#and then scribbled even more lines everywhere

[ambivartence]

SLOW IT DOWN

[alltheirdamn]

Killing Me Softly | (Joel Miller x teacher!f!reader)

Chap. 1 : Your Name

Series Summary: You've nursed a broken heart for two years. ‘Love’ felt like a foreign term, but maybe it wasn’t so far out of reach. Chap. 1 Summary: When you catch the eye of your students' dad at a school dance, he starts showing up everywhere. Rating: 18+ MDNI (for the future smut) Word Count: 6.8k Warnings: pre-outbreak AU, age gap (joel is 36 reader is 27), no smut (yet), sexual tension, flirting, pining, mentions of alcohol, language, angst, reader's last name is 'Smith' for no other purpose than the fact she is a teacher A/N: This will definitely be a slow-burn fic, so please hang tight!! Tropes include: second chance at love, strangers to lovers, secret relationship, etc. I'm actually so excited about this one, so I hope you guys stick around to see where it goes :')

Masterlist

PROLOGUE

You never thought you’d be the girl sitting at the steps of an abandoned altar with your wedding dress covered in mud from the rain.

 Just minutes before you were supposed to take your first steps down the aisle, your fiancé fled. You watched the blur of his suit in the distance as he ran through the rain and left your family and friends in shock. Motionless at the back of the rows of chairs, you dropped your bouquet and stood in heartbreaking silence as the cords of the violins faded into the air. Your parents and siblings swarmed around you, trying to break the paralysis that kept your eyes locked on the vacant spot under the archway and steps of what would have been the place you said your vows. You still had them in your hand; the words scribbled neatly on a folded paper torn from your journal. You’d never get the chance to say those words aloud; he never would have deserved them, anyway. 

The ring sat heavily on your finger now as you watched it glisten under the pelting rain. Your dress clung to your body in layers of silk and lace, a taunting reminder of who you had become for a man unworthy of your love and devotion. 

Five years together, all stripped away in a matter of minutes. 

You’d never love again. 

“Everyone’s gotta do it,” Maria sighed as she stood at the student drop-off with you.

By ‘it,’ she meant chaperoning the father-daughter dance later in the week, which you seriously wanted no part of. You had been through enough school dances in your three years working at the middle school, and you were tired of watching pre-teens grinding on each other to god-awful music. You had better things to do with your Friday nights, like sitting on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a horror movie playing in the background—you’d sworn off rom-coms long ago.

“Yeah, I know,” you grumbled, waving another line of kids across the road. 

You watched as they trudged across the crosswalk with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, eyes bright and broad at the realization school was over for the day. If only they were that chipper in class, maybe you’d have an easier time teaching them how to write three-point essays. 

Maria chirped goodbye to each one as they passed, her cheeks pinched with a fake smile only you could recognize. You knew she loved the kids but loved the final school bell even more. You, on the other hand, hated it. The end of school was just another reminder that you’d go back to an empty home and an empty life. 

Two years had passed since Bennett ran from your wedding ceremony—two years without closure or an answer. By the time you had pieced yourself together and returned home from the would-have-been ceremony, his things were gone, and the house filled with the ghost of his presence. Your in-laws went radio silent, avoiding all calls and emails from you until they eventually moved out of state and changed numbers. The hours leading up to the ceremony would forever be a mystery as to why he left, and you would spend the rest of your life fighting for an answer as to why you weren’t good enough to love. 

Dragging you from your thoughts, Maria bumped you with her hip, giving you a concerned look. You shook away the memories and returned her stare with a fake smile you had mastered over the last two years. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had genuinely smiled or laughed without feeling the force of a facade washing over you. Concealing the pain of it all made it easier; maybe if you believed you were okay, you’d start feeling okay. But you never did. Not even the countless hours of therapy had helped reconcile the person you once were. Bennett had left and taken every vulnerable part of you with him, leaving nothing but a raw and broken shell in his wake. 

“You’re doing it again,” Maria scolded. 

“Doing what?” You asked, already aware of the answer.

“Wallowing. You really should get back out there again.”

You focused on the next grouping of kids setting out to cross the street, your hand instinctively coming up to hold the passing cars at a standstill. You plastered on a fake smile as they waved goodbye to you, and you glanced back at Maria once they finally stepped foot on the next sidewalk.

“I’m not interested,” you stated. “I’m fine on my own.”

Her eyebrow lifted as if challenging your blasé response. Your answer always remained the same, yet Maria relentlessly attempted to change your mind.

“You’ve got to at least try. What if there’s already someone out there just waiting for you?”

“Maria, I promise no one is waiting for me.”

“I wish you’d just give it a shot. You deserve to be happy.”

You had heard that phrase often over the last couple of years; a pitying tone always accompanied the words. People loved to soothe you with words that held no weight or purpose. You learned to nod along to their sympathies and turn a deaf ear to their suggestions of what you deserved. 

The final round of kids made their way toward the line of parents waiting in their cars, and you followed Maria back to your classrooms to clean up before leaving for the day. Her words stuck with you on the quiet drive home; the radio wasn’t enough to drown out that taunting voice in your head reminding you that you’d never be enough. 

Your single-story house was nestled into an older neighborhood of Austin, only a handful of miles from the middle school. You’d argue that the house was the best thing to come out of the failed engagement; its personality stood firm against the other houses with a vibrant shade of blue painted over its wooden panels and wrap-around porch. You spent the last few months sprucing up the front yard, planting rose bushes and trees to liven up the house. It hadn’t fixed all your problems but pacified them temporarily as you dirtied your hands in the soil. 

It became second nature to shut your garage immediately after putting your car in park. You didn’t want the typical neighborly interactions or shallow conversations. You were content with living between closed doors and drawn curtains. The less of an interaction with the world, the better. 

Dropping your purse and work bag on the kitchen counter, you sunk onto a barstool, staring blankly at the fridge and knowing all too well there was hardly anything inside it. You’d settle for another frozen meal and glass of wine, a typical meal these days to satisfy a hunger you no longer had. Despite the colorful kitchen cabinets, the mustard yellow couch in the living room, and the obscure wallpaper…your life was dull. How could one person suck out all the energy from another human being? How could pain last this long? 

You stabbed a fork into the TV dinner meal before you and wondered if you’d ever feel happy again. 

**

You managed to survive another week of teaching, only to now be standing in the shadows of the school gymnasium, nursing an overly sweet fruit punch. The PTA had done a decent job of turning the space into a somewhat realistic dance floor: string lights hung corner to corner of the ceiling, a DJ booth in the center of the basketball court, and colorful balloons circled the air. You spotted a few of your students dancing with their fathers, their eyes squeezed shut from their too-wide smiles and bubbling laughter. A foreign ache in your chest reminded you how you would have had a father-daughter dance at your wedding. Your father even took it upon himself to brush up on dance lessons to sway you across the floor to some overly emotional song. As corny as it was, you had been looking forward to that moment throughout your engagement. 

“Look who got all dolled up!” Maria hollered as she strolled over, fruit punch in hand.

“I would hardly call this dolled up,” you said, tugging at the hem of your dress.

You only had a handful of dresses in your closet, this particular one being a flowy black cocktail dress with a halter top and ruffled skirt. It was barely passing the school dress code, so you decided to pair it with a low kitten heel to try and deter the admin’s scrutiny. You did, however, spend a little more time than usual on your makeup and hair, hoping if you looked pretty, then maybe you’d feel it, too.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Maria sighed.

“You look great,” you said, sidestepping her lecture.

Maria had chosen a plum floor-length maxi dress decorated with embroidered blue flowers. Her curly hair was pinned in a bun, and several sparkly barrettes were clipped to the side. Her makeup was no different from usual: a rosy red lip and simple mascara with a hint of blush on her cheeks. 

“Really, Maria. You do.”

“Well, thank you,” she blushed, looking back toward the room full of bodies dancing.

Your eyes followed hers, settling on the duos as they swayed to a slow song. Every father was dressed up in some sort of button-up or the occasional suit except for one—the same one who happened to be twirling around your student, Sarah Miller. You nudged Maria, pointing secretly at them with a questioning glance.

“Is that her dad?” You asked.

He wore a basic cotton T-shirt, jeans, and dirty work boots. There was barely any thought behind his appearance as if he had rolled up to the school right after a long shift at work, forgoing any effort or care. Some part of you hated him for it. The least he could do was get dressed up for a silly school dance, especially when Sarah wore a lavender tulle dress that complimented her olive skin tone. 

“Yup,” Maria elongated the word. “That’s Joel Miller.”

“Sure looks like he doesn’t care to be here,” you grumbled.

Maria barked a laugh, looking at you through narrowed eyes.

“As opposed to you?” She questioned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you bitching about this dance all week long?”

“Well, at least I put some effort into my looks tonight,” you defended.

You glanced back at Sarah, seeing her father twirl her one last time. You caught a glimpse of his face for the first time in the flow of his movements. Messy dark curls framed his head, curling in every which way as if he’d run his hand through them a million times. Even from a distance, you could see the patchy beard and short mustache covering the lower half of his face, alongside the several creases around his eyes as he smiled.  And his eyes… They looked like big brown saucers under the lights, reflecting a genuine softness as he watched his daughter dance. 

And then they snapped up to meet your gaze through the crowd as if you had silently called out to him. Everything slowed around you for a moment as he studied you from afar, his eyes drifting down your body and back up with a hint of a smile teasing his lips. A rush of heat crawled up your neck, and you broke the eye contact between you. Maria cleared her throat beside you, tearing you away from the man holding your sincere interest. 

“What was that?” Maria chirped. 

You shook your head, glancing between her curious face and the dancefloor. Joel had since moved on, steering Sarah toward the refreshment table. He never once looked back at you, which left you unexplainably disappointed. For a moment in time, someone looked at you and saw you. 

“I–I don’t know,” you stuttered. “Probably nothing.”

“It looked like something.”

You turned to face Maria, a scowl twisting up your lips entirely. You were tired of her pushing nonexistent things on you, and that’s what this was— nonexistent. Whatever moment between you and Joel had gone as quickly as it came. You were done with the night and standing among so many cheerful people. You couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“I think I’m going to take off,” you announced, placing your half-drunk fruit punch on the table behind you. 

Maria was defeated, knowing you'd still leave no matter what she said. Stalking out of the gymnasium, you grabbed your purse from the teacher's booth and booked it to your car with your heels in your hands. You carefully walked along the sidewalk toward your car, catching a conversation drifting through the wind between the other vehicles. 

“...Dad, you promised we’d watch movies tomorrow!”

“I know, sweetheart, but Uncle Tommy needs help on the job sight.”

You hid between two cars, listening to their voices bounce back and forth. It wasn’t until you peeked out to see the two figures that you realized it was Sarah and her father, Joel. For fucks sake. You tiptoed around the car's bumper beside you, attempting to make a getaway before either of them saw you. You must have done a terrible job because Sarah called your name as you edged closer to your car.

“Miss Smith!”

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself. 

With your purse in one hand and heels in the other, you turned toward them with your rehearsed fake smile. Sarah was standing beside her dad—Joel—a small smile shining up at you. You knew her usual upbeat personality in class, always laughing and joking with other kids. She was an A+ student, too, and her work showcased her smartness. But in her father's shadow, a distinct sadness clouded her eyes. 

“Hello, Sarah! How did you like the dance?” You asked. 

“It was really fun,” she grinned, forcing her smile wider. You saw through it. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Joel cleared his throat, extending a large hand toward you. You blinked at his open palm, afraid of making that same startling eye contact as you had in the gymnasium. Shuffling your purse into your other hand, you took his into yours, focusing on the warmth of his grip crawling up your skin. His fingers dwarfed your own, tightening around your hand until you were forced to look up finally. 

“S’nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Smith,” he said, his thick Southern accent shining through.

“Miss Smith,” you corrected. It was hard to hide the bitterness in the statement. 

“Miss Smith,” he echoed. “I’m Joel, Sarah’s dad.”

His eyes still hadn’t left yours, their piercing stare making you shiver despite the September humidity. You pulled your hand away, overly aware of how his fingers lingered a moment too long. Shifting your weight from one leg to another, you were starting to feel the asphalt dig into the soles of your feet. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you replied.

“Joel,” he insisted.

You nodded politely, giving him another faltering smile. Hauling your purse over your shoulder, you said a soft goodbye to them and bolted to your car. In the confines of the driver's seat, you rested your head against the wheel, inhaling deeply as you steadied the nerves inside your body. Why did such a simple interaction light up your body with emotions you had spent so long suppressing? And why did Joel’s smile haunt you even when your eyes were shut?

Forcing your keys into the ignition, you tore out of the school parking lot and back to the confines of your tiny blue home. 

The weekends were usually filled with nothing more than grading papers and lesson planning. The coffee beside you on the kitchen counter had gone cold hours ago as the morning sunlight faded into the afternoon. Through tired eyes, you glanced up at the oven clock: 2 pm. You needed a break from reading through piles of essays, and your fridge desperately required replenishing. Grabbing your keys off the counter, you forfeited any plans of changing out of your sweat set and headed to the supermarket.

The packed parking lot and crowded store were daunting reminders of why you typically decided to leave your fridge vacant. But as you pushed your shopping cart down each aisle, you had no choice but to comply with your basic human needs and stock up on miscellaneous food you would want throughout the week. Rounding down the next aisle, your eyes caught on a tall figure standing in front of the bakery section, his face scrutinizing every cake in the display case. Shit. 

You tried—and failed—to maneuver your way into the next aisle, somehow crashing into an older woman’s cart, forcing her carton of eggs to fall and smash onto the linoleum floor.

“Dammit,” you hissed, crouching down to try and help them clean up the shattered eggshells.

“S’alright, sweetheart,” she assured. “I’ll just holler for a worker to come clean it up.”

“No, I—I can help,” you stammered, fingers still running over the broken yolks spreading across the floor.

“Miss Smith?” You heard a deep voice above you.

Your head snapped up to see Joel standing above you; his forehead creased with concern. The woman you had crashed into was already down the next aisle looking for a store employee, leaving you alone with a mess you had caused. Joel crouched beside you, his hands folding over yours to slow your frantic cleaning.

“It’s alright, I got it!” You snapped, pulling your hands back.

“Just tryna’ help,” he said. “That’s all.”

“It’s my fault. I can fix it.” 

You had said those words to yourself many times before, and never once did they prove true. 

“Someone will come and clean this up; you ain’t gotta do all that,” Joel said softly. “C’mon.”

He offered a hand, which you took reluctantly, leaving you both standing awkwardly in front of the mess. You shifted your gaze downward, too afraid to meet those deep brown eyes that had plagued you the night before. 

“Hey,” Joel said in a soft tone. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

You huffed a sigh, gripping the handles of your cart to start moving. Today was going downhill rapidly, and you only wanted to go home and hole yourself away…like you always did.

“I, uh, was tryna’ pick out a birthday cake,” he rambled. “S’my birthday tomorrow, and Sarah wants to make sure I have a cake, ya’know? Any ideas on what she might like? I’m not sure if y’all ever have parties at school with sweets and all that.”

Your eyes snapped to his, a scowl forming on your face. Sarah’s dad was asking you what she liked? He was proving to be worse and worse by the second. But you were her teacher and needed to hold your tongue.

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy anything,” you said, a tight smile forming. “Happy birthday, Mr. Miller.”

His eyebrows furrowed together, clearly seeing through the mask you put on. It was infuriating how easily he had wove his way through your bloodstream, even in just twenty-four hours. 

“Joel,” he insisted. “You don’t need to do all that formal stuff.”

“I kind of do,” you laughed. “You’re my students’ father; that’s how I’m supposed to address you.”

“S’all I’m sayin’ is that you’re free to call me Joel. No harm in it.”

There was a lot of harm in it. 

You didn’t know what else to say, so you dipped your head to say goodbye and pushed your cart past him. You weren’t being the kindest nor the most respectful person, but your anger was at a low simmer. Any longer around him, and you might explode. You weren’t used to someone getting under your skin like he was. And the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying. You couldn’t understand why you reacted so strongly. 

“Miss Smith!” Joel called, catching up as you moved down the next aisle.

You inhaled and stopped walking, mustering another fake smile to appease him. He gripped the side of your cart with a large hand, a simple gesture to keep you firmly in place. Clearly, he decided when the conversation was over.

“Yes, Mr. Miller?”

“Did I do somethin’ to upset you? ‘Cause I swear, I didn’t mean anything inappropriate by what I said back there. 

“No, no, you’re fine,” you lied. “Just having a bad day, that's all.” That wasn’t a lie.

Joel ran a hand over his neck, studying you quietly for a moment. Something about the atmosphere around him was intoxicating and so fucking dangerous. 

“Well, I’m sorry ‘bout that. Guess I was just tryna’ make small talk, and clearly, I ain’t doin’ a good job.”

“It’s fine—no need for apologies. I hope the cake and birthday celebration go well. I’m sure Sarah will tell me all about it on Monday.”

His eyes shifted over you again, lingering on your lips, set in a firm smile. You tried your best to hide the shiver that ran up your back as he drank you in. 

“Y’probably think I’m a terrible dad, huh?” He sighed.

“What?” You blinked away the thoughts swarming your head.

“I mean, I know you probably heard us arguin’ last night, and I’m out here asking her teacher what her favorite kind of cake is. You ain’t gotta be polite about it. I know I’m not doin’ the best job,” he confessed.

“Mr. Miller, I don’t think that at all. I just think maybe asking your wife would be more helpful than asking me.”

That garnered a laugh from him, a genuine and sincere laugh.

“Never had a wife to begin with. Sarah’s mom left us when she was only a year old,” he explained. “Been doin’ it all on my own.”

“Oh.” Dammit, you really were a bitch. 

“Trust me, I get it. I could do a better job, bein’ a dad and all that. I’m tryin’.”

“I think you’re doing just fine,” you said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

He brushed it off, replacing the sad look cresting his eyes with a lopsided grin. You wanted to hate it, but your body reacted traitorously. You felt the softness in his gaze crawl over you, slowly replacing the anger coursing through your veins with something else…something you hadn’t felt in a long time. No one had looked at you that way since—well, since Bennett. Even if Joel was only being friendly, you were drawn to the charm he exuded. Dangerous, you reminded yourself.

“Anyway,” he continued. “I won’t hold ya’ up any longer. I hope your day gets better, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “And Happy birthday, again.”

Joel’s eyes settled on your lips again as you talked, and you felt your cheeks warm under his gaze. His eyes flicked back up to yours, a flash of something behind them, and you were ready to bolt. He muttered a thank you and left you standing in a vacant aisle, your hands still covered in egg yolks and your mind reeling.

It was hard to maintain your good mood once Monday rolled around. Seeing Sarah sitting in class was an unwelcome reminder of your interaction with Joel on Saturday, and you had to refrain from overstepping boundaries and asking about his birthday. She didn’t need to know you cared, even though you struggled not to care. You wondered what kind of cake he decided on, how old he turned if he blushed when she sang Happy Birthday. Every thought burned a hole in your head that you tried to patch up and forget. 

The final bell rang for the day, and the kids began to pack up in a rush. You straightened out the papers lining your desk, avoiding eye contact with Sarah as she slung her backpack over her shoulders and lined up to leave. Grabbing your whistle and bottle of water, you followed them toward the front gates, taking your usual place alongside Maria—who was overly chipper for a Monday.

“Soooo,” she prodded. “How was your weekend?”

“Uneventful,” you lied, walking with her to the crosswalk. 

“You really need to go out and have fun! You’re young, and you need to enjoy your 20s!” She exasperated. 

“Maria, I’m 27,” you groaned. “My 20s are practically over.”

She folded her arms over her chest, leveling you with a heavy glare. Maria was in her late 40’s and clearly exuded a motherly-type attitude. You shifted your focus to the kids crossing the road, watching as they reunited with their parents. 

“We go out on Wednesdays for Happy Hour! Join us this week,” she suggested.

“I don’t know,” you sighed.

“Come on!” Maria pressed. “If you hate it, I’ll never ask you to go out with us again.”

There was no point in arguing with her, so you relented and agreed to one night out. A few drinks and hours of mindless conversation could be good for you. It would be better than sitting in front of the TV with a bland meal and another glass of wine.

You managed to evade all thoughts of Joel somehow the next two days, putting all your time and energy into prepping your students for their first test of the year. Lesson planning and preparation took up your free period and late evenings, leaving you little room to think about those brown eyes and disarming smile. It was Wednesday evening, and you were knee-deep in your closet, trying to find an outfit for Happy Hour. You had changed at least five times, discarding every top and skirt onto your bedroom floor. Eventually, you gave up, settling on tight jeans, a flowy red blouse, and black flats. You left your hair in wavy curls over your shoulders and simple makeup to balance everything out. 

The group took their Happy Hour rituals to a local dive bar on the outskirts of town, a row of motorcycles and trucks lining the entrance. You felt a bit out of place walking into a smoke-hazed bar, with the patron's wandering eyes crawling over you, but you quickly picked out the huddle of teachers in the corner laughing over a round of beers. They welcomed you with bright smiles and hellos, offering to buy your first drink. After about an hour and a few drinks, you felt warm and far more relaxed. Conversations about quarterly goals and admin meetings flowed over the table, each teacher complaining about something. You chimed in when necessary, keeping quiet when you had nothing to contribute. You were on your fourth beer when the girls around you started whispering low about a group of men entering the bar. You stole a peek over your shoulder, eyes settling on the last person you wanted to see. 

Joel Miller.

He had on his usual simple work attire, the fabric of his cotton shirt stretched out over his broad chest. His neck was tanned, most likely from working outdoors, and his hair was just as unruly as you remembered. The man beside him, shorter but with similar features, clapped Joel on the back and steered him towards the bar. You lowered your head, taking a longer gulp of your drink to try and steady your nerves. Of all fucking places, he had to be here. 

“He’s just so handsome, isn’t he?” Maria nudged you, tossing back a look towards Joel.

You shrugged, feigning disinterest. Joel was handsome, but no one needed to know how you felt. Because what you felt was very, very confusing. 

“He’s my students’ father, Maria.”

She rolled her eyes, swirling the contents of her drinks before taking a sip. 

“Okay, and? There’s nothing inappropriate about dating a student’s parent.”

“Yes, there is,” you snapped. “And I’m not even considering dating him.”

“But you think he’s attractive,” she stated.

You didn’t want to respond to that, knowing the warmth in your cheeks was already enough of a giveaway. If you shrunk far enough into yourself, you might go unrecognized the rest of the night.

Maria thankfully dropped the subject, returning to the conversation around the table. After another hour, the ladies started to trickle out of the bar and home for the night. You, on the other hand, still had to wait a bit longer until the alcohol phased out of your body. Which meant you were sitting alone in the same space as Joel. You could feel his eyes on your back the longer you sat there, and to your detriment, decided to steal a glance over your shoulder. Joel’s eyes raked over your body, returning your stare with a soft, welcoming smile. Shit.

You watched as he slipped off the barstool, waltzing towards you with a beer clasped in his large hand. You tried so hard not to notice his thick fingers wrapped around the bottle, and you most definitely tried not to think of what his fingers would feel like inside—

“Miss Smith,” he greeted, silencing your awful thoughts.

“Mr. Miller,” you said.

“Are all these formalities necessary in a bar?” he teased. 

“A couple of drinks won’t change my mind.”

Joel slid into the seat beside you without an invitation, his arm brushing against yours as he settled into the stool. It was instinct to flinch away, afraid of the reaction his touch would cause to your body. 

“What will change your mind?” he pressed, keeping a steady gaze on you.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, deciding to change the subject. “How was your birthday?”

Joel ran a hand through his hair, that stupid lopsided grin forming on his lips. 

“Can’t say I love gettin’ old, but celebratin’ was sure nice.”

“And how old are you, Mr. Miller?”

“Ripe age of thirty-six, Miss Smith,” he grinned. 

“What cake did you choose?” you asked, watching him take a long sip of his beer. 

“Vanilla. Everyone’s gotta love vanilla, right?” 

Was he… flirting with you? 

You’d blame your following response on the beers coursing through your bloodstream, but truthfully, you just wanted to play along, even only for a moment. 

“Hmm, I don’t know. I don’t always love vanilla, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s eyes darkened, falling to your lips as you took another drink. It was bold and stupid of you to say that, but at this point, you didn’t care. 

“What other flavors do you like?” 

He leaned forward in his chair, his thigh pressing against yours. The heat of his body and the smell of smoke on his clothes was a dangerous combination for your self-restraint.  

“I have a few guilty pleasure flavors,” you smirked.

Joel’s hand damn near crushed the bottle when you said those words, his entire body tensing beside you. You couldn’t care at that moment about how you spoke; the drinks started speaking for themselves. You hadn’t dared to flirt with a man since Bennett left, too afraid of what falling in love again might do to you. But, for some reason, flirting with Joel felt so simple. He was older than you, and maybe that piqued your interest, knowing he was far more mature than anyone else you had considered. 

“Indulge me, Miss Smith,” he whispered. 

“I think I’ll leave it a mystery,” you whispered in return. “I’ve already said too much as it is.”

“I reckon you ain’t said enough,” he countered. 

Heat flared through your neck and face as he leaned in closer, his face only inches from yours. This had gone too far. You had broken any rules you had previously set in place, and now you were dancing on a fragile line between professionalism and indecency. 

Glancing at the clock above the bar, you watched as the hands ticked closer to midnight. Just like in the fairytales, your time was up. Back to reality. 

“It’s getting late,” you started. “I should get home.”

Joel’s demeanor shifted, and his grin faltered as he watched you rise from the barstool. He brushed his hand over your arm, barring you from walking away. 

“Not real sure if you should be drivin’ home yet, Miss Smith. Y’had a few drinks tonight,” Joel protested.

“How do you know? Were you watching me?”

“Gotta make sure my daughter's teacher is safe. Who else’s gonna make sure she gets straight A’s?” 

He was trying to make light of the situation, but you knew better. You knew he had been watching you since he had arrived; his attention had never been on his group of friends. 

