Jungkook and only Jungkook.

You feel him let out a long sigh. “Been thinking about you since,” he admits. “Nah, even before that. When you wore my shirt that one day after our balloon fight in the west quad.”

Your heart thunders at his sudden confession. The balloon fight in question had been a little over a year ago, a rallying effort from your friend group to cheer Taehyung up after an exam. After soaking each other to the bone with water guns and balloons, Jungkook had let you wear one of his stupidly big shirts home. So you’d ditched your usual jeans and shirt, wearing his shirt like a dress all the way home.

The fact Jungkook’s been thinking about you since then makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

��Every time you wear these little skirts, I think of that day. You, in my clothes, looking so soft and warm. Fuck, baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

You glance around, and your soul almost leaves your body when you make direct eye contact with Yoongi holding Jalapeño across the room. He gives you that Yoongi look, the whatever you’re doing is weird but I won’t say anything because I don’t care look, and that’s your signal to stumble your way upstairs before Seokjin can see you two and scold you.

You’re not sure who’s room you end up, just that it has one and a half bunk beds in it, so you don’t hesitate to push Jungkook down onto the half. He plops down like a little cherub, all sweet smiles until you see the way his pants strain at the crotch. Of fuck, this is happening, you think as you climb onto his lap.

His lips envelope yours the second you’re in his arms. You’re not usually one to give into those John Green cliches, but everything about being in Jungkook’s embrace feels so right. Like you belong there, or whatever.

He’s a good ass kisser, but you shouldn’t be surprised. Jungkook was good at everything he did—such was a known fact. But he still kisses you like he’s trying to prove something, like he wants you to melt into him, and he succeeds. His mouth moves against yours, tongue sneaking it’s way past your lips until it’s inside yours, and you’re swapping spit. His breath hot, but you imagine yours is as well because just making out with Jungkook has your body temperature hotter than the inside of a sauna.

“Jungkook,” you groan when he pulls away, desperate to feel his mouth on yours again. He smiles, lips slick and cherried as he drops his hands to your waist.

“‘M right here,” he assures you, pressing a few pecks to your mouth before trailing his lips down your neck, deliciously licking and kissing every inch. You let out a choked moan, and you can feel his smile press against your skin. “Cute,” he croons.

“More,” you beg, fingers curling themselves into his hair. It’s gonna way longer these last few months, the front pieces almost brushing the tip of his nose. He looks sexy as fuck.

“At least let me stretch you out first,” he teases, face too cute for someone about to fuck your brains out. You huff in annoyance, snatching his hand away from its path to your panties.

“No,” you whine, and then shuffle forward to grind your center onto him. Jungkook groans, jaw tight as he watches you. “Just fuck me, Jungkook.”

His eyes roll back at a particular roll of your hips. “I-It’ll hurt, though,” he tries to reason, but his hands are already hiking up the back of your skirt.

“Make it hurt,” you mumble, so caught up in the moment that your eyes bulge out when he suddenly lifts you to your feet. “What’s wrong?” You huff in dismay, lower lip trembling at the thought of him changing his mind. He lets out an airy chuckle.

“Turn around for me, doll,” he softly demands, and not a single inch of you feels the need to go against him.

You’re met with the sight of your own expression, staring back at you from the closet’s mirrored sliding doors. It’s a little dark in the room, most of the light coming from a desk lamp on the other side of the room that had been on when you first broke in with Jungkook.

“So pretty,” Jungkook praises from behind you, and you watch in the glass as two firm hands snake around your waist, slowly easing you back into his lap. In the seconds you were distracted by yourself, he’d unbuckled the front of his jeans, the cotton fabric of his boxers brushing against your ass. “Gonna fuck yourself on my cock, baby?”

You nod, unsure of what to do with your hands. You needn’t worry any longer, your body naturally guiding you through the motions, until one hand grabs his thigh and the other grapples for the bedside drawer next to you. His fingers trace around your waist, hiking your skirt up to—only to reveal a pair of white undies with red hearts. Jungkook’s chuckle against your ear makes you clench your legs together. “Fuck, it’s like you knew this would happen,” he murmurs, and you can’t take your eyes off the mirror as you watch his fingers trace over your covered mound. “Did you?” He asks, breath fanning over your ear.

“N-no,” you gasp, hips jumping when he presses a lone finger to where your clit would be had your girly panties not obstructed the way. You’re embarrassingly wet just from kissing Jungkook, and his playful fingers only worsen your state. “Please hurry, Kook,” you plead, grinding back against his engorged cock.

