#decidedly not computers

[commodorez]

Nems-Clarke 1302A Special Purpose Receiver

[petuline]

What if something goes horribly wrong on one of ART's future missions and some sort of Computer Virus deletes MB's entire software. And it can be reinstalled, but only with a functioning Governor Module System Thingy. So the mission objective changes into the team having to track down Three.

Come to think of it though, after Recent Events, I'm sure ART made MB have at least three backup copies of its software (and memory logs), including one that Mensah has, and one that Seth keeps safe.

[digirainebow]

happy birthday, rye bread <3

[stardustedknuckles]

.... I've had this url for four years and I only JUST realized a certain subset of people might mistake me for a sonic fan. How did it take that long to process.

[ilistentothedark]

CHORRIS my darlings

[aealzx]

_______________________

Prologue Next

_______________________

“We’ve secured the suspected meta.”

“Copy that. Red Hood, do you have eyes on the last of them?”

“Not yet, but I’m pretty sure she’s in this apartment.”

Several months ago a group of unpredictable rogues had popped up in Gotham. Nothing unusual for the city, other than they appeared to be a group of teenagers who were both criminals and heroes. Stolen goods of various types ranging from common camping supplies, food, and clothing, to an odd assortment of medical supplies and technology. Assaulted police, other heroes and vigilantes given the slip. And yet there were also many criminals dealt with that hero teams couldn’t account for who was responsible. The main lead they had gotten was the suspected meta human. A girl with white hair that could fly, phase through walls, and various other super human feats. She had been the first lead they could latch onto, and from there they had built profiles on the other three. The oldest girl appeared to be in her late teens, another girl just a few years younger, a boy the same age as the second girl, and then the metahuman, younger than all of them. They had been more of a curiosity than a serious threat. Until they had stolen something from the wrong people and painted a target on their heads. Now they were in a cross between a rescue and capture mission as the team only known as The Phantoms were being raided by pissed off crooks.

The three youngest had already been caught by the rest of the team sent by Batman, it was only the eldest girl that remained. And unless Tim could pull off a miracle Jason only had ten minutes to find her before the planted bomb destroyed the building they’d been hiding in.

With Barbara’s help he and a few of the others had searched the entire apartment building, checking each room for the remaining Phantom and placing eyes where they’d been to make sure she didn’t give them the slip and run to somewhere they’d already been. Jason had just slammed through the front door of one more apartment when he’d answered Barbara’s question, a scattering of food wrappers in a trash pile, a small cook top, sleeping areas, and other items for basic needs betraying recent habitation. It was a good hint that this was where the Phantoms had stationed, especially with the scrabbled together computer workstation setup off to one side.

There were only three other doors in the apartment, and Jason moved to the first one quickly. A closet near the front door. Empty. A bathroom across from the front room. Also empty. Which meant the last room, the bedroom, had to be where she was, if she was there.

Jason flung the door open and promptly caught the crowbar that was swung at his face, accompanied by a near frantic screech from the girl he’d been looking for

“Got her,” Jason announced to the comms, deftly yanking the crowbar out of the girl’s hands and tossing it to the side. “Begin evacuation, I’ll be out in - ….. Shit.”

As Jason spoke to Barbara and the rest of the team he decidedly ignored the girl’s demands for him to get out, having to block a fist thrown his way. He’d noticed she was obviously distressed, tears marking her dirty cheeks and a fierce glare directed his way. It wasn’t unexpected considering she was the last of her team they didn’t have in custody; she must have felt any myriad of emotions ranging from despair at failing to fear that they would hurt her. Yet Jason quickly noticed something that made him cuss mid report, and realize the girl's actions weren’t out of defiance, but protectiveness.

“There’s five of them,” Jason reported, finger pressing to his comm and eyes locked onto the new figure that hadn’t been part of any of their intel. And for a good reason. The lad was unconscious on a cot, one of the stolen items in the team’s list, and he didn’t look good. If it weren’t for the shallow, shuddering breaths from him Jason would have thought he were already dead, his skin ghastly pale other than fever flushed cheeks. “There’s another boy, heavily injured. I’m bringing them both out, have someone standing by.”

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

Of course the girl heard his report, and renewed her efforts to fight Jason, blocking him from reaching the fifth member. They didn’t have time to converse gently though, and so Jason grabbed her arm and yanked her forward. “Listen! I’m not going to hurt you, I’m trying to rescue you. There’s a bomb! We have to get out of the building, and get him to a hospital.”

The girl was smart. Or at least not dumb enough to ignore Jason’s words completely, for she froze the moment he mentioned the bomb. “...What?” she asked, wide eyes locking onto him, daring him to trick her.

“Look, you guys trying to steal Lazarus water pissed off the wrong people. They planted a bomb, and my team and I are here to rescue you. We can talk about your crime runs later, alright?” Jason explained a little more, really not wanting to have to knock the girl out too just to get the two to a safe area if he could help it.

The way the girl’s eyes opened, a horrified gasp escaping her, told Jason she wasn’t a bad person. Or at least reinforced what their actions aside from theft had suggested. That was the reaction of someone who realized they’d made a mistake, and felt the weight bearing down from the mess that had been caused because of it. She stopped trying to fight Jason now, pulling away and rushing to the 5th member’s side, grabbing his limp arm and hooking it around her own shoulders to try and lift him up.

“Is he safe to move?” Jason asked, stepping forward to help. Even though the lad looked fairly small, he was still too heavy for the girl judging by how she was struggling to even get him upright. “His spine isn’t hurt? No broken bones?” he asked to clarify when the girl looked at him with a question half voiced.

“No. Nothing broken, just the-” she confirmed, cutting off when Jason reached forward and effortlessly scooped the frail teen up.

“Hold onto my back. We’re going that way,” Jason directed, ignoring the way she tensed, holding herself back from demanding he not touch her friend, and nodding towards the window.

“WhAT?” the girl sputtered, hands jerking as she internally wrestled with being obedient to him or her own sense of self preservation.

“We’re out of time. Just grab on,” Jason half snapped, roughly kicking the window to shatter the glass, twisting his frame to shield the lad in his arms as well, just in case. “One minute,” he added, repeating what Barbara announced in his comms to reinforce his directions.

It was enough. Pursing her lips and giving a soft whimper the girl rushed forward to throw her arms around his shoulders from behind, clinging to him with a death grip. Jason wished he had a better way to carry both of them, but he hadn’t been expecting there to be two of them in the first place. So he could only hope the girl’s grip was strong enough to hang on as he shot a zip line towards where the others were gathered. After getting the other end secured to the building they were in, Jason latched the clip on the rope and swung over the fire escape, curling his legs up to make sure the lad he was carrying had plenty of support. He could hear a muffled, drawn out squeak from the girl on his back, but didn’t comment.

“Wh- Ja- DANNY! LET HIM GO YOU-” the mid teenage girl caught sight of them first, snarling and trashing against her restraints when she saw who Jason had. Cass refused to let her go though, pulling her back to kneeling and considering pushing her down further if necessary. She didn’t get to finish her protests though.

“HEADS DOWN!” Dick shouted after Barbara announced a second to detonation, and those who had capes were throwing them over their targets and each other, hunching over to bodily protect them from the cascades of blasts ripping through the apartment building the Phantoms had been stationed in. They were far enough away that they shouldn’t get hurt from the collapsing rubble, but there was still the possibility of smaller debris getting thrown at them. So they remained huddled on the ground a safe distance away until the rubble settled, and only when it stopped shifting did they stand again.

“Oracle, status on the inbound units?” Dick was the first to speak, the others giving sighs of relief and partially relaxing.

The two middle teenage children had quieted significantly after the explosion, the boy looking at the rubble in shock as he realized they would have been caught in it if it weren't for the group of vigilantes that had captured them. And the girl held a similar period of stunned silence before she started kicking at Cass again. “Get off me! Get your filthy hands off Danny!”

“Sam, it’s okay.” The eldest girl spoke with a shaking voice, slipping off Jason’s back and leaning her head against him in a moment of despair. Cass’s hand froze where it had been about to knock out chop her feisty captive, blinking and looking up instead. So the middle teen’s name was Sam? And the unconscious lad was Danny?

“The meta is waking up. Should I dose her again?” That was Damian, keeping an eye on the youngest Phantom. She was starting to stir, but the eldest Phantom spoke up before the others could.

“Don’t. Please. They’ve been through enough. Just please bring her over here, I’ll manage her,” the eldest girl directed. Her voice was still shaking, but it had steadied somewhat after Jason had turned slightly while remaining crouched to allow her to sit next to their 5th member, her hand resting on his cheek as she was gathering the breaking pieces of her determination.

Stephanie and Cass only exchanged looks with each other, and also Dick and Tim, before Jason spoke up. “Just bring her over. She might be more docile when she’s near this one.”

They didn’t seem completely convinced, but Stephanie at least complied, moving to crouch on one knee with the youngest girl while Damian hovered nearby with another dose of sedatives.

“You’re doing the right thing kid. When the cops get here with the paramedics they’ll get Danny taken care of. You don’t have to worry,” Jason encouraged the eldest girl, grateful that she was getting her team to behave.

“They can’t take him,” she rejected, catching the rest off guard.

“What? Look if it’s about money don’t worry, it’ll be taken care of,” Jason insisted, hoping it wasn’t because of a different possibility he was quickly starting to consider. He’d thought it was just his imagination, but Danny was unusually cold to the touch. Almost like ice. There was another common reason he knew people avoided hospitals despite being this injured.

The eldest girl shook her head again. “It’s not that it’s….” she paused, seeming both reluctant to tell them but also not sure how to tell them what was going on. She wasn’t even sure what was wrong. But when the youngest teen groaned and started to shift the eldest looked at her and found her answer. “Danny is like Danielle. Doctors can’t help them. They’re too different.”

That’s what Jason thought, but it didn’t mean he wanted to hear it, and it earned an understanding but frustrated groan from him and some of the others. “Shit. Alright,“ Dick took charge of the situation, hissing slightly and reaching to his own comms. “Oracle, where’s the nearest safe house? The 5th member is another potential meta, unconscious, and heavy bandaging over the whole torso. Can you contact home and have Penny-one or The Doctor on standby?”

As Dick took care of directing the team, Jason took care of keeping their tentative ally willing to listen to them. “We might have some contacts that can help. We have friends that also need more attention that the regular doctor can give them. Do you kids have names we can use?”

It was more of a lead than they’d had since they’d gotten stranded there, so the eldest teen seemed hesitant but hopeful to grab onto it. After a moment of thinking, her other hand reaching out to Danielle as she started to blink her eyes open, she responded. “My name is Jazz. This is my little brother Danny, my little sister Dani with an I, and our friends Sam and Tucker.”

“... Your parents gave your little siblings the same name?” Jason couldn’t help asking after hearing the relationships. That also explained a lot about why Jazz had been so frantically protective of Danny, aside from her being the oldest of the group.

“It’s… a long story,” Jazz admitted, grimacing a little. “Danielle… was unexpected.”

Looked like Jazz didn’t quite trust them enough. That was fine, they didn’t need a whole backstory right off. Oracle could probably figure it out easily now that she had names and relations. “Fair enough,” Jason dismissed with a grunt, ending his conversation as Dick approached them.

“Hey. There’s a whole mess of stuff going on, I know, but right now we’re going to focus on making sure everyone is taken care of, and then we can figure out the rest of the mess later, okay?” Dick started, leaning low with his hands on his knees and speaking gently. “The police and paramedics can take care of the criminals that were hunting you, but since he’s a special case we’re going to move to a different location where we’ll give everyone a check up. Sound good?”

Jazz didn’t jump at the offer, but they could see she saw promise in it, and hesitantly nodded. “My friends and I stay together at all times. Got it?” she demanded.

“Sure,” Dick agreed, not seeing any issue with that. “But we’ll keep the restraints on if necessary, alright? You all still have charges of assault after all.”