“I assure you, I’m fine,” you argued. “You go enjoy your night with your friends, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s brows furrowed as he considered you. His hand still lingered on your arm, thick fingers flexing against your skin. You glanced between his hand and his eyes, trying to make sense of his intentions. This was far past a coincidental run-in; this was a strange desire out of reach. 

“Can I drive you home at least?” He asked. 

“I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Can I at least drive behind you to make sure you make it alright?” He offered.

You looked back toward the bar, seeing the man he walked in with staring at you with an apparent scowl.

“I don’t think that’s fair to your friend,” you said.

Joel peered around you and huffed loudly. 

“That’s my brother, Tommy. S’all good, he’s probably ready to hit the road, too.”

“He doesn’t look too happy.”

“He’s fine,” Joel grumbled.

Tommy noticed you both staring at him and decided to join the mix. He walked up with a grin despite the scowl he had just worn and extended his hand to you.

“I’m Tommy. Joel’s brother.”

“Hi, I’m Sarah’s teacher.” You gave him a quick shake and tried to sidestep to leave.

“Wait!” Joel called out.

“I’m okay, Mr. Miller,” you tossed over your shoulder. “Be safe tonight.”

You made a beeline for the door, hoping to escape him before he reeled you back in. You let yourself float in his atmosphere for too long, testing the waters you knew were off-limits. There was still an alcohol-induced haze lingering in your head, but the sooner you could leave, the better. Tomorrow would come with a headache and a post-drunken clarity to put you back on the right track. You needed to steer clear of Joel before you slipped up and allowed another man inside the walls you built. 

You attempted to retrieve your keys from your purse, only to fumble them out of your hands and onto the dirt ground of the parking lot. 

“Fuck,” you groaned.

As you bent to pick them up, footsteps crunching on the ground grew closer. You already knew who it was.

“Miss Smith,” Joel’s voice sounded pained. 

“I’m fine!” you shouted, whipping your head around to find him nearly toe-to-toe with you. 

The moonlight above you illuminated his brown eyes, which darkened the longer he looked down at you. You shrunk away, letting your body hit the driver's side of your door while Joel stepped closer. 

“Please. You shouldn’t be drivin’ right now. Lettin’ you leave like this wouldn’t be right of me.”

Your only focus was on his lips as he talked. The plushness of his lips enticed you, leaving you imagining how soft they’d feel pressed against yours. Your control was slipping, and the alcohol was pulsing faster in your veins. 

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” You wondered aloud. 

Joel looked at you like he knew the layers of the question. He knew what battle you were fighting inside and saw the fear plastered on your face.

“No,” he whispered softly.

Your eyes bounced between his eyes and his lips, trying to grasp the moment's weight. You needed to be firm and say no; your future self would thank you for it. Gripping your keys, you exhaled and turned towards your car door. 

“Have a good night, Mr. Miller,” you tossed over your shoulder. 

The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the smell of smoke and liquor wrapping around you and enveloping you in a cocoon of temptation. Joel’s hands reached around to grab your keys from your shaking hand, dangling them between you and the car. 

“M’taking you home, Miss Smith. Ain’t gonna argue anymore,” he said as his mouth fell to the shell of your ear. 

“I’m—.”

“Don’t,” he interjected. “Go to my truck.”

He had the exact tone you did when you reprimanded your students, but the deep rasp of his accent made it all the more inviting. You didn’t want to listen to his demands, but you were getting nowhere successfully. Joel sidestepped to free you of the cage he had you in, watching you intently as you sulked to his truck. It wasn’t hard to know which one it was; only a few cars were left, and the truck exuded the same masculinity as the owner. 

“What about my car?” You protested, folding your arms across your body as you leaned against the truck. 

“I’ll give Tommy the keys,” he said. “He’ll drive it behind us.”

You were about to ramble another slew of protests when Joel yanked the passenger side door open and tilted his head toward the interior. 

“Get in.”

His tone left little room for arguing, so you did as he said without another word. Despite the anger radiating off his body, Joel shut the door softly before heading back into the bar. 

You fidgeted with the seatbelt, the press of it against your chest not strong enough to stabilize the rhythm of your heartbeat. You were in his truck, meaning you’d be alone with him for the next several minutes. It was enough to force a roll of nausea through your stomach. Leaning your head against the window, you watched him reemerge from the bar with Tommy in tow. There was a clear expression of annoyance etched on Tommy’s face, all at the cost of your own stubbornness. 

Joel tossed him the keys to your car before rounding the truck's hood and climbing into the driver’s seat. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, so you kept your eyes on the road as it blurred past with each passing mile. 

“Where do you live?” he asked, passing through another vacant green light. 

You rambled off your address, still keeping your gaze steady on the streetlights as they passed by your window. He didn’t attempt to make small talk after that, and the silence settled onto you like a heavy blanket. Your control of consciousness was slipping the longer you sat beside him, but you willed yourself awake. The streets started to become familiar, and you shifted in your seat. Taking a risk, you looked at Joel, finding him white-knuckling the wheel with his jaw clenched. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I—I don’t go out and drink normally. I should have just stayed home tonight.”

“S’okay,” he said, glancing at you. “Just don’t get why you’re so stubborn about askin’ for help. First at the supermarket and now at the bar. I don’t get it.”

A rush of tears stung your eyes, and you quickly looked away, trying to blink them back before he noticed. Joel’s hand fell onto your thigh, sending a jolt of shock through your body. You wanted to shy away from it, but there was no use in fighting at this point; you were already failing miserably. 

“Hey,” he prodded. “Shit, I’m sorry. Don’t cry, alright?”

You swiped away the tears running from your eyes, schooling your emotions back into a state of numbness. Your little blue house came into view, and you pointed a tired finger toward it to guide him in the right direction. 

“This is me,” you sniffled. 

“Big ol’ house, Miss Smith. Y’live here alone?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Miller.”

“I really wish you’d stop callin’ me that,” he sighed, parking his car at your home's fence.

“It’s all formalities.”

“Yeah, I know. I just think after tonight, we’re far past all them formalities and shit.”

Your hand lingered on the door handle as you took one last look at him. Joel’s eyes looked over you with a softness you didn’t deserve. You deserve to be happy. Maria’s words rang out in your head the longer you stared at him. ‘Happy’ was a foreign word to you now, out of reach and out of your control.

“Can I just know one thing?” He asked. 

You nodded, your fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“What’s your name?”

Blame the alcohol…blame your vulnerability…but you told him.

[glitterjay]

hey! im so happy you have requests open cuz i freaking like your writing :D

im very picky when it comes to reader x idol but i like the things you post sm, u get me fr 🫡

can i be ⭐️ anon pls ? <3

so can i request nerdy/innocent enha (hyung line) and reader that has the personality of a frat boy

we often see fratboy enha n naive reader but i think as a society we need them to switch places at least once 🫵🏼

i hope u can understand what im trying to say lololl

⭒ nerdy!enhypen, popular reader, masturabtion, head (both m. receiving), dry humping, suggestive content under cut, mdni

⭒ c's note: I LOVE THIS IDEA. i love sub!enhypen so much... writing this was quite satisfying. also, i appreciate the kinds words :( im glad my work is enjoyable enough! and you can be ⭐️'anon! welcome to the club, woop woop! i hope i delivered just what you wanted. if not, do let me know 🙏

⭒ taglist: @hollyoongs @moon7jay @wondipity @defnotfertilizedtoesw @kwiwin

nerdy!heeseung

who loves to stare at you as you walk down the halls with your fancy clothes on. the way his eyes light up when you look at him and smile in that one class you both share. the shock in his face when you called him, his name rolling off your tongue in the sweetest way. how he was even more surprised when you dragged him to a janitors closet and got on your knees in front of him. when he asked why, you simply said it was because he was cute, and because you were tired of the assholes that followed you everywhere.

nerdy!heeseung

who had to stop his loud moans with the back of his hand as you sucked him off. who apologized everytime his hips rammed into your thorat making you gag around his cock.

nerdy!heeseung

who thought it would be a one time thing, not knowing he'd be back in that closet more often.

nerdy!jay

who was invited to a party by his friend, and had no idea where to start. standing in the middle of the house's living room shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. how his hands played with each other unsure what to do at all. the way his eyes immediately found you through the crowd of people, staring at your figure in pure amusement.

nerdy!jay

who had enough courage to tell you he was a virgin when you invited him to talk. he was surprised when your face lightened up at the fact, cocking an eyebrow at you. the way his hands shyly grabbed your hip when you startled his lap, rocking your body back and forth while kissing his neck. you were bold, but he liked it.

nerdy!jake

who was just way too shy to interact with anyone really. his cute habit of fixing his glasses when he was nervous made you approach him, giggling at his confused expression. a cute and popular girl talking to him? bullshit.

nerdy!jake

who always had messy hair which got even messier when you had him squirming under the touch of your hands in an empty classroom. he tried pushing, kicking, biting you away, but you wouldn't budge. he was sooo sensitive, it was embarrassing. you cooed him every time a sob would leave his pretty mouth, telling him it was okay. everything about him made you want to ruin his good boy aura.

nerdy!sunghoon

who was always at the back of the classroom scribbling notes to study when he got home. who always made sure to put his glasses in their little pouch before walking out of class for any inconvenience.

nerdy!sunghoon

who you came to find out had a very beautiful voice that complimented his way of moaning. how his hands would go anywhere but your head as you took in his dick whole in your mouth. the way he looked away when you grabbed his left hand and placed it yourself on top of your own hair. the way he said it was too much and that he was dried out, but still cummed twice just for you.

© glitterjay | tumblr

[lvnleah]

Sunrise Morning’s | Alessia Russo

Based on this request :)

Summary: your 3-year-old twins decide it’s a great idea to wake you and Alessia up and go to the beach.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A flight to Italy used to be easy for you and your wife Alessia, it was a flight that was just short of three hours but now that you were travelling with your three year old twins the flight felt like it lasted forever.

Your three year old twins, Leo and Emilia, were fairly easy three year olds. You and Alessia had gotten lucky because ever since they were born they had been easy babies.

You were halfway through the flight, there was still an hour to go out of the 2 hours and 30 minutes the flight was. The first hour the twins spent napping, Leo napped on Alessia’s chest and Emilia napped on yours.

“Mama, I hungry!” Emilia whined, slouching in the plane seat, “So bored!”

“Not much longer now, Bubs,” you said, pulling Emilia’s top back down as it slipped up, “Would you like a snack?”

She nodded her head and sat up, you pulled the snack box out of your bag. As you reached for the snack box, Leo’s eyes widened with curiosity. He was sat on Alessia’s lap, still sleepy from his nap as he rested his head against her chest.

Leo had always been more of a Mumma’s boy, he was attached to Alessia and went everywhere with her but he had your personality. However, Emilia was more of a Mama’s girl and was clingy to you. She was the louder one of the pair and was a little chatterbox like Alessia, she even was as clumsy as her Mumma.

Leo’s little fingers pointed at the colourful packaging as he leaned forward, trying to get a better look. Alessia shifted him on her lap, her gentle smile mirroring your own.

“Leo, do you want a snack too?” you asked, opening the box and revealing an assortment of crackers, dried fruit, and mini sandwiches.

Emilia had already grabbed a handful of pretzels and was munching away, her hunger temporarily forgotten as she watched the movie on the screen in front of her.

Leo nodded his head, his dirty blonde curls falling in front of his face. You held the box out to him as he leaned over Emilia, he picked out a few small cookies before going back to resting his head on Alessia’s chest.

After a while, Leo started to squirm in his seat beside Alessia that he had moved to. Emilia was still invested in her movie but Leo was starting to become restless.

“Mama, I’m bored.” Leo whined, “We nearly there yet?”

You glance at Alessia, both of you sharing a knowing look. Travelling with young children was always a ride for sure, and this flight was no exception. You reached into your bag again, pulling out a small colouring book and a set of crayons.

"Hey, Leo," Alessia says, leaning over the seat to hand him the colouring book, "How about we colour together? Look, there's a picture of an airplane!"

Leo's eyes lit up, and he eagerly took the colouring book. Alessia shifted him slightly, making room for him to sit up and colour. Meanwhile, Emilia glances over, intrigued by the activity.

"Can I colour too?" she asked, pulling the earphones out of her ears.

"Of course!" Alessia replied, handing her a crayon. "What colour should we make the sky?"

Emilia chose blue, and soon both twins were engrossed in their colouring. Leo carefully stayed within the lines, while Emilia scribbled with enthusiasm.

As you watched your children, you felt a mix of exhaustion and joy. Flights used to be so much easier when they were babies and sometimes you felt like you were disturbing the people around you.

"Only one more hour," Alessia whispered, “Then we can palm them off on my parents.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You and Alessia had now been in Italy with the twins for a few days now, you’d spent that time visiting Alessia’s family, catching up with them and spending days at the beach. You were staying at her grandparents house and they loved the twins, meaning you and Alessia got some time to yourself.

Over the past couple of days, Emilia and Leo had fallen in love with the beach. You’d spent hours on the beach with them and Alessia’s family, every evening it was all they could talk about.

It was currently five in the morning, Alessia’s arm was draped over your stomach whilst her head rested in the crook of your neck. You heard your bedroom door creak open, the sound of tiny feet tapping against the cold floor tiles followed.

"Mama, Mama!" Leo's voice sounded, barely above a whisper, "Can we go swimming? Please?"

Emilia echoed him, her curls bouncing as she climbed on the bed. "Swimming, Mama!"

You hummed, rubbing your eyes as you rolled over onto your back, “Babies, what are you doing up?”

“We wanna go beach, Mama!” Leo smiled, climbing up and sitting on top of you.

A ground sound from Alessia as Emilia flopped on top of her, her sleepy confusion melted into a soft smile as she reached for Emilia, pulling her into a warm hug.

“Bubs, it’s too early,” Alessia murmured, her hand running through Emilia’s golden curls.

"But the beach!" Leo's eyes widened, and he pointed toward the window. "Look! Beach!”

You sighed, “Guys the sun isn’t even up yet, we need to wait for mr sun to wake up before we can go!”

Emilia’s smile turned into a quivering lower lip, slipping out of Alessia’s grip. “No fair, Mama! We want beach now!”

Leo kicked his legs in protest. “Sunrise takes too long, Mama!”

Alessia sat up, “Leo, no. We don’t kick okay?” She said, a stern look that you could never take seriously on her face, “No kicking.”

“Sorry Mumma,” he mumbled, “I just want to go beach!”

Leo flopped on your chest, “And we can bubba, just not right now.” You calmly explained, kissing his forehead, “We can go later on, how about we cuddle.”

“No!” Emilia whined, “We want beach!”

You glanced at Alessia, who smiled as you sighed. You knew the twins wouldn’t fall back to sleep and they definitely weren’t giving in about the beach any time soon.

"Maybe we should just take them," she whispered. "They won't let us sleep anyway."

You nodded, glancing at the time beside you on the clock. 4:50am. Once the twins had gotten their breakfast, you would make it just in time for sunrise.

“Okay, okay!” You gave in, the twins cheering in unison, “we’ll go to the beach, but first we need breakfast!”

“I love you, Mama!” Leo cheered, wrapping his arms around your neck.

You slipped out of bed and threw on a baggy hoodie and black shorts before carrying Emilia downstairs, Alessia carried Leo close behind you.

The twins sat at the kitchen island, chatting between themselves as they coloured whilst you and Alessia tagged teamed on making breakfast. Alessia made breakfast for you and her while you cut up some fruit and pancakes for the twins.

Before you knew it, it was 5:20am and you were getting the twins ready to head to the beach. You dressed Emilia in a little sundress and Leo in a linen shirt and shorts set.

Alessia secured them in the double stroller, and you set off towards the beach. The air smelled of salt as you walked along the narrow back path that led to the see front. The twins chattered about sandcastles and seashells, their excitement contagious.

As you reached the beach, the sky began to blush with pink and orange hues. The twins squealed, pointing at the water. "Look, Mama! Look!"

You and Alessia settled onto a sun chair together, your toes sinking into the sand. The twins wasted no time getting out of the stroller, their little hands scooping up sand to build castles.

The sun peeked above the horizon, casting a warm glow on the water. You was cuddled into Alessia, your head resting against her chest.

“This is perfect.” She murmured, placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Mumma look!” Emilia called out to Alessia, pointing at her sandcastle, “look at my castle!”

Alessia gasped, matching the little girls enthusiasm, “Wow bubs!” She smiled, “that’s amazing! Are you going to decorate it?”

“Yeah!” Leo nodded his head, “we find some shells!”

The twins ran around, collecting a bucket of shells to decorate their castles with. You and Alessia watched peacefully together as the sun rose around you.

After an hour or so, the twins' energy slowed down and they curled up on the sun chair beside you. Leo yawned, rubbing his eyes. Emilia curled up against him, her thumb in her mouth.

Their little eyelids began to flutter as they drifted off to sleep. Alessia stood up and covered their bodies with her jumper, tucking them in before rejoining you on the sun chair. She laid down on top of you, her head now resting on your chest.

“We’re so lucky,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

You pressed your lips to her forehead. “We are,” you agreed, “I’m glad we came down here.”

You and Alessia laid together, cuddled into each other's embrace, while the twins peacefully slept together. You watched the sunrise, the different shades mixing together, as you talked about your future. Nothing else in the world mattered to you in the moment, only your little family mattered.

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 2/12)

hiii here's these two again, enjoy!!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie still hates you, you're way too nice, and gareth fucked up big time

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, reader gets injured (nothing crazy), eddie hooking up with someone that's not reader, mean eddie, sexual themes, a glimpse of needy n sad eddie, mild violence (eddie punches someone), and Eddie being nosey <3

word count: 5.6k

| previous part | next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Eddie can’t do it.

He can’t fucking stand you. He hates that you’re everywhere, always around, always lingering— like a fucking hawk— just silently watching and waiting for one of them to fuck up. And he hates that you carry that fucking journal everywhere, always jotting down notes about whatever bullshit you write about— and he’s sure it isn’t any good either way because most of the time, the band does the same shit every day. There’s nothing for you to write about. They do a show, hang out backstage, catch wind of some party, stay out until they can’t physically walk anymore, and crash as soon as they get to the hotel. 

It’s the same shit. Yet, you’re always writing something down as if something new has happened— as if it’s something intriguing and eye-catching. 

You barely talk for the first few days; you just watch and observe, and Eddie thinks this must be how animals at the zoo feel— on display and putting up some fascinating show. He hates it.

After the third show, you start to loosen around the edges and start actually talking, like a normal human being. You talk to Jeff the most, laugh at his shitty jokes and ask him questions about songs and lines he’s written in past songs, and Eddie hates that. He hates watching you sit next to Jeff and scribble in your journal as Jeff strums out a new hook. 

He hates that whenever he brings you up to Jeff and makes some snide comment about you, Jeff never joins in— just shrugs and says, ‘She’s not too bad, actually.’

As if Eddie would ever believe that.

Gareth hardly pays any mind to you; he's too busy checking out chicks and just… being Gareth, but you’ve talked to him on multiple occasions. Eddie’s caught glimpses of you two chatting at rehearsals or in the green room. You even sat with him at breakfast the other day, and Eddie— Eddie almost blew a gasket because that was his fucking seat.

You’re ruining everything, and nobody seems to notice except for Eddie, and it’s driving him nuts.

“Dude, you’re gonna scare her away if you keep glaring at her like that,” Jeff mumbles, turning back to his guitar as he runs a dust cloth over the neck of the instrument. 

They’re in the studio today because there’s no show tonight, and against all of Eddie’s wishes, Richie still invited you to come sit in for their session. Eddie watches through the glass of the sound booth as you settle in on the brown couch, pulling out that stupid journal and a pen, mindlessly clicking it a few times before writing a note. Ridiculous. 

Eddie glares at Jeff and works the gum in his mouth as he pulls a face, “Good. She can blow off the face of the earth for all I care.” He grumbles, sitting down in the metal chair beside Jeff. 

Jeff looks at him, raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and shakes his head, “She’s not going anywhere, man. You’re gonna fuck it up if you keep being so… hostile toward her.” He points out. Eddie leans back in his chair, pulling out a box of cigarettes and sparking up. “I’m not gonna be the one to fuck it up,” Eddie mumbles through smoke, “You guys are practically feeding her all the information she needs on a silver fucking platter. She’s a goddamn shark.” 

Jeff scoffs and says nothing more as he continues cleaning his guitar. Eddie glances at you and watches you talk to the producer, smiling and laughing at something that Eddie can’t hear because the mic is off and the door is closed. 

Aside from how annoying and creepishly lurk-y you are, Eddie can admit you’re pretty. You have a pretty face, pretty smile, pretty hair, a bright look in your eyes that Eddie can’t stand because you look at the rest of the band like they hung the fucking moon when they speak. You look at everyone as if they’re so important, and Eddie thinks that’s dumb. 

He glances at Jeff, watches him silently for a moment, and glances back at you, takes a hit of his cigarette before speaking, “You like her?” he asks.

Jeff glimpses at Eddie and laughs with a shake of his head, “Isn’t that precisely what you’re pissed about?”

Eddie shakes his head, “No, like,” he kicks the heel of his shoe into the floor, “Do you wanna fuck her?”

Jeff pauses his task and watches as Eddie puffs on his cigarette. “I have a girlfriend, Eddie.” He reminds the boy. Eddie glances at him and scoffs, “That chick from Chicago? Thought that was just for fun.” He responds. 

Eddie remembers the girl from a few weeks back, remembers Jeff sneaking her on the bus while they had dinner. He didn’t know they were serious.

Jeff shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief, “No, man. She’s come to like every show— and her name is Naomi; she’s not a chick.”

Eddie grunts in response, burning to the end of his cigarette when Jeff stands up and nudges him with his foot, “Just talk to her, dude. She’s not as bad as you think she is, and she asks good questions— actual questions, about the music and shit. None of that,” he waves a hand in gesture, “stupid shit we get from reporters. She’s good. Just try.”

Jeff leaves Eddie to mill about it and finish off cigarette, snuffing it out in the ashtray sitting on the amp. Eddie doesn’t believe Jeff one bit; he thinks you’re a liar who’s mastered the art of manipulation and has weaseled your way into gaining his friends' trust. He doesn’t believe you are here for the music, as Jeff had said; he thinks— knows— that you’re here to find the cracks.

You’re here to find the cuts and bruises and press into them so you can tear them apart piece by piece. A starved monster, preying on his band for some sick and twisted story to feed the media so you can climb the ladder of your industry. Eddie has met and knows people like you, and he can call your bluff from a mile away.

He doesn’t believe Jeff. But he does, however, know how to play your game. 

The next day is show day— the fifth show of the residency, and Eddie is in a good mood. He woke up with a girl in his bed, got high, went for a short walk to a nearby cafe, and even signed a few autographs for some lovely fans. On top of that, you haven’t shown up for rehearsals yet, and Eddie thinks the world is working in his favor today if you skip.

He’s playful today. He jumps on Gareth’s back and makes him run down the rows of the arena, screaming and hollering like wild animals. He and Jeff take Richie’s golf cart and go for a spin backstage, giggling when the security chases them and tells them speeding backstage is prohibited. They don’t listen, though; Eddie ignores everyone’s warnings and keeps hauling ass down the nearly empty hallways, swerving around boxes and equipment like a madman.

And Eddie may be mean sometimes; he may push people's buttons for the hell of it and do things he knows he shouldn’t just to get a reaction out of it, but Eddie isn’t cruel. He isn’t a psychopath who likes hurting people, so he doesn’t mean to speed past you and spook you badly enough to stumble into a stack of road cases.

Eddie saw you, and he tried to warn you, yelled out for you to move out of the way, and even honked, but you had a pair of headphones stuffed over your ears so that you couldn’t hear the squealing wheels of the golf cart or Eddie’s warning. He almost took you out. Almost. But he didn’t because he swerved at the last second, and you panicked and stepped back, stumbling on the heel of your shoe and falling onto the cold cement floor, slamming your back against the black boxes.

Eddie curses and comes to a screeching halt, parking the golf cart and following Jeff as he jogs over to you, quickly asking if you’re okay and helping you to sit up. As you speak, your face is twisted in confusion, wincing and sitting up, “I’m fine, I just— I just fell, it’s fine.”

Eddie watches from a few feet back as Jeff helps you stand up, face pinching in an expression of pain when you put your weight onto your ankle, and Eddie doesn’t believe it for a second. “I think you might need to get that checked—” Eddie cuts Jeff off and speaks the first thought that comes to his mind, “Why didn’t you move out of the way?”

You look at him, anger replacing your look of pain as you glare at Eddie. You grip the band of your headphones and wave it at him, “Because I didn’t fucking hear you, jackass.” You snap. “What, you couldn’t see the big ass machine hurling your way?”

“No,” you seethe, “You shouldn’t have been driving that fast anyways; this isn’t my fault. The least you could do is say fucking sorry.” You spat. And Eddie just thinks you’re a brat. Before Eddie can respond with an even bitchier response, Jeff is cutting in with a wave of his hands, “Okay, this is fucking stupid,” he scoffs, “just let me drive you to medic so you can get checked.”

Eddie doesn’t even bother helping Jeff get you to the golf cart; he simply watches as you fake your limp all the way to the vehicle and thank Jeff for helping you get in. Jeff looks back to Eddie and raises an eyebrow, “Are you coming, man?” 

Eddie wouldn’t willingly spend a minute with you if someone paid him to do it. 

He shakes his head with a scoff and tells them to go on, he’ll meet them at the stage later on, and Jeff takes off without another word.

“Did you try to hit the journalist with a fucking golf cart?”

Eddie’s good mood is long gone. 

After the whole golf cart fiasco, Eddie took his time walking around backstage and burning through cigarettes before finding himself in the room filled with snacks and drinks. He’s standing at the table filled with chips and sodas when Richie storms in and starts causing a goddamn scene.

“What—” “You know what I’m talking about.” Richie snaps. Eddie’s face twists in annoyance, “I didn’t try to fucking hit her; she didn’t move out of the goddamn way because she’s an idiot,” Eddie grumbles, returning to his task of sifting through the different brands of chips. Eddie doesn’t believe you’re actually hurt. That pathetic fall was as minor as a fall can get, and he thinks Jeff and anyone else who believes your shitty acting skills is dumber than a rock. 