“You sure?” He checks, and your bobble head nods have him muffling more laughter into your shoulder. “If you say so, baby.”

He lifts you up just the slightest bit to tug his cock out of its confines, and this is the only instance where you wish you weren’t looking at the mirror. His fingers dance along your skin again, tugging your panties to the side.

Screw it, just do it, you say to yourself before sinking down on his cock in one go. “Oh fuck,” you cry, head lolling back to rest against his shoulder at the sudden intrusion.

“Holy shit,” he sighs into your hair, one hand circling to the front of your waist, while the other creeps upwards to rub at where he knows your nipple is. If he were to pull your shirt and bra away, he’d see how rock hard your nipples were right now. “Relax for me, doll, I promise it’ll feel better if you relax.”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut as your body slowly assimilated to the feeling of being stuffed full. God, he felt good inside you. Fit every crevice of you pussy like he was made for you. “Jungkook,” you moan, and he hums in response. “You feel so f-fuckin good,” you babble, swiveling your hips much to both your pleasures. “Can feel you everywhere.”

He presses a kiss to your scalp. “Can you move for me, baby?” He questions, dropping his hands to your waist before slowly pushing you up so you’re not flopped against him like a rag doll. “Wanna see you bounce on my cock. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You nod eagerly, desperate to show Jungkook how good you ride dick. You muster up the strength to sit up, one hand right around his thigh again, but this time the other one clamps down over his hand on your waist. “Good girl,” Jungkook praises, giving your hips a tight squeeze.

It’s like you thrive off Jungkook’s compliments, because soon enough you’re riding him like your life depends on it.

It’s a rhythm of pushing yourself over and over, thighs tense from the effort it takes to pull yourself away from his cock until only his tip breaches you, before dropping back down. You can’t entirely take the credit, because Jungkook’s arms are there, lifting you up before pushing you back down. Truthfully, he’s probably still doing most of the work in fucking you with the way you see his arms flexing in the mirror.

“Lemme hear you, doll,” Jungkook huffs, and you don’t hesitate to moan for him. It feels overwhelmingly good, his hands tight on your waist as they move you up and down, the material of your skirt bunched up between his fingers. What you’d give to feel them inside you some day, a day in which you’re not dying to feel his cock inside of you. “That’s it,” he grunts, and doesn’t even complain when your legs begin slowing down.

He picks up the slack for you, thrusting his hips up into you like you’re just some toy for him to use and discard. But the soft praises slipping past his lips assure you you are anything but. “F-fuck,” you whine, forcing yourself above and beyond as you begin to feel that familiar coil of heat grow tighter in your abdomen. “Your cock’s s-so f-fucking big!” You cry, and one look at the mirror let’s you know you look as stupid and fucked-out as you sound.

“Really?” Jungkook smirks, drilling into you like his life depends on it. There’s an embarrassingly growing stain on the front of your panties that you catch sight of in the mirror, and part of you wants to clench your legs shut so he doesn’t see. But it seems to do it for Jungkook, and he starts rambling about that next. “Look at you. Fuck. You’re ruining your cute little panties. Absolutely fucking soaking them with hot wet you are. I get you that wet, doll?”

You squeal at a particular thrust of his hips, feeling his cock so deep in you that your eyes momentarily go cross eyed. “Yes, yes!” You agree, bouncing yourself with a renewed vigor.

The answers please Jungkook, and he rolls forward until he’s pressing his tip faintly against your cervix, and your body damn near leaves your soul. “O-oh fuck!” You scream, body turning into jelly as your orgasm has you spurting hot cum into your panties and over his cock.

“Pretty even when you come,” Jungkook huffs, hips rocking up into yours for a few more minutes until he eventually comes when you roll your hips backwards. “Holy fucking shit,” he moans, finally releasing your skirt from the death grip he had on it.

You watch it flutter back into place around you, and you almost look like two platonic friends sitting together, but then Jungkook shifts inside you and your body convulses from the oversensitivity.

“Wait, you and Jeon finally fucked?!” Chaeyoung exclaims halfway through breakfast, which she had so lovingly prepared at three in the afternoon. “When? Is that why you made us get waxed last week?”

“No!” You flush, shoving another forkful of burnt scrambled eggs into your mouth. “We waxed our coochies before that, but I didn’t know we were gonna fuck.”

Chaeyoung blinks. She’s stupid pretty even with avacado spread on her cheek. “So do you have like a seventh sense on when to get your kitty trimmed?”