It was easy to see Jazz’s expression fall significantly at the reminder, as though her soul had been slightly crushed. “Yeah… okay,” she agreed, swallowing some nausea that had churned her stomach at being reminded they were criminals. Then, before Danielle could fuss too much, Jazz turned to rest a hand on the small girl’s arm. “Dani, these guys have agreed to help us. So behave and don’t pick any fights unless I say otherwise, alright?”

The fist that Danielle had prepared to punch her holder didn’t move, and after a moment Danielle groaned in reluctant relent. “Guhhhh can I at least punch the guy who drugged me? I feel awful.”

The comment earned a weak chuckle from Jazz, and she patted Danielle’s arm. “I’ll think about it. Just rest for now. We’re moving to a safe place.” She hoped she wasn’t lying to Danielle, and that these people would actually, finally give them the help they needed.

________________

I guess I go here now =v=;;;

Partially inspired by this post. But not including everything because there's a lot of stuff I don't understand. |D This just got stuck in my head so hard I couldn't work on anything else.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Welcoming Party

[ <- part 1 ]

Standing out in the street, in front of the Gotham City Hall, in suit, even if it's not broad daylight — the sun has set two hours ago, they are firmly in late evening territory — feels awfully uncomfortable. As Red Robin, he is used to clinging to the shadows and walls. As Tim, he prefers it that way as well.

Alas, he is on the meeting the delegates duty by the rule of elimination: Bruce has a reputation, Dick is an impulsive comedian, Jason is a crime lord, Cass is having a nonverbal day, Steph is... Steph, Duke is a daylight hero, and Damian is rude by design.

In other words, his family straight up threw him under the bus.

This whole thing is ridiculous if anyone asks Tim. Vigilantes playing a welcoming party for dead royalty. Not even because of the whole deal with publicity but because their family is quite literally responsible for making a lot of people cross the border from alive to dead, and them welcoming a Prince of the Infinite Realms feels like a bad joke.

Tim's wrist computer buzzes — the alarm went off, which means the delegation will be here any minute — and, right on cue, the air just a dozen or so feet away flickers in green sparks.

A car, sleek black and almost absurdly normal, appears out of thin air, slowly making its way to Tim. To the City Hall entrance, actually, which coincidentally includes Tim. And five dozen reporters with cameras, but that's irrelevant right now. At least they've stopped taking pictures of him by this point.

The car stops, and the back door slides open — which it shouldn't be able to do, judging by the model, but who's Tim to judge afterlife transport. He hears a few clicks of the cameras going off.

Inside the car, it's pitch black, like the door opened straight into a cosmic void. Tim takes a short breath, steeling himself and getting ready to face absolutely anything. He's heard more than enough stories about the Realms from Constantine when B invited him as a consultant.

The first thing he sees is white fur- no, white hair, short and fluffy, strands floating in the air and slightly glowing. Then, there's a foot in a white combat boot stepping out on the pavement, a pale hand with sharp black nails — or, maybe, claws — gripping the side of the door for balance. Tim offers a hand mostly out of polite habit, distantly relieved the Prince is humanoid.

He nearly flinches when they take it, skin so cold that Tim feels it through his glove, but their touch almost gentle.

And then, the Prince steps out of the car completely.

Tim blinks.

His mind is registering disjointed parts of their appearance: black jeans, a silver rapier on their hip, an unzipped white leather jacket that looks too much like what Jason wears, pointy ears pierced in several places.

Pale blue, shimmering freckles that look like constellations on their face.

But that's all irrelevant because the Prince is not wearing a mask, not covering his face, and Tim knows that face. It's a face he's seen just this morning before he left for classes.

Daniel Nightingale, his Gotham U roommate, is looking at him with wide, toxic green eyes.

"T-" He starts, voice barely above a whisper, but stops himself short when he feels Tim squeezing his hand all of a sudden. He has no idea how Danny recognized him- actually, it probably has something to do with him being the Prince of the goddamn afterlife, but Tim has already suffered enough unpleasant things today. He is decidedly not adding an identity breach in front of dozens of reporters to it.

"Welcome to Gotham, Your Highness," he smiles, looking Danny straight in the eyes.

The boy smiles back, perfectly polite, "Thank you."

But Tim can see how he briefly, awkwardly rolls his shoulders.

Somehow, he thinks the peace talks are going to go great.

[pathologicalreid]

litmus test | s.r.

in which Spencer needs your expertise to help solve a murder, but crime fighting is most decidedly not for you

find more chemist!reader here!

who? spencer reid x chemist!reader category: flangst (like. the end is a little angsty and it has case details) content warnings: typical cm violence, science talk, fem!reader, reader is not built for crime, morgan being an older brother, some fun banter!! death by firework is crazy lmao word count: 1.68k a/n: this is one of my favorite fluff pieces i've written in agessss i missed chemist!reader so much i learn so many things when i'm writing her. this was a request! i hope you like it as much as i do!!

“Do you have a second?” Spencer asks, his voice slightly choppy over the phone. Between his ancient phone and being inside concrete police precincts, some disconnect was bound to happen.

Saving your document to your computer, you rest the lab phone between your shoulder and ear, “If you’re asking me if I have any corrosive chemicals in my hands, the answer is no.”

He chuckles lightly, “I never know with you.”

You roll your eyes in response, even if he can’t see you, “It was one time and I needed a new phone case anyway.”

“You fused the plastic of your phone case to the material of your phone,” he retorts far too quickly for your liking.

“Yes,” you acquiesce, “but I know the exact chemical reaction that caused that phenomenon.” You cross your legs one over the other, maintaining your balance on your lab stool as you speak to Spencer over the phone.

He gave a light hum in response, “Speaking of chemical reactions – I need your help.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, “You’re asking me for help in chemistry?” There really was a first time for everything, you suppose.

Spencer was more than capable of navigating a lab on his own, even so, he admits, “You have more applied practice than I do.”

Pursing your lips, you nod to yourself, “Fair enough. What’s stumping you, Dr. Reid?” Your inquiry, while innocent enough, garners a wolf whistle from your graduate assistant.

“There’s something burning a hole in these bones, and I’m not sure what would be causing it to happen this fast,” he explains, giving you minor background information on how long the bones were out and if the medical examiner had treated them with something.

You clear your throat, frowning at the notes you had scrawled down in front of you, “Burning or corroding?” What was seemingly a meaningless distinction would actually allow you to filter through approximately half of the possibilities.

“Corroding,” he corrects himself, “My mistake.”

Crossing off some of your notes, you purse your lips at the new possibilities, “No worries. Did you try flushing it out with water?”

You hear papers flipping on his end of the call before you get a response, “That would destroy evidence.”

“Well,” you raise your eyebrows, “It sounds like your evidence is destroying itself.”

“Baby,” Spencer says in a no-nonsense tone reserved for when he was deep in a case. You could’ve sworn you heard Morgan in the background of the call mocking him for the pet name.

Turning back to your notes, you sigh, “Yeah, yeah, all work and no play. Was the body buried?”

“Partially,” his reply intrigues you, “I can have Garcia send you the crime scene photos if you think it’ll help.”

Wrinkling your nose at the thought, you made an unsure sound, “Right, because nothing says lunchtime like getting up close and personal with a homicide victim.”

“What lunchtime? It’s three pm in D.C. right now,” he caught you, a slight chiding tone in his words.

Ignoring his questions, you ask more of your own, “Was the body near water? Did they test the pH of the soil and water?”

There were more papers flipping, likely someone presenting the results of those tests to him, “Yeah, the soil was a five-point two and the water was a seven-point eight,” he listed off for you.

While your knowledge of the pH of the soil in Iowa was limited, you did know that those levels were pretty on par for the northern Mississippi River. “O-kay,” you say, extending your vowels, “and they didn’t find anything else on the scene that points to corrosive materials. Hydrofluoric acid?” You posit, “No, you know what – maybe you should send me those files. My work email is encrypted, you can give it to Penelope.”

He speaks to someone else in the room with him and you resist the urge to ask him if he’s enjoying Iowa, “It’s sent,” he confirms with you.

Pulling up your email only takes a moment, and once you get over the initial shock of seeing a dead body on your computer screen, you lift your lab glasses to the top of your head in order to get a better look. “I mean,” you think for a moment, “those look like alkali burns to me. I’ve never seen them on bones before, but you should do a litmus test to check either way.”

“So, we rinse it with water?” He asks, seeking instruction from you in a way that makes you feel oddly powerful.

Your eyes widen, “No, no, no. If it’s a metal compound then it’ll be covered in a mineral oil, so rinsing it with water would actually make the burn worse.”

Pausing for a moment, you consider the possibility that Spencer didn’t have the luxury of time – he was trying to solve a murder, not do experiments in a lab.

“Alkali burns can be serious, it all depends on what caused them, and most are helped by rinsing with water. So, unless you have the time to test for metal compounds, I’d go ahead and rinse it. You might want to brush the damage to the bones with a dry brush first. If there’s lime on the bones it’ll foam, which not only will corrode the bones even further but it might release a toxic gas,” you have no idea how the corrosion would interact with bone marrow, but something tell you that you don’t want to know

“Wait a minute,” Derek interjects, being included in the conversation now that Spencer put the call on speaker, “I thought things like alkaline water were good for you.”

You scoff instinctively, “Oh, there’s no definitive evidence that shows alkaline water as having any real health benefits. Especially not the benefits that the internet says it has.” Straightening up in your stool, you continue, “In fact, there is evidence from the NIH that says drinking alkaline water could cause kidney damage. There’s a particular-“

“My bad,” he interjects, effectively stopping your rambling before it really took off, “I forgot whose girlfriend I was talking to.”

Groaning at your new vexation, you huff, “Oh, fuck off, Derek. Go kick down a door.”

Spencer quickly switches the phone back, “Thank you, angel.”

Squinting at the photos that were still on your laptop screen, a crude, disturbing thought came to mind, “You know, sparklers can cause alkali burns. It might be something to consider because of the diameter of the burns.”

Your boyfriend was silent on his end of the call for so long that you had to check and make sure the call hadn't dropped. “Did you say sparklers?”

“Yep,” you confirm, “like the ones you can get everywhere this time of year.”

He says something to Morgan, placing his hand over the receiver so you can’t hear, “There’s only one spot in this town, though. I’ve gotta go, see you soon.”

“Stay safe, please! I prefer your bones unburned,” you rattle off into the phone before it clicks, placing the phone back on the stand and deleting the crime scene photos from your inbox.

The front door to the apartment opens and shuts quietly, with Spencer under the assumption that you already went to bed, he was surprised to find you on the couch, nursing a cup of tea. “Hey, baby,” he chirps, unusually peppy for this time of night.

“Hey,” you say half-heartedly, threading your fingers through the handle of the mug.

Your somber tone gets Spencer’s attention, “What’s wrong?”

The slight panic in his voice causes your eyes to snap up to his, “Nothing,” you murmur. “It’s just… the woman who was in those pictures. There- the burns on her bones, they were signs of torture, weren’t they?”

You’d been thinking about the burns ever since Spencer showed them to you, “Yes,” he answers with a reciprocating softness, sitting down next to you on the couch. “The medical examiner concluded that she was burned antemortem.”

That woman had been burned alive by fireworks, sparklers had seared their way through skin and muscle until it finally met her bones. You blink a few tears from your eyes at the thought, “I like my lab, Spence.”

The confusion on his face was palpable, “I know you do.”

“I like my minimal human interaction and my chemicals, and I like knowing why certain things cause certain reactions. I like it when things make sense.” You take a deep, shaky breath, “Killing someone. Torturing someone with fireworks. That just doesn’t make sense to me.”

You had no interest in hearing the excuses that the killer had provided. You had no interest in hearing the psychological breakdown of that woman’s killer. Spencer knows that, “The photos got to you?”