Richie snatches the bag of chips out of Eddie’s hand and tosses them onto the table, ignoring Eddie’s protest as he speaks, “She sprained her fucking ankle, man.”

Eddie scoffs, “She’s faking it, Richie; anybody with brains can see that from a mile away.” He rolls his eyes. Richie looks at Eddie as if he’s lost his mind, as if Eddie is the worst villain to ever grace the goddamn planet, “You’re fucked up,” and Eddie’s stomach twists in some weird way he can’t explain. 

“You have some serious fucking issues, man. That girl did nothing to you, and you treat her like shit.” Richie spits, and Eddie hates how his throat feels tight, like someone shoved a golf ball down his throat. “Get over yourself.”

Richie leaves Eddie in the empty room, silent and, against Eddie’s wishes, feeling like the shittiest man alive. 

Eddie’s good mood feels like a dream now.

He’s silent throughout rehearsals. He sings his parts half-assed and plays his solos half-assed, too. You watch from the side of the stage, propped up on one of the road cases to take the weight off your ankle, and Eddie doesn’t even glance in your direction the entire time. He avoids you at all costs, leaving the room when you walk in, going the other direction you’re walking in, and even skipping lunch to avoid crossing paths. 

You’ve been like a ghost all day; everywhere Eddie goes, you’re somehow there, walking with a shitty limp as if trying to rub it into Eddie’s face that, ‘You did this. This is your fault.’ and Eddie can’t stand it. By the time the doors open to the arena, Eddie is more than ready to finish the show and steer clear of all traces of you.

You watched the show on the TV in the dressing room, silently snacking on a bag of Ritz crackers with your foot propped up on the coffee table beside the couch. The medic advised you to avoid putting pressure on your ankle for the next few days so you couldn’t have your usual front-row view of the show. 

The boys do good; they perform a new song they’re working on, and the crowd seems to have loved it. As usual, they get up to their ritual backstage antics, pregaming for whatever party they’ll attend, loud and obnoxious music, and cheering on whatever drinking game they’ve made up. You’re silently writing in your journal, updating the last entry on what you’ve witnessed today. Interpretations on the new music, drabbles on what you and Gareth briefly discussed about his childhood, and quick notes on whatever comes to mind while writing.

You hardly notice Eddie stumbling through the dressing room door until you hear him bumping into the side table with a curse. You look up, silently watching as he looks around the room, searching for something you’re unsure of. You try to keep your voice level to not scare him, but he is startled either way, “What are you looking for?”

His eyes are low, puffy around the edges from the alcohol he’d tossed back earlier, hair tousled with curly strands clinging to his lips. His lips are slick, swollen, and red, clothes askew on his lean frame. His jeans are unbuttoned, belt clinking as he sways a bit, licking his lips as he stammers, “Uh… my uh, my jacket—” he blinks, stumbling to lean against the door and blinking hard, “M’looking for my jacket.”

Your eyebrows raise as you watch him, the disheveled and captivating mess he is, bleary eyes gazing at you through a cloud of eyeshadow and whiskey. You breathe and point to the chair in front of the vanity, “It’s over there.”

His gaze follows your lead, landing on his strewn jacket, cursing as he walks across the room. You busy yourself with your journal, picking up where you’d left off. You can hear Eddie rustling behind you, and you try to avoid glancing back at him, but you fail, glancing in time to watch as he leans forward into the mirror to tug at misplaced strands of his hair. 

He’s silent for a moment before clearing his throat, glancing back at you through the mirror, “I’m uh… I’m sorry about,” he gestures to your elevated foot, forgetting you’re not even facing him, and rubbing the back of his hand to rub his nose and sniffling, “About your foot… Was really shitty of me.”

You glance back at him, a ghost of a smile gracing your lips, “Thank you, Eddie. I appreciate your apology.”

Eddie scoffs, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and shoving a stick between his lips with quivering fingers, “Yeah, well, that’s the first and last apology you’ll ever get from me so…” you silently watch as he lights his cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke and glancing at you through the mirror, “cherish it.” 

You quietly sigh and shift in your seat, ignoring his remark, “You going out tonight?” You ask.

You watch as he steps away from the vanity and walks over to the couch, plopping down on the farthest side from you with a deep sigh, “That’s the routine.” He mumbles around a cloud of smoke.

You nod, an uncomfortable silence settling over the two of you as you continue writing. Eddie is slumped down in his seat, quietly puffing on his cigarette as he gazes at you through low lids, “What are you writing?”

You look at him; pen paused over the sentence you’d been writing as you tilt your head, “I’m working on my piece… you know, the piece you’re starring in.” Eddie grumbles in response with a single nod of his head, and his eyes are so low you’d almost think he’s falling asleep if it weren’t for his determination to finish his cigarette. 

“Why— why haven’t you asked me anything?” Eddie asks.

You look at him, doing your best to keep a neutral expression as you fold your hands over the paper of your notebook, “I wasn’t under the impression you wanted to be… bothered.”

Eddie glances at you, scoffing, and you remind yourself that you’ve already somehow made the man despise you, so it’d be better to hold your tongue, opting not to remind him of the shitty attitude he’s had since you met. “I’m part of the band, aren’t I?” He shrugs, picking at the loose threads of his ripped jeans. “Shouldn’t I have as much coverage as… Jeff?” He mumbles, and you think he might be under the impression that you can’t hear him, but you do either way.

Your eyebrows raise, and you shift in your seat once again, “Well… would you like me to ask you some questions?”

Eddie is more gentle when he is drunk, you think. More pliable, softer. The stone-hard deflective shield he has thrown up for you has withered beneath the alcohol. Where his eyes are usually cold and sharp, they are now softer and telling— of what, you’re not sure yet. He shifts further into the couch and shrugs, and you take a deep breath and flip to a clean page, scribbling Eddie’s name in the corner.

“Okay, Eddie,” you begin, turning ever so slightly to face him. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me about who you are aside from the frontman of Corroded Coffin.” You glance between your notebook and Eddie, patiently waiting as he takes a drag of the burning paper. He looks at you, the majority of his face shielded behind unruly dark curls, and the room is so silent it’s nearly deafening.

Eddie shakes his head so gently you almost don’t notice the movement, “I don’t…” he bounces his leg once, “I thought this was about the music.”

You nod, “It is.”

Eddie gently blinks, like if he blinks too hard, the earth might shatter, and you think it’s beautiful, and you think you might hate that.

“It’s about the music, but I can’t write about the music without knowing the creator, can I?”

Eddie looks at you, eyes almost clear with lips parted around smoke. He blinks again, and you smile in encouragement, situating the pen in your grip. He looks at you, studies you, his gaze dropping to your awaiting hand, and his face twists in some expression you can’t put a finger on.

Before Eddie can speak, the door opens, both of your heads snapping toward the door as a tipsy Gareth pops his head inside, “Eddie, come on man, the car’s here.”

If Gareth had noticed the odd combination of you and Eddie sitting on the same couch, willingly enduring each other's presence, he wouldn’t mention it. 

You look back to Eddie, and you almost want to stop him as he gets up because, god, you were so fucking close. So close to finally touching Eddie. But he’s gone quicker than he came, the scent of his cologne and smoke lingering like a ghost, and despite Eddie giving you absolutely nothing to write about, you find yourself writing about him either way with nothing but his scent to aid you.

Eddie is drunk, and he can not, for the life of him, stop thinking about you.

A girl is climbing over him in the back of a taxi, and Eddie can only think about you. The look of pain you had when you stood up after falling, the way you looked at him as if he was the bane of your existence— it makes Eddie’s stomach churn, and he wishes the culprit for his nausea was the alcohol, but it’s not. Eddie knows it’s not because the second he thinks about the way you smiled at him in the dressing room, the way you said his name, the way you spoke so gently despite how much of an asshole he’s been to you, Eddie’s sick stomach settles and erupts in this annoying warm flutter.

Eddie can’t think of anything but the fact that he wants you to smile at him more, wants to hear you say his name again, and talk to him in your gentle way.

His face pinches in frustration, fingers gripping the girl's waist as she mouths at his neck. She moans against his skin, grinding down against his bulge and grinning when she feels him rut up against her. Eddie mumbles something, he’s not sure what he mumbles because his brain is split between worlds of scary feelings and arousal, but the girl laughs, scraping her teeth against his thumping pulse, “That journalist?” She asks.

Eddie blinks away the foggy cloud, “Huh?”

Lany pulls away from his neck and looks at him, biting her lip and tilting her head as she rubs up against him again, Eddie grunting in the back of his throat as his face twists in pleasure. “The journalist. You said her name.” Lany hums, drifting her hands up Eddie’s chest and grappling at the collar of his unbuttoned sheer top. Eddie blinks again and shakes his head, “I didn’t,” he denies.

Lany giggles, “You did, Eddie.”

Eddie glances over her shoulder, making awkward eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror, and he slightly grimaces and looks back to Lany as she leans in, ghosting her lips over his and tauntingly whispering your name. Eddie grunts in protest, squeezing her hips in a warning. Before he can say something, Lany kisses him with a hum before pulling away to where her lips brush against hers as she speaks, “Did you fuck her?”

Eddie pulls away from Lany, a look of distaste on his face as he glares at her, “Did I— what? No,” Eddie cringes as if it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard— and it’s not, and Eddie… Eddie hates that, he thinks. “No, I didn’t fuck her. Are you serious?” “You want to fuck her then?”

“I want you to stop talking about her,” Eddie counters, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip and watching as he drags the plump flesh down, grinning when Lany nips at his fingertip. “Maybe put these pretty lips to good use, hm?” He taunts, grin widening when she nods and sucks his thumb down to the last knuckle, his jeans tightening at the feeling and sight.

And if Eddie did say your name, he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’d been thinking of you for whatever odd, fucked up reason, and he doesn’t try to figure out what that weird flutter feeling is when he thinks about your softness, the softness he’s been depriving himself of.

He doesn’t dwell on any of it because Eddie is drunk, and when Eddie drinks, he thinks of and does stupid things, things that sound good at the moment but will screw him over in the long run.

And Eddie wants nothing to do with you anyway, and it’s not like one half-assed drunken conversation changed that, right?

Eddie’s got a blistering headache and a churning stomach as he stands outside the studio the following day. It’s drizzling, gloomy clouds drooping over the looming buildings of New York, and Eddie always hated this kind of weather; he preferred a full storm over the tease of a shower.

New York has never been Eddie’s favorite place, it’s dirty, and reeks of trash, and the people are shitty, but he likes how easy it is to blend in with the crowd; not many people notice him here, and that’s rare these days.

He’s leaning on the stoop of the building, tiny drops of rain dripping from the portico onto his leather-covered shoulders. A burning cigarette hangs between his fingers as he watches the traffic go by, taking slow puffs to ease his body.

He hardly notices you when you bounce up the stairs until you stand just two steps below him. He glances at you and sees the coffee cups in each of your hands. You extend one out to him, “Would you like one? They accidentally gave me two.” You offer.

And you’re fucking nice. Despite how shitty Eddie has been towards you, you’re still nice to him, and Eddie, for the life of him, can’t stand it. He thinks you’re weird, insane, stupid. Thinks you were probably dropped as a baby more times than anyone can count because there’s no way somebody in their right mind would willingly give him the time of day when he’s treated them as shitty as Eddie has treated you. He nearly ran you over, for Christ's sake.

Still, Eddie doesn’t falter, “No. Probably spit in it on your way here.”

You laugh, and it irks Eddie in a way that makes him want to shiver as if the sound were nails scraping against a chalkboard. He distracts himself with a drag of his cigarette as you say, “I didn’t, but thanks for the idea.”

Eddie grunts in response, focusing on the last of his smoke as you tell him you’ll see him inside before walking up the rest of the stairs. Eddie barely acknowledges you as you pass him, but he acknowledges the sound of something dropping beside his feet. He looks down with pinched eyebrows, eyeing the notebook lying on the wet ground.

It’s your notebook— obviously— he’d know that stupid journal from anywhere. It’s a pale yellow with two leather straps you like to tie in a lousy bow, and Eddie believes it’s an annoying color, but he thinks that has more to do with the fact that you chose it. Mindlessly, Eddie picks it up, shaking off the rainwater before it seeps into the pages, and he turns to give it to you because he’d assumed you realized you dropped it, but you’re gone.

Eddie blinks, eyeing the door and the book in his hands, and Eddie knows he should just follow you and give it back because that’s the right thing to do. Knows he shouldn’t peek inside to see what your mind is like, knows you’d probably kill him because Eddie would do the same if anyone looked into his thousands of journals back home, but his fingers itch, and before he can stop himself, he’s flicking his cigarette bud away, leaning against the building and cracking the front page open.

Eddie’s not sure what he’d expected. Maybe something interesting, like a list of dudes you’ve fucked or some rant about a friend, but Jesus, how much more boring could you get? Grocery lists, reminders to book appointments, dates for work meetings, boring shit that Eddie could care less about. He flicks through nearly half of the book before anything piques his interest, snickering when he comes across a page of you talking about a guy named Danny, “What a sap,” Eddie mumbles to himself, softly chuckling and turning the page.

He flips through a few more pages before halting because Eddie's name is right at the top of the page. 

The door opens, and he jumps, fearing you might be searching for your lost journal, but it’s only a staff member. Eddie watches them trot down the steps before returning to the treasure in his hands, eagerly reading as if the book will turn to dust before he gets a chance.

And Eddie thinks he’s fucked up, screwed up in ways he never really wants to address. Despite Eddie’s outwardly attitude of thinking he’s the best at everything and knows all, there are still ugly parts of him that he so badly wants to reach inside and pull like weeds from a garden, crack his chest open, and take it from the root; pieces of him that can make him crumble quicker than a house of cards on a rickety table. 

However, the way you write about Eddie— the words you use and the so careful placement of each thought— it makes Eddie feel something he forgot he ever could about himself, and he doesn’t like how it makes his insides twist. He hates it. Eddie hates that you can read him as if he’s a fucking children’s book. Hates that you can see and point out parts of him that have been lost for so long he’d thought it was a dream. He can’t stand it. 

But as much as Eddie swears he hates what you’ve written and as much as he hates that it makes him feel something other than disdain, he can’t stop reading. He wants to read all you can say about him and only exist in the imagery you create of him because Eddie, for once in a long time, is someone in your eyes.

You write about Eddie like he is a person, a human being with real feelings and depth and a history of memories you’ve never seen or heard of before, but you still somehow manage to paint him so clearly. Inside your words, Eddie exists as more than the entity that fame has created him to be, and Eddie can’t remember the last time he read something about himself and didn’t feel like a pawn. 

It’s… refreshing.

Eddie flips the page, thinking there will be more you’ve written about him, but he’s selfishly disappointed when he realizes it’s just a personal entry. He scans the page, nearly deciding to close it for the day, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar name— Gareth.

It takes Eddie a moment to fully grasp the words you’ve written, the meaning of what exactly you’re explaining that you’d apparently discussed with Gareth. As soon as he lets the words settle into his chest, he’s storming into the building quicker than he can comprehend.

Bursting through the room of Richie's rented studio, Eddie makes a beeline for the sound booth where Gareth is busy tapping out a steady beat.

Eddie barely acknowledges you and the rest of the band in discussion off to the side, but his abrupt appearance has halted all conversation in the room. He storms up to Gareth behind his drum set and wastes no time gripping the man’s collar, gaze lit with fire and words seething as he leans in and glares down at the man. The room goes silent as soon as the question leaves Eddie’s lips, “Did you fuck Chrissy?”

Chrissy Cunningham was Eddie Munson’s high school sweetheart.

As the story goes, Eddie spent the better part of high school crushing on the cute captain of the cheerleading squad. For as long as he can remember, Eddie had been labeled as the school freak— something to do with his love of fantasy games and ‘odd music taste’— so he’d never imagined he would get a chance with Chrissy, but that all changed after a weird spiral of events they experienced together.

Eddie and Chrissy dated for a few years until Corroded Coffin went big. The long-distance trial of their relationship didn’t last long; Eddie rarely called Chrissy, and when he did call, they could only ever find time to argue about whatever Eddie had been photographed doing. Chrissy never came to watch the band once they moved out to LA, and she broke Eddie's heart the one time she did. 

So, it’s no surprise that reading the words in your journal has twisted the knife that’d been lodged in Eddie’s chest for so long that he was sure he couldn’t feel it anymore— he was wrong.

Gareth is looking at Eddie as if Eddie has asked him if the sky is blue and Eddie’s mind is a whirling wind of fire. “What are you talking about, man?” Gareth’s eyebrows pinch in confusion.

Eddie sneers and pulls him closer, Gareth leaning so far off his stool that Eddie's grip on his shirt is the only thing keeping him from the ground. Gareth drops his drumsticks to grab Eddie’s wrists as Eddie speaks, “Don’t bullshit me, Gareth. Did you fuck Chrissy, yes or no?”

Eddie looks at his best friend, and he sees lies, something he’s never had to associate with their friendship, and it almost hurts him more than what Chrissy did. Gareth stutters, shaking his head as if he wants to say no, tries to say no and deny that he slept with his best friend's girlfriend, but he can’t.

Gareth whispers Eddie’s name so quietly Eddie nearly misses it, but the quiver in his voice is all Eddie needs to hear to know the truth. Eddie doesn’t take a second to think before he cracks a closed fist down on his best friend's cheek, sending him back, crashing into the symbols in a clatter of noise.

He doesn’t wait to hear Gareth’s spew of apologies, and he doesn’t wait to listen to the pathetic excuses he makes up because he’s marching over to you next, a scowl on his face as he tosses your journal into your lap, and you look up at him in shock, “You dropped this on your way in.” 

And if this is the end of Corroded Coffin, then Eddie’s sure you’ll have one hell of a story to write. That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?

A good story.

————

part three

————

a/n: AHH U MADE IT TO THE END, PLS LET ME KNOW HOW U LIKED THIS PART I LOVE TO HEAR UR FEEDBACK, ILY BYE

————

cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975

[hannie-dul-set]

EXTENSION: AN UNLIKELY FANMEETING.

p — LEE JENO x female! reader. g — gang leader! jeno, actress! reader, humor, tension tension tension, jeno realizes his type in women after getting kidnapped by his celebrity crush. w — swearing, kidnapping, crime in general. 1.4k words.

note — part 2 to an unlikely fanmeeting. to the anon who said that they envisioned eric from tbz as the ex boyfriend, this one's for u. enjoy.

a swoosh on the top. a loop at the bottom. two slopes intersecting before breaking of to scratch a little heart at the tail end. the ink is red. it’s always red.

“is this all?”

you remove the cardstock from the table, and with a sharp movement you snap your arm straight, presenting it to him. jeno looks at your signature— with the pretty loops and all, but he smacks his tongue in disappointment. there’s an impatient twitch on your brow as you eye him, waiting seated on the other side of your desk. jeno snatches the autographed card, “of course not," then tucks it into the chest pocket of his no longer damp shirt.

there’s a clench of your jaw, a tightening of your stare. your eyes stopped quivering even since starting the deal. a shame, because jeno had a lot of fun backing you into a corner.

still, he likes seeing you mad too— sharp gaze, knitted brows, lips on the verge of a sneer— almost foreign to the gentle and sweet expressions natural to your features. there’s no mix of melancholic blue like when you’re acting out a scene. this one’s impersonal, like you’ve got no shits to give. it’s red. all red.

jeno prefers red.

he leans a little closer. your annoyance shifts to suspicion. he rests an arm on your desk, shifting his weight to it. a single tap on the stack of blank cardstock. “i need a couple bit more,” he says, a quirk of the lips. “my boys like you a lot, too.”

a pause. then a sigh. you roll your eyes and shoo him off your personal space with a wave, to which he hums and obediently follows, and while the scratches of pen against paper fill your office space, jeno takes the once in a lifetime opportunity to snoop around a celebrity’s room.

the whole is flushed with dark mahogany, a singular lamp illuminating the area from the ceiling. there’s a case lined with countless trophies and plaques and certificates and awards. there’s a wall with a giant poster of your face on it. he flits his eyes over to you on the desk, blank faced as you sign each layer of cardstock one by one like a machine, then back to the bigger version of your face on the wall, smiley-eyed and innocent.

there’s a laugh trying to claw out of his throat. he spins his heels and returns to your desk.

“wait," he says, interrupting you from finishing the last card on the pile. your hand jerks to a stop. you look up at him, what now? on your expression. jeno is pretty sure he’s done a negative amount of good things to deserve seeing all these different kinds of faces from you. “can you put park jisung on that one?”

“what?”

“nice kid. a little clumsy. good with the bat,” jeno answers and you look like you could care less. “he cried three times watching sunwater. give him a little treat.”

you, once again, let out a exhale and continue writing with a rather aggressive scribble, ending the note with a pressure-pointed dot in the bottom right corner. “happy?” you deride.

he hums, “that’s not the attitude of someone who wants something from me,” and slides the stack of cards to his side of the desk, collecting it between his hands and slides them in between each other with a shuffle. “but anyhow, let’s get to talking.”

“finally.”

three loud taps on the table as he sets down the autographed cards. jeno takes the plush seat in front of your desk and drags it closer.

“you want us to abduct your ex boyfriend.” you affirm. “who is it? the eric sohn guy i keep seeing you on the news with?” a look of judgement overrides your expression. jeno simply shrugs. you can’t blame him for the fact that your face and name is everywhere.

“whatever,” you sigh. “anyway, yes, i want that bitch back here. he ran away to japan after i caught him fucking shin yona two days before our god damned anniversary.”

“damn. his loss.” 

“the fucker knows i can’t run after him because my schedule is packed this week. one of which is an ad shoot with the bitch yona, by the way. if she doesn’t pull out voluntarily, i’ll see to it that she does.”

you sure do swear quite a lot. “i think i’ve seen her before. was it firefly? i don’t know, that movie was crap.”

again, with the look of heavy judgement. makes him want to keep egging you on on purpose.

“i get it that you’re a fan, but this isn’t a god damned fanmeeting, you know.”

jeno looks at you, a ghost of a grin on his lips. “does your company know you act like this?” 

“of course not, how’d you think i stayed in the industry for so long if i don’t know how to act fake,” you roll your eyes. “back to the point. eric sohn. japan. can you bring him back here?”

“consider it done,” he says. his phone is out. you returned his shit earlier after wrapping things up in the basement. he then keys in a couple texts to a few contacts, eyes flickering between you and the screen. “and then what do you want? how badly do you wanna see him ruined? a few broken ribs and bruises? ‘til his face is unrecognizable? or—”

jeno closes his phone and drops it back into his pocket. he leans forward to get a better look at your face. 

his voice is low, quiet, and hushed, yet pulls down the air into the ground with a gravity heavier than that of the earth’s.

“want him dead?” 

silence permeates the room. he can’t read the thoughts running inside your pretty little head— save for the inkling that you don’t find his last suggestion the very least bit appealing.

“are you stupid? don’t you dare fucking touch him.”

your voice is aghast— offended. well, what did he expect. you might’ve acted the entire night like you had little to no regard to violence and the law— sending a bunch of men to kidnap him and all and waking up tied in a shady basement inside your own home, a few suspicious materials here and there, that’s got him thinking you’ve got graver intentions than a simple splash of water and a probably slap in the face.

“i only asked you to bring him to me and nothing more. don’t get ahead of yourself.”

but maybe there’s still a line that you you’re not willing to cross. 

“what’s the point if i don’t get to fuck him up myself?”

jeno feels a rattle in his bones.

he drills his eyes into you— your face, devoid of any jest or hint of hesitation. it’s all red and raw reprehension.

“what? the hell are you staring at?”

the words tumble out of his lips before he knows it.

“think you could let me watch?”

there’s a pause. it’s cold and quiet in your office. you’re looking at him like he just desecrated your parents graves. in jeno’s defense, you put the image in his head and his mouth doesn't have the safety on. when he doesn’t take it back, you sigh, place a set of fingers on your temple, and say, “get the job done first before making any extra requests.” 

well, that’s not a no at the very least.

“i’ve already made my payment so you better see to it that you accomplish your end of the deal.”

eyes flicker to the thin stack of autographed cards. he gets up from the chair with a rattle and takes it off the desk. “you sure about this, doll?” he asks, gaze flitting back to your face. “if word gets out, you’d be pretty much kissing your career goodbye, you know.” and after receiving your payment, he sets his arms down on the surface, leaning forward, grabbing taking out the red pen you’ve been using and scribbling his contact information on a spare sheet of paper.

he drops the pen with a clatter and takes a look at your expression.

“that’s fifteen years down the drain.”

you look like you’re tired of his shit.

“if word gets out that means you’re crap at your job,” you sneer, slapping your hand over the note as he finished writing. you slide it over to you with a screech. “didn’t you say you could handle this better than the incompetent fucks that brought you here?”

you’re looking up at him like you’re looking down, eyes snapped up, expectant and unforgiving.

jeno puts his hands up in a surrender, a sliver of a smile playing on his lips.

“you got it.”

AN UNLIKELY FANMEETING. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[hellishjoel]

playing hooky

9.2k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter l Next Chapter

summary: Frankie calls in sick for his shift. You simply must investigate. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), mentions of reader previously being on her period, smoking w33d, getting h!gh, swearing, pet names (angel, princess, etc.), handjob if you squint, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v, h!gh sex, aftercare, tangled feelings/messy emotions, sitcom vibes

A/N: tune in next time for a special halloween episode of Table for Two! 

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“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You purse your lips as you scribble another drawing on your order pad. You’re sitting at one of the empty barstools at the counter, one leg lazily swinging back and forth while the other is brought up under you. 

“You’re gonna get hip dysplasia.” Carla, your sarcastic manager, hums as she passes you. She playfully smacks you with her own order pad before she settles down beside you, a loud and tired sigh leaving her ruby-red lips. She rolls her swollen ankles, a side effect of being on her feet all day. A side effect of being alive. 

Your eyes lightly screw together, eyebrows knitting in curiosity. “I thought only animals get hip dysplasia.” You trail off and watch her sit with slight confusion. She parts her lips and takes a breath before her face contorts in thought. 