“What? No,” You scoff. “Seventh? What’s my sixth?”

“Knowing the exact moment Taehyung’s gonna throw up at a party.”

You accept. “Anyway, we just… I don’t know. It was at Seokjin’s third birthday bash last weekend.” She nods like she remembers anything besides sucking face with him all night. “We were talking and then suddenly we were upstairs and...” you trail off, glancing at your fake collection of succulents lining the kitchen window.

“Was he good?” She interrogates.

You flop back onto your chair dramatically. “Chae. He was so good,” you whine, and she slaps your arm in enthusiasm. “He made me ride him facing a mirror,” you spill.

Chaeyoung squeals. “Bitch!! Here I was thinking Jeon Jungkook was the poster boy of vanilla sex,” she pauses. “I mean, still pretty vanilla compared to the time Seokjin stuck it in my—“

You gag and she rolls her eyes. “Have you been talking since?”

This is the part where things get awkward, and Chaeyoung immediately senses as much. “Oh, honey,” she frowns, eyes furrowed in worry.

“He walked me home,” you mumble, toying with the tablecloth ends. “Kissed me on the doorstep and all, but besides a few texts, I haven’t seen him around,” you lamely finish. It’s been a week.

“Ugh, men are trash,” she spits, turning in her seat to play with your hair. “I swear if I see him on campus I’ll rock his shit. My older brother used to practice WWE moves on me, I could easily smash him through a table.”

“WWE wrestling is staged, Chae,” you point out. Chaeyoung was about ten thousand times more experienced when it came to men and their behaviors. She’s been played but also has played, so her reaction to you telling her about Jungkook is all you need to hear.

In all the scenarios you’ve ever had about Jungkook, him randomly ghosting you had never even been a possibility. The Jungkook from your imaginary universes either just dumped you, or awkwardly friendzoned you. But completely disappearing on you? Now that was some John Greene shit.

You’ve gone long periods of time without seeing him, like your freshman year you saw him one time in March. But even then he’d made sure to keep in contact with you, randomly blowing up your phone with Cup Pong and 8Ball requests.

He sent you two texts this whole week, and both of them had been to cancel your homework sessions.

You almost couldn’t believe you were living this life. The men are trash, love isn’t real, heartbreak can possibly cause death life. Forget John Green, your life had taken an unexpected Shakespearean turn.

“Oh,” you say the moment you step into Taehyung and Jungkook’s apartment, surprised at the fact Jungkook is there despite the fact he, y’know, lives there. In retrospect, you should have seen this coming when Tae had asked you over to help him decorate a poster for Jin’s next game. He’s never been to a single soccer match in his life. “Is Tae here?” You ask, looking every part the stupid bitch.

Jungkook’s cheeks had flushed the moment he opened the door. “No…” he answers, glances at the shoe rack behind the door as if to make sure. “Were you supposed to meet him?” Well no shit.

“Uhh, yeah,” you say, and it’s even more awkward than the time he saw your star undies. Granted, now he’s become very familiar with your underwear and what’s hidden beneath it. You would think such an encounter would bring you two closer. “I’ll just come back another time.”

“Do you wanna come in?” He blurts out before you can even turn away. You flinch at the sudden intensity of his voice, and then both of you are left staring at each other like cringey high schoolers. “I cut some cucumber slices with lime and that one spice you like.”

“Taíjn?” You confirm, and he nods. “I mean...sure, if it’s not a bother.”

Usually when you and Jungkook hung out at his place, you’d throw your bag across the room and flop onto the ugly armchair the moment you stepped in. Now, you’re awkwardly hovering by the armrest of the sofa, like this is your first time here.

Jungkook disappears into the kitchen to, you assume, get the cucumber slices. He comes back empty handed, and with a heavy heart. “I lied. There’s no Tajín,” he confesses, and you rush to tell him it’s okay but he beats you to it. “There’s no cucumber slices either. I just needed to get you inside to talk to you.”

“You act like I needed to be lured in, Jungkook,” you say, forcing a tight smile on your face. Jungkook visibly deflates at your tone.

“No, this isn’t right,” he huffs, dramatically throwing himself onto the couch. You jump at the loud groan he releases from his position, which is face stuffed into the cushion.

“You...okay?” You tentatively ask, clutching your bag even closer to your side. Jungkook shakes his head no against the couch. “Should I call Namjoon over?”

He sits up so fast you worry he’ll get whiplash. “I have a confession to make,” he informs you, doe eyes wide and serious.