Taking a sip from your mug, you nod solemnly, “I can’t stop thinking about the way it must have felt. Oh, the smell must have been horrible. That poor woman.” In theory, it was a ridiculous notion, killing someone with fireworks seemed neither probable nor possible. Yet here you are.

“But we got the person who killed her,” Spencer reassures you, resting his hand gently on your knee. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he adds.

Your face warms at his compliment, “I wish I could have helped before she was killed.” You were grateful that Spencer hadn’t passed on any personal information about the woman, it was easier for you if you kept things in separate storage files in your mind.

Spencer hums, reaching out and sweeping a strand of hair behind your ear, “There’s always going to be another one. I’m sorry about the photos, I should’ve made sure Garcia only sent the necessary ones.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you look at him thoughtfully, “This will pass, but for tonight I just feel bad for the victim.”

“I can have Penelope share some of her favorite baby animal videos, if you’d like,” he offers softly, resting his head on your shoulder.

In return, you give him a small smile, “Well, I suppose it really can’t hurt.”

[beardedjoel]

honey, honey | three: stirring up a hurricane

sugar daddy! joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist

summary: a lunch outing with joel brings some unexpected company and digs up anxiety. 10.2k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sugar daddy worthy age gap (reader is 21, joel is 54), slow burn! inherent power dynamic imbalance from a sugar daddy arrangement, flirting!, one (1) more jerk off session, talk of past relationships on joel's part, playing it a little fast and loose with pov, reader's clothing is described (dress and jacket).

a/n: i definitely intended to have this out sooner for y'all but life got in the way. i'm so ready to keep going on this journey with them, and this slow burn has been sooo fun to write. i really love them getting to know each other and fighting their feelings 🤭

The elevator softly whirs as you fly past the floors, all the way up to twenty. Alone and enclosed by the monochrome walls you fidget, smoothing your dress and wishing you had enough time to double check your appearance. 

It’s exhausting, apparently, actually caring what Joel Miller thinks about you. He always seems to have a compliment or two in store, but you can’t shake this pesky, anxious feeling gnawing at you that comes at the prospect of seeing him. Of him seeing you - perceiving you - and deeming you worthy of his time and money.

The elevator doors open to the office beyond with a rounded, wood paneled desk sitting centered in the foyer. Joel’s company comprises the entire floor, and you see a bustling crew beyond the glass walls and dividers. Black, shining floors beneath your feet, dark wood walls, and leather furniture adorn what appears to be a waiting room. It's decidedly masculine, but it doesn't feel cold in the slightest.

You nearly turn back around, wondering if this is a good idea after all. Being seen out in public together held its risks, you know that, but Joel seems assured that nothing will come of it. And if it does, he's promised to be there for you. You aren’t a public figure by any means, but any overachiever here in the know of Joel’s business associates might be able to place you and your connection to your father. The thought alone makes you feel itchy.

The young man behind the desk greets you in a chipper, smooth voice before you can make a decision on scampering back the way you came. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

You snap back to attention, approaching the rest of the way, trying to move with more purpose, a way to trick your brain into believing this will all be okay. “Yes, I’m here for Mr. Miller. It’s a - a lunch meeting.” Your cheeks heat in a rapid blaze, not having rehearsed any of this. You couldn't be the first of this nature in the office, based on Joel’s history, and you wonder if the man - Vincent, by the little nameplate on the desk - knew exactly what you were to his boss.

With a few clicks on the computer in front of him, Vincent gives you a soft smile of recognition. “Absolutely. I’ve got explicit instructions to have you brought back to his office first.” He holds up a finger to you as he dials on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone.

“Mhm, Mr. Miller’s twelve thirty is here. Yes. Okay. Thanks.”

You shift awkwardly, but only for a few moments before a woman appears around the corner, wearing a stylish blue pantsuit. She calls you by name, making your eyes widen in surprise before beckoning you to follow her. You’re guided between cubicles, open areas that appear to be free working spaces, and conference rooms. The place is buzzing with energy, a well oiled machine with employees engrossed in their individual work or collaborating. A pang of jealousy shoots through you, reminding you just how far you are from your goal of feeling that same spirit and drive towards your work.

You stop short in front of an office enclosed with glass walls, half opaque, half clear. “Mr. Miller will be just a moment. You can have a seat,” the woman says. “Water? Coffee? Tea? While you wait?” She rapidly fires the questions at you, to which you shake your head mutely, having a seat on the leather sofa that sits opposite to Joel’s office. 

She settles in at a nearby desk, turning her attention back to her computer, and it dawns on you that this must be Joel’s personal assistant here. Movement inside of Joel’s office catches your attention, your prying, curious eyes unable to look away even if giving Joel privacy feels like the right thing to do. Hurried movements ensue - a flash of Joel, hands flung up and then falling in frustration, and his face comes into view, screwed up tight before he says something that you can’t hear. You don’t see who he’s talking to, blocked by the fully opaque door, only leaving a shadow of a body that looks equally as heated. 

A few uncomfortable, shameful moments of spying pass before the door to his office flies open and a woman appears, throwing it shut behind her with a purposefully loud and dramatic thud. She appears closer to Joel’s age, dressed well and adorned with expensive, flashing jewelry. She seems to have a permanent scowl on her face as she approaches where you sit, stalking with purpose in her heels.

When she makes eye contact with you, the side of her lip curls up with a sweep of her gaze up the entirety of your body. You feel small on the leather loveseat under her scrutinizing stare portraying her message loud and clear: I am better than you.

“Feels good to be the latest model, huh?” she rasps, hips swaying as she walks.

You stutter, your voice only able to make a strained sound before you finally squeak out, “E-excuse me?”

A scathing breath of a laugh leaves the woman, and she shakes her head as she slows to a stop in front of you, letting her eyes rake over your outfit once more. It’s a simple, casual dress covered with a jacket to keep the October chill off of you - you hadn’t wanted to go all out for only a lunch date, but you’d felt good, presentable, for Joel. Until now, that is. 

“Good luck with that,” she says without any real sincerity behind it. A cruel joke sits in her words, something you don’t seem to be in on. “Until the next comes along.”

Your brows knit tightly as you just stare at her, your heart thundering heavily against your ribcage, nearly painful. No witty retort comes to you, too shocked by the turn of events to even think straight as she just huffs in satisfaction, moving along. You crane your neck, following her movements with your mouth agape until she turns the corner, not even bothering a glance back at you.

It feels like hours condensed into these few moments passing as you sit stupefied on that couch, your cheeks burning in shame. You try to avoid eye contact with Joel’s assistant who almost surely heard the entire exchange with how close she’s sitting. Eyes down, you finally bring them up when you hear Joel’s office door open once more.

He looks brighter than you’d seen him minutes ago, so heated inside his office with that woman. At least one of you seems to have shaken her off.

His smile is wide and warm when he spots you, and you hope the distressed look on your face has wiped off enough to avoid suspicion. You’re not sure if you want to tell him what just happened, unsure if what it all means is something you can handle. It was embarrassing too, to imagine speaking the words she’d said aloud to him. It had felt demeaning, your existence boiled down to whatever that mystery woman saw in you, some kind of less than being, some thing for Joel’s pleasure. She knew nothing about your situation, who you were to Joel, or the fact that he didn’t even seem interested in it becoming about more than money. 

“Hey there,” Joel’s voice cuts through the depths of your mind, and you softly smile, standing to greet him. He places a hand on your bicep, wrapping his fingers tenderly around it, leaning in to peck your cheek. His scent envelops all of you, forcing you to hold back a sigh, this particular smell already worming its way to a place of comfort for you. “Y’look fantastic.”

You have to clear your throat before your voice betrays you. “T-thanks.” You flash him another smile that luckily he seems to buy, but that woman's piercing, judgemental stare has your confidence completely shaken up. Beyond that, your curiosity is piqued on who the hell she even is to Joel, but you don’t know if it’s nosing into his business too much to ask about it. The way things had seemed between the two, it gave the impression it was a topic best left forgotten in Joel’s eyes.

So you bite your tongue, trying to become the pleasant, fun-loving girl Joel signed up to spend time with. It’s hard though, to not break open this dam of emotions that’s been full to bursting. Everything has just been too much this past week.

This arrangement. That woman. Joel. School. Your parents. Lying.

You have nobody to lean on, nobody to understand the stress, the diamond forming amount of pressure you’re put under to be somebody you don’t want to be. You’ve been dodging calls from your father, not having the energy to make up lies about the firm you’re supposedly interning for. You know it’s only a matter of time before he figures it out somehow - knowing him he’ll likely try to call the CEO using his own influence just to try and keep tabs on you. To make sure you’re doing it all right, up to his gold standard. When this comes to light, the fallout could be catastrophic, and you wonder if it might be better to just come clean now, maybe helping to absorb some of the blow.

The thought of doing that instantly makes you feel nauseous, and you realize you’ve gone the entirety of the way back down the elevator and out onto the street with Joel, barely paying attention to your surroundings. Joel has been talking on and off the entire time, his voice a distant murmur, and you’re flooded with guilt for being so rude. The sudden city noise blaring hits your ears harshly, and you turn to look at him.

“I-I’m sorry, what’d you say?” you ask him.

“Oh, jus’ that we should walk to lunch. It’s nice enough, and the place is just a few blocks. That alright with you?”

“Right, um, sure,” you reply, stumbling over your words when you feel Joel’s questioning gaze on you. You try to brighten up to avoid suspicion, tuning in to the autumn sun on your face and Joel’s presence beside you. It doesn’t seem to help the constant loop of anxiety swirling in your gut like you'd been hoping.

“How’s school goin’?” Joel asks, sounding far away.

“Alright. Just trying to get through the semester until I figure things out,” you tell him on autopilot. You know he’s only being polite, trying to check in, but the question pulls up pressure from inside of you, choking your already anxious stomach. It’s like the weight of the world crashes on your shoulders, like you’re supposed to have it all figured out by now. That way, Joel can stop this ruse with you and get back to his normal life, not having to continue to waste his money taking care of someone who can’t seem to sort their life out. You’ve been researching schools, ideas, and careers, wanting to do your due diligence to Joel’s generosity, but you keep coming up short or feeling indecisive. It seems too big a choice, too weighty, right now to decide your entire future when for most of your life you’ve never been able to think this way.

“You’ve got nothin’ but time,” Joel replies, seeming to either not notice or not be bothered by your flat attitude today. His hand gives your back a quick, reassuring rub as you walk, and you stiffen, but only because of the unexpected flutter it brings to your belly, momentarily distracting you from overthinking.

You let him do most of the talking as you saunter along, and are grateful it’s only those few blocks until you reach the restaurant. It’s a chic, modern looking space with high, airy ceilings and minimalist furniture. It’s bustling, apparently a hot spot for the business elite to attend their lunches with each other and their clients as you scan the room and see mostly suits and black, gray, and navy attire.

You’re seated right away despite some lingering groups clearly waiting for tables at the front, which makes you finally crack a smile. Joel always has things so figured out, so planned to perfection.

“This place is all the rage, I guess,” Joel commentates, glancing around at the busy dining room. “Ate here a few weeks ago with some folks and it was pretty damn good. We’ve got to get you one of these grilled, uh, avocado appetizer things. Wouldn’t have thought myself keen on it, but hell, it surprised me,” Joel rambles on, picking up his menu and scanning it. He holds it further and further away from himself until he sighs, pulling his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and plopping them onto his nose with a frustrated sigh. The entire series of events melts away some of your sourness, and you grin at him. It makes you glad to have someone like Joel, who so effortlessly lifts your spirits.

“Don’t say anything,” Joel snips, noticing your amusement at his struggle. “You’ll need these someday too.”

“I didn’t say a word,” you reply smugly, glancing down at your own menu. 

“This is nice, y’know,” Joel remarks out of nowhere after a beat of silence. “Goin’ out together, enjoying the day.”