Finally, Carla reemerged with a new confidence. “No, baby, because my cousin- my second cousin,” she illustrates all of this with her hands. “They were born with it! I swear, look it up.”

You stifle a giggle before you both hover over your phone in search of the truth via Google. That’s when you clock the time. 

Your head swivels to the wall clock and confirms it’s half an hour past five in the evening. “No Frankie tonight?” You ask, eyes still attentive to your phone as you attempt to try and hide any obvious interest or concern. Where the hell was he?

Carla eyed you up and down. Since when did you start caring if Frankie showed up for his shifts or not? She decides not to press it, clearing her throat as she moves off her barstool once she hears the doorbell chime, a new customer sauntering in. 

“Just said he was under the weather. And we don’t need another sick line cook, that’s for damn sure. Everyone would be coughin’ and sneezin’ over their undercooked bacon and runny, nasty eggs.” She said with a little umph at the end for distaste. 

You sigh and nibble on your thumbnail. 

Frankie was a bit of an ass, but he made the shifts go by faster. Yes, even before you started fooling around, he was entertaining. 

Let’s see, there was the night he tried to see how many coffee cups he could stack and if he could make a tower to the ceiling - he tried this multiple times, and each attempt left glazed ceramic shards everywhere, to which Carla made him sweep up.

There was another time the diner needed supplies, and Rudy, the owner’s son, sent you and Frankie on an errand run. He pushed you in the cart through nearly the entire store, in search of toilet paper and paper towels, dish soap, and other amenities. Frankie bought you a Redbull at the end of it. 

Now, more recently, Frankie fucking pavloved you! Like a damn dog! Every time you worked a shift, you got ferociously horny. You had gotten so used to clocking in, working for a bit, then getting your needs met. And now that you had finished serving time being on your period, you were needy for what you missed while you were surfing the crimson wave. 

Your foot, more anxiously now, taps against the metal stand of the barstool you were sitting on, huffing in annoyance hearing that Frankie was ill. The pit in your stomach was already coiling, searching for a release that just wouldn’t be satisfied tonight. Or would it?

You’re not in the back kitchen as much as everyone else, but as the end of your shift wound down and it was nearly ten o’clock, you decided to piece together a panini and a side of fries for Frankie. You thought about how he learned you weren’t feeling good just last week, and he knew how far a simple meal went to make you feel better. Maybe you could do the same for him. And that was it. You swear there were no ulterior motives. Just a nice coworker bringing a bite to eat. 

You yank your phone from your uniform. Your fingerprints smear your phone screen with grease from the fries. 

text me your address if you’re still up

frankie (work) Huh?

You have to will yourself not to roll your eyes. 

read the first message again and ask me if you’re still confused

frankie (work) Okay sassy pants 194 Rivercrest Apartments #501

His stupid reply leaves a broken, twitchy smile on the right side of your mouth. Stupid asshole. 

Once the restaurant closes, your clunky car takes you across town to Frankie’s apartment. Your gleamy, tired vision catches the streaks from passing cars and street lamps. You pull into a visitor parking spot and let out a disgruntled sigh as you sit in silence, waiting in your idling car.

A weird part of you is nervous. Overthinking. Was this taking it too far, helping him out while he’s sick? 

You push aside any nerves and force yourself out of the car, a death grip on the doggy bag of food you had packed him. The evening Texas air tickles your bare legs, trying to adjust your uniform under your jacket after it got smushed around in the car. You buzz his number before you hear the entrance’s lock click, allowing you in. 

Glancing around for an elevator is hopeless. The entrance leads you straight to a set of stairs,  and you clench your jaw in annoyance. God dammit. You were not a woman who prayed to the cardio gods. 

Your lungs feel strained, and your feet ache, desperate to sit down after your shift and the mild hike up to Frankie’s apartment. You rap your knuckles against his door in disdain, lips parted with a few light pants for breath as you wait. The door had a few random dents and marks, obvious trails of someone moving items in and out of the apartment over time. The numbers on his door were crooked, the paint chipped. Did he have to live in such a sketchy place? It looked like the birthplace of tetanus. 

There were a few heavy footsteps on the other side before the door jangled open. And a very healthy, Frankie opened the door. Your face fell, and your eyebrows furrowed. A heavy whiff of weed smacked you in the face, and you swore it nearly gave you a contact high, even from the hallway. 

Frankie was all too happy to see you here. You drove all the way to his apartment just to see him. His face was dripping in a smirky grin. He barely fit through the door frame, his large broad shoulders and tall stature filled the entire rectangular entrance. He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against his door. He was perfectly fucking fine. 

“Hey, princess. Surprised to see you-”

Your lips purse and your eyes screw tight as you smack him with his bag of food. “What the hell-” smack, “is wrong with you! Fuckin-” smack, “asshole!” 

He’s slow to defend himself at first, letting you exhaust your hits as you fist the brown paper bag in annoyance. Finally on the last hit, he swipes the bag from your hand and sighs. He’s trying to dial down his stupid smirk, but it ends up turning into this stomach-twisting, sweet smile. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and chew on the inside of your cheek. “Carla told me you were sick.” 

“I am sick.” Frankie playfully defended, standing straight and shrugging his shoulders with a half-innocent smile. “Sick.. and tired of working.” He laughs at his own joke, and you bite back a smile. Such a fucking dork. 

You’re at a weird standoff outside of his apartment. It’s like he’s holding your invitation to enter over your head, and out of your reach. He wants you to ask. You want him to ask. You’re both so goddamn stubborn. You cross your arms and stand straight, eyeing him down. 

Frankie rolls his eyes, his smile breaking into a larger one as he grabs your wrist and pulls you inside. “So fuckin’ difficult.” You hide your smile as your face lightly glides against his chest, unintentionally inhaling his scent. By the looks of his hair, he was fresh from a shower. 

Frankie closes the door behind you, and his front brushes against your back as you stand in the tiny entrance hallway to his apartment. Music was playing deeper inside. 

His hands gently settle themselves on your arms, slowly coasting his warmth up and down your goosebump-covered skin. You inhale slowly, your back lightly resting back against his front. He was so easy to sink into. But then you remember how he bailed on work today, and you jut your elbow into his gut. He lets out a puff of air at the force you hit him with. 

“You’re such an ass ditching work. Ditching Carla.” You say as you step away from him and invite yourself further in, exiting the dark hallway and working your way further into the apartment. “We had to make do-it-all Paul step into the kitchen. Do you know how terrifying that is? Such a dick, Frankie.” 

“And you’re so sweet for bringin’ me food.” You hear him rifle through the paper bag, digging out his packaged food, and seeing him smile at the contents. “Thanks. You shouldn’t have.” He brushes past you and towards the kitchen while you stand in the living room. 

You didn’t concern yourself much with Frankie up until recent events, it was odd to see his evil lair. Okay, he wasn’t evil, but you know what I mean. You take in as many important details as you can while you slowly peel off your jacket and toss it on his couch. 

It’s quaint, really. He has no other furniture in the living room besides a couch, which you feel is by design. It sits perfectly opposite his mounted flatscreen. The walls are plain beige but are decorated with band and movie posters. You admire one that was purposely framed, unlike the others, with signatures. You didn’t recognize the band, but by their look, they seemed like an 80s rocker group. 

Below his flatscreen was an impressive vinyl collection, a record spins, and you recognize it as the melody you initially heard upon entering. It was serene, jazzy almost. 

“This is what you listen to when you’re alone?” You tease, kneeling down and flicking through a few album covers to see his taste. It was expansive, to say the least. There were only a fair few that you recognized. TOTO, ABBA, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, a little Van Halen, and a whole lot of The Beatles. 

Frankie sucks the salt from the fries off his fingers, seeing he’s already munched on half his panini. “It’s something I listen to when I’m stoned.” He half-jokes, a slight smile on his face. So that’s what he’s been up to. 

“You called in so you could lay around your apartment and get high all day?” Your tone is playfully judging, but he gives you a proud nod, not a care in the world behind those slightly glazed eyes. 

“I didn’t really lay around all day.” His tone is softer since you’re both so close. He’s standing just to the right of where you’re kneeling down, your head could lay against his thigh if you wanted. “I was trying out some new recipes and shit.” He mutters as he points a thumb behind him and to the kitchen. You glance up and notice his pretty curls in the light. You don’t often see him without his hat or his bandana. Come to think of it, you don’t really see him outside of his yellow-stained apron. 

Your eyes slowly took Frankie in, seeing him casually for the first time outside of work was startling. He was big. Tall and broad, with squishy thighs and a soft tummy, strong arms, and defined biceps. He was comfortably relaxing in a pair of black basketball shorts that landed just above his knees, eyeing a few tattoos by the hem. On his upper half was a tattered, well-loved Lakers shirt with a small tear at the shoulder, which has since been sewn closed. He had a little bracelet on, one of those leather brown ones that twisted around his wrist, accompanied by a spherical, multicolor beaded one. 

Your eyes linger for a hair too long, and now he’s already smirking at you. “Like what you see, princess?” God, that stupid fucking nickname needed a break. Heat shoots up your spine nonetheless, and you have trouble staring daggers at him like you usually would. 

You huff a breath through your nose and stand up on your feet, raising your eyebrow at him. “What do you mean you trying new recipes? You can actually cook?” It sounds rude and sarcastic, but you thought Frankie just goofed around at work and cooked for the cash, not as a hobby. You slowly make your way past him, eyeing his kitchen in the process. 

There are recipe books, honest to god recipe books. Big ones, small ones. Different categories of food outlined on the covers and spines. And his kitchen was a chaotic mess, with multiple cutting boards of varying sizes across his already limited counter space. There were bright-colored vegetables cut up and diced, the scraps having been tossed in a spare plastic bag sitting on the sidelines. There was an open bottle of soy sauce and another for sesame oil, a little tin of cornstarch, and diced chicken sizzling in oil on a frying pan. 

You take a few steps in further, your sneakers landing on linoleum as you really smell what’s simmering in a large skillet. Mushrooms, bell peppers, green onions, broccoli, and peas are cooking in a thick sauce, coating them amidst freshly minced garlic onion.  Your lips part as you inhale, and you can’t believe it. You don’t even know what it is, but it smells heavenly.

You finally have to ask, because hunger is carving a hole in your stomach. “What are you making?”

Frankie parks his hands on his hips and looks at you with knitted eyebrows. “What? You’ve never had stir fry before?” 

You purse your lips and reach for the spatula, looking to Frankie for reassurance, to which he nods his head. Go for it. 

You smile as the vegetables sizzle once you push them around on the pan, relishing in the attention as you allow the other less glazed vegetables to catch some heat from the burner. Frankie hums, like he’s debating something, like he’s learned something from his little experimentation. He reaches past you, his front brushing against your shoulders as he reaches around you and adds a little brownish-amber liquid to the pan. It sizzles, splashes, and dances across the different vegetables, which makes you grin. 

You were never big into cooking, especially since you started working at Tommy’s Diner. You’ve seen enough grease to last a lifetime. You were fine settling in on the couch with a bowl of cereal and a glass of cheap wine. You saved making extravagant dishes for when you had a date over, and even then, that was risky. 

But there was something about Frankie actually knowing how to cook cuisine that you liked. “I didn’t know you knew how to make dishes besides burgers and fries.” 

He sneers and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling the entire time and lets you continue slowly shifting the vegetables around, watching as the glaze sizzles. “I didn’t know you cared enough about me to visit me at my apartment. We’re both a bit surprised tonight.” This was your worst nightmare. 

“I only came here under the impression that you were sick-”

“So you came to my aid?”

“Psh,” You huff, “You wish. But no.” You insist more forcefully, setting the spatula down and turning to face Frankie, who is all too close to you. You lose a lot of your angry traction as his hand finds your hip, feeling his fingers flip to the stovetop’s burner switch to a lower setting. 

His hands navigate you away from the oven, your back flushed against his counter now. His eyes trail you, grazing over your body as his hips now plant you in one spot. You swallowed a lump in your throat, your still resisting hands planting against his chest. You can feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You can’t explain why your fingers twitch and start to clutch his shirt, pulling him a little closer. Stupid Frankie with his goading smirk, bringing his forehead down against yours. It was so hot in his kitchen, in the middle of summer. You feel a bead of sweat sprout behind your ear and lightly glide down your neck as you flutter your eyes closed. It wasn’t often you felt your power to resist him rendered useless, but tonight you felt like he had a quite literal home-field advantage. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, voice low and lust-drenched. His leg parts purposely between yours, jutting them open and spreading what was his. 

Your throat is closed off, the lack of air draining from your busy head. “I..” Your words fall off, distracted by something scampering through the living room.

“Do you have a cat?” Your eyes light up as you slink past Frankie. He found your stray of attention a bit adorable, despite being given a slight case of blue balls. 

You carefully padded out of the kitchen and into the living room, using the excuse to slip off your sneakers at the entrance. The small orange cat had curled up onto Frankie’s couch by your tossed jacket from earlier, forming a perfect circle amongst all of its tangerine fluff. Its eyes were closed serenely, absent of a new presence. It was fucking adorable, in short. 

Frankie was still flummoxed in the kitchen, adding the cooked chicken into the stir fry before turning the burner off and putting his masterpiece aside. “That’s Leo.” He announces, Frankie’s voice carrying annoyance that he lost a sure thing in the kitchen. Now you were cooing over his cat. 

He settles two bowls on the counter and adds the stir fry to each, a few splashes of the sauce splattering around the rim of the bowl. With two forks randomly stabbed into the piles of food, he walks one of them out to you. “Could have eaten this whole thing by myself.”

You smile, taking the offering and humming as you flop on the couch, the orange tabby finally peeking its eyes open. “I don’t doubt that, so thanks for sharing.” You recognize how he had eaten the panini and fries, and he was still excited over the stir fry. Poor guy probably had the munchies like crazy. 

With the kitty taking up one of Frankie’s couch cushions, he’s forced on the end with you in the middle. He sets his food aside on a spare side table and reaches for a small pipe, your breath pausing at the sight. “You want a hit?” He asks.

His face glows orange as he flicks on the lighter, spreading the flame over the green, now black, substance in the tiny bowl. He inhales, and you watch in mystification as he takes in the smoke filtering through. Your heart thumps harder in your chest, the right side of your mouth twitching up in a sly smirk. 

Let’s smoke weed with Frankie Morales tonight. 

He lets out a labored breath, the smoke flying loosely in the air and creating hazy grey circles that flood the ceiling before disappearing altogether. The stench fills the small apartment rather quickly. 

“I get really weird dreams after I smoke.” You whisper, biting down on your lower lip as you glance down at the pipe he’s holding, a small glow still coming from the weed. 

“It’s still lit if you want some.” His voice is low from smoking, and you have to clench your thighs closer together. Damn this stupid uniform, you wished you would have brought a change of clothes so you’d at least be comfy eating stir fry, petting his cat, and getting stoned with him. 

He raises the piece in an offering, and you look to him for one last look of reassurance. It’s polite to be offered free weed, especially since he’s the one who paid for it. He gives you a nod and looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. Are you crazy? If you want it, take it. 

So you do. And you smoke it. And you pat yourself on the back to do so without coughing. It’s a small hit, but you don’t need much, your brain already feels like it’s as light as a cloud, dancing in slow motion. You giggle by accident. 

Frankie lets out a sputter of laughter, watching you get high with him is a bit comical. “Princess knows how to smoke. Kudos.” 

You let out a puff of laughter through your nose and grab your warm bowl of stir fry, stabbing into a green pepper. “Shut up, Frankie.” 

He ends up putting on a show you both agree on, something comical that makes you both laugh your high asses off. You eat the stir fry and almost forget Frankie is the one who made it. It was delicious, you ate everything down the the finely chopped green onions. 

You both shared another hit, and you felt like you were loosening up. Any need to hold onto control slipped through your fingers. Any issues you had been dealing with drifted away. And you realized how stupidly happy you were to be beside Frankie. Trying to do anything of actual initiative went out the window after your second hit. You both found yourselves on the floor of Frankie's room, sat side by side, heads resting on the edge of his bed as you both stared up at the ceiling and spoke gibberish. 

“Aliens?” He asks, your thighs brushing. 

“Of course.” You hum, slowly blinking in a gentle haze. “Ghosts?”

He sighs and takes a long time to answer, which apparently offends you because you snap your head up and look at him in disbelief. 

“You can’t be serious. If you believe in aliens, you have to believe in ghosts.” You argue as you stare at his fan. 

He lets out a throaty groan, closes his eyes, and runs his hands down his face. His curls are pretty. They haven’t been run through a million times yet or smothered by a bandana or hat. 

“I think… I do believe in ghosts. I just don’t want them to bother me.” He says, a weak smile on his face. 

“What? Like you’re afraid to be haunted?” Your head lays back on the bed but rolls over, watching his profile while he continues to look up absentmindedly at the ceiling. 

He’s silent for far too long. Finally, he rolls his head over to face you, your noses lightly brushing. He’s so close that looking at him feels a bit cross-eyed. 

“Wait- what? Sorry.” He finally says with a broken, short laugh. 

“Can you focus?” You ask teasingly, pushing your hand up against his cheek and making him stop staring at you. 

You take the soft silence as an opportunity to rest your hand lightly on his thigh. He does the same, except he feels the warmth of your skin and the material of your uniform. Goosebumps form shortly after, and you smile shyly up at the ceiling. 

“Have you…” You start to say but trailed off, bashfulness overcoming you. 

“Have I what?” He asks. You both blink slowly as a car’s lights flash through his window only for a few seconds, lighting up the dim room before it is filled with darkness again. The moon and an orange lava lamp was the only source of glow. 

You distractedly look away from him, admiring a tapestry on his wall and his soft comforter. “Have you had sex with someone high?” 

He shrugs and slowly smiles before gently nodding his head against the edge of his bed. “Yeah. Have you?” His head rolls over to look at you again. You feel his warm gaze, but you just keep your eyes locked on his ceiling fan. 

Warmth and a subtle shyness flush across your chest, your thighs nearly trembling in excitement. “No.” You whisper. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he watches you for a few moments. 

“Want to, though.” You finish, feeling a knot slowly grow in your stomach. 

Frankie’s eyes flick to your long lashes, then down to warmth creeping up your neck. “Yeah?” He asks.

You gently nod, too, eyes still too shy to meet his own. “Yeah-” 

He doesn’t let you get out one more syllable. His large hand comes up and meets your cheek, guiding your head to meet his gaze.

Frankie kisses you deeply but at a slow pace. And you’re feeling a desperate hunger to have him. You eagerly cup his cheeks in return and swing a leg over his lap, intensifying the kiss as your hands glide down the landscape of his clothed chest, bunching up his shirt in the process. You feel like a horny jackrabbit, but it’s really all his fault. You can feel his half-hard cock as you grind the center of your pelvis over his own, whimpering into his mouth desperately.

“Take care of me,” you whisper, and it ends up sounding a little more like a desperate, whiney plea. 

Frankie’s lips part against your own, feeling the neediness of your touches. His hazy vision peers open, breaking your kiss for a moment. 

“Hold on, baby,” He sits up a little bit against the bed, his eyes scanning yours with a certain deepness. 

You pause, your chest heaving lightly as you regain your breath. “Frankie, come on, don’t make me beg.” You say as you lean in once more, but he catches your face and pauses your movements. You feel like a deer in headlights, static tingling in your ears as you feel a sudden rush for embarrassment. Why wasn’t he just as excited? Or eager? Or desperate? Were you the problem?

Suddenly, your eyes were dashing around for an escape. Then he speaks your name. Soft, gentle, careful. Hear him out. You swallow your pride and stay seated over his lap. 

“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You can’t help but let an awkward chuckle escape between you, eyes having a hard time meeting his. You playfully scoff and smack his shoulder lightly to regain a sense of control. “Shut up, Frankie.”

His head cocks, and he looks at you with that stupid fucking smirk. “You don’t know how to take it slow, do you?” 

His words antagonize you, and your eyes light with fire. A defensive fire, because he was right. 

Slow meant feelings, slow meant experiencing, slow meant bonding. You weren’t slow. Sex was supposed to be fast, hot, desperate, counting down the seconds until a sweet escape, racing to an orgasm, chasing it like a fever dream. You weren’t good at slow. 

You hate that Frankie has learned this about you. Giving up the upper hand wasn’t in your caliber. And you find yourself frowning as you look down at him once his smirk washes away. He’s looking at you like he cares. Even with you both stoned, brain’s hazy and light, he sees through all that and looks at you like he gives a damn. 

He lightly shrugs his shoulders and softens the hold he has on your face, his thumb gently stroking along your cheekbone. “Can show you.” 

Hesitancy screams across your blank face, but he reads you better than anyone else. He speaks your name, more genuinely explaining his offer. “Let me teach you.” 

You let out a gentle sigh, slowly giving in to temptation. Because having him at all was better than not. So you take it slow. Frankie teaches you zen. Teaches you how to melt. 

One of his hands falls from your cheek and lands on your waist, gently stroking your hip in a soothing slow circle. It feels like heaven. 

His brown orbs dip close, and you let him take the lead. He kisses you tenderly, soft. His tongue lines your lower lip once he’s ready to lightly increase the intensity, begging your mouth for permission to part. If it was any other night, your tongue would be down his throat, and you’d be a grinding, sloppy mess in his lap. Let him teach you.

You take a deep breath in as your tongues tangle. 

It almost makes you giggle again, because it feels stupid, but you sort of like it. 

His stubble brushes your face, and you fight to release a moan. Frankie’s hand on your hip shuffles to your lower back, and you feel him add pressure. Your chest meets his, and you let yourself melt into him. His strong torso easily keeps you both up. Your heavy breaths hit the room, and you force yourself to pull away for air, despite how much you enjoy making out with him. He grins at the sight of satisfying you. 

Frankie pushes a stray hair that’s fallen out from your loose ponytail behind your ear, smiling as his hands move to the back of your uniform. This will be the first time he actually undresses you properly, not just shoving the material up past your ass so he has access to your pussy. 

“You know how to work the zipper?” You playfully ask as you settle your head on his shoulder, taking the slower moments to breathe and relax. 

He stuffs down a chuckle and nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think so. Am I doing it right?” He asks as he guides the zipper down your back, feeling your flesh exposed to the rest of his room. 

You purse your lips and slowly sit up in his lap, watching him take in a deep inhale as your centers brush lightly. You hide your coy smile as his eyes light with excitement, but he’s made a point to be slow with you. You guide the sleeves of your uniform down to your hips, exposing your breasts to him. Giggles leave your mouth as you wiggle out the last bit of your dress, Frankie is more than happy to help you. 

“I’m feeling a little alone here.” Your voice is soft, tugging at his shirt before you push it up just past his pecs. Your high ass got a little distracted, staring at the hair sprinkled in dark trails across his torso, feeling him struggle in his shirt as he laughed. 

“Focus, princess,” his arms tangle with his shirt before he tosses it off, especially since you started slacking. You shyly smile and flutter your eyes down to his warm body as your hands explore the landscape for the first time. You had yet to undress each other like this, you sort of liked it, especially with this whole slow and steady thing going for you both. 

Frankie leans back against the bed, admiring the sight before him. You feel a little awkward, goosebumps rushing up your arms as you shyly smile and playfully push his face away. “Stop staring, perv. You’ve never seen a pair of tits before?”

He’s quick. “Not a pair that nice.” 

You smile and crack out a laugh, knowing sex has never felt this casual before. No pressure. Good vibes. And it’s not just because of the weed. It’s because it’s Frankie. And he looks at you like you put the sun in the sky and you could do no wrong. But then he starts staring at your tits, and you realize he’s just another guy. 

His hands caress your waist, thumbs dipping into the curves and appreciating the way they run up you like beautiful rivers. You decide to do the same. Your hands slip lower, letting his happy trail guide you to his black mesh basketball shorts. His rough and calloused hands cup your tits, taking them in his palms and giving you a tentative squeeze. He’s figuring you out, what you like, what makes you squirm and whine. As soon as he pinches your nipples between his thumbs and pointer fingers, a broken gasp is elicited from your mouth. 

“Shit,” you curse breathily. Everything was a bit heightened right now, including your sensitivity. It felt like a million little strums were being played, making your spine shiver and your head grow foggy. And you were determined to make him feel the same way. 

You bite down on your lower lip, fishing your hand into his shorts and fisting a hand around his already hardening cock. A smirk tangles on your lips as he lets out an earthy grunt, low to the ground and heaven to your ears. 

You start a bit fast, eager to please, wanting to see him tremble for your touch.

His lips meet yours in a distracting manner, rocking your steady pace. “Slow.” He murmurs against your lips, and you gently nod, a shy smile spreading from embarrassment.

“Slow.” You whisper, your lips brushing his. Your ego trips on the power you have over him, fisting him, his heavy length weighing in your hand. You couldn’t even fully wrap your fingers around him, he was all just… girth. Your body ached for him, needy for the feeling only he could satisfy by being inside of you. His tip trickles with precum, and a low moan drips off his tongue like honey. It fuels you. 

“Spit on my cock, princess.” He grunts out, his face leaning in to capture one of your nipples in your mouth. You squeak lightly in excitement before doing just as he asks of you. 

You angle your head over your centers, letting a long line of saliva puddle down onto him. It meets the strokes of your hand, and Frankie’s jaw twitches as he squeezes your breasts involuntarily harder.  You let out a long whine as your nipples form peaks between his fingers, feeling your heart thrum against your chest. 

Frankie likes how you look on top. Back arched, chest pushed up, messy hair falling loose, eyes lit with an eagerness and curiosity for him to teach you the method of going slow. Admiration mixed with respect. He feels like he’s dreaming. 

All he can imagine is you like this, bodies in sync, riding his cock. Tight walls milking his cock for everything he has. His skin becomes riddled with goosebumps, thinking about your nails digging into his chest, your tits rocking up and down, how he would tumble out moans of your name and squeeze your hips with adoration. Yeah, he’d like to see that one day. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can last with merely your hand on him. 

“C’mere, baby.” 