Your brain processes for a minute before slowly responding. “Okay…”

At your response he jumps to his feet. “This may come as a shock, but I’m not a womanizer.”

You blink.

“When have you ever been a womanizer, Jeon?!” You nearly exclaim when you mull over his absurd proclamation. “Are there people who actually think that?”

“I think that people think that,” he stresses to you, running a hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m really nice and cool, and sometimes people think that means I’m flirting with them.” Valid point. “But I’m not, because frankly I’m terrible at shooting my shot.”

The fact he’s actually admitted it out loud leaves him devastated, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Finally, something Jeon Jungkook isn’t good at.

“What lead you to that conclusion?” You carefully press on.

“Because,” he sighs, dropping back down onto the couch, except this time he’s sitting like a normal person. You sit beside him, close enough to the edge that you can just spring yourself out the door if need be.

“There’s this girl I like,” your heart pangs, even though the logical side of you can more or less guess where this is going. You’re stupid, but not that stupid. “She’s amazing, like everything about her makes me like her. God, she’s so cool, like everyone wants to be her friend, even though she sucks at Super Smash Bros., and burns her ear on a straightener at least once a month. But she’s funny and sweet, and makes me wanna join a clown troupe just to hear her laugh. And she looks gorgeous in skirts, and the way she rides dic—“

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” you interrupt, glancing at the coffee table decorated with Jungkook’s anatomy books, because you don’t want to look at the big dopey grin on his face as he talks about you and your dick riding abilities.

Jungkook grins, this much you can tell from your peripheral, before it drops into a frown. “Whole point is, she’s cool as fuck. And I… I think I might love her,” he admits, and you whip around to face him. His cheeks are as red as Taehyung’s current hair dye, which is to say they’re as red as a fire truck. You get th feeling you're mirroring his expression.

The silence following his confession seems to drag on an eternity, but truthfully, you and Jungkook both have the patience of a soccer mom of three, so he jumps to fill the spaces between you. “And like, I just wanna kiss her and hold her and watch her eat and cuddle her to sleep and hold her hand and buy her gifts, and I think I would die for her?—”

“Okay chill, Romeo,” you scramble to cut off that train of thought. Jungkook’s looking at you like you were the creative director behind Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker and the trailer released two minutes ago. It’s a weird reference but coming from Jungkook, it means a lot.

You don’t know what to say, but Jungkook beats you to it anyway. “There’s this girl I like,” he repeats, and your heart does nearly implode on itself when he reaches over to clutch your hand in his. Your hands are sweaty and fidgety from his confession, but so are Jungkook’s. “How do I tell her I like her?”

You gulp, before reaching over to smack at his bicep much to both your surprise. “Jeon Jungkook! How’re you gonna give me the best fucking of my life and then ghost me for a week, because you’re too much of a pussy to tell me you like me!” You almost want to cry, and you almost do when he wraps you in his arms with a delighted, warm laugh rumbling through his whole body. “You suck,” you huff, and sniffle once, and only once.

“Thank fuck,” he sighs in relief. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you friendzoned me.”

“The friendzone—“

“—is a made up concept created by men who feel like they’re entitled to women and their feelings, I know,” he huffs and you laugh. You push yourself away from his chest to meet his gaze, stretching up to capture his lips in a sweet kiss that quickly turns naughty when you feel the flex of muscles beneath your hands.

“Ugh, you beefcake.”

“I wish,” he snorts, tugging you back into his chest as he flops down onto the couch. You snuggle into him, the position all too comfortable in your skirt. The only reason you’re reminded of it is because Jungkook traces his fingers along the edge of the material. “You asked me why I workout out but hide in big clothes, and the truth is its so I can beat up any meninist douchebag that tries to slander my girl in her thot skirts.”

You sputter. “My thot skirts—you asshole! All my skirts are of appropriate length,” you defend, pinching his side and winning a giggle for your efforts. “That doesn’t even explain the baggy clothes part either.”

“Shh, your thot skirt is tempting me.”

“He made you dress up as a what now?!” Chaeyoung exclaims, fork clattering loudly against her plate as everyone in the diner turns to look at you two. You try desperately to quiet her, but the damage is done and even the server whose long since become familiar with your antics looks disgusted.

“Oh my god,” Chaeyoung sighs, her concern on everything but this public humiliation. “I knew it. I told you he got along too well with Jalapeño, remember?”

[ NOW WITH A DRABBLE WOW!!! ]

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