“Yeah.” You smile a little brighter, almost starting to feel silly for pulling into your shell so much. Joel is always laid back in his own way it seems, acting as if it’s not a bother to be here with you. You only wish you could believe it to the degree he so effortlessly exudes it. “It is.”

Joel orders for the both of you when the server comes around, but only after finding out what you’re interested in eating. Of all the assholes you’d been set up with or asked out by, thinking they were doing you a favor by ordering for you, Joel has been the only one who actually asked. 

Whether Joel has detected the difference in your mood or not, he seems intent on keeping the mood positive, continuing to carry the conversation while you two wait for your food. You do swear you perceive some minute difference in his eyes, though, some discerning quality that's attempting to figure you out. You try to avoid suspicion, but it seems that the harder you try to act normal, the less you feel it, and the more that Joel’s studying gaze deepens, trying to read your mind. 

You answer his questions about school, about your life, and ask him how his week is going, playing the part as best you can. When the avocado appetizer Joel so excitedly mentioned comes, you rave about it, but everything feels half hearted when all you want to do is scream out in questioning about that rude woman at the office. Could Joel be secretly married or have some serious relationship you aren’t aware of? Could that be the type of woman he liked to affiliate with - someone cold and mean with no regard for other people’s feelings?

“Everything alright?” he finally decides to ask once the main course comes. His fingers wiggle together anxiously, his voice softer with a shy edge to it.

“Uh, y-yeah," you lie. You’re caught off guard, blurting it out before you can think about it. “Just tired with schoolwork and stuff. Haven’t been sleeping enough.”

That stare is on you again, his eyes slightly narrowed, but he nods. “Well alright, then,” he says faintly, looking down at his meal. You feel a pang in your chest, a desperation there to fix it. You’ve wounded him, and you open your mouth to speak, to retract what you said and tell him the truth, but something catches your eye over Joel’s shoulder. A woman is approaching, deliberate in her movements with her eyes on Joel’s back like she knows him.

“Joel?!” the woman’s perky voice cuts in. Joel turns just as the woman sidles up beside him, a cheerful look of recognition on his face. She’s dark haired, curly and wild, but in a way you know has been styled to look so effortless. She seems to have a glow about her, something glossy in her aura that’s instantly friendly and attractive. “I thought that was you!”

You hate that jealousy sears through you in an instant. You hate this protective feeling you get over Joel, over this undefined, amorphous thing you have with him. She’s everything you wonder if you should be - the perfect, shiny match to his desires for investing all his hard earned money. You’re only the latest model, after all.

“Valerie? Hey there.” Joel is up in an instant, wrapping his arms around the woman in a familiar embrace. Never forgetting his manners, he introduces you in the next breath. She flashes you a bright, inviting smile and tousels her hair before waving a hand at you.

“Valerie,” she replies with her graceful, perky body language, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Nice to meet you,” you muster up. The look she’s giving you is coy and knowing, understanding of the situation, because you’re guessing that she has been exactly where you are, who you are.

“Randy and I were just having lunch ourselves. We love this place. It’s so funny to run into you here. Did I tell you we got married last year?!” Valerie rambles on to Joel, her hands animated as she speaks, one of them held up to display the ring as if it would be hard to miss the giant, sparkling rock that sits heavily on her finger. She gestures to a table behind Joel, and you glance over his shoulder to see a man near Joel’s age, his hair a coiffed, shining silver. He’s facing away, typing on his phone, and blatantly unavailable and uninterested in his wife’s side quest to your table.

“That so? Well congrats to you two, then,” Joel says, sounding genuinely excited for her.

She nearly squeals. “Thank you, it was so beautiful! Just every girl’s dream, really. We flew everyone out to Fiji, did it on the beach at sunset and everything. But enough about me! I’ll let you two get back to your date. I just saw you here and had to say hi. It’s been too long, hasn’t it?!”

As much as Valerie steals the spotlight, you’re stuck on watching Joel’s face, the subtle ways it moves and reacts to her. The corner of his lip twitches up, clearly privately amused but not fazed by her erratic yet charming way of taking up the entirety of the space in the conversation. When he shoots a glance at you, your heart squeezes, feeling in on the little joke that this is just Valerie being Valerie. You feel part of his wide, glamorous world. 

Joel is polite and kind as they wrap up the conversation, sending Valerie back to her table with a smile where it appears she begins to animatedly recount the entire conversation to her husband.

“Who was that?” you ask, your lip curling up a little deviously, your problems half forgotten for the moment at your piquing curiosity and seemingly innate desire to tease Joel. “One of your girlfriends?”

Joel flushes, his cheeks tinged a soft pink. “You know I don -” He sighs, clearly flustered. “She’s an old friend. And married now, by the sound of it.”

“Ah, a friend. Like I’m your friend?” you ask, and Joel shoots you a pointed look. 

“Would that be a problem?” He finally snaps, latching onto your teasing and throwing it right back with a raised brow as he leans towards you. Your face heats the tiniest bit, knowing despite your teasing that yes, it actually did seem to be a problem while Valerie was here chatting up a storm. Even if whatever it was between them was ancient history, you feel insecure, wondering if you can live up to the other women he’s let into his life. You’d been feeling good about the arrangement - finally - even excited for this lunch today, until that presumptuous woman at the office threw a complete wrench in your emotions.

“I’m juuust asking,” you tell him, “So…?”

“Yes, alright?” He clicks his tongue, sitting forward and placing his forearms on the table, challenging you. “It was ages ago now, but yes, if you must know we had a similar arrangement.”

You give him a slow, intrigued nod. “I see,” is all you reply.

Joel’s lips twist to the side in irritation, but the sparkle in his eye reminds you that he’s having just as much fun as you are with this. “You see, what?”

“Nothing!” You chuckle. “I swear. I just - she’s really nice. And pretty.” You hear the way your voice falls, cracks a little without trying, on your last words, so you clear your throat, hoping to cover it up. Eyes on the table, on your half eaten meal, you can feel Joel’s gaze boring into you.

“What is this? What’s goin’ on here?” he asks, sounding a little impatient, losing that light edge to his voice that says he’s no longer teasing. 

You sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, nothing. I just, I mean what I said.”

“It’s true. Valerie’s wonderful person. And so are you.”

You nearly snort, but feel yourself go shy at the last minute under his praise. “I guess. Yeah, thank you.” You try to sound sincere, but you can hear the way you’re trying too hard, the strain of each syllable an attempt to hide your rising emotions.

“I don’t get it,” he says, sounding exasperated. Joel always tried his best, but sometimes he was stumped by the inner workings of the women’s minds he chose to have relationships with. Even Sarah, when she was growing up, had her share of moments just like this where he felt helpless, just wanting her to talk to him, let him help. “Are you jealous? Of a fling I had five years ago?” he asks, guessing what seems to be the first logical explanation. “Cause I promise you that I only like to focus on one woman at a time. That’s long in the pas-”

“It’s not that, I swear,” you cut in. Processing his words a second later, you flick your gaze to his, wonder in your widening eyes. “Wait, what? You - Joel, you don’t have to do that for me. This isn’t -” A relationship, you’d wanted to say. But you can’t discount that you did feel protective over keeping Joel all to yourself, even if he’d made the promise that it wouldn’t become anything more. “You shouldn’t hold yourself back because of me.”

“I’m doin’ nothing of the sort, I promise you. I’m too busy for having all kinds of relationships, and besides, I’m happy with where I’m at right now. I swear t’you.”

Joel’s reassurance instantly cuts through your racing thoughts. You put your head in your hands, your whole face hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m acting so… so… insane right now. I mean we literally just started this whole thing and I’m already more trouble than it’s worth. God, I -”

“Stop it right there,” Joel says softly, but his voice hits a dichotomy with the biting edge to his words, urging you to listen. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist. The touch is gentle but his fingers are thick and rough, sending a skittering of sparks across your skin. Affection isn’t something you’re used to, and it does the job he’d hoped of stopping you in your tracks. “Just know, whoever told you that about yourself before, it ain’t true. It’ll never be true. I chose this too, y’know. You didn’t force me to spend time with you, to want to help you out. I wanted it, too, right? Hell, I’m the one that offered, remember?”

Your breath catches, a lump in your throat thick as you attempt to swallow. You peek at Joel from where your head rests in your hands, slowly lowering them, but his hold on your wrist stays steady for a few more seconds, a comforting presence while his thumb rubs a few lazy circles. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him with a watery smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I think this is all just new, and a lot. And worrying about everything with my parents… Or being seen together like this…” You blow out a long, stressed breath. “Yeah, it’s a lot.”

Joel gives you a nod of understanding. “It’s true, it is a lot. You know I’ve got your back now though, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’m not gonna go back on things, that’s just not the kind of guy I am.”

Until the next one. The woman’s words cut in, making you nearly flinch. You believe Joel, you do. He’d already proven to be generous and steadfast, but would he really show up for you long term? Would he keep up the charade of pretending you mattered in the world, that you could find your place with his help? Or would he be distracted as soon as something better came along?

You stare at him for a long, quiet moment, biting at the inside of your lip. “The - the woman… Who is she?” you ask quietly, balling your hands in your lap underneath the table. At Joel’s quizzical look, you sigh, elaborating. “At the office earlier.”

He clicks his tongue, his head drooping and fingers coming up to swipe at his eyes then pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks decidedly defeated and tired now. “God damn it, Marissa,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes flick back to yours, burning with fresh intensity. “What did she say?”

“I - Well-”

“What did she say to you?” Joel’s sudden surge of protectiveness over you is surprising, but welcome. The intensity of it, though, takes you aback, making you start to regret bringing it up. This was a whole new side of Joel you hadn’t gotten to see yet. 

“J-Just some bullshit, it’s fine.”

You see the recognition flash across Joel’s face, now reaching a new level of anger and defeat. “I knew it was somethin’. That’s why you’ve been acting quiet today, yeah? So it ain’t fine.” 

You groan internally, hating the confirmation that he’d noticed. “She just made a dumb comment about me being the latest model, or whatever.” And looked at you like you were the scum on the bottom of her shoe, but you hold back from saying that part out loud.

Joel rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “She’s got a flair for the dramatic, especially when she’s not gettin’ her way.” You stay silent, so Joel goes on. “That’s my ex. She’s - it’s complicated.”

“Two in one day. Lucky me,” you say flatly, and Joel offers you a sympathetic, guilt ridden smile. “At least one was nice.”

“Marissa is… it’s a different situation. As much as I wish we weren’t, we’re stuck together. On account of havin’ a kid and everything.”

The realization hits you hard. You’ve never seen Sarah’s mother or heard much about her. She doesn’t show up to functions, is never mentioned, and effectively, Joel has always seemed like a single dad from your perspective. 

“Oh, shit. That’s Sarah’s mom?” you ask.

Joel nods solemnly. “It’s complicated, like I said. It’s a long history, and her favorite thing seems to be stirrin’ up trouble for me, so I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. That sounds awful,” you tell him, sympathetic to his cause. 

“She shouldn’t have said that, or said anything to you at all. I’m sorry. She showed up this mornin’ out of the blue as she does, on her usual shit and I didn’t notice the time. Should have sent her away the minute I knew you’d be comin’.”

You give him a shrug. “It’s - it’s not your fault, Joel. You can’t control what she says.”

“There’s no merit to it, I swear. I would never have let her speak t’you that way. She say anything else?”

You shake your head at first, hesitant to share more for fear of hurting Joel. You could tell how heavily the guilt of someone else’s words was weighing on him, like he was responsible for everyone in his world and how they behaved. 

 “Not really. Just… basically that I was about to expire and be replaced any minute. And if looks could speak, well, yeah. She had a lot to say with those,” you tell him, avoiding eye contact, focusing on fiddling with your fork on the table.

Joel’s mouth presses into a flat line. “Don’t pay any mind to it. She’s always done this, always wanted to make sure I’m less happy than she is, even though I’m the one that took care of things when she was too -” Joel cuts himself off, placing his palms on the table. His sudden distress causes you to snap your head back up, looking to him and seeing the worry now etched on his features. It nearly breaks your heart to see him like this. “Sorry, you don’t need my whole sob story, sweetheart.”