A gasp of surprise jumps from your throat before you can stop it, Frankie managing to stand up off the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist for security. His strength, how easily he lifts you and shuffles you around like a ragdoll spurs white hot heat in your stomach. You were going to fuck him good if you ever got past the going slow part. 

His smirky mouth meets yours in a hot kiss, one heavier than before. Like he’s needy for you. Your eyes melt closed as your fingers wind into the pretty curls that were formed at the nape of his neck. Your back meets his mattress and blankets, your fingers dance along the pattern, your high mind hypnotized seeing Frankie on top of you. 

His body rests between your parted legs. You whimper into his mouth, feeling his hardened cock resting against your core. 

“Take my fucking panties off,” you beg more than you mean to. 

Frankie tries not to sneer. His teeth capture your lower lip, and you mewl out a moan before he lets you go. 

“To hell with going slow.” 

You hastily nod, feeling his fingers grip your panties at either side of your hips before he shuffles them down. You whine with how the sticky center stays latched to your core, he gently peels it loose with a hellish smirk. 

Frankie’s heart thrums against his chest and echoes into his ears. Hearing you desperate for his touch was heaven, he felt undeserving to have such an angel vying for his attention. “So wet f’me, barely touched you, princess.” 

He discards your panties to the side, off on the floor with the rest of the clothing you both have shed. You’re completely naked together, makes you a little nervous. 

Frankie promised to speed up, but you’re finding harmony in the way his soft lips trail down your body, leaving wet prints between the valley of your breasts to the soft skin of your stomach. Your breaths come out heavier, thighs shaking as he drops back down to kneel at the edge of the bed. His hands grip your thighs and yank you impatiently closer to his eager mouth. You whimper as your body is shuffled closer, your fists that were clutching the sheets being torn away. 

You giggle as your thighs shake around his head, feeling those perfect kisses move between the warmth of your legs. 

“Fuck,” you finally let out, excitement seeping through your bones. Frankie’s stubble drags across the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, and again, you feel that heightened sensitivity that makes your stomach roll. 

Frankie decides that dragging out the teasing is enough. He wanted to taste you, every mile, every inch, every centimeter. 

Your core glistens in his eyeline, begging to be touched, kissed, fucked. He can’t help but dive in. His dopey brown eyes meet yours as his face disappears lower and lower before he’s past the valley of your tits, and all you can see when you crane your neck are those mocha brown eyes. 

His tongue tastes you, and divides your folds, as he laps up your juices. 

The feeling is exhilarating, like the rise and fall of a roller coaster. 

A gasp riddles its way up through your throat, concaves your chest, and your pupils blow wide in excitement. Frankie enjoys your taste but aims to pleasure. His mouth latches onto your sensitive clit and suckles, his tongue intervening every few swipes to flick across your clit. Rise. 

His large hands grip the outside of your thighs, pinning your lower half to his mattress, and lapping over you in a heated race to the finish line. Your face contorts in pleasure, fingers drifting down your stomach before you wind them in Frankie’s hair. He growls against your pussy, you’ve never felt your blood pump faster. Fall. 

“Fucking- Christ,” you push out, gripping his hair strands tighter and making him grunt hot heat against your core. “Feels so fucking good- oh my god,”

He pulls away for a breath and sucks a love bite into the sensitive flesh of your thigh until it swells pink and purple. One of his hands on your outer thighs wraps around the shell of your body, playing with your clit. He slowly shakes his head as he looks at you. You wonder if he shares your hazy vision. The pleasure makes you feel like you’re seeing double. 

“Christ isn’t making you feel good,” his words make you whimper, “I am.”

You quickly nod, but you realize your body can’t move quickly under the influence. You’re just hazily bobbing your head, your hand in his hair dropping to his strong bicep. 

“Frankie, I need you,” you plead as you gently sit up on your elbows and cup his cheek, wiping your glistening slick off his pretty bottom lip. “Need you inside of me.” You whisper, a desperate look splashed across your face. 

You hated how much power he had over you. He almost just made you cum from playing with your clit. You need him biblically, fully, flesh and blood, blood to bone. It was carnal, primal. 

He doesn’t need much further convincing. Frankie preferred to pull an orgasm from going down on you, but he listened to your needs and what you wanted. 

His lips meet yours in a hungry kiss, working you further up the bed and letting you collapse into his pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of a dream catcher while his tongue tangles with yours. You flush at the taste of your own arousal. That’s when you realize his hand is still between your thighs and working soothing circles into your clit. 

You whimper as he adds a tad bit more pressure, and you feel the white-hot heat of adrenaline making your stomach pool even more excitement into your tummy. 

“Frankie,” you whisper softly, and his forehead rests over yours while he guides his shaft to your center. 

He lines his tip up and down between your folds, your jaw dropping as he sickeningly uses your slick to lube himself. He lets his entire shaft rest against your sex, and he does slow thrusts back and forth, lining his entire cock with you. Holy fuck. A shiver was sent up your spine, goosebumps parading across your body. 

Your chest swelled for him. 

“What do you say?” He asks in a taunt, knowing how weak you are. 

You huff and move your hands up his arms and hang them loosely around his shoulders. He complies in moving in closer. 

“Please.” You finally admit between gritted teeth, which makes him grin. 

“Alright, princess,” his forehead now rests against your temple, cocking his chin down to get a better angle of your centers. He guides his tip to your entrance, slow and patient, before he notches himself inside of you. 

Your eyelashes flutter, and you watch as his eyes clench closed. He likes to act all tough like he wouldn’t fold for you, but you know he would time and time again without having to say more than a simple please. 

Both of you share unsteady breaths. It feels like a dam is giving way inside your chest. 

Frankie thinks how he has never been inside a tighter pussy, squeezing the last bits of air from his lungs. 

Your walls pulsate around the intrusion, but your dripping core and his wet tongue from earlier allowed him to slowly push in, inch by inch. 

You swallow a lump in your throat. You don’t realize your eyes are closed, and you're gripping him around the neck to keep him close until he sponges a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Alright?” He forces out. It’s like you’re choking him, and it makes you twitch up a smile. 

“Mhm,” you muster up, feeling his chest rumble lightly with laughter. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and your chest surges at the pet name. “Can’t breathe.” Oh, shit. You damn near had him in a headlock.

You loosen your grip around his neck, shyly smiling as your desperate hands look for something to ground you. 

Frankie stays flushed inside you but shifts to be more centered over your body, gently resting his forehead just above yours. 

“C’mere,” he whispers before he takes your hands. You decide not to question why he interlocks your fingers. But it feels safe, and you’re still high, so you’ll blame any poor decision-making on that. 

“Fuck me,” you finally grit out, desperate for him to just fucking, “Move.” 

Your whine is met by him reeling back his hips, only for him to plow right back into you at an unforgiving rate. A gasp ripples through your throat, and you feel like screaming. Your entire goddamn body was on fire with the way his girth parted your walls, splitting you open. You let out a string of whimpery moans, and your eyes glared desperate daggers into him. 

“S’what you wanted, right?” He grunts out, jaw tight, pretty curls falling limply in front of his eyes and crowding his forehead. “You wanna be fucked hard, is that it?” He can barely speak authoritatively, you’re squeezing him like your last lifeline. 

But he’s right. Tears cloud your vision, and you weakly nod as desperate puffs of air leave your pretty parted lips. “Yes,” you squeak out, relaxing your hips so Frankie falls into you more. 

“Feels so fucking good, can’t-” An eager cry leaves your lips as he pulls himself out, just to thrust right back in and rocking you further up his bed. Your chin tips to the ceiling as you curse every god, man, woman, whoever the hell created Frankie Morales. 

“Can’t what, princess?” His tone is lower, sinister even as your walls twitch around him but only gush out more arousal for his cock to slide in and out of you. 

You find it hard to string together syllables. So he squeezes your hands that you’re holding for dear life. He stills inside of you until you answer. 

“Shit,” you whimper. 

“Can’t what, angel?” He probes again, cocky asshole waiting for his answer. 

You whimper and peek open your eyes. The right side of his face is highlighted silver from the moon, your hazy vision thinks he looks like an angel. His hand wanders between your centers and finds your throbbing clit, making you cry out the answer. Your face crumbles as you own up to what you need to say. 

“Fuck! Fuck, Frankie! Can’t go without your dick,” you pant out as he subtly rocks into you at a good pace upon your confession. “Can’t even go- can’t even go a week without it,” you admit in defeat. 

That stupid, cocky smirk of his graces his parted lips. It’s crooked and perfect, and he’s fucking you like your life depends on it. Because it does, you think. 

His thighs clap against your ass, pounding you into the bed, drilling you into place, suffocating the air from your lungs.

Your vision goes hazy, seeing white, then rainbow, then stars. They cloud your vision, and you’re not sure if you’re still high off the weed anymore. Or just high off Frankie. 

You whimper strings of his name tangled with profanity, he’s still filling you to the brim. It once seethed hot with pain, but now your stomach is contorting in pleasure. It’s like he knows exactly how to crack your vault, penetrating your walls, unlocking something deep inside of you that no one else manages to know the code. 

His messy fingers continue to circle your clit, and you know your end is coming. 

Frankie’s grunting with every thrust, moaning a symphony of your name every chance he gets. He likes holding your hand, resting his sweaty forehead against your own, listening to you beg for his cock, for your finish. It’s the only thing he wants to give you. He’d be at your every beck and call if you let him. He wouldn’t mind if the only thing he ever got was a fraction of your praise. 

Frankie’s thighs clap against your ass, the sound echoes around his bedroom. If his neighbors didn’t know his name, they did now. 

“Fuck! Frankie!” You cry out, feeling every inch of his cock massage your insides. His tip kisses your cervix, and your jaw drops. Nothing more comes out of your mouth, so your blown-out eyes do all the talking. 

I’m so fucking close.

“I know, baby, feels good, doesn’t it?” He grunts as his balls slap against you. “Feels good having my fat fucking cock inside you, huh?” 

You shake under him, your thighs clench around his hips, and you pray to the gods for making Frankie. You take back what you thought before, you need him. 

You don’t care that he’s a little older, that he’s an asshole, that he eggs you on. 

Because in the shelter of his bedroom, locked in your embrace, he swallows your name and persuades you into pleasure, time and time again. 

Your clit tingles, and your walls furiously clench around him. Finally, your mouth finds words to try and elaborate on what you’ve been holding inside. 

“Fucking- shit! Fuck me harder, right there- fuck me, Frankie! God- I’m coming!” You cry out as his pants fill your space, fanning across your face. He fucks you harder and faster as you near your orgasm, wanting to help you reach it. And he gets you there.

Your back arches, and he groans lowly as he stills inside of you. It’s almost beautiful the way you cum in unison. 

Your hands hold his tighter, and he reciprocates by squeezing gently. I’m right here, I’m here, baby. 

You’re not sure how long you lay there, still. Your hips get a little achy. He feels you twitch and knows it's time to let you go. 

A gentle whimper leaves you as he pulls out. You feel a bit empty, a little cold.

His sweet laughter makes you peek open your eyes. He’s trying to move out from around you, but you haven’t let go of his hands. 

You shyly let go, and both of you squeeze your hands to flex the knotted muscles and stiff knuckles. You close your legs and lightly curl up. He doesn’t come to rest, he gently pats your outer thigh once or twice before he disappears to his bathroom. 

You think he couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty seconds, but he comes back in a fresh pair of boxers and his basketball shorts, his tanned torso still exposed for your viewing. 

“Frankie,” he pauses like a deer in headlights as he stands up from grabbing your panties. “I’m gonna… spill.” You finally pitch out, a bit embarrassed. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling like an idiot. He circles back to the bathroom and grabs a towel and a wet washcloth. 

“Sorry, my brain is all-” he starts to say, but you quickly shake your head. 

“I know me too. S’okay.” You whisper with a smile as you weakly sit up on your elbows. The record playing in the living room had stopped. He shimmies the towel under your hips before he aids you with a clean washcloth. 

Feels too domestic, so you take over, much to his annoyance. You wrap yourself in the towel once you’re done, and sit up to retrieve your uniform. You dread putting it on. 

“Can I take the towel for the way home? My underwear is still too..” you trail off. Soaking wet was the words you would have used. 

Frankie’s face screws up in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“You’re going home?” 

Now your expressions match. “Yeah?” It sounds more like a guess than a statement. “What else would I do?”

Frankie shifts back and forth on his feet before he sits down beside you on the bed. “Dunno. Stay here.” 

You take in a hesitant breath, and he feels it. “You shouldn’t drive home, you know. You’re stoned. And tired. Don’t need you falling asleep at the wheel or some shit.” 

You frown. Staying here does sound nice. Thinking about going down those five flights of stairs with your jelly legs sounds like a walk to hell. 

But there’s a certain rule about sleeping over. One you don’t want to cross. You and Frankie are just fooling around. Nothing more. 

“I don’t know, Frankie.” You say with a small frown, tightening the towel around you even more. His sullen look deepens at your words. He doesn’t want to overly convince you. If you want to go, he doesn’t want to stand in your way. 

You chew on your bottom lip and weigh your options. You don’t want to go down the stairs. You’re tired as fuck, and you don’t want to get pulled over or something else. And you really don’t want to put your uniform back on. And you want to stop trying to put issues in your own way when you really just want to stick around. But the decision is made for you. 

“Stay.” 

Your eyes meet his. He’s more certain now, going after what he wants. 

“Stay the night, it won’t kill you. I’ll get you something more comfortable to wear, and you can just…” he trails off and shrugs. 

“Stay?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods. 

You sigh loudly but inevitably smile as you point to his closet. “I need a shirt. Please.” 

A big smile glides across his face, and you can’t believe you’re the one who put it there. 

“Alright, princess, whatever you say.” He squeezes your thigh and stands up, his back to you as he fishes through his closet and smells a few shirts to see how clean they are. 

You roll your eyes and sigh as you fall back into his pillows. 

You change into something clean, you hope it’s clean, and end up curling into a protective ball under his covers. 

His cat, Leo, circles up by your feet, and you coo, gently stroking the pretty fur along his back. Frankie retrieves two glasses filled with water and hands you one. You instantly take a few gulps before your hand gently strokes down the shirt he’s put you in. It swims a bit on you, but you like it. The hem hangs at your thighs. 

“Can you get in here?” You ask impatiently. “M’getting chilly.” You whisper with a coy smile. 

Frankie blows out a few candles in his living room and finishes putting away any leftover stir fry. 

Your high has worn off, and now you’re just a sleepy little thing. A long shift plus getting railed would be your new nighttime sleep aid. 

Now that the apartment is drenched in darkness, he pulls back the covers and moves in beside you. Cuddling was not an option. He spoons you, yanking you halfway across the bed and out of your little ball. His warm flesh meets your back, and you hum at the feeling. He was a furnace. His head settles above yours, you feel the stubble gently poke at your hair. Your eyes are already closed as his arm wraps around your waist, an affirming hand settling on your tummy. He must need skin-to-skin contact because his hand slips under the shirt he’s put on you and settles on the warm skin by your belly button.  

You let out a short little laugh. “You do this with all the girls you sleep with?” 

“No.” He quickly says, and your eyes peek open. 

“No?” You ask curiously. 

“No. Just all my coworkers I sleep with.” You roll your eyes and reach around to slap the back of your hand against his hip, forcing out a chuckle from him. 

“M’kidding.” He somehow pulls you closer. Your head rests comfortably on his bicep, the cold tip of your nose warmed by his flesh. 

Questions pour out of your stupid brain. Were you the only one he was sleeping with? If you weren’t, who else was there? Was this normal to him, cuddling after a friends-with-benefits situation? Did Frankie want something more? 

You sigh and close your eyes, attempting to shut off your brain as your finger lazily draws shape on his forearm. 

He murmurs a goodnight against the shell of your ear. You blame how happy and comfortable you are right now on his cat. And it somewhat makes you feel better. You never pictured falling asleep beside your coworker, let alone Frankie Morales. 

Sleep eventually overcomes you. You dream of Frankie sitting in a bowl of stir fry like a hot tub. 

---

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[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I wish you'd write a fic where reader is xadens younger sister and dating Garrick. But they date in secret (obviously xaden wouldnt be super thrilled at first when finding out) for like 2 years or so before they leave to go to Basgiath . Maybe when reader goes to cross the parapet Xaden notices garricks extra instruction. Maybe a slight brush on the back of the end before stepping on. And then Garrick and reader are caught by xaden and then his mad at first but relaxes off after watching Garrick protect her through out the year

When?

Xaden felt like an idiot. One big absolute idiot. He couldn’t believe that he was able to lead the rebellion but was quite literally fooled by the people closest to him. How did he miss the signs? Why didn’t his consciousness wave red flags back and forth. And he didn’t even figure it out on his own. No, no, fucking Imogen spelled it out for him.

“What are you smiling about all day?”, he had asked her as they counted up the weapons. Getting ready to distribute them overnight. Imogen shook her head as her smirk deepened, “Just Garrick”, she breathed. Xaden frowned, “Why are you smiling over Garrick? You don’t smile over a man”. Imogen rolled her eyes, “it has nothing to do with me, you idiot”, she snorted.

“Out with it, I don’t have time to play”, Xaden grumbled. Imogen placed down the dagger in her hands before looking up at her friend. “Didn’t you notice that he’s been different?”, she questioned. “Is he sick?”, Xaden smacked a question of his right back at her. “You are unbelievable”, she shook her head, “Do you seriously don’t see it?” Xaden blinked a couple of times. Nothing seemed off about his oldest friend. He was fine. Better than ever actually. “Xaden, Garrick looks at your sister as if she hung the moon up in the sky”, Imogen muttered, “He greeted me with a smile today”, her hands met Xaden’s shoulders as she shook him slowly, “A smile. S. M. I. L. E. Do you understand? That man hasn’t smiled ever since I met him”. But Xaden’s mind had clung to the first part of her words. Garrick liked his sister. No, this had to be a joke. Just Imogen didn’t look as if she was joking.

Ever since had made it his task to keep an eye out. Following you both. Sorting out through memories of you both. You had barely crossed the parapet six months ago. And yes Garrick had pulled you from the line when you came up. “Show me your shoes”, he had ordered, bending down to check them himself. Xaden hadn’t thought anything of it then. Had simply muttered, “Fuck you, I got her the shoes myself”, but he was so frightened to lose you that day that nothing else counted. Not the way Garrick had gripped the side of your face right before you stepped on. Not even the fact that Garrick had broken the board the names were scribbled on. Or how they had embraced each other when you were safely on the other side.

“Stop piling food on my plate”, you chuckled lightly, as Garrick spooned more veggie bake from his owl plate onto yours. “You need to eat more”, he stated, “You did well in training today”. Your eyes sparkled as you looked up at him. “You probably just went easy on me”, you shrugged. “I never go easy on anyone, love”, he reached out, brushing strands of your hair behind your ear, “Especially not when I want to impress you”. You hit his chest lightly, as your cheeks went pink, “You’re such a flirt”, “Only for you baby, only for you”, he traced the corner of your lips before picking up a for once again.

Xaden brooded in the knowledge of seeing it with his own two eyes. And then it’s as if someone had ripped the blindfold from his eyes. It was everywhere. Xaden saw it everywhere and it was so obvious. Garrick who was always first to leave the meeting now stood there, waiting for everyone to leave. Every time he walked past the girls he always made sure to brush his fingers along your back. Find contact with you no matter what. In a sea of cadets, his eyes were always on you.

“When?”, Xaden asked, yanking the back of Garrick’s shirt as the male left one of the meeting halls. Garrick didn’t miss a beat at batting his long-time friend’s hands off him, “Shit man you nearly got me”. But Xaden only puffed his chest more, “When?”, he repeated. Garrick frowned because Xaden was tiptoeing on the edge and he never lost his cool. A fear ran down his spine. What if something happened? What if you got hurt? Taken?

“What the fuck is going on?”, Garrick barely managed to grunt as Xaden’s left fists collided with his jaw. “Answer the fucking question goddamn”, he growled, clearly getting more and more frustrated. Garrick shoved him back slightly, “What in burning dragon shit has gotten into you?”.

A bitter laugh slipped past his friend’s lips, “I should be asking you that”, Xaden’s eyes were burning with anger, ��you’re the one screwing my sister behind my back”, his voice raised ever so slightly. Garrick’s face blanched for a heartbeat before a wave of frustration ripped within him as well, “Don’t you dare put it like that”, he pointed a warning finger at Xaden who leaped forward, “You didn’t deny it, shitface”.

He wasn’t so sure if he wanted to punch or choke his long-time friend until a voice split the growing. “Stop this right now”, you called out, reaching to move for them but Garrick moved his free hand up, “Step aside Yn”. Yet another huff echoed, “Don’t tell her what to do”, Xaden bit back and it’s as if something shifted in Garrick, “I will because you are insane and I ain’t taking chances with you”, there was that primal almost frustrations in him. One that Xaden recognized because he too got overtaken by it when anyone got involved with Violet.

Yet still, Xaden pushed through, making sure to back Garrick against the wall, “I will make sure you die a painful…”, “Don’t you finish that Riorson”, you hissed from behind him, as you pulled at your brother’s upper arm. “You are grounded”, Xaden yanked his arm out of your grip, turning his frustration back on you.

“Listen to yourself, you sound like a child”, you said through gritted teeth. “Why was I not informed about this”, Xaden pointed between you and Garrick, before shaking his head, “This can’t be happening”. Garrick let out a low chuckle, “It has been for the past year and then some”, “Garrick”, you huffed pinching the bridge of your nose as he shrugged.

“She’s my sister! My”, Xaden shouted right at his friend's face, “And my girlfriend get in the line of being important to her”, Garrick said with a smirk. “I will choke you in your sleep”, Xaden leaned to tower over Garrick but he didn’t miss the beat doing just the same, “You can try”.

“Boys, please”, your voice was barely a whisper now, you could hear the sadness in it. Garrick’s head wiped in your direction instantly, “Don’t you dare get upset over this”, he hated it. Hated the sight of you sad. Of you upset. He could handle anything just not your tears. “Stop telling her what to do”, Xaden howled but this time Garrick was the one to shove him back before pointing a warning finger at him, “Riorson you are starting to get on my nerves”.

“Shut it, both of you”, you hissed, pushing your way between them and putting them at arm's length. “Garrick, I love you but please just stay quiet for a moment”, you glanced at your boyfriend, silently pleading with him, before your eyes turned to your brother.

“I’m sorry i should have told you”, you muttered. “Fuck yeah you should have”, he huffed. “But we had so little time. You both could have died, I could have died. We took a gamble just in case we survived and here we are”, you intertwined your fingers with Garrick’s and he instantly brought your joined hands up to his lips. Xaden inhaled sharply. “I’ve been really happy, Xaden”, you muttered quietly as your eyes glassed over with tears. Xaden reached out, pulling you closer to him, glaring at Garrick over your shoulder as he kissed the side of your head with a low whisper, “I know”.

You pulled back, hopeful eyes looking right into his soul. His little sister. The other half of his world. He only pushed through for you and Violet. A frown deepened between his brows before he managed to pull somewhat of a smile for you, kissing your forehead. “I will serve you your ass on the mats tomorrow”, Xaden shot a tight look Garrick’s way. He wasn’t ready to have a proper conversation with him yet. He will. He will put him from hell of his own. Just not now. “I’m looking forward to it”, Garrick nodded in agreement. Xaden turned to walk away before stopping. “A single hair breaks on her head and I am scattering you in ribbons”, he threatened, turning back to hold a warning stare with him. Garrick simply pulled you closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around you, “Believe me”, he breathed out, glancing down at you for a moment, “If a hair breaks I will go willingly”. And that was enough for Xaden. Because even if he was angry he knew that Garrick would fight till his last breath to make sure that you were okay and for that alone, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.

[thebearmage]

One Mistake (is all it takes)

Five Hargreeves x GN!Reader

Summary: When Five's harsh words and temper causes Y/N to run head-first into danger, the man learns the hard way that words can sometimes be more deadly than actions.

Warnings: Angst, HEAVY angst, blood, violence, Five being sad

MASTERLIST

It had been a hard day.

You and Five were working hard, trying to think of any and everything that could stop the apocalypse.

Five was standing on his, scribbling numbers onto the walls messily. You sat at his desk chair, reading over a few papers.

You are smarter than most, which is something Five admired, so, even though he's only explained the math a few times, you mostly understood what he was trying to do.

"What about this equation?" you say, gesturing to a line on the page you were holding, "It doesn't look right,"

"No, that one's fine," Five says, scratching his neck.

You sigh, "Sorry, I'm still wrapping my mind around all this. I honestly think we're going about this in the wrong way,"

Five stops and slowly turns to you with an incredulous look, "Wrong way?" he hisses, "We're trying to save the world, Y/N! What don't you understand?"

"I understand your reasoning, Five, I really do. But I fail to see how killing this random ass person might stop the apocalypse!"

Five blinks, before scoffing, "I really thought you understood this! That you were smarter than this!"

You sigh, trying to ignore Five's heated tone, "I do understand, I'm just trying to help,"

"Well, you're doing a lousy job!" Five snaps, "I only ask one thing of you, Y/N! Did I ask you to battle a monster? No! Climb a mountain? No! I only ask one simple thing and you can't even do that!"

Your eyes widen and fill with tears. Five doesn't seem to notice, he turns away and throws his hands into the air, "Of course, what did I expect! Messing up is all you can do! I mean, honestly, how can you possibly be this useless!?"

You gasp softly, tears finally running down your face. Five doesn't turn to look at you, shaking his head and mumbling angrily.

You put the papers down and leave, not bothering to look behind you. You rush down the steps of the Academy, ignoring the way Allison calls out for you, or how Luther asks what's wrong. You flee the building, out into the cold pouring rain and you start to run home.

You fail to notice the two assassins following you.

Cha-Cha and Hazel had failed to kill Five, so they were given a new objective; Kill Y/N L/N. You were special, even if you didn't know it yet. You were a key factor in stopping doomsday.

Five spent the rest of the day rattling his brain for any ideas. Luther had convinced blackmailed him into not killing anyone, so he had to come up with a new plan.

He had seen you storm off. He knew his words were harsh and maybe unnecessary but his frustration was getting the better of him. He also knew he needed your help. None of his siblings seemed to understand, but you did. You always did.

Sighing, he blinks to your apartment building. Putting a hand into his pocket, he knocks on the door.

"Hey! Anyone there? It's Five! I need to speak with Y/N!"

Nothing. Five blinks, eyebrows furrowed. He clicks a few buttons to be buzzed in, "Hello!?"

Nothing again. Five runs a hand through his hair and curses under his breath, "Fuck it,"

He smashes the window and unlocks the door from the inside, "Hel--"

His greeting dies in his throat. All over the lobby was blood. On the floors and walls, everywhere. All he could see was blood.

Five gasps, horrified. There were clear signs of a struggle; dents in the wall, broken decorations, pictures scattered on the floor. There was even a body in the hallway.

"H-Hello?" Five slowly takes a step inside, body slightly shaking. He's felt fear before. He's lost people before. But this...this terror...this was pure raw panic, overwhelming his body and mind. He wanted...no needed you to be okay. His voice shakes, "Y-Y/N!? I'm here! Are you there!?"

Suddenly, there's a shadow behind Five and he whips around. It's Cha-Cha, with a knife.

"No!" Five thinks, panic turning into fury as he ready for the fight, "Not until I find them!!!!"

———————❖———————

Cha-Cha lies dead on the ground. Her own knife plunged deep into her chest. Five pants heavily, eyes wild as he slowly gets up off the body.

He turns and runs deeper into the building. There was no sign of Hazel or the team's briefcase.

"Coward must've taken it and run off," Five spits, before turning back to the task at hand.

Five climbs the steps to your floor, counting the bodies as he goes.

...9

...12

...17

Second floor, more bodies.

...23

...25

...32

He finally reaches your floor, feet pounding down the hallway to your door.

"32 people dead. They didn't want any witnesses, they wanted them all gone!"

He finally reaches your door, dread pooling into his already queasy gut when he sees it open...kicked open.

"Y/N? Answer me!" He calls, running to the doorway. He freezes when he sees your apartment. It's worse than the lobby.

"Y/N!! I chased them away!" Five calls desperately, "So please answer me!"

He rushes into the room, looking around wildly. When he finally rounded a corner to the hallway, his heart stops.

"N-no,"

You were lying on the floor, covered in blood, a pool of it under your prone body.

"Y/N!!!"

Five runs over to you, dropping to his knees next to you, "Hey! Hey! You're okay! It's me! It's Five, hey!"

You slowly blink open your heavy eyelids, "...Five?"

"Yes, it's me!" Five gasps as he pulls your body into his arms, blood soaking his clothes.

You were bleeding out, he needed to get you to a hospital, or the Academy.

"Hold on!" he tucks you into his arms and goes to blink.

Nothing happens.

Five's eyes widen in horror, "No..." he tries again, "No, no, no!"

The fight. It had drained him too much. He was already stressed and that messed with his powers too.

"Nonononononono!"

Five presses his hands to the wound, "Come on! Please!"

Someone from the upper level hears his cries and comes down, gasping in horror when they see you.

"Call 911!" Five screeches at them, "Call anyone! Please!"

The person rushes away, and Five turns back to you. You cough weakly and grab his arm.

"...Five..."

"Save your strength!" Five barks, "Stay with me!"

"...Five..." you try again, "...hey..."

Five turns to you, and you are shocked to see tears running down his face, "What?"

"...don't blame yourself..." you whisper, "...okay? For me?"

Five sobs, "No! Don't say that! You're going to live!"

You smile brokenly, "And here I thought you were smarter than that,"

Five turns his head as he hears sirens, and he smiles hopefully.

"They're coming!" he shouts, "They're coming! You're going to be okay! You're going to be-"

He cuts himself off when he looks down at you. Your eyes are closed and your hand has gone limp on his arm.

"Y/N?" He shakes you slightly, then harder when you don't respond, "Y/N!"

You don't move. Five's breathing becomes ragged as more tears spring to his eyes.

"...No..." he chokes out. A shaking hand slowly pushes some hair away from your face, "No, please,"

Five pulls you to him, tucking you under his chin as he rocks back and forth, "My...baby...my...my..." Five buries his face into your hair. His entire body shook with his sobs. His wails of agony could be heard floors both above and below.

"Don't leave!!!" He howls, "Don't leave me alone!!! Don't leave me alone!" he turns to the doorway, "Someone help!!!"

Five lets your body drop to the floor so he can bury his face in your chest, holding you close, "Don't leave me!! I can't lose you!! Please! Open your eyes! Stay with me!!!"

Five could hear footsteps. He looks at you, his face twisted, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Hands grab onto Five and start to pull him away from you, he kicks and screams.

"NO! NO! LET ME GO!"

Paramedics rush over to you as the person drags Five further away,

"NO! I CAN'T LEAVE THEM! LET ME GO!"

"Shhhh," A voice gently shushes Five, it's Diego, "It's okay, it's okay! The paramedics are going to help Y/N, it's going to be okay,"

Five could hear the pain in Diego's voice, and Five can only watch as your limp form is carried away.

———————❖———————

Is everyone okay? Here! *Hands you all a box of tissues* There will be a part two, I promise! Also, requests are open! So if you have a request, you can send 'em to me!

[marksbear]

Request is:

What if the BAU team got a new team member who used to work on old xfiles/unsolved cases, he's seen things that just can't be explained and thing you wish you never knew existed?--- @xweirdo101x

I made this with headcanons and Drabble. At first I was thinking about turning this into something very dark and creepy but I decided not to.

BAU X NEW AGENT READER

-The team new at a instant you wasn’t your typical new agent. You looked tired, but in the same way not tired. You kept to yourself not making any real efforts to know your team outside of their business life.

-They noticed how your eyes weren’t full as hope and life like the other new agents they meet. No yours were cold and that you self aware.

-At first they thought you were just shy. Like during the first case you had just stayed in the back observing everything and anything.

But soon enough they all found out that you were far from shy.

-Each member of the team noticed separate details about you. Some that they won’t usually care about, but with you they analyzed your every move.

-Hotch noticed how you connect things fast. Whether it’s relationships with the victims like how their similar from each other all the way to knowing how and where would the unsub would strike next.

-Derek noticed how you remember even the biggest and smallest details. Like the conversations you have with suspects to even remembering the first thing he said to you.

-Penelope seen you write notes to yourself. You wrote fast and from afar it looked like you were just scribbling on paper. But as she looked closer she saw that of had lost of ideas and possibilities even had sketches of what the unsub may look like.

-Anytime you were in the office late at night Rossi would sometimes sit next to you quietly watching you write and type various of things. What really caught his eye was a very old cold case you was researching about.

“You like reading old mysteries?” Rossi finally says catching you off guard. You turned your head to face his and with a straight face you spoke back.

“Not just reading… I liked solving those so called mysteries.” Y/n answers before turning back around to write.

“Liked? What do you mean?” Rossi asks with a raised brow. “I still do of course, but now I’m working here, so I gotta stop focusing on the past and focus on the present. But old habits just die hard.” Y/n answered as if it was nothing.

-After that Rossi had a unspoken respect for you.

-He told the rest of the team about the moment you guys shared and told him exactly what he told him.

-While the team talked about it and what your past job could have been like Penelope opens her laptop quickly getting onto google searching up your name.

-Shockingly to her the internet knew a lot of thins about you. You were somewhat a hero to say the least. Hundreds of unsolved cases but now solved by you popped up. Interviews and news lines about you was everywhere.

-She wondered how the hell did you come here without anyone knowing who you were.

-She quickly showed her team about her findings.

-Now everything was clicking together about your habits and personality. Reid began to ramble on and on about all the signs that you showed like correcting people when they mention the wrong serial killer or knowing secrets details that most regular agents won’t know about the criminal justice system.

-They all knew that you were different from the start, but none of them ever guessed that you a expert and a true hero.

-It didn’t take you long to know that they knew about your past experiences. Not like they didn’t try to hide that they knew.

-Reid started to ask you question after question like how you solved a case that was unsolved for years or how you found evidence to the cold cases.

-Derek made a game where he quizzed you about different unsolved and cold cases.

-Hotch was first to ask a more deeper question like about the things you saw and had to go through. And you gave honest answers. You told him that you seen things that doesn’t even seem real and things that anyone wouldn’t think existed. He felt sad for you but in the same time respect grew.

-Rossi randomly had just gave you a random comforting hug saying that he’s proud of you. He didn’t care that you started a new chapter in your career he just felt the need to tell you how much he cared and how proud he is at you.

-You and Penelope had a rough time bonding since your more realistic and mysterious while she’s sweet and bubbly always looking at the bright side while you expect the worst.

-it was hard trying to understand and know each other.

-But once y’all finally did y’all became  inseparable. In a strange way you both found comfort in each other.

-The team all started to understand and bond with you after they all excepted what you went through in the past to get where you are now.

THE END

[peachesofteal]

Alone / Chapter 2

Part eight of the Sassy series.

Simon Riley/female reader 4.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI, panic attacks, angst, PTSD, trauma, blood and torture, hospitals, emotional hurt/comfort, medical stuff, coparenting, relationship issues, reader is going through it, soft dad Simon Riley. You’re living in a nightmare.

Blood has a distinct smell. To many, it’s the pungent minerality that turns their senses but to you, it’s the tang of the metal that makes your lip quiver. It’s the saltlick iron that makes you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and breathe through your nose slowly, an effort to try to prevent the tossing of your stomach. 

Here, the scent is everywhere. On the walls. On your face. On your clothes. There was a puddle of it, beneath your knees. It’s a combination of yours and nameless others, their blood one of the only things left of them in the world, seeping into the fabric of your jeans, staining the concrete blocks of-

“Mrs. Riley?” Your doctor, your therapist, looks at you expectantly over the rim of her glasses, and you huff. “Where were you just now?” You try not to scowl. Be honest. You’re supposed to be honest. 

“The room.”

“Where you were being held?” You nod. You force your fingers flat against your thighs, beating back the urge to scratch your nails against your skin. “And what were you thinking, about the room?”

“I was remembering what all the blood smelled like. What it tasted like.” To her credit, your shrink doesn’t flinch. She holds your gaze steady, until you are the one looking away, glancing over her shoulder at the clock that always seems to move too slow.

You’ve tried this once, already. Tried to get her to crack, to push you off. Tried to get her to cower, or recommend you speak to someone else. She’s stronger than you originally thought, you’ll her give her that, but you supposed it didn’t hurt that she’s been having twice weekly sessions with Simon when he’s not away on an op for over two years now, and you’re well aware your dog and pony show are nothing compared to whatever he’s been telling her.

Simon Riley, the closed off ghost who wouldn’t even show you his face when he got you pregnant, turned father of the year who bent over backwards for his wife, now goes to therapy, and meditates when he’s out on ops.

“Do you remember how you felt, when you were in that room?” Oh, for fucks sake. You nod, lips pressed into a line. “Can you tell me?”

“Worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“Theo. And Simon.”

“Not for yourself?” You shrug. Your lungs hurt, like they’re being constricted, and you look down to your shoes.

“Can we talk about something else?” You say it to your laces, not to her, but you know she hears it when her pen clicks and the scratch of the tip scrawls across her pad.

“How is co-parenting going?” Your head snaps up, and you smother the glare that pulls at the edges of your face.

“It’s fine.”

“You and Simon are communicating alright?” Jesus christ. 

“Mostly.” You shrug and don’t elaborate. She nods at your silence, an indication she wants you to keep going. You grit your teeth. “Sometimes, he calls, or texts and I don’t answer him. Or I don’t answer him in a timely manner.” Your fingers make air quotes around the timely manner bit.

“Why is that?”

“It’s… hard to explain.”

“Are you uncomfortable with the communication?”

“No!” you rush out. “No, no of course not… I want him to see Theo as much as possible. I just feel, mixed up. So, when I see him, or hear from him, it makes those mixed-up feelings feel… more intense. More mixed up.”

“Can you name a few of those feelings?” You close your eyes and picture Simon’s face. You see him holding Theo’s hand in the supermarket or pushing him on the swing set in the park. You see him in bed beside you, before, eyes soft and full of love, his smile beautiful and easy on his lips. Unburdened. 

“Sadness.” You pause to take a deep breath. “Sadness and anger, confusion. Guilt.” The pen scribbles on paper when you pause, and you glance up at the clock. Bingo. “Looks like we’re out of time.” You supply, smiling at her cheerily when she narrows her eyes, and then writes something down before giving you a nod.

The man says your name.

Not Sassy. Not Sass.

Your real name, before he tuts in your face, like you’ve let him down.

“Yer da ‘d be real disappointed in ye.” Saliva builds in the back of your throat.

“Don’t talk about my father.” You hiss and he outright laughs.

“Still fightin’ even when broken.” His fingers fold over the wound in your arm, pressing into the open, infected flesh, digging against it with his fingernails and the pain burns, it scrapes across your skin like a million little knives. “Maybe ye’re not so worthless after all, eh?” You launch the spit into his eye, grim satisfaction creeping over you when he staggers back in surprise, rage brewing across his face before he’s gripping you by the collarbone and thrusting you backwards, tipping the metal chair until you’re slamming into the ground, your head bouncing on blood slick concrete like a child’s ball.

“Stupid bitch.” His leg draws backwards until he’s firing the toe of his boot into your stomach, kicking you once, twice before you’re gasping for air, pain blooming across your abdomen as he batters you.

You close your eyes, and think of Theo. You think of Simon, of the two of them together. At home, safe. You pull the string of a memory until it comes to the forefront of your mind, Theo’s first words, his first steps. His second birthday party, when Johnny bought him that obnoxious drum set, and Simon bent you over the couch after Theo went to bed. The day you got married, your first wedding anniversary, the hotel room in Florence. You slip into these memories like they’re real and try to block out the smell of the blood and the pain in your body, try to drown in the shadows of your old self, your past, while you lose everything to the present, over and over again.

The little house is quiet when you get home in the afternoon.

At first it doesn’t bother you. Theo is with his dad for the night, already been picked up from school and probably taken to the park, his favorite Friday activity. Si will probably get him pizza, because he spoils him endlessly, and he’ll let him fall asleep while they cuddle on the couch and watch some awful kid’s show. You can see it, in your mind, the image of Theo in the crook of Simon’s elbow where he still fits, his little arm stretched across his dad’s ribs, Simon with his feet on the coffee table.

It rips your heart apart. The swell of emotion is strong enough that tears pool in your eyes, dripping down over your cheeks while you curl up into a ball on your own couch, blanket tucked up under your chin. You did this. You are a nightmare. You did this to yourself. You press your palm to your lips and scream into it, smothering the sound as best you can, your throat turning raw with each breath. Your body shakes with sobs until you’re exhausted and your eyes slip shut, tears still webbed in your lashes, while the sun shines through your living room window. 

Your phone jolts you awake a few hours later, your hands scrambling to find where you’ve lost it in the couch, the realization that it’s going to be Theo breaking through the heavy weight of your misery. Must be close to bedtime. When you slide open the facetime call, he’s grinning at you, little dab of red sauce on his chin.

“Mum!” he shouts, glee coloring the word and you smile back at him easily, hastily rubbing your face to erase the evidence of your state. “Dad got ‘izza!”

“I see that.” A big thumb drifts in front of the camera to wipe the glob of red away and Theo giggles.

“Say goodnight.” Simon says in the background and Theo pauses, little eyebrows creased in confusion before he recovers and looks back to the phone.

“Goodnight mum. Luh you.”

“Love you too bug. Have fun with dad.” The phone shifts, darkness covering the camera for a second before it’s righted, and Simon’s face fills the frame. Your stomach clenches.

“His mates from school are all gonna be at the fields tomorrow morning. I told him I’d take him, if it's alright with you.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Thanks.” You can see him studying you through the screen.

“Everything alright?” his tone shifts, takes on something softer, something sweeter, something that feels like a memory, and your chest tightens.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

“If you need-“

“I’m fine.” You snap. He sighs.

“Alright then. Goodnight, Sass.”

“Night.”

“There she is, see?” Simon points, and Theo frowns when he sees you, lower lip tugging downward, his face confused before he looks back to his dad, burying his face in his chest with a cry.

“Hey bug. Come here.” You hold your arms out to him, but he just cries into Simon, the scared wailing splitting you open and pouring concrete into your lungs, so it feels like you’ve got an entire building sitting on your chest. “It’s okay baby.” You call, hands still waiting, voice edging on desperate. You want your baby. You want to hold him, to feel him in your arms and know he’s okay, that he’s here, that Simon’s here, and you’re here and there is no danger, nothing to fear. Simon steps closer to you, his emotions raw across his face, and Theo screams in his arms, legs kicking ferociously.

“It’s mum, Theo. Stop. Look.” Simon tries but it’s no use. You know Theo is terrified of you, your battered and bruised face, the wires and tubes that are connected to your chest and the IV that’s stuck in the back of your hand. Your brain buzzes, a low droning noise between your ears making your head spin and you call Theos’ name with a croak.

“NO!” Theo shrieks, he screams it at the top of his lungs and Simon looks lost as you stare wordlessly, hands reaching out into the void, begging to hold your son that doesn’t even recognize you.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the tears drop down onto the arm that’s folded across your abdomen.

The door slides open, and Johnny appears, pulling Theo from Simon’s arms, patting his back softly and giving you a sympathetic look.

“C’mon lad, let’s go get a lolly, yeah? Give mum and dad some time.” Theo hugs his uncle around his neck, and heaves little sobs into his skin while Johnny shushes him and carries him back out the door.

“I-“ you choke on whatever it was you were going to say, the buzzing in your head so, so loud that it drowns out your thoughts, covers up your feelings until you’re pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

Knuckles tap against the glass, Johnny’s face appearing in the window.

“I’ll be right back.” Simon assures you, leaving his foot in the door while he talks to Johnny, their voices fuzzy, and suddenly, the world is tilting and all you can smell is blood.

The buzzing in your head is ferocious, a searing sharpness that feels like a lobotomy, your mind screaming inside your head. The stitches in your skin burn, and you swear you can feel each cell trying to pull closed, the sticky edges of your wounds slowly seaming back together, sealing shut everything inside of you, trapping the buzzing away within your own body so you’ll never be able to pull it out.

You need to go home. You have to get out of here. You can’t stay here. You have to get home. Where everything is safe. Where there is no danger.

You fidget with your central line, trying to unclick, unscrew it until you’re just tugging on it as hard as you can without making a sound, pain throbbing into the hole that’s been created for the port as you start to pull the sticky pads off your lower rib cage. The noises in the room are going berserk, bells and whistles chiming and beeping while the buzzing in your head gets louder and louder, and your fingers dig into your IV, trying to rip it from your skin before Simon is grabbing your hand.

“I have to get out of here.” You tell him. He’ll understand. You know he will.

“Bloody hell Sass, stop.” Your fingers are still scratching away, trying to crawl towards the IV, the last thing tethering you to this place, keeping you from your family, and you push against the pressure holding you still. The buzzing in your head is screaming now, louder than Simon’s voice, louder than the frantic beeping of the machines that have lost their leads.

“Let me go! I ha- have to go. I have to get out.” Simon tries to grab your other hand but you’re too quick, nimble and lithe like you always have been, and you latch onto the needle in your skin, ripping it free, blood trickling down your arm and dripping across your thin hospital gown. Heavy hands grab your shoulders and press you back against the bed.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.”  His elbow pins your collarbone down while his hand comes up to cradle your face. “Everything’s alright.” What? No, it isn’t. It’s not alright. This is certainly not alright. Can’t he hear that noise? You shake your head vehemently and he tries to hold you steady. 

“No. N-no, no, Simon. I have to go. Please, we have to go.” The door swings open and a man in blue scrubs with a badge walks through, a nurse at his side, capped syringe in her hand. Your stomach roils. “Simon.” You plead as you eye them, their slow steps bringing them closer and closer to you, and you shift on the bed, up against your husband, trying to bury yourself in his body, hide from whatever the people in scrubs are going to do. “Simon, we have to go home. Please, we need to get home.” 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He strokes the hair away from your face, and you realize he’s got tears in his eyes, his gaze heavy and sad, and your own eyes widen in fear when you feel a new set of hands on your body.

“Get off me!” you scream, thrashing in the bed, Simon trying to talk to you, trying to calm you while the man in scrubs pins your arms down.

“Don’t hold her like that.” He snarls, and the foreign hands on your body adjust, letting your forearms go loose while the pinch of a needle punctures your skin. “It’s alright, I promise.” Simon’s voice breaks. “I’m here, Sass. I’m right here. You’re safe, you’re safe, I swear.” The needle pulls free of your arm and the world shifts, bright light blowing out the edges of your vision until your eyes are slipping closed, Simon’s face the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

It's three in the morning. The dark and stormy nightmares that keep you under in your sleep have finally slipped away, and you’re staring at your bedroom ceiling while your brain turns a mile a minute until you’re reaching for your phone.

Your thumb hovers over Simon’s contact for too long, way too long while you think about what it might be like to hear his voice before you’re scrolling to the next name and clicking the digits.

The phone rings and you try not the count it, try not to think about what you’re doing and the line clicks open to a bleary, sleepy Scotsman saying hello.

When you don’t say anything back, you can hear him sitting up.

“Sassafras?” Johnny tries, and you blow out a breath.

“It’s me.”

“Ya okay?” No. 

“Yeah.” He sighs, and then starts to tell you about his day, his family, what he’s been doing in his off time. It’s not the first time you’ve called him in the middle of the night, and probably won’t be the last, and he knows it. He fills your head with mindless details, funny stories about his latest op and the 141, other things he thinks you’ll want to hear. You never talk, just listen, and he does a good job of distracting you from whatever it is that’s going on in your head until you’re chuckling on the other end of the line, spirit just a hair lighter than it was when you called.

“Thanks, Johnny.” You murmur into the phone.

“Anytime. One more thing-“

“Yeah?”

“Call your husband next time, yeah?” Prick.

“Bye, Soap.”

“Bye Sassy. Love ya. Kiss the wee lad for me.”

“I will.”

At ten in the morning, the doorbell rings. Even though he has a key, he won’t use it, just waits patiently for you to open the door, not wanting to encroach on your boundaries.

Theo runs straight at your legs when you open it, and you scoop him up in a big hug until he’s complaining, insisting you put him down and let him show you the picture that’s clutched in his hand, something he drew last night.

“That’s you!” he points to a sloppy stick figure that’s holding hands with a little stick figure, a bigger stick figure on its other side. “an’ that’s me and that’s dad!” His eyebrows raise and you rub his head affectionately.

“Good job, you’re a real artist!”

“Put it on fridge?” As soon as you nod your approval he takes off, running towards the kitchen, leaving you and Simon in the living room, the straps of his backpack fisted in his dad’s hand.

“Johnny called me this morning.” You draw a quick breath before letting it out slowly. Traitorous bastard. “If you want me to take him for the rest of the day so you can get some rest-“

“I’m fine. Thanks, though.” Simon sets the backpack down, and you hear the click and clack of the alphabet magnets against the stainless steel.

“You can… call me, too. If you want. If you need… someone to talk to.” You expect to rebuff him immediately, to snap at him, to tell him you don’t need to talk to anyone, let alone him. You want to. You want to keep taking it out on him, keep dumping it on him, over and over until there’s so much of it between the two of you that he’ll never find his way back. Why would he want to? After everything you’ve put him through? You’re broken. Useless. 

“Why?” you blurt, and it surprises you. Looks like it surprises him too.

“You’re my wife, Sass. I love you.” Your skin feels hot and your heart thumps loudly in your ears. “Your trauma, the torture, what happened after… nothin’ is ever gonna change that.” You scoff, anger flickering in your veins, the heat of your irritation warming you from the inside out. 

“You can’t mean that. Not after… everything that’s happened.” He studies you for a long moment, eyes pinning you where you shift your weight uneasily, until he’s raising the back of his hand, holding it upright to display the ring. The ring, that he refuses to take off. The ring, that he still wears, even after you tossed your own at his head. The ring, that has your call sign and his last name initialed on the inside. 

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” He whispers it, and you swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Mum!” Theo yells, and you turn away, shoulders tight under your ears, fingers clenched together. “Mum, can we ‘ave popcorn?” Theo shouts again and you give him a tight-lipped smile when you reach the kitchen, your enthusiastic four-year-old trying to push a chair in front of the pantry.

“Popcorn?”

“Daddy said you might wanna watch a movie.” Theo pauses, eyes flicking between you, and his father, who you can just feel at your back, before he nods decisively, like he’s already determined that will be his next activity. “Moana?” He shrugs a little, face hopeful and you ruffle his hair.

“Sure, baby. We can watch Moana.” Your heart pangs when you realize that Simon probably told Theo you’d want a movie because he was thinking about how you didn’t sleep, how you might be too tired to go to the park or do something more involved. He’s still taking care of you, after everything. Still wears the ring, still calls you his wife, still tells you he loves you, he- 

“Can daddy stay?” The room suddenly feels devoid of oxygen. 

“I’m sure dad has things he’s got to do tod-“

“I don’t.” He cuts you off and you smother the glare that threatens to pull across your face. You look down at Theo, who’s so excited, so blissfully pleased at the idea, head shifting as he looks back and forth between the two of you and you crumble a little bit, unable to take his happiness away from him. You destroyed his family, why can’t you let him have this? Guilt sears across your skin, the pressure of it so intense that you’re nodding your agreement before you even realize it.

“Okay then.” Theo shouts with excitement and sprints to the couch.

“I can go, if you’re not comfortable.” Simon offers when he’s out of earshot and you shake your head.

“No, it’s fine. Makes him happy.”

“Mum! Make popcorn!” Theo calls to where the two of you still stand, an awkward distance apart in the kitchen.

“What did you forget?”

“Pwease?”

“Thank you, much better.” Your crinkle the thin plastic of the popcorn bag into the trash, the noise similar to the static that’s now playing in your head, before you clear your throat. “Want to uh, go get him settled? And then I’ll be in. In a minute.” Simon doesn’t respond, just disappears from the kitchen, and you focus on the minute countdown on the microwave while you take deep, long breaths, a desperate attempt to fill your lungs with as much oxygen as possible, until it beeps and you’re pulling the door open to dump the popped kernels doused in butter into a bowl.