This time, you reach to him, placing a hand on his and squeezing before pulling it back, unsure of yourself in the intimate gesture. Joel seems to be so much better than you at this kind of thing. “If you want to share, I’ll listen. I can’t imagine what that’s like. I - I thought she wasn’t even in the picture, but…”

“She ain’t,” Joel snips. “Not really. She comes and goes when she pleases, and I - I let her walk all over me, take from me. Shit, hard to even admit it, but that’s the truth. Never do that shit for anyone, just… when it comes to Sarah, I’ll do fuckin’ anything. Marissa knows that.” Joel avoids holding your gaze, his eyeline averted to the left at some spot off in the distance. “The worst part is, watchin’ Sarah get that hope in her eyes, like maybe it could be different this time. Even after all these years. God, listen to me. Second meal together and I’m turnin’ into this big sap, ranting like some sad old man. You should be havin’ fun, being shown a good time.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Joel,” you chide him. “What did you just tell me? About wanting to be here?”

He cracks a small smile and you return it. In a way, it’s nice to know he has this baggage, that he’s not always put together and suave. He has demons, like you do, like the rest of the world does. He’s not invincible, he’s complicated. Just like you, too.

“You’re a good one, kiddo, y’know that?” Joel says, sighing, and you try to fight the bolt of disappointment hurtling itself through your chest at the nominer. A kid. Joel says it so passively, and you know he’s not trying to undermine you, or make you feel the crush that it brings to know he doesn’t see you in the way you’d like him to, so you just smile.

“I like this kind of conversation much better, anyways,” you reply, swallowing down your hurt. “Helps me get to know you.”

Joel’s smile cocks sideways. “Right. Almost forgot this is what it’s all about, ain’t it?” he teases. “Been talkin’ your ear off, not even askin’ about you.”

“Oh, no, no. You’re not getting off that easily. I have more questions.”

He laughs, the thick tension in the air starting to evaporate as his shoulders relax. “Really, now? Alright, nosy, shoot.”

You bite your lip, reigning in your cheesy grin. “Okay. So… What happened with you and Valerie?”

Joel speaks bluntly. “We ended things. She did, actually.”

You raise one brow, unimpressed. “Well, that much is obvious. But, you just let her go? I don’t know, she seems so… nice. Perfect. Like someone every man would want to be with.”

Joel’s look shifts to something more amused. “You ever broken up with someone before?”

“I - Well, kind of, I guess. But they were assholes, and it wasn’t anything serious.”

“And maybe just not the right person for you, yeah?”

“A mistake, more like it,” you mumble, and Joel chuckles, scratching a hand through his beard as he shakes his head at you.

“My point is, some people just aren’t right for each other, no matter how perfect they seem,” he says pointedly. “Me and Valerie got along, but we were just wanting different levels of, er, commitment at the time, I guess.”

“Oh? And you… weren’t committing then?” It’s hard to see that for Joel, given what you’ve already learned about him in this short time. He was steadfast, seeming singularly focused when he put his mind to something, given his success, so it was hard to picture him shying away from commitment. Especially seeing as how whenever you’ve been in his presence, it's felt like you are his sole priority, like he's dedicated only to that moment with you - it seemed to be a gift he had. 

“She was lookin’ for more, and I wasn’t really there with her back then. We were havin’ fun, and she realized she was lookin’ for someone to marry, spend her life with, y’know? So, I’m happy for her that she found it. She’s a nice gal, deserves that.” 

You consider it, knowing there may be more to the story than he’s letting on, but you don’t press him. Maybe it’s too early to dig into things, despite you wanting to learn everything you can about him. 

“That’s really sweet, actually. It seems like things ended amicably, then?”

Joel nods. “Yeah, it did. Never was really contentious with any of the others, neither. Sometimes y’just grow out of things, or realize it ain’t a good fit, even if money's the motivating factor. For me, I want to look forward to spendin’ time with the person, too. It makes it all worth it.”

You give him a genuine smile, feeling your gaze going soft. Something about the way Joel speaks about this, so surefooted and thoughtful, and the way he regards the women he’s involved in his lifestyle, it grasps at you and refuses to let go. He recognizes where he’s at and owns it - not trying to say anything to please you, but just speaking honestly about the experience. 

“And not to mention the, you know, little boost of… motivation you get from it,” you say, poking at him.

Joel nearly chokes on the sip he’s taken from his water glass, then composes himself. “Very funny,” he grits out with an overexaggerated frown, one you can tell he’s forcing. “Keep it up, and we’ll see what happens.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You put your hands up in mock defeat. “It was just too easy. But I get what you’re saying. Uh… have the others known about that part of it, too? I - I’m just genuinely curious about all of this. I guess I never thought about the, uh, intricacies of these sorts of things.” You’d been wondering if it was obvious or expected in that kind of arrangement, or if what you knew about Joel was some kind of rarity. Was it always all about that for these men providing lavish gifts and financial stability? Or could it be something more, like what you and Joel have? Was it the big secret that all these women were in on, that writing checks and throwing credit cards their way was a one way ticket to these men getting hard in their overpriced slacks?

You’ve been feeling so naive, ruminating on it since that dinner with Joel, that you hadn’t guessed the minute he’d brought it up in his office that day. Was that the only reason he was here doing this, to get some kind of sexual satisfaction out of it? 

Joel grimaces a little, clearly anxious about toeing back towards this topic with you. “Well, yeah, to a degree. It’s not always spoken, but sometimes it’s part of the fun. Making jokes about it, or… shit, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we’re both adults here, I ‘spose. It’s foreplay at times, knowin’ about what’s going on for both people. Makes it fun.”

You fight the slight gape your mouth has dropped into, snapping it shut into a smug smile, nodding. “Oh,” you blurt out dumbly, feeling your cheeks go hot, curling the back of your knuckles to rest your chin in your hands, looking down. One mention of foreplay with Joel and you’re reduced to an awkward, wordless mess, unsure of how to proceed. There wasn’t any foreplay happening here, he’d made that very clear repeatedly, but your conversations always seem to edge towards something else, filled with an unspoken tension. It was messing with your mind, your ability to keep things compartmentalized for your own sanity. You pick up your fork, attempting to return to your meal just for something to do with your hands. “That’s…”

Joel seems to catch himself, leaping into action. “B-but not… this. This situation is different. I’m able to separate things, and… and… shit, I’m sorry. I’m the one goin’ on about not crossin’ those lines, and here we are. I was jus’ trying to tell you how it usually goes for lots of folks doing this sort of thing, that’s all.”

You wave your hands as if to pardon his blunder, finally collecting yourself. “No, no, I get it, and that makes sense. I was the one who asked. It sounds fun, honestly. I see why people do this.”

Joel loosens up, his tense shoulders dropping and lips giving you a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah, it is. I’m havin’ fun now, too, just to make that clear.”

“Oh gee, thanks,” you reply sarcastically, giving him a playful scrunch of your nose. “Me too, though,” you add on with more sincerity.

“Oh, so gettin’ treated to new things and meals because of me is fun, is it?”

You feign thinking for a long moment to irritate him. “Hmm, I guess so.” You laugh, grateful to be back on track with Joel, the banter right where it should be in both of your sweet spots. This was far from normal - secretly dating but not dating such an old friend of your father, accepting his money and gifts - but it felt like one of the most natural places you could be right now.

“Now, should we enjoy our meal together?” Joel asks.

Smiling at him, already feeling the hefty weight that had been pressing on your soul this entire week lifting some thanks to Joel, you nod.

You walk side by side along the busy sidewalks with Joel, his body constantly hovering close to you so as not to lose you amidst the throngs of people going about their busy days. The lunch rush is still alive and well, a blur of people in business casual rushing past, clutching their bags or talking hurriedly on their phones, likely all on their way back to their respective jobs.

Joel had insisted on walking together instead of going separate ways after lunch, seeming to have a secretive air about him that piqued your interest enough to go along with it. 

“Want to make up for everythin’ from today,” he tells you, stopping outside of a jewelry store with gold and silver alike, gemstones and diamonds glittering in the window displays.

“Joel…” you chide. “There’s nothing to make up for. This seems to be a theme with you. Wasn’t lunch supposed to make up for the mustard incident where you almost poisoned me to death?” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yes, but this is for Marissa.” At your insistent mouth opening to brush it off, he puts both his hands on your shoulders, stopping you. “I’m serious. I’m gonna have a talk with her about it. She shouldn’t be gettin’ into my business or yours. I really am sorry.”

You melt quickly under the softness in his tone and the bulk of his hands weighing comfortably on your shoulders. 

“It’s really not like she’s making it out to be, I want you to know that. I know you don’t know me as well as you’d like yet, but it’s always been… as respectful as I can get things to be between me and whoever I’m with at the time. She can’t see that, and doesn’t want to, ‘cause she’s bitter she’s not getting more out of me. So if she made you feel like you’re just someone to use an’ throw away, I’m sorry about that. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m here until we get everythin’ sorted out for you and more, yeah?”

You blink rapidly, willing away the unwelcome tears starting to make your eyes shine. You’ve never heard words even remotely like what Joel is saying to you right now, never have had anyone take the time to express a sentiment like that, make you feel worth the time of day for it. It’s… incredible, a warmth that quickly burrows itself inside your chest, so foreign but so welcome to feel like you’re truly seen, truly matter to someone else beyond what it could give them. Even if it was Joel, who barely knows you, but seems to see the merit in helping you figure your life out despite it being risky for him. Nobody had ever done anything like that for you before.

“I…” you stutter out, clearing your throat and looking down at the sidewalk. Joel’s gaze is pensive and sharp as he studies you, trying to read the emotions warring within you. “Thank you, Joel. I’m sorry, I’ve just never - you’re really kind. Not just the money thing, but you’re… not what I expected.”

He smiles, seeming to understand the struggle you’re unable to verbalize. It was obvious here, what was going on based on everything you’d told him about your father. There was a deep wound you were simply trying to fill. It should make Joel feel dirty, but he lit with pride somewhere deep inside, making him want to keep being the reason for you to smile.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he replies smugly, forcing a weak chuckle out of you. “Now c’mon. We’ve got things to buy.”

Joel surprises you when his hand trails down, grasping at yours, making a beeline for the door to the shop. You let your fingers intertwine with his like it’s a natural, everyday occurrence for the two of you, tugging you along. 

The man behind the counter knows Joel, greeting him by name, which amuses you to no end. Joel really has perfected this type of relationship for himself, down to the jewelry shop he frequents. Joel introduces you, and you can only offer a shy smile and hello, feeling the difference between the bustle of the outside world and placidity of the polished jewelry shop hitting you hard. You’re too aware of the way your hand is clasped tightly in Joel’s now that you’re somewhere quiet with eyes on the two of you. The more places you’re seen together, the more likely it is that your entire world could come crashing down with this secret getting out. There are millions of people in this city, yet you keep getting the sinking feeling it would be just your luck to be spotted by the wrong one.

Joel senses your shift, slipping his hand out of yours and briefly grazing the small of your back with it. “Hey, it’s okay. Nobody here knows anythin’, or would say anythin’, even if they did,” he whispers, and you eye the clerk suddenly acting very interested in wiping the surface of a case across the room to give the two of you privacy.

You shoot him a nervous look. “Should we really be out together like this? It’s been making me nervous all day. What if - what if…?”

Joel’s entire body nearly lurches forward, but he holds himself back from grabbing onto you, squeezing those anxious cheeks of yours between his hands and holding them tightly, making sure you look into his eyes while he reassures you. This instinct he has, the one he’s never been able to ignore, feels like too much with you, too suffocating. You have a father, someone to look after you that way already. Hell, all of them have had a father, but never one that he knew personally. Yet, he saw the need you had for it, the craving maybe you weren’t aware of, the one that brought you to tears the moment he’d shown you any sign of that kindness.

It hurts his heart to see you so neglected - all these years of knowing you by proxy, and he’d never seen it. How could he have missed it, how miserable you’ve been? How much sooner could he have been able to help you realize that you were worth anyone’s time, that you were worthy of living the life you wanted to live? Somehow though, he felt that this was exactly where the two of you were meant to be at this point in your timelines. Any sooner and maybe he wouldn’t have been able to make the difference he wanted to because you’d not have been ready to face it, or too late in the game, already too miserably deep in your path to CEO to care.

Meant to be - the words that kept running through Joel’s mind, despite everything in him fighting to stop thinking like that, to stop gently placing your sweet self so deeply in his heart so early on in the relationship. You yearn so earnestly for something he was so innately able to give, and that’s making it harder than it ever had been with the others.

“We don’t have to go out like this again, if you don’t want. I know, I thought the same thing, and we can stick with my place if y’want to. I just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all.”

You throw him an appreciative smile. “I - I’ll think about it. I liked today, though.”

“Me too.” He smiles. “Now can I treat you to somethin’ pretty like I’m supposed to?”

“Alright, alright, Mr. Impatient. Let’s have a look,” you reply, stepping forward to peer down at the closest display, feeling Joel’s presence sidling up beside you. Heat radiates off of both him and the lights in the glittering case, making you sweat at the proximity of it all, the nearness of his body and that cologne of his wafting invitingly into your space.

“What do you usually like? Noticed you mostly wear gold. But not many bracelets.”

You flick your gaze to him, brows lifted. “Very observant of you.”

“It’s all part of the gig. Got to know what kinds of gifts you’re lookin’ for, so I can surprise you when you least expect it.” Joel’s pleased smugness shadows his face, and you roll your eyes at him, even though you are impressed. Men don’t have the best reputation for paying attention, or at least not the ones you’ve known. Your father has never opted to buy his own gifts for your mother, always either hiring someone to do it or deferring to you, since you’d clearly know better what his wife would like.

“Well, what would you pick out for me if I wasn’t here?” you ask him, feeling emboldened.

Joel seems to like this game, taking on the challenge with an intrigued twitch of his brows. He leans the tiniest bit closer to you, but he may as well have crossed an entire canyon with the difference the proximity makes to your steadily beating heart. He seems to morph into something more right there - giving you the suave show he offers to any other woman in your position. 

“Alright, well, I’d want to know first if you don’t wear bracelets because you don’t like ‘em, or if you just don’t think about buyin’ them for yourself, which would be a damn shame. ‘Cause for some reason, I really want to be the one clasping something nice to your pretty wrists. Just a feeling I get.”

You can scarcely breathe at the way his voice reverberates so close to you, lowering to a gravelly rumble with each word weaving its way inside of you. It’s all too sensual, too evocative of an image painted in your mind for this to be the casual thing you’re both seeming to pretend it is. Your skin is prickling, warm all over as you stand with tightening thighs, your hip pressed against the jewelry case to help hold you steady. You don’t dare look him in the eye now, for fear he’ll be able to see the mortification burning its way through you at the effect his words have. 

“I - I just don’t think about it. I like bracelets, though,” you somehow squeak out, keeping your answer safe and only opting to respond to the actual question rather than… whatever the hell all the other stuff was. You simply can’t dive into it further if you want to remain sane right now and pretend that Joel didn’t have some kind of obscene hold on you.

“Alright, then. Let’s have at it,” he says casually now, dropping some of the charm. He prowls along the cases at a slow, steady pace, carefully weighing the options. “I’ll stick with gold, for obvious reasons. No point in mixin’ it up if you’re not interested.” He flashes a glance back to you, to see if he’s on the right track, so you nod for him, agreeing. You do your own browsing, admiring the wide selection of jewelry while he’s quiet for a while, stopping to observe each case with scanning eyes before he glances to the clerk across the room.

“William, I think we’re all set here,” he booms out, and you look at him curiously, walking over to the case he’s landed on. You peer down through the glass, trying to guess which one he’s selected, but Joel stops you with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “Do you want it to be a surprise?”

You consider it, pursing your mouth in contemplation. A flutter moves through your middle, making you lick your lips before smiling wide for him. “Yeah, why the hell not?” you conclude. 

Moments later, after dutifully averting your gaze from across the room as Joel and William pack up your new gift, he walks over to you with a slender, black box in hand. There’s a bag in his other for you to carry it home in, sporting tissue paper and the shop's name in a classy, black font across the front. 

“For you,” Joel says quietly, presenting the box to you and cracking it open. It’s a dainty, gold bracelet, periodically studded with flowers, daisies by the look of it, each one beautifully crafted and shimmering with diamonds. You’re accustomed to nice things like this - diamonds, designer clothing and bags, all the highest quality things your parents provided for you growing up, yet you still gasp at the sight before you. There’s something touching about it being specifically chosen for you by someone who truly wanted to do it. That makes it the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen, despite having laid eyes on much more elaborate, eye-catching pieces. 

This feeling was pure magic.

“I love it,” you exclaim softly, bringing a hand up to your mouth, some self conscious part of you desiring to conceal your smile, not wanting to seem materialistic. Joel’s hand goes to your wrist, moving it away, his eyes intently flashing between watching your grin and your eyes crinkling happily with it.

“Mm-mm,” he chastises you, nearly a whisper. “This is the best part, watchin’ you be happy.”

Your smile falls into something more subtle, an electricity crackling down to your very veins at the intimacy brimming in the air between the two of you. “Thank you, Joel. I love it. You did really good,” you manage to say, your breath a little shaky.

“Let me,” he says, bringing your wrist a little lower and gently pulling the new bracelet out of its box. The way he so gingerly moves, wrapping the gold chain around your wrist and clasping it, all so certain yet reverent, has something inexplicable taking hold of you. He’s an expert, this sort of thing practically a second job for him, yet you feel like it’s the first time, as if he’d never tire of making you feel this cherished and special. 

“Now would you look at that,” Joel marvels as he finishes up, turning your wrist in a slow, graceful manner to allow a moment of appreciation as the bracelet shines and sparkles. When he lets go, you feel the absence like a plunge of ice to your skin, much colder than you could remember it being before he’d touched it. You smile absentmindedly at the bracelet, shaking it to hear the tiny, pleasant jingle. 

“It’s perfect,” you tell Joel. “Thank you again.” Before you can think, your arms are thrown around him in an embrace, wanting to show your appreciation. You feel his hesitation at first, but once his arms finally wrap around you, they’re committed, squeezing you tightly to his chest. “I thoroughly forgive you now for your rude ex. And the mustard,” you say into his shirt.

You both descend into laughter, pulling away to watch his crooked smile lighting up his whole face. “Thank god. I was worried it was a deal breaker.”

You shrug. “Nah. More where this came from, and we’ll definitely be even.”

Joel’s hurried footsteps have him rushing along the sleek black floors past the front desk, not so much so as to not give Vincent a proper greeting as he passes. Thankfully Bianca, his assistant, is still on her lunch too, no questions or needs or check-ins from her buzzing in his ear. Just for these few minutes, that’s all he needs.

The office door closed in a haste, shaky hands pulling the shades on his windows into the hallway, he makes sure to lock the door before settling in at his desk. A heavy sigh escapes his lips, the half hard cock he’d been fighting for blocks now straining against his slacks, so stiff and achy it’s nearly painful. Leaking a spot onto his briefs, he palms it, sighing softly at the relief it brings.

Jerking on his cock, the length of springs out, slapping at his belly before he tugs out his balls too, resting heavily against the hastily shuffled down fabric. He swallows the tiny pit of shame growing inside of him before skimming a finger through his precum, spreading it along his head in a circular motion.

This time, he doesn’t even try to avoid picturing it’s you doing it.

He’s hardly allowed himself to let go like this for days, not since your first dinner together. It’s been too difficult to not tie it to you, to not conflate the fact that he was rock hard more often than was convenient now to the fact that he had someone new out there enjoying all the wonderful things he could provide for them. That someone being you, maybe one of the few people he absolutely should not be fantasizing about. He was coming on too strong, he knew that, unable to help himself from giving in to what seems to come naturally between you two. You’re too nice, too sweet to ruin with vain, carnal desires, so he’d have to resort to this instead - holding back until he’s nearly bursting with unplaced desire. 

He thought he could handle the jewelry store, could handle you. But just as you’d said he’s different than you’d expected, so are you. Funny and biting, but so soft and caring underneath it all, passionate and driven but without a direction yet, something in you so wanting of it, so needing, you were simply… lovely. Radiant and perfect in all your own little ways, you’ve been one of the biggest pleasures to be around after only two god damned dates. Joel hates himself for it. It’s such a shame it had to be you, the one who’d finally caught his attention in this way. It has been too long since he’d indulged himself, let someone in and taken care of them. He’d just stayed focused on work and family, ignoring the part of him that ached to be satisfied with being seen as someone’s provider.

Joel’s slick hand slides up his cock, gripping tightly, a dichotomous hope uttered on his lips that it should be you, and that he wishes it wasn’t you running through his mind during such an intimate act. 

“F-fuck, yeah,” he mutters to himself, stroking faster. You and that smile, the new bracelet hanging off your wrist, just as he’d imagined it. The new dress you’d worn to dinner, aching to see more, more, more - new, pretty things, or to watch your stress melt away as he took on all those burdens for you. You could have everything, you could have it all, because of him.

He’d never touch you, no, and never let you touch him like this. But in this moment, squeezing his own slickened cock, he allows himself just one glimpse of it in his mind - one time, and he’d be done. One moment of imagining your hand wrapped around his shaft, fingers curling delicately as they move up and down, struggling to take him all in your hand. You would struggle, with that pretty new bracelet sparkling the entire way through.

He groans. 

It’s louder than he’d meant, unexpectedly so, but that’s just what you do to him. The unexpected. A thin sheen of sweat coats Joel’s brow now as he strokes himself furiously, enjoying every second of allowing himself to relinquish his morals. It would be over too soon, he thinks to himself, catching a glimpse of his ruddy, pulsing cock in his hand, desperately imagining you’re there instead, touching it, riding it, the two of you doing something nobody has to know about.

“Sh-shit, shit,” Joel blurts out, hastily reaching for a tissue, pumping his cock a few more times, throwing his head back. When he comes, it’s harder than he has in recent memory, so much built up tension and need behind it all, but he doesn’t picture any specific thing to push him over the edge. It’s just you.

Catching his breath, he copes with the shame of it all, still feeling you buzzing pleasantly around his mind. This thing he can not rid himself of now that you’ve taken up residence there. It was a new kind of high, one he hadn’t felt in years, or maybe ever. None of the others had felt like this, his heart and mind seeming to slip out of his control and into something dangerous. Joel always found he didn’t like things to be out of his control if he could help it. You, however, were completely, irrefutably out of his control now.

Sitting there in his pool of shame, Joel cleans himself up and discards the evidence in the trash, feeling defeated. He’s already let this get too far, putting you in a dicey position, and for what? For him to self satisfy some part of him that he’s considered broken?

Isn’t that exactly what you were doing too? Could two people trying to fix what’s broken come together and not have it end in disaster? This isn't like his other relationships - there hadn’t been so much at stake, no end that resulted in upsetting the status quo of the other’s life. 

He’s pondering all of it, if he’s being fair to you, if he should be more careful with what parts of your life he holds in his hands now, when he feels his phone buzz inside his pocket.

You’ve sent him a photo of your wrist, seemingly out on the street somewhere. He catches the facade of a high end, cream colored building in the background, and he wonders in passing if that’s where you call home. Wonders if he’ll be able to see it, be let into your world a little more. Not the parts of it he knows from being on the fringes, but the bits of you that you don’t share with your parents, your friends, or maybe anyone else.