You’re tracing the wood grain pattern in the living room floor between your feet when you distantly hear a voice, calling you over and over. It feels far away, impossibly far away, like you’re at the bottom of the ocean or you’re on another planet. 

“Hey, mum.” Simon’s voice draws you out of the depths sharply, and he strokes a gentle fingertip down your arm, over the pockmarked scar beneath your shoulder. The touch startles you, your head snapping up to see Theo standing in front of the coffee table in a red cape, construction paper mask, and Simon sitting delicately on the couch next to you. “Someone’s trying to show you something.” He inclines his head to the excited little boy, and you blink before shaking your head, trying to clear the fog that’s settled in your brain.

When it doesn’t, you shake your head again, and then look to Simon hopelessly. He reads you instantly, ushering Theo upstairs, enticing him with blocks and promises of story time later.

Blood. The scent of blood fills your nostrils, so strong that you think it might be dripping from your face, washing over your tongue, filling your mouth, filling the whole house.

Not real. It’s not real. You’re not there, you’re here. There is no danger.

Large palms cover yours, and then you’re looking up at Simon, his eyes soft, sympathetic, and you know he knows. You know he can see, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. 

He can see it all, because he’s been here before, too. He’s survived, he’s fought, he’s lived.

But he’s never been… this. He’s never been a nightmare. Never been useless. Never been this broken like this, dirty and pathetic like this, weak like this. 

Simon was strong. He fought. You failed. You couldn’t even get back to him. Couldn’t get back to your baby, your family. 

You feel his touch again and you choke on a gasp.

You can’t let him touch you, he’ll know. He’ll see it. He’ll feel it.

“D-don’t.” you hiss, forcing a hand forward to hold him at bay.

“Shhh. It’s just me, Sass. I’ve got you.”

“No, n-no.” He can’t know. “No, I… I need” You stand, stumbling forward, catching yourself on the coffee table before straightening, Simon’s confused gaze tracking your every step while you put as much distance between the two of you as possible. “I need to lay down.”

When you cross into the living room, Simon’s sitting on the couch, Theo already snuggled up into his side, both watching the television intently. Theo looks so happy, his eyes light and joy filled, body weightless with love and the knowledge that he’s with his family.

His family, that you broke. That you destroyed. That you took from him.

Simon’s thighs are spread wide, their width in his jeans momentarily distracting you before you’re cataloguing his face, his lips, his eyes, the line of his nose, all things you used to know better than yourself, things you used to be able to trace in the dark. Your stomach flips, and the walls of your house look like they’re shaking, the buzzing noise in the back of your head roaring to life, drowning out the sound of Moana singing to sea.

“Mum?” Theo calls, hand out for the popcorn, and you deposit the bowl on the table before you’re backing away.

“I have to go fix something, in the kitchen really quick.” You explain to him, and he shrugs, eyes fixing back on the movie, fingers mindlessly bringing pieces of popcorn to his mouth.

Theo doesn’t notice when you take the stairs instead of turning into the kitchen, but you know Simon does, and you’re not surprised when he’s rapping his knuckles against your locked bedroom door, where you’re sitting with you back against the wood, hands pressed to your head, trying to control your breathing. He knocks again, but there’s only silence to answer him, and it stretches on for miles. 

“Sass?” you hear him shift, feel his weight press against the door and at first you think he’s trying to come through but then you realize, he’s sitting against the other side, just like you.

His fingers slide underneath where there’s a gap between the floor and the door, just wide enough for a few fingers, just enough for you to see the glint of his ring.

Without thinking, your own fingers cover his.

Neither of you speak.

[cindylcuwho]

¡ purely nonsense, chapter two ♥︎ !

“ ⭒.‧ i don’t even know , i’m talking nonsense ‧. ⭒ “

prologue , 01 — more to come 🥥

* ⋆ . · ⋆ y/n flipped the pages of her baby pink notebook, a red pen scribbling out poor made stars against the pages filled with songs she felt fit.

the album for the most part had been finished, with only ten tracks in the talks of being added. the finished song files collected dust in her laptop as they sat waiting for the day the public could hear it.

the expected tracklist post was yet to be on all platforms, or to even be made, but she still teased at some lyrics for fans to obsess and speculate over. countless of theories were being dogpiled on if the dropped lines were about a specific person, or if they were just made up in the heat of a moment.

y/n sat against her headboard of her bed. her skin glowed under the haziness of the lamp next to her as she flipped through the pages of her notebook.

a red pen that sat in her left hand moved swiftly, scribbling out poorly made doodles against the pages filled with songs she felt fit perfectly on the upcoming album.

no longer feeling as productive as she was, y/n hooked her legs to the edge of the bed and stood, stretching her arms out. she was bedsided all day, hunched over her side doing whatever to keep her busy and from getting up.

y/n looked down at the notebook, before closing and stuffing it farth beneath her pillow and. her phone from its rested charging position on her nightstand and walked to the kitchen.

there wasn’t much food in the apartment, she rarely felt the urge to cook something that wouldn’t take under twenty minutes and it was only her living there- hence why the cabinets were filled with only quick on the go snacks.

as she snacked on a small container of pringles, her mind wandered back to the uneasy thought of chris. it was weird, she barely knew anything about him other than the persona he displays on the shared channel, yet she was overthinking what he said about her on the podcast he had with his brothers.

maybe he wasn’t as much of a fan as he thought, most fans would instantly reply if they saw her message, but then again y/n felt that she didn’t have a right to be mad. many people before him had used her name for some seven minutes of fame, and he wouldn’t be the last.

with a burdening sigh, she pulled out her phone and opened instagram. she didn’t want to push this problem away, this time she was gonna see what was up.

swiping to her messages she clicked on chris’s messages. just as her fingers were about to type she came to the worst realization ever; she left him on read. not the other way around.

‘oh god’ she thought, ‘i’m the worst person ever’. the queasy feeling of shame and embarrassment filled her stomach as she stared at his old message.

‘ 3 weeks ago ‘ y/n clicked the button on the right side, turning her phone off. she frowned at her reflection. did it really take her that long to realize? she spent the few weeks busy out of her mind, yet she still had enough time to complain about chris’s wrong doing to her friends- yet it was her who was wrong in the end.

‘maybe i can fix this?’ y/n went back to their messages. she deeply wanted to apologize to him, being left on by someone he looked up to was probably hurtful, but maybe he’d give her the same treatment she gave him.

she couldn’t help but to keep thinking about it until it was the only thing she could do. y/n left the rest of the pringles to grow stale on her counter and went back to her room.

she was already laying back down. the guilt was already so heavy, she could barely lift herself up. y/n swiped through her contacts before calling the only person who would know what she’s talking about

“mad, i did the worst thing i think i can do as a person.” y/n whispered. she heard a door shut before the a voice piped up, “unless you dropped a vending machine on someone it couldn’t be that bad.”

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

@ y/nsmusical

@ — why are forks fucking everywhere ???

──────────────────

@ lorena : i’m scared to ask how you even found the image of a fork ↳ @ y/nsmusical : you don’t wanna know how deep my search history is 🙂

@ fan123 : the NAILSSSSSS

@ jshwmis : we need a pop rock album next ms queen

@ billieeilish : do you float still or no? ↳ @ y/nsmusical : i used to know yk but idrk now

@ chrissgirl : OHMYGOD NICK LIKED ↳ @ ynsbaby : who’s nick?

@ christophersturniolo : new music finally

@ taylorswift : oh my baby ↳ @ y/nsmusical : oh my mommy

@ matthewsturniolo : everybody moved on but i stayed there *shows exhale being my most repeated song* im just a girl 😔 ↳ @ y/nsmusical : IM CRYING ↳ @ mattstoothpaste : “i’m just a girl” *said by a twenty yr old straight white male*

@ madisonbeer: party girl 🎉🎉 ↳ @ y/nsmusical : jus my girl 🎉🎉

@ christophersturniolo: ready for you to be my # 1 artist 20 years in a row 😇😇 ↳ @ y/nsmusical : most iconic duo tbh

view more comments ..

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

“babe, you have to come!” the sweet voice belonging to madison echoed from the phones speaker. y/n was still in the same position she was two hours ago laying on her bed.

all the brunette could hear was occasional shuffling and the constant clacking of y/ns laptop as she typed out pure nonsense in a google doc. “y/n, cmon.” she begged.

madison was planning to throw a party tonight. it wasn’t for anything big, she viewed it as a ‘get to know each other’ type thing for all the friends she made in L.A. and almost everybody invited RSVP’d, besides y/n but she was always figured as a show up.

normally, y/n would’ve loved to go out and have fun meeting new friends, but tonight she was too busy stuck in her angsty feelings over her recent discovery to even think of going to any type of party.

“maddi, i love you, but i wanna stay home.” she whined out. madison let out a dramatic huff, not ready to give up. after a couple minutes of nonsensical back and forth, she suddenly remembered who she had invited, knowing the mention might be the push to send y/n over the edge.

“what if i said chris was gonna be going?” y/n’s breath hitched. her fingers were hovering over the keyboards keys as she processed the undertones in her friends words. “which chris?” she hesitantly asked.

with, or even without madisons silence, y/n already knew which one she was talking about.

she threw her head back on her pillow. y/n was anything but ready to face chris after the accidental mishaps. “pleasee, it’ll be so fun!” madison pleaded.

the blonde sighed at her friend. it was only one party, one night, and there’d be plenty of people there that the chances of even seeing chris or his lookalikes would be unlikely.

y/n grabbed ahold of her phone as she stood, already walking to the closet. “if it gets boring after 30 minutes, i’m leaving.” she decided.

madison cheered into the microphone, quickly getting over the sad act she was putting up, “deal!! i’ll see you there, party girl.”

y/n let out a sigh when she heard the ‘click’ signaling the end of the call. ‘only thirty minutes’ she thought. y/n had to keep repeating mental reminders as she got ready in a short black dress that had blue feathers attached to the top.

‘thirty minutes, and we won’t see him. you’ll be fine.’ was the only thing she could say to herself as she walked out to her car.

‘you’ll be fine.’

— ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ dedicated to, and idea created by @freshloveee :)

— ꒰ 💭 ꒱ filler chapter ish ??? sorry i kept saying i was gonna publish ts then didn’t - i had the worst writers block but what if i said chapter three will be inspo for a pop hit 😝😝

— ꒰ ❣️ ꒱ the taglist! @sturniolopepsi , @junnniiieee07 , @xyzstar , @st4rswrld , @sturnrc , @hearts4sturniolo , @maryx2xx , @r6diosturns ( ❤️ ) comment to be added :)

[broken-freedom]

Nina can you write a blurb or one shot of Eren going to the strip club one day and discovers that Y/N is a stripper plus she doesn’t want anyone to know her secret that’s why she doesn’t tell anyone. One day he catches her and in order for Eren to keep her huge secret she has to give him more than a lap dance in the back room if you know what I’m saying 😏

• Your Little Secret •

Word Count: 1.9K

CW: lap dance, humiliation (?), face riding. 

A/N: It took me forever I know, but hey! It is now done at least! Enjoy ;) 

Your worst nightmare became reality the moment your eyes locked with his in the middle of your performance. You managed to keep your “job” a secret from every single person you know for 4 long years only to be discovered by the one person you hate the most.

 It started as a little extra support, because let’s be honest, who can afford to pay all this money every semester for 4-5 years atop of all other life expenses? You left home as soon as you graduated from high school and even with the extra shifts you were picking up here and there, the bills were left unpaid. When one day you were working as a waitress, serving dinner and cleaning tables, an older man slipped a note in your hand as he paid you a farewell, one you thought was a generous tip to conclude the good service you provided, or at least .. you hoped. You shoved the note in your back pocket and resumed working. 

After your shift ended, you opened the note to only find a number and a few words scribbled messily underneath “I can provide you more, somewhere else.” The note creeped you for days, but one afternoon you were desperate, unpaid bills everywhere, unsubmitted assignments alerts filling your school’s email. How are you supposed to find time to study when you are practically overworking yourself to be able to pay for rent, classes, gas and food?!

You ran to the note and with shaky hands opened it and dialed the number. 

“H- hello …?”  you start nervously. 

“I was waiting for your call” you hear the man on the other side of the line talking with such confidence.

Turns out to be a stripping job that the owner of the club saw you and thought you would be able to earn a little extra doing that instead of serving food and relying heavily on tips. Without a second thought you accepted, the number he offered you would solve 99% of your problems and you only needed to work 3 days per week. In the other 4 you can actually focus on your education and get your degree to find a better job for yourself that can fully support you. 

You managed to keep your little job a secret from your friends and classmates. Yes it is a small town, but who would go to a strip club on a Tuesday evening while needing to be in class first thing in the morning the next day? And it worked, for four years, you buried the truth intending to never admit it out loud, not even to yourself, until today….

The day where your secret comes out and everyone will know about it because of him. 

You were in the middle of your seductive movement taking off the little excuse of a bra as a part of your dance when you locked eyes with him. You feel your whole world crashing at once. The air around you is thick and making it hard to breathe. The room you’re in suddenly turns 100 degrees and rising. You meet his amused gaze with a  mortified one, feeling sick to your stomach. Your body is moving as you do every time performing your seductive dance as if you were on autopilot but your brain is flashing alarms at you to run away from his burning stare. The way his eyes are twinkling looking at you makes you sick, and you would love to smack that shit-eating grin out of his face, but you sadly have to carry the dance.

“Eren Fucking Jaeger..  Why is he here? We have a test tomorrow! Shouldn’t he be studying?” 

The more you wonder, the wider his grin gets, making you clench your teeth to prevent yourself from screaming from the top of the stage. 

Your thoughts are running 100 miles per hour but also trying to keep your cool as much as possible replacing the mixed facial expressions of disgust and anger with a much calmer and relaxed one. The show has to carry on no matter what. 

 Your body swaying left and right to the beat of the slow tone music as your own hands cupping and grabbing at your skin starting from your thighs to your hips, to finally settle on your tits. You try to keep your mind off him and focus on your work, you’ll have to deal with him later. But he makes it so hard for you with him whistling and cheering at your every movement, feeling his flame-filled gaze on your bare back even when you can’t see him. 

The moment the music dies to a stop you rush off stage and run in your heels to shield yourself from his prying eyes, you strip in front of thousands of people without care, but not him, not Eren. He will make sure to turn your life into a living hell now he knows your secret. You’ll have to run away, change your name, and find a new life elsewhere. But it doesn't always end up as you want as Eren catches up to you and holds your wrist preventing you from going further into the dressing room. 

“What do you want Eren?!” you try to yank your hand out of his grasp but no success since he is way stronger than you. “Oh why so shy now darling, you were ready to drop your panties for me not a minute ago?” He holds your gaze daringly. “I also paid for a lap dance, would never miss the chance of having Ms. perfect dancing half naked in my lap” 

“Not in your wildest dreams! Let me go right now!” You try to push him away with your other hand, but he is faster, holding both of your hands now and pulling you closer to his chest, hovering over your face and smirking devilishly “You were the last person to come to mind when I asked for the best.. You? The best? Got to try to believe it .. or do you want your secret to make it past the walls of this building?” He twists you around and pushes you to walk in front of him to the same hallway you were going to earlier, not to your dressing room, but to the private room right next to it. 

You want to keep your job, it still pays the bills, but also needs to find a way to keep Eren from exposing you to everyone you know, you walk with him as you think, and think, and think, you need to have the upper hand in this situation, but knowing how evil Eren is, you will need to calculate your next step carefully.

You get inside the private room and push Eren to sit on the sofa, his hungry eyes exploring every inch of your body as you make your way to the pole in the center of the room. “Someone changed her mind” Eren chuckles thinking to himself how easily you got manipulated to do exactly what he wants. You wouldn’t want anyone to find out about this after all, and from who? So you’ll have to do what he tells you to do. 

You grab the pole, bending your body ever so slowly, giving Eren a full view of your puffed pussy strangled by the thong. A loud whistle coming from behind you reminding you of who is actually sitting there watching your every movement. You close your eyes shut trying to steady your breathing and carry on your plan. Slowly but seductively you make your way towards Eren pushing his knee apart so you can stand in between and reaching for his necktie to untie it “Hands behind your back Jaeger, club’s policy” He does what you tell him to do, hypnotized by how good you smell and you tie his hands behind his back. You bend over as you sway your hips pushing your tits closer to his face. The way he gulps the closer you get to him tells you that what you are doing is correct and gives you the energy you need to continue. You pull the string of your bra down exposing your boobs as you straddle Eren’s lap. Watching the teasing gaze drop from his face gives you satisfaction when you start grinding on him wanting to torture him. The more you grind the louder he growls “ Fuck …”  wanting more, and now you can feel him more. Erected, desperate, and wanting more, and you give him more by pushing your weight down on his cock but stand back on your feet quickly “wha- … why?” his confused tone makes you giggle. 

With one swift motion, you place one leg on Eren’s shoulder, reaching your hand to teasingly rub your clothed clit before you pull the string to the side exposing your wet pussy to Eren’s widening eyes. “You did not pay for this but I am feeling like giving you a special treatment today” 

The closer you get to Eren’s face the more he understands what you want to do “why are you doing this?” “Because I can, isn’t that obvious?” “But you- …” you cut him off when your pussy makes contact with his lips, tongue darting out immediately to taste the sweetness of your essence dropping into his mouth. He moans, loud, and you enjoy the scene of his eyes rolling back. Grinding his clothed cock was fun, he made cute noises, but riding his face is even more thrilling. His whole diameter changed and it is pleasing to watch. You pinch your nipples in between your fingers speeding the process, Eren thrusting his tongue inside your pussy with his nose pressed against your clit is more than enough to send you to cloud nine, drenching Eren’s face with cream liquid and a few drops falling into his shirt staining it white. Your legs shake and you try to steady yourself by putting your leg back on the floor, Eren is quiet, he is more surprised than you are by how your actions silenced him, but his eyes are screaming at you. You look at his flushed, wet face with amusement, his hands still tied behind him. One final step before you conclude your plan.

You drop to your knees in front of Eren, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants to take his raging cock out, fully hard and leaking in your palm “what a pretty cock, Jaeger” you smirk giving Eren’s cock a few pumps making him growl in response. You keep your eyes locked with his as you bend lowering your head, but before your lips reach his tip, you tear your eyes away from Eren’s looking at his length in your hand “what a shame for a cock this nice to be attached to an asshole like you” and you spit on it before you stand up and start backing up to go to your room to change “keep your mouth shut Jaeger, or I know a way to keep it useful other than talking shit about others” 

Even though he never actually planned on telling a living soul about your little secret. He’ll still come to spite you every once in a while, and to get you to sit on his face again… 

xXx

[carpenterswife]

ALL MY GHOSTS (i)

series masterlist

- summary: Your life in Helena is good; a thriving friendship with Beau, Jenny and Cassie. You’re living your best life, with a job you enjoy and you’re good at, surrounded by people who care for you. Of course, however, your past is only just around the corner, in the form of a recurring phone call.

- word count: 2883

- warnings: Alcoholism.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

You weren’t ever truly sure why, out of everywhere you could have chosen to go, you ended up in Helena. There was nothing that had been calling you to the town — you’d just had a blown-out tire on a dark, muddy road nearby and the only tow company still open at 11pm was in town. That was two years ago, and you’d yet to leave.

It had, slowly, become your home.

With the help of Jenny and Cassie, you’d turned a cheap, shabby apartment into a cozy home; decorated with far too many plants, and enough cats that any sane person would question your mental state (three; Cassie was already questioning you). Something about Helena was calm and welcoming, and it felt like you’d been here forever.

A year after your arrival, came Beau Arlen. A Texan cowboy who rolled into town in a shitty Jeep called ‘Pedro’. The news of Tubb leaving sent shockwaves through the community, and a second round hit when his replacement turned up only weeks later. Though questionable at first, Beau had, very quickly, proven himself to both the town and the department.

Beau was a great cop and an even greater man — one you’d clicked with rather quickly. After you’d slammed a pile of paperwork onto his desk with an innocent smile, knocking your fist on the top of the papers and calling it a ‘welcome gift’ on his first day, Beau had decided he’d liked you. He didn’t like the paperwork, but he liked the bubbly, sweet energy you brought into his office with that mischievous twinkle in your eyes and quiet giggle.

You were a ray of sunshine — that’s what they liked to call you around the station, anyway. Beau claimed it was because you always lit up the room, but you liked to tell him he was just a sappy old bastard (he didn’t like that). Despite your distaste to the nickname of ‘sunshine’, it had been picked up pretty quickly, and you definitely had Beau to blame for it.

Your payback?

Well, it came in the form of a lovely challenge you’d issued against him, after you binge watched Brooklyn 99 for the 100th time.

Beau hated it.

In fact, right now, he was seething. “You’re cruel.” He watched you scrub out your number ‘15’, and replace it with a ‘16’. His arms were tightly crossed, eyes narrowing into a glare that was mostly playful. He leant back against a desk in the bullpen, cowboy hat discarded beside him.

“What’s that, Arlen? I can’t hear you over the sounds of my impending victory.” Came your tease, stepping back to admire your victory. You yelped when something hit your head, and you turned to see a pen at your feet, and Beau wearing a smug grin. “Asshole.” With a dramatic flair, you turned your back to him.

Beau loved your playful attitude. It made the days where he was stuck in the station with paperwork far more fun. You were always down for some teasing, and were always able to dish it back just as well as he could dish it out. You were always bordering on the line of insubordination, but he knew as well as you did that he’d never actually punish you for it — there was definitely favouritism in this station, with you, Pop and Jenny hogging the top three spots on the sheriff’s list.

On the whiteboard in the bullpen, was your bragging rights. Scribbled on the top in your handwriting were the bold words ‘BAD GUYS CAUGHT’. Underneath were your two names, and two separate scores, ‘Arlen: 9 L/N: 16’.

Yeah, you were kicking his ass.

“You got lucky.” Beau stepped up to your side, glaring at the numbers on the whiteboard with disdain. Lucky? He was lying to himself and the asshole knew it. He was just a major sore loser.

An amused smile lifted up your lips, and you turned your head to look up at him. God, you still hadn’t gotten fully used to how tall this man truly was. “Seven lucky arrests?” Beau pressed his lips together and nodded, unwilling to accept any other answer. You snickered at him. “Admit it, Beau, you just suck.”

Beau sent you a sharp look, but there was amusement dancing in the green. “Shut it, you.” He gave a fake stumble when you gently pushed his arm, chucking lowly. “You got lucky with those last two arrests. The guys practically threw themselves at ya.”

You gave a dramatic gasp and clutched your chest like you were gravely wounded. “Are you saying I’m only good at my job ‘cause I’m pretty?” Beau gave you a deadpan look, and you snickered. “Alright, grandpa.”

With a heavy sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why the hell do I even put up with you?” He muttered to himself, shaking his head. You merely grinned and ignored his muttering, as the sheriff continued to complain about you and your insubordinate behaviour (that he still allowed).

You tossed the whiteboard marker from hand to hand, turning your full attention to him. “How’s that murder case getting along, by the way?”

“Slowly.” Beau dropped his hand down to his side, and stuck them both into his pockets. “Snail’s pace.” You wince sympathetically, and Beau sighed heavily. He gazed at you for a moment, evidently thinking. “You wanna take a shot at it? Fresh eye, an’ all.” He offered, looking down at you with his head tilted to the side.

Looking up at him, you smiled and nodded. “Saturday?” You suggested. “I’ve got lunch plans with Jenny and Cassie in an hour, and I’m not working tomorrow.”

His brows shot up. “You girls goin’ out without me?” He faked offence, barely concealing his smile.

You laughed, patting his arm. “Girl’s day, sheriff.” You teased, earning a playful indignant huff from Beau. You chucked the marker at him, and watched him fumble to catch it. “I’m off in ten. You gonna survive without me?”

“Hilarious.” He drawled sarcastically. “Get outta here.” He grunted.

With a laugh, you turned and left the bullpen, Beau spinning the marker between his fingers as he watched you go.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

It was quite a common occurrence to get lunch with Jenny and Cassie. You mostly spent the time catching up, filling each other in on cases, or gossiping about some strange news around town. Honestly, it was typically the highlight of your week.

You’d become extremely close with the two girls over the last two years.

They’d dragged you to a new restaurant — despite your hatred of trying new places. The price was on the higher side, and your face had pulled together at the sight of a hefty price beside a plate of lasagna.

After the plates had been cleaned, and despite your insistence to pay, Jenny had snagged up the bill from you and Cassie, paying the whole thing. You hadn’t been very pleased, nor had Cassie, but the blonde had laughed it off and told the pair of you you’d be paying next time.

Taking a sip of her second glass of Pepsi, Cassie glanced between you and Jenny. “So, how’s it been at the station?” She asked curiously, nursing her glass. You and Jenny exchanged a look and shrugged, acting casual.

But you knew what Cassie meant; Beau’s position.

He’d moved up here to follow his ex-wife and daughter — Carla and Emily, who, during the last year, you’d met plenty of times. Especially Emily, who’d temporarily taken up an internship with Cassie and Denise. However, after the rough scenario with Avery and that whole mess of a case, Carla had decided to return to Texas, taking Emily with her.

Beau hadn’t told anyone if he’d be leaving or not. After all, his position was only temporary, so it was expected that he’d eventually leave one day. No one really knew if he was intending to stay longer, or leave now and follow after Carla and Emily to Houston.

“He hasn’t said anything.” You took the silence as an opportunity to answer. You spun your glass of Coke, fiddling with the rim of it. “I saw him going to the Chief’s office on Monday.” You looked between the pair.

Jenny nodded in agreement. “He had a meeting. Didn’t tell me what for.” Her gaze swayed back to Cassie, who was listening carefully. “You think he’s gonna go for it?”

“Follow Carla?” Cassie hesitated. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

You downed the rest of your Coke in a few large gulps. “Can we not talk about Beau the entire day?” You complained, sitting down your glass. Both women looked at you. “C’mon, enough with the boy talk.” There was quiet shared laughter between the three of you.