Never taking this off, you tease in the message attached to the photo, and Joel’s chest tightens and swells with affection. He longs to make you feel like this every day, to make sure you know that you have someone looking out for you even when so many people in your life seem to have forsaken that. He studies the picture, looking over every inch and promising himself to put aside his vain desires to see this through for you. To give you all the things you deserve to have, because you’re a nice girl who deserves better than the lowness he’s stooped to in his office today.

It nags at his mind though, in a way he can’t shake off despite trying, the things he feels when he looks at the photo, the new bracelet shining in the sun. The things he feels when he looks at you.

You. You were certainly going to be the death of him.

[honeekyuu]

mine. [suna rintarou x f!reader]

>>You catch Miya Atsumu's attention, and Suna struggles to deal with that.

or

Everyone always makes assumptions about your relationship with Suna Rintarou, and he has no problem proving them right.<<

______________________________

tags: chubby!reader, smut, fluff, angst, childhood best friends to lovers, penetrative sex, fingering, rough sex, tattoo shop owner suna rintarou, miya atsumu is a bit of a menace, jealousy, unprotected sex, creampie, hand job

a/n: suna rintarou x chubby!reader is my favorite flavor of cake

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

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

“What are you doing here?” Suna stands over the wheely chair at the receptionist’s desk, glaring down at the top of Miya Atsumu’s head. The twin only turns to look up at him, smiling brightly.

“I got bored.”

“Go be bored somewhere else.”

“Aw, come on, Suna-” Suna grabs the back of chair and drags it to the side, effectively shoving Atsumu out of his way so he can look through his appointments on the computer. He’s got a regular coming in at 3, so – he glances at the clock hanging over the window in the waiting area – he’s free for the next couple hours.

“-out here today. Just today?”

“You’re still talking?” Suna pokes around in the calendar, seeing that he’s fully booked for the weekend. Thank God his secretary had asked for today off and not tomorrow.

“Your secretary’s not even here today! I can play the part!” “If I needed someone to play the part, I wouldn’t have given her the day off.” He mumbles it under his breath, feeling Atsumu’s gaze burning into the side of his head. He knows the man won’t leave. Never once in the time they’ve known each other has he listened to anyone but himself.

He turns and leans against the desk, sighing as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed-“ He waves a hand out toward the empty shop. “-there’s no one here. My entire staff is at the beach, which means that if I didn’t need them -“ He tries to reach for Atsumu so he can push the man out of that stupid chair he’s currently spinning circles in. The blond just wheels out of reach. “-then I don’t need you-Can you just go ?!” 

The bell above the door jingles, interrupting Rintarou’s temptation to swing a fist into his friend’s face. He turns to find a young man nervously perusing the art on the walls. He stands to full height and combs a hand through his hair, remembering that he’s still a business owner.

“Hey, how’s it-”

“Welcome in, welcome in!” Suna’s shoved out of the way by a pair of excited hands, Atsumu decidedly his obnoxious secretary for the day. “This your first time?”

The man jumps, turning and offering an anxious smile. “Y-Yeah. I was wondering if you take walk-ins…?”

Suna nods, reaching into the desk for an intake packet. “For sure. I’m free until 3, if you don’t mind just filling out this-” He sighs in annoyance, because Atsumu’s ripping the papers from his hand and presenting them to the man with a flourish.

“If you could just fill out this quick form, kind sir-” 

The man takes the packet, a bit startled, and moves toward the waiting area for a seat. He pauses briefly, peering at Atsumu’s face.

“Hey, aren’t you that famous volleyball player…?”

Atsumu beams at the man, but Suna’s pressing an irritated hand to his shoulder and gripping tight. The twin barely winces.

“Yes, he is . Which is why he’s leaving . Because he already has a job .” Every emphasis comes with a harsh squeeze of Suna’s fingers into Atsumu’s shoulder bones.

“How could I leave you without a receptionist, Suna? In your time of need? Never!” Atsumu brushes him off and takes a seat, plopping down into the chair with a satisfied smile. Suna just stares at him, wondering if it’s too much to just call the cops and pretend they don’t know each other.

Instead, he just sighs, meeting the customer’s eyes and gesturing back to one of the many curtained-off sections of the shop.

“I’m gonna go set up - you can just come find me when you’re ready.” 

The man nods meekly as Suna moves to set up at his station. He’s joined a few minutes later, and within the hour, this shy man officially has his first tattoo. It’s some simple line art on his wrist, but he’s staring at it in wonder as if it were Suna’s life work.

“Dude… Thank you so much.”

Suna just chuckles.

“You’re good, man. Come back when you’re ready for a sleeve, yeah?” He flexes his own decorated arm at the man to emphasize the quip, and the guy just laughs, still peering down at his tiny tattoo.

The bell above the door jingles again, and he checks his watch with a subdued sigh. He’d been looking forward to a quiet afternoon.

“ Well, hello, Miss! Welcome in! Is this your first time? ”

Suna rolls his eyes as he starts wrapping up his customer’s wrist, because he can recognize that sleazy tone in Atsumu’s voice from a mile away. He’d had it since high school.

The last thing he needs is that idiot driving away potential customers with his gross attitude.

“ O-Oh, no, it’s not- ” Suna freezes, tape clinging to his thumb instead of to the wrapping. “ -I just came to see Rin-er-Suna. Suna. ” 

God, this cannot be happening.

The silence that follows is full of curiosity on Atsumu’s end. Suna rushes to finish up, desperate to cut their interaction short.

“ Oh, you know Suna personally? Where from?”

“We grew up together!”

“What?! Since when? ” 

Why is it so god-damn hard to wrap a tattoo today? He’s been doing this shit for years.

The quiet laughter that rings out in his shop is enough to make him flinch. Oh, he bets Atsumu loves that laugh.

“We were neighbors until high school! Roommates now, actually-” “Roommates?!”

“Alright, you’re good. You can see my secretary up front for the bill.” Suna stands with unnecessary force, his head poking up from behind the curtain. 

When he turns to the front, he has to force himself not to sigh.

You’re standing in the waiting area, dangling a lunch box from one hand as you laugh brightly at Atsumu’s reaction. 

The summer dress you’re wearing is one of his favorites – the way it hugs your curves has made his mind wander more often than he’d care to admit. And when you spot him looking at you, the twinkle that fills your eye is one he doesn’t want to share with anyone.

Especially not Miya Atsumu .

“Rin!” You thrust the lunch box out in his direction, shaking it playfully at him. 

He leads his client up to the front, not bothering to respond aside from a nod of acknowledgement. 

“Atsumu-” He claps him hard on the shoulder, but the blond is just staring up at him, scandalized. “-will ring you up.” He smiles down menacingly. “Won’t you?”

Atsumu just nods dumbly and meets the customer’s eyes, still processing the information he’s just received.

“Yeah, sure.”

Suna uses the break in his attention to glance at you, catching your interested gaze. He nods over his shoulder, leading you to the back room. You skip to catch up with him, your dress swaying around your hips. Suna pretends not to see it, choosing instead to shoulder the door open with a sigh. 

“Don’t you work today?”

“Yeah, I’m on my break!” You smile up at him, dangling the lunch box in his face again. He takes it without a word, flopping down onto the leather couch and setting it on the coffee table. You sit beside him, kicking your sandals off and curling your knees into your chest as you lean against him. “You said you had a light day today, though.”

“I do. That was a walk-in.” He gestures out to the front in explanation, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees as he unpacks the lunch. A trio of onigiri in one container and some cutely decorated hot dog bites in the other. 

He bites into an onigiri and hums.

“Spicy crab.”

You lean forward, eyes sparkly. “Does it taste okay? I tried something new today! Can you guess what it is?”

Suna just hums and takes another bite, knowing you’ll tell him anyway. You’d always had that hyperactive personality, that sweet girl persona. Growing up, he’d only ever needed to sit quietly in your presence. His friends had always been your friends, because he could never be bothered enough to make his own and you always had so many. He’d liked it better that way – he’d never needed anyone but you.

“Why didn’t you tell Miya that you work at his brother’s shop?”

“It’s spicy flakes! Can you taste them?” Only when he hums again, noncommittal to a fault, do you answer him. “Well, why haven’t you or Osamu told him yet?”

Because we know how he is.

Suna just shrugs, reaching for the second one. It’s filled with tuna.

You watch his reaction to the taste closely – the flavor isn’t anything abnormal, but you watch him as if tuna were suddenly a bold choice. You’d always liked watching him eat your cooking. It warms you to see him eat well.

Finally, you answer his question like an afterthought.

“I figured that if he didn’t already know from you two, then there was no reason to know. And he comes into the shop all the time, anyway, but he’s always ranting about volleyball so he never notices me in the kitchen.”

Suna snorts. Of course Atsumu hadn’t noticed you until it was convenient for him.

He reaches for a hot dog – it’s cut to resemble an octopus. He feels like he’s in high school, eating a bento made by a girlfriend.

He shoves that thought to the back of his head, popping the thing in his mouth and chewing with interest. It’s good, just like everything you make.

“Why didn’t you tell him you knew who he was?” He takes another. Did you cook them in something sweet? This is new. “He is famous.”

“You always complained in high school that he had a big head.” You smile when he smirks at your simple reasoning. “You like the honey soy glaze?”

So that’s what it is.

“‘s good.”

You beam at him, always excited for literally any response other than his grunt of general acknowledgement. Taking him in, you have to hide your grin behind a hand, because this 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man is eating a bento that looks like it was decorated by a teenage girl. 

The moment is thoroughly interrupted when the door to the room is thrown open.

“So this is where you two wandered off to!” 

Suna only realizes he’s sighed in irritation when you nudge him, a gentle reprimand. He glances back at you, finding that sweet expression you always put on around people you don’t know well.

Part of him hates that you’d bless Miya Atsumu with even your fakest smile.

Atsumu barges in, taking a seat on the stool by the counter. He smiles smoothly at you, his eyes lingering on where your exposed thighs press into Suna’s side. He can think of at least a dozen girls from high school who would have killed for that kind of proximity to Suna Rintarou. 

And looking at you? He has no clue how a girl like you – so innocent-looking and cute, just his type – could end up this close with such a dry, deadpan man. 

“So, Rin-” Atsumu’s eyes linger shamelessly on any amount of plush skin he can manage a glimpse of. You pretend not to notice, if only for Rintarou’s sake. He’s got his eyes locked on the bento, determined to ignore his friend, and you don’t want him to get any more upset than he already is. 

“Why have you never mentioned this lovely lady to me? I’ve only known you - what, ten years ?” The blond counts the years on his fingers just to be sure, meeting your eyes flirtily when you laugh generously at his obvious attempt to be funny.

Suna’s not sure why he’s suddenly wondering how good it would feel to kick Atsumu’s fat head right off his shoulders.

“Because she’s none of your business.”

He takes another bite of hot dog, as if he hadn’t just set up an implied boundary about whose business you really are. He’s staring down at the lunch, practically stabbing it with his chopsticks, so he doesn’t see the way Atsumu’s eyebrows lift surprise, the way you just smile knowingly like this moment is familiar.

The blond glances at your face, but you’re just smiling at the back of Suna’s head fondly.

Interesting.

He asks for your name, and when you give it, Atsumu’s repeating it back slowly, appreciatively.

Suna’s self-aware enough to stifle the sigh this time. This guy’s so full of shit sometimes.

“Well, Suna and I met in high school.” He tilts his head in your direction, waiting for you to meet his eyes. It comes far later than he’d have liked, your gaze lingering on the food that Suna’s eating. You watch for the man’s reaction to the onigiri he’s biting into, and when Suna nods with a hum, you’re beaming. 

And then you’re turning your attention to Atsumu’s comment.

“Oh, I know.” You settle back into the couch, throwing an arm onto the back of the cushion and leaning your head on your hand. “I’ve heard all about you , Mister Miya.”

Suna knows he’d only ever complained about Atsumu in high school, but the way you say it to the blond makes it feel like you’re flirting.