“Alright.” Cassie agreed, nodding shortly. “Who’s up drinks tonight?”

Your hand shot up immediately.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Drinks, like every time, turned out a horrible idea.

You woke up on Friday morning with a throbbing ache in your skull, and heavy sickness settled in your stomach. You groaned and rolled yourself out of bed, caught up in your blanket, almost falling flat on your face.

Way to make Friday even worse.

You already hated Fridays. It was always like a ritual for you. You woke up with dread in your bones, and dragged yourself around the house until your cats’ incessant meowing snapped you from your half-dead safe.

Beau didn’t make you work Fridays anymore. Not after what you liked to call ‘The Incident’.

Something about Fridays weighed heavy on you. You felt like a ticking time bomb, ready to implode. You’d blown up at Beau, real bad, and stormed off. Then proceeded to have a panic attack on a case regarding a domestic abuse incident.

Beau had dragged you into his office, hands cradling your cheeks as he talked you through your panic attack. You still hadn’t apologised for yelling at him, but he didn’t once bring it up. He asked what was wrong. You told him you didn’t like Fridays. He told you not to worry, and you hadn’t worked a Friday since. He hadn’t even asked why, he’d just done it.

And now you had Fridays alone to rot in your sorrow and misery.

The ringing of the phone didn’t make you flinch, not like it used to months ago. With a heavy sigh, you grabbed your phone, and wandered out to sit on the small balcony, away from your cats and their pawing. “Mom.” You leant your elbows on the railing, and stared out at your view of neighbourhoods and distant mountains.

Your mother’s voice made your stomach churn. “Hi, dear.” You rose your eyes and stared up at the sky. That pet name made you want to pop your eardrums. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, mom.” You tapped your nails on the railing, anxiety doubling your heart rate. You could feel it pounding in your hands and head, adrenaline pumping so hard you felt the need to run. “Same as I was last week. Busy with work.” You cleared your throat before she could get another word in. “What is it, mom?”

Your eyes shot down to the scars littering your hands. Those which your friends believed came from years of clumsiness and working with guns and knives. A lie. A smart lie — but a lie nevertheless. They always seemed to burn when you remembered home.

If you could call it home.

“We all miss you, dear.” You hummed in response to her words, not interested or paying much attention. “Jack—“

That snapped you back to reality. “Don’t.”

Your mother sighed. There was a hint of frustration in her voice now. She always did this. “If you’d just answer—“

“No.” You interrupted again. Your grip on your phone tightened, until your knuckles turned white. “Stop, mom.” Your teeth ground together. The name sent chills down your spine. “I told you, stop with that bullshit. You know I won’t pick up any of his calls, so stop asking.”

“If you’d let him explain—“

“There’s no explaining.” You argued, anger rising deep in your stomach. “Whatever excuse he’s come up with is bullshit. And I cannot believe you’re siding with that fucker after what he did.” She went to speak, you scoffed, reaching your boiling point. “Don’t call me again.” You pulled your phone away from your ear and hung up, with a low groan.

Hands scrubbed over your face, trying to control your temper.

You hadn’t been close to your mother in two years. When you left your hometown, she’d become nothing more than a name on a phone to you.

You stared at the deep scars on your hands, and shook yourself off. With one last glance at the scenery, you headed inside, greeted by three clingy cats and burnt bacon on your frying pain.

You threw out the bacon and unhappily ate a bowl of cereal instead, three cats sitting at your feet. You stared out the window, and resigned yourself to another night of getting wasted.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Shot after shot poured down your throat, the burning sensation making you grimace and shudder. It felt good, in a sort of self-destruction kind of way. You slammed down your sixth shot glass, and stared blankly at the empty chair in front of you.

And then it wasn’t empty.

“You might wan’ slow down, honey.” Your eyes flicked up, meeting Beau’s. He waved off the bartender returning with more shots for you, and turned back to you. “I’ve been watchin’ you drink those like water. You wan’ tell me what’s got you downin’ vodka like there’s no tomorrow?”

“My mother.” You huffed. Beau hummed and nodded. He didn’t know much about your past, much like you didn’t know much about his. What he did know, is that your relationship with your family was strained. Extremely.

Beau reached out and pulled away your empty shot glasses, leaving them on his side of the table. “You wan’ talk ‘bout it?”

“Not really.”

His brows rose, but he accepted the answer. He wouldn’t push. He knew what it was like to not want to reminisce on bad memories. “You start at eight tomorrow. You sure you wan’ get piss off drunk?”

His rationality made you scowl. Beau chuckled quietly at your expression, knowing he’d already won this argument.

“C’mon, honey.” He spun himself off his chair and stood. “Let’s get ya home.” He reached out to help you stand — a bit too quick.

You recoiled. A flinch. Away from him.

He pulled his hand away like he’d been burnt. You suddenly felt very sober. You stared at each other, neither willing to be the first to speak.

Beau’s mind replayed the flinch, over and over. The quick flash of fear in your eyes. The way you’d curled into yourself, moving abruptly away from him. He suddenly felt sick. He didn’t dare reach out to you again. It felt like he’d been struck by lightening.

Your heart hammered in your chest, breath hitching at the confusion and pain on his face. Frantically, your brain raced for an excuse. “You scared me.” You forced a weak laugh.

He didn’t believe you. Of course he didn’t. It was a shit lie, and you knew it. His eyes scanned your expression; the wariness in your gaze. the sudden tension in your muscles. And, he didn’t push. “Sorry.” He chuckled. “Didn’t mean ta.” He slowly offered his hand out again, moving in a way that ensured you didn’t flinch.

You physically relaxed. It made Beau’s heart twist uncomfortably, his concern growing. You accepted his hand, and he helped pull you to unstable feet.

“You’re gon’ be so hungover tomorrow, girl.” His hands on your upper arms, he threw down some cash on the bar, and then guided you out of the crowded bar. He chuckled, half-amused and half-concerned, keeping you stable as he walked you over to his Jeep.

Before he could open the passenger seat door, you turned to him. “Answer me this.” You leant back against the door, effectively trapping him. “Are you leaving?”

He looked taken aback. “What on Earth are you goin’ on about?”

“Carla.” You watched his expression turn into one of heavy confusion. Annoyed, you sighed. “She left, Beau. Are you going after her? You moved here for her. So, are you gonna leave for her?”

“Oh, Jesus.” He muttered, running a hand down his face. “Is that what you ladies have been gossipin’ about?”

You didn’t answer him, you just stared at him for a few beats. “You had a meeting with the Chief on Monday. What was it about?”

He put his hands on your shoulders, ducking his head to meet your eye level. “I’m not going anywhere.” He spoke quietly, reassuring you with a warm smile. “You lot are stuck with me.” He nudged your chin with his index finger and then gently pulled you aside. “C’mon, let’s get you home, hm?” He pulled open the door of the passenger side seat.

You stared at him. “Promise?” You began to climb into the car. “You won’t go anywhere?”

Beau chuckled, shrugging this line of questioning off as odd drunken behaviour. “Promise.” He patted your knee as you sat down. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

an: chapter one is shorter than the other chapters will be, as it’s mostly an introduction to your relationship with the other characters + the first mystery of your past.

if you catch any mistakes, always feel free to let me know!! sometimes i miss them + i always love improving my work :)

[slugtranslation-hypmic]

Hello,

Is there any way you could translate Samatoki's newest solo, Rinka/Blue Flame? I've been looking for a translation everywhere, but cannot seem to find one.

Best regards and thank you very much.

Oh my God I am desperate slug-san, please please pleaaasee tell me you know where to find a translation of Samatoki's Rinka/Blue Flame!! OTL I was so surprised a translator wasn't already linked in the wiki which is where I usually look first & then I couldn't find anything by searching on twitter or google or tumblr and I just really wanna know what his song is about!! T°T I can't believe I found a translation of Honobono's song but not of Samatoki's song?? I must be doing sth wrong.. Help :')

Hey slug-san! A follow-up of the Rinka/Blue Flame message. I've searched some more, and I think there's actually no translation of it so far anywhere.. T~T Would you be willing to translate it? A standard/literal translation with a lil clean-up like you did with Akuma no Hana would be totally alright!! Thank you so much for giving us the opportunity to engage with Hypmic in a way the official creators haven't made possible yet! :D <3

Sure. Under a cut for length.

I'm running at a speed faster than grief, going so fast I leave even the smallest bad feelings behind me. I spit on my dead-end future, spit in the dirty puddles. Now I'm clinging to the guardrail, tears tracing scribbled lines down my cheeks. I bet it looks pretty comical. C'mon, laugh at me, why don't you? Let's start somewhere around the unhappy ending. Why not? Works for me. The clear, blue sky waits for sunset; but to hell with that. I don't need that crap! Let's do whatever we damn well please, here in this vacant city. Just the thought of them makes me light up a cigarette. Look, I don't wanna tell people we gotta fight each other to get what we want. I just think we have to, because there's things out there that're worth keeping safe. There's a stray dog baying at the rain streaking down the glass, and that SOB won't shut up. Hey, fuck your umbrella. Who needs that kinda crap? Throw it away and let the rain drench you too. The beat's entrenched in my soul, a stupid requiem for this unfair world we live in, lying on its sickbed. C'mon, get in there and pay your respects to it. You don't have the time to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You know lashing out's the answer, right? You'll be okay. And I'm not gonna tell you you're running from your responsibilities. So c'mon. Quit your sniveling and come ride with me. The brakes don't work; those emotions never get any slower. And we're burning ourselves out, but don't let that stop you from coming along with me for the ride. Ride with me through thick and thin. Ride with me all the way to the grave.

A few final notes:

Sunset is a metaphor for melancholy. When Samatoki rejects that in the third verse, he's rejecting sitting through his feelings of loss. He uses this image again later in the line I wrote as "sit around feeling sorry for yourself."

The gender and plurality of the "them" Samatoki thinks about isn't specified. While it's most likely referring to his family, the verse immediately afterward sounds like a direct reference to Ichirou and Samatoki battling to save their siblings in the TDD breakup.

"We're burning ourselves out" could also be written like "We're burning ourselves down to ash" which connects with the cigarette image.

Given the prevalence of stray dogs in hardboiled/yakuza fiction and their recurrence as an image in Samatoki's other raps, the stray dog should be understood to be Samatoki himself.

[atlabeth]

Hey! I saw your requests were open so I was wondering if I could get an angsty/sad Anthony Lockwood x reader? Maybe they're friends or work together, and there's pining? Ending up to you :) Anyways, thank you for your time! Have a wonderful day!

are we too young for this? - anthony lockwood

summary: there was the illusion when you were younger, that you would be together forever. the day you walk back into 35 portland row, you know that illusion is broken.

a/n: thank you for the request! this definitely is angsty and there's not really a happy ending lol. this idea popped into my head as soon as this came into my inbox and i think it's an interesting one so hopefully you all like it. it's like "what if lockwood had any normal non-ghost hunting friends" and the result is sadness. thank you again for the request i hope you like it! title from softcore by the neighborhood

wc: 3.3k

warning(s): childhood friends to lowkey strangers with a hint of very sad possible lovers lmao </3 angst, pining that goes nowhere, not a happy ending it just kind of. ends. mentions/discussions of familial death, some crying, just sad all around. this gif is you all kicking me for writing this

You couldn’t help the haste with which you hurried down the sidewalk with. Night was steadily falling, your arms ached with the weight of your bags, and you were sure you were going to be late for dinner. Of course, it wasn’t your brightest idea to head out on errands so late, but it also wasn’t your fault that the bus was so late. 

As you continued down the sidewalk at a pace rivaling the slowest of racers, your eyes darted around your surroundings as an instinct. The ghost lamps hadn’t turned on yet, the Ainsworths were walking their dog together, the light was on at 35 Portland Row. 

You almost didn’t even question it, almost continued walking, but then you froze in your steps. 

The light was on at 35 Portland Row? 

You nearly dropped your groceries as you ran up the steps, furiously knocking on the door until it swung open. You weren’t met by Anthony—instead, a boy wearing glasses with dark, messy curls stared at you. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, rather tartly. He looked down at the bag in your hand. “Are you Arif’s girl?” 

You shook your head, though it took you a moment to gather your bearings. “No, I’m not. Um— does Anthony Lockwood still live here?” 

“Did you see the sign outside the door?” he asked, pointing a finger at the fence. 

You blinked. “No.” 

He just stood there, brows raised, and you realized that he wanted you to go down and look. With a sigh, you went down the steps and over to the fence, and your jaw dropped when you read it. 

A.J. Lockwood & Co., Investigators

After dark, ring bell and wait beyond the iron line. 

“He started an agency?” you asked incredulously. 

“You know him?” the boy asked in turn. He seemed incredibly bored with this conversation. 

“Is he in right now?” You paced back up the stairs, trying to peer behind the boy inside the house. “I have to talk to Anthony.” 

The boy studied you for a moment before he sighed and stepped aside. “He’s in the basement. Take a seat wherever—I’ll get him.” 

You nodded thankfully as you walked in, and he shut the door behind you. It had been a while since you’d stepped inside the house, and everything felt different and the same at once. 

It was a lot more of a mess than it used to be. As soon as you stepped in you noticed there were granules of salt scattered near the entrance, telltale signs of salt bombs. A stray rapier laid on the kitchen table, over a large white tablecloth that seemed to have words and symbols scribbled haphazardly all over it. You nearly tripped over a bucket of water, housing boots with glowing green stains on them, and everywhere you looked there seemed to be artifacts of every kind. 

It was as busy as you remembered, as crowded as you remembered, but it was crowded with the mess of underage agents rather than the organized chaos of researchers. 

It really had been a long time. 

“Um— may I ask who you are?” You introduced yourself as a middle ground, offering a slight smile to the boy. 

“George Karim,” he said. “I’m Lockwood’s deputy.” 

Lockwood. Not Anthony— Lockwood. 

You nodded, perhaps a few times too many, and you took a seat on the couch. Your spot, actually, as it always had been whenever you were over at his house. You noticed with delight that the pillow you’d crocheted for his mother still sat against the side. It was your personal thanks to her for letting you spend so many nights at their house, and though the yarn was slightly worn and a few loose ends stuck out, it was in remarkably good shape. Especially considering the state of the rest of the house. 

“What are you here for?” George asked, rather bluntly. “Are you a client?” 

“Not a client,” an achingly familiar voice answered, “a friend.” 

You whirled around, immediately shooting up from your seat and breaking into a smile at the sight of Anthony. “You’re back.” 

“That I am.” He smiled back at you, and though it was like the thousands of times he’d smiled at you before, there was something heavier in it. You couldn’t help but notice the bags under his eyes. 

“She just showed up at the door,” George said. “Asked to see you by name. She wouldn’t leave.” 

“Good.” Anthony quickly closed the distance and pulled you into a hug, one you returned with vigor. It had been far too long since you were in his arms, and it wasn’t long enough when you both pulled away. “What’s brought you here?” 

You laughed shakily. “Um, the sign on your door. Actually, I saw the light was on first, and it hadn’t been on in a while, so I thought I would—” you cleared your throat, your eyes flicking away for a moment. “See if you were here. Still.” 

Understanding passed through Anthony’s eyes, and he nodded. “I finished my grades recently, and I decided it was time to go out on my own.” 

“Your own,” you repeated. 

He nodded again and, a credit to his intelligence, didn’t let you continue in that vein. “Where have you been? I feel like it’s been forever.” 

“It sort of has,” you said with a slight laugh. “I’ve been busy at school. My parents— they sent me to boarding school.” 

“Boarding school?” Both boys spoke at the same time, but where Anthony was surprised, George was almost disgusted. 

You nodded. “Boarding school.” 

“You’ve got no Talent,” George realized. 

You blinked at his bluntness, but he wasn’t wrong. “Guilty.” 

“George,” Anthony said, eyes never leaving your face, “could you give us a moment alone?” 

“Gladly,” he mumbled. George walked off, and then it was just the two of you. 

You, a star pupil at boarding school with the boring aspirations of becoming a solicitor. Anthony, a star seer starting his own agency so he could better march headfirst into death. 

“You’re still alive.” It had been what you wanted to say the moment he walked back into your life, but only now could you find the courage. 

“I’m still alive,” he agreed. 

“You’re starting your own agency.” You looked around, brows slightly creased. A position they’d been stuck in since the moment you read the sign on the railing. “Where are your supervisors? Where— where are the rest of your agents?” 

“It’s just us,” Anthony said. “George and I. Two is really all you need for most cases.” 

“Just you and George?” You continued to look around, gesturing with your hand for no reason at all. “It— it can’t just be you and George. It can’t be just you and George against every ghost in London.” 

“Technically, it’s not every ghost in London,” he said. “Just the ones ailing our clients.” 

“That’s not what I mean, Anthony!” You let out a frustrated sigh, using your gesturing hand to rake it through your hair. “It can’t just be the two of you.” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“Because entire teams die out in the field, Anthony,” you ground out. “Entire teams, from Fittes and Rotwell and Tendy’s and— and Grimble, they die out in the field. They’ve got adults, they’ve got backup, they’ve got every bloody thing they need at their disposal, and you think—” Your voice broke, and you took a deep breath. “And you think you can do it alone?”

“I’m not alone,” Anthony said. “I’ve got George.” 

“You really don’t get it,” you whispered with a pained laugh, “do you?” 

“Can I get you some tea?” Anthony offered that smile again, and it should’ve been the same but it wasn’t. 

“I don’t want tea, I want you to see what the hell you’re doing!” you exclaimed. “We had this exact same conversation when you went off to do your grades with— with that freelancer. I woke up every morning and wondered if you hadn’t. I went to bed every night and wondered if you hadn’t. It drove me insane, Anthony, and it’s part of the reason my parents sent me so far off for boarding school! I couldn’t stop thinking about you and what you were doing, and now you’re telling me that you’re not only going to be an agent, but you’re doing it with one other boy as young as you are?” 

“I don’t know what else I can tell you except that it’s going to be okay!” Anthony ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I told you I would be okay when I went off with Sykes, and I was. Why can you not just trust in my ability— trust in me?” 

“You know why I can’t just trust,” you uttered. “We’ve both been through this before, Anthony.” 

He opened his mouth to say something, but it just shut as he stared at you with desperation in his eyes. It took him a moment to gather himself. 

“I…” Anthony sighed, looking at you fully. “I thought about you every day that I was gone, same as you. Wondering how you were doing, what I would say when I got back. Because I knew I would come back.” 

You bit your lip. Whereas you’d shrunk into yourself after you lost your brother, Anthony forced himself to be more confident, more sure of anything and everything when he found himself on his own. You supposed he had no other choice. 

And right now, it felt like you didn’t have one either. 

“I have to go,” you murmured absently. “It’s getting late.” 

You picked up your bags from the couch, your lips pressing into a sad excuse for a smile as you walked past him. Anthony said your name, the pleading of it all almost enough to make you stop, but you continued on your way. 

“Have a good night, Anthony,” you said. 

And then you walked out. 

-

Dinner with your parents was hollow. They talked and joked around you, tried to include you in conversation, but you felt none of the usual warmth. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about Anthony and his fated stubbornness, about that stupid sign on the railing and his stupid agency, and try as you might, you couldn’t stop thinking about your brother. 

Your parents were kind enough not to ask any questions behind the cursory ‘are you okay’s, leaving you to your own devices when they retired for the night. You wondered if they knew that Anthony was back, and if so, if they knew all this agency business. 

Maybe they did. Maybe they just thought it would be better to not tell you, because they knew you would act exactly the way you were acting. 

You just sat on the couch, staring at the required reading on your lap as the whir of the washing machine filled your ears, unable to absorb any of the words. 

You grew up next door to Anthony, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to become friends. You bumped into each other on walks with your family, you saw each other at the supermarket, and soon enough you were knocking on each other's doors begging the other’s parents to allow for hangouts. You became the best of friends with the biggest aspirations for life, aspirations that the world was sure to crush. 

Tragedy struck a multitude of times, first in your brother, then his parents, and lastly his sister. You lost count of the nights you spent sleeping over with each other when you couldn’t stand to be alone—in the first few months after his parents, he practically lived at your house—sometimes talking through the late hours, sometimes crying through them. Either way, you did it together.

You did everything together, and then Anthony went where you couldn’t follow. 

After Jessica’s death, he withdrew into himself. It took a while to break through, and it felt like just as you did, Anthony was telling you his decision to go off and study under a freelancer that went by the Gravedigger of all names. You questioned if you would ever see him again, and he assured you with a smile that of course you would. 

How many nights you spent staring at the ceiling questioning why you had been born without talent, you couldn’t remember.

And now Anthony was back, and he was throwing himself even further into his work, into danger, and it was like you were reliving the empty months all over again.

The knock on the door rang out, jarring you from your thoughts, and you knew who it was immediately. You still took a moment of pause before you pushed the book off your lap and walked over to the door, your lips pressing into a thin line when you opened it and saw Anthony. 

“Can we talk?” he asked bluntly.

You stepped aside wordlessly, adjusting the iron charm that hung over the door after you closed it. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Anthony said. 

“I haven’t done any of it,” you said. “I only got back the other day. My parents did all the holiday decorating while I was away.” 

“Ah.” He still smiled. “It looks lovely either way. Very festive.”  

“They’ll be happy to hear it.” 

Anthony sighed, finally turning to look back at you and your crossed arms. “Has it really been that long?” 

You glanced away. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Long enough that we’ve been reduced to niceties.” He shrugged. “We’ve always known what each other meant without even having to ask. We could have entire conversations just with eye contact, and now you can hardly even look at me.” 

“I guess it has been that long,” you murmured. “You’ve been off training to become an agent, and I’ve been off doing schoolwork.” 

“That’s never stood in the way before.” Anthony gestured with his hand, his laugh strained. “Remember what we said when we were younger? That we would always be friends, that— that we would always be together.” 

“That was before everything changed,” you said quietly. 

“Before my parents,” he said bluntly. “Before our siblings.” 

You blinked away tears, turning away so he couldn’t see. It had been years and the simple mention of him was still enough to open the wound again. Maybe it never really closed. 

“I just don’t understand how you want to be an agent after everything that’s happened,” you said. 

“I don’t expect you to understand it,” Anthony said. “I just know that it was what I was meant to do.” 

That got you. You turned around, disbelief painted on your face, and you shook your head. “How can it be what you’re meant to do, Anthony? People— children— die every single goddamn day! How can anyone be meant for that?” 

“Because I’m able to help people,” he said. “I’ve got what some people call the best Sight they’ve seen in a long time, and if I can use it to help innocent people be rid of Visitors, I’m going to.” 

“Why does it have to be you?” You gave up trying to hide your emotion, your voice cracking in full force. “Why does it have to be you on your own?” 

“Fittes and Rotwell…” he shook his head. “They’ve lost sight of what this is all meant for. They don’t care. Lockwood and Co will care.” 

“You’re needlessly reckless,” you said. “I mean— you don’t even see it! You’ve been on your own for so long with only ghosts for company that you’ve forgotten there are still people out there that care about you.” You wiped away a loose tear in frustration. “People like me, Anthony.” 

He stayed silent. 

“You will never have any respite,” you continued. “People make errors in their jobs every day and they move on— if you make an error, that’s it. A— am I going to find out you’re dead the same way I found out about all this? I’m going to come home for the holidays, I’m going to see that sign on your fence is gone, someone new has moved into 35 Portland Row, and that’s going to be it.” 

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. 

“And how can you be so sure?” 

“I’m better with a rapier than any agent in London, my Sight has only grown more powerful, and I’ve got connections,” Anthony said. “George used to work with Fittes, he’s an all-rounder, and he is the best researcher I’ve ever seen. We’re going to be fine.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s exactly what my brother told me.” 

Anthony’s face softened, and you felt like you were ten again. Sitting on the floor of the living room with him, watching some old-timey movie your parents had on DVD as you passed a bowl of popcorn between you two. The door rang, you ran over to get it, and you were met by two stone-faced men. 

“Are your parents home, miss?” 

Anthony said your name, but you shook your head. 

“I already lost him,” you said quietly. “I’m not going to sit around and watch as you throw yourself into danger and lose you too.” 

“Then I guess this is it,” Anthony said. 

Your throat burned. “I guess it is.” 

The two of you stared at each other for a good long while—it was like Anthony was trying to call your bluff, trying to see if you were going to fold. But you meant every word. You loved him too much to watch him face death on every job, not when you couldn’t do a single thing about it. 

You let Anthony pull you into a hug, and try as you might you just couldn’t. The dam broke inside of you and you wrapped your arms around him as tight as possible, a silent goodbye that meant everything. 

Perhaps it was selfish, pushing him away on your own terms because you couldn’t stand to watch him meet his fate. Throwing away a decade of friendship all because you were too weak to wait with bated breath every time he went on a job, to go back to staring at pictures of you two together when you were kilometers away at school wondering if he was still alive. 

But you wouldn’t— you couldn’t— go through it again. You had no Talent, so you had no choice but to stand idly by as children better and braver than you went out into the field to keep the streets of London safe. As Anthony risked his name showing up in the obituaries every day. 

You wondered every day if things would have been different had you been different, if you had been able to follow your brother to Grimble. And now, if you were able to join Anthony’s agency to make sure he didn’t lose himself. Your brother had been facing his death without fear for five years until it finally caught up to him, and the darkest part of you couldn’t help but think when it would catch up to Anthony as well. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before he pulled away, and you could have dissolved into tears right there. You always wondered if he knew how you felt about him. It was a shame you’d never get to see what could have been. 

“I promise that everything will be okay,” he murmured. “My door will always be open to you.” 

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, you wanted to say. You’re the same age as he was and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

But instead, you just nodded. “Stay alive.” 

There was a glimmer of sadness in his smile. “I couldn’t do anything less with you around.” 

You managed a watery laugh, and you bit down hard on your lip. You couldn’t cry anymore. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Anthony said, stopping in the doorway after he opened it. A promise to himself more than you. 

“I hope so,” was all you could say. 

Anthony bowed his head to you, closed the door behind him, and then he was gone.