Was that an accident of your tone? Or did you do that on purpose?

He glances up through his lashes, finding that interested gleam in Atsumu’s eye as he lifts his eyebrows.

“Oh? Only good things, I hope.”

“I bet you do.”

Okay, that one was definitely on purpose. Suna has to restrain himself from glancing back at the look on your face - he’s a little afraid of what he’ll find.

“We were on the same volleyball team, you know.”

“I know that, too. I caught a couple of your games, when I could make the trip.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows lift impossibly higher, and he’s leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees.

You note that he doesn’t look as good as Rintarou when he does it.

“Oh, really? Then maybe - if you’re interested in volleyball - you might know that I went pro?”

Suna spears right through the last hot dog with one of his chopsticks. He’d heard Atsumu use that line on so many girls before you. Fuck the fact that it never fails – he’s irritated that Atsumu would even dare to use it on you in the first place.

A recycled pickup line. What does he take you for?

He waits for you to humor him, at the very least. Of course you know he went pro. You work in his brother’s onigiri shop. Osamu had gotten a TV installed for the sole purpose of airing Atsumu’s games live.

“Oh, did you? Sorry, I don’t really follow it anymore. Not since Rin stopped playing in college.”

It takes every single ounce of Suna’s strength to keep his smile down. He’s never seen such a clean shutdown in his life.

Apparently, neither has Atsumu. The man looks stunned, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Suna takes the opportunity to pack up his empty bento, laying the chopsticks flat on the lid. He falls back into the couch with a satisfied sigh, unknowingly nestling his head into the space where you’re leaning.

You drop your arm around his shoulders with a smile. He turns to look at you, not realizing how close he is until it’s too late. His eyes widen just a fraction, and he’s turning away quickly to stare down at his lap, but you can see the color filling his cheeks.

“Was lunch good?”

Suna just hums, adding a shallow nod after the fact. He clenches his jaw when he hears Atsumu scoff across the room.

“Dude, she made you a whole feast and all you do is nod ?” The blond puffs his chest out, meeting your eyes again. You smile sweetly, excited to see what he’ll try next. “You should make me lunch next time, Y/n. I’ll treasure it, I promise.”

Your grin grows, and Atsumu looks proud of himself, but you’re only laughing because he’s had your cooking. More than once, in fact. But he’d always been too caught up in himself to notice.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you always bring Suna his lunch?” 

You shake your head, leaning away from Rintarou briefly to reach for something in your bag. “No, it was just a quiet day at work. I guess everyone is enjoying the weather.”

You pull out a container full of cut watermelon and a fork, passing it to Rin as Atsumu’s asking a follow-up question.

“Where do you work?”

You smile to yourself, taking the lid from Rin. “I’m in the restaurant business.”

Suna stares down into the container. You’d cut the watermelon into star shapes.

“What, did you get fucking trigger happy with a new fruit cutter or something?”

You just shake your head curiously.

“No, I did it by hand. Why?”

Suna rolls his eyes with a smile as he takes a bite. Of course you did.

Atsumu clears his throat for your attention.

“Which restaurant? Maybe I’ll stop by during your next shift to say hi.”

Suna narrows his gaze at the man.

“What exactly do you think she does?”

Atsumu meets his glare, eyes wide.

“She said she was a waitress.”

You smile brightly at his response. Suna only scowls.

“Did she?”

In the blond’s defense, he does look to you right away, realizing he’s misunderstood.

“Oh, sorry - Did I…” He trails off when you laugh and shake your head.

“It’s fine. I spend most of my time in the kitchen, though, so I probably wouldn’t have time to say hi if you stopped by.”

Atsumu lifts his brows, clearly impressed. “Oh, shit, you cook? That’s pretty cool - my brother owns an onigiri shop, actually. You guys might get along!”

Suna purses his lips to hide his grin, shaking his head and stabbing at another piece of watermelon when you giggle and mumble ‘ Oh, really? ’ in response.

And then the door jingles out front, and Suna’s glancing at Atsumu. The blond makes no move to get up.

“You know, usually my secretary is the one to greet the clients.”

Atsumu barely spares him a glance, too focused on smiling at you.

“Yeah, well, your secretary also gets paid, so…”

Suna glares – he would rather choke than leave you alone in here with him.

You recognize the look in his eye, your smile full of affection.

“I should probably get back to work, anyway. My break ends in…” You check your watch. “Oh. Ten minutes ago.” You laugh loudly, rushing to pack up and slip your sandals on. Rintarou stands, propping the door open and poking his head out to wave at his 3 o’clock.

“Hey, sorry – I was just eating lunch.” You slip past him, all but jogging to the front. Atsumu’s not far behind, offering to walk you back to work. You brush him off quickly, glancing back at Suna as you hoist your bag over your shoulder.

“Pick me up after work, Rin? I want to go grocery shopping.”

Suna just nods, leading his client back to his station and waving at you. He catches Atsumu following you out briefly, and he hears something about asking for your number, but he just sits at his stool and shakes his head with a heated sigh. His client settles into the chair and slips off his shirt, revealing their current work in progress.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Atsumu barges back into the shop a moment later, and Suna hears the blond flop down into the chair at the front desk and call back to him excitedly.

“ Dude, where have you been keeping a girl like that all these years?!”

Suna shakes his head again, trying to clear his mind so he can work. The response he mumbles to the client is bitter, even to his own ears.

“I don’t.”

–

“You’re quieter than usual.” You pick up another onion, examining it before setting it in the basket Rintarou’s holding.

“Funny.” He says nothing else, watching you glance down at the list in your hand before following you across the produce section to an area full of herbs like a dedicated boyfriend. There are two women not too far away, and when they spot the two of you – you in your pretty sundress with your bright smile, and him in all black with ink covering every inch of his arms and hands – they immediately start to whisper to each other, not even bothering to hide their glances.

You just pick up a bundle of cilantro, sniffing at it and humming in disapproval. You replace it and reach for another, the voices of the two women drifting through the otherwise empty area.

“ -had a man like that, I’d never let him out of the house-”

“Oh, my God, stop it! That’s so awful-”

“I can’t help it! Look at him, he’s perfect!”

You snort into the new bundle, barely hiding your smile as you reach for a bag to wrap it in. When you place it in the basket, you find Rintarou glaring at a display of parsley like he’s trying very hard not to listen, the tips of his ears red. You grin widely, shaking your head as you move down just a bit to reach the basil.

A bunch near the back of the display catches your eye, and you’re leaning forward to grab it. It’s just a bit too far out of reach, the tips of your fingers barely brushing on it. You’re about to ask for Rin’s help when the voices reach your ears again.

“- not sure what he’s doing with a girl like that, though…”

“Yeah… I mean, she’s pretty-”

“I don’t know, I just feel like I would take care of myself a little bit more if I wanted to keep a guy that hot.”

You blink, the heat of humiliation familiar in your cheeks. You’re used to moments like these – you and Rin had always looked out of place together, always at odds with people’s expectations. And you’re no fool – you know what Rintarou looks like. How attractive he is.

If you’d been any younger – any less secure in yourself – you might have felt like crying when you heard that. Luckily, you’re not, but… it’s still not a fun experience.

“ -do we even know if they’re together? She’s probably not even his type. ”

“ Do you think they’re not? Maybe I should go over there and try talking to him.”

Their giggles feel a lot like the ones from high school, from elementary school. Girls who’ve decided you aren’t a threat to them because you look like this .

That’s fine. It’s not like they’re wrong. You and Rintarou aren’t together, so that woman can do whatever she wants-

There’s a clatter as a basket hits the floor, and a tattooed arm is reaching past your face before you can process that it was your basket. The cold metal of Rin’s lip ring against your ear contrasts with the heated sigh he breathes into your skin, and you feel the front of his jeans pressing into the curve of your ass.

Oh.

His other hand finds your waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your dress. Your skin starts to burn where his fingertips dig into your hip. 

Oh.  

Were his hands always that big?

You watch with unseeing eyes as he wraps his hand with ease around the bunch of basil you’d been struggling to reach, the difference in your height suddenly painfully clear.

“ They couldn’t have me even if they begged for it .” His voice presses into the shell of your ear, the sound ricocheting around your head. You can hear the irritation in his voice, but you can’t focus on anything except the fact that he’s never been this close before.

It’s devastatingly intoxicating.

He leans away after a breath, fingers dragging on your waist as he drops his hand, and you have to force yourself to remember that you need to stand up straight. Only when you spin around, watching Rintarou reach for the discarded basket as you press cold fingers to your flushed face, do you realize that the women are gone.

You crack a weak joke when he stands to full height, desperate for anything to break the sudden silence around you. Just so Rin doesn’t end up hearing how hard your heart is beating.

“Not even if they begged for it, huh?” You laugh, looking away from that piercing stare. “Can’t imagine what a girl like me would have to do, then.”

Well, that certainly hadn’t helped anything.

He just stares, eyes wide. You panic, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away again when you find nothing but his shock. When you look down at your list, trying to remember what you’d come here for, you see that the paper is crumpled in your fist – evidence of your nerves.

“Breadcrumbs. N-Need breadcrumbs.” You mumble to yourself and turn away, heading to another aisle. The brand you like is on the top shelf, so you just point to it, because you really don’t need a repeat of the Basil Situation in the middle of your recovery.

“Well-” Rintarou breaks the silence this time, letting you take the basket while he reaches up. “-you did have a professional volleyball player thirsting after you just this afternoon, so you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.” He examines the label as if he cares at all what it says. “That is, of course-” He meets your eyes, setting the can of breadcrumbs in your hand.

“-unless that’s your thing.”

Your lips part in surprise as Rin stares down at you like he hadn’t just insinuated that you might be one to beg him for something.

“Uhm-” You don’t know why you started talking. You have nothing to say. There is nothing that could be said right now, when all you can do is look at him.

He’s kind enough not to revel in your stunned silence, a grin peeking out as he reaches out and plucks the list from your hand. He says nothing about the fact that it’s violently crumpled and a little warm from how hard you’d squeezed it.

“What’s next-” He breathes it out, as if he can’t feel the weight of your stare on his face. He hums when he finds it. “Chicken.” He meets your eyes again, gaze searching yours. You blink rapidly and look away, mumbling the word ‘ chicken ’ under your breath as you lead the way down the aisle.

You’d always known Suna Rintarou was different. You’d known from the moment you’d met, those eyes uncaring even as a child. You’d known when he’d decided silently that you were his new friend, that no one else could be your friend the way that he was. 

You’d known whenever the rare boy in junior high would try to flirt with you, because Suna Rintarou was the name they would whisper furiously to their friends after their failed attempts. Suna Rintarou was the boy in school they had to look out for, because he was always right beside you. He would never say anything, watching you politely interact while they’d flirt, but his empty stare was always enough.

It was enough that, even though he’d moved two hours away to an entirely different prefecture, his name had followed you to high school. Boys in high school were meaner – more judgmental of your appearance – so it never really mattered. But the girls would whisper about you, until your whole class knew the name of a student who didn’t even go there.

‘Claimed’. ‘Taken’. ‘His’.

Suna Rintarou’s girl.

You’d never minded. In fact, you’d secretly enjoyed it – being part of those rumors that blew up and spread until some boys wouldn’t even approach you for homework help. You’d thought it was funny. They were so scared of a person who was nowhere near them, of a relationship that didn’t exist.

It was only when you moved to Tokyo with him for college that you’d realized that maybe your classmates had been right.

Living together for the first time, you’d realized just how much of your life was taken up by him. Every morning, every break, every meal. Even if you weren’t physically together – the Nutritional Sciences Department was irritatingly far from the Art Department – those moments always involved him. A text during your quick lunch break with a friend. A call while he was heading to his next class. A walk home, because he’d waited outside your department until you were done with meetings for the day, sketching art into his skin with a ballpoint pen to keep from getting bored.

And even though the new friends you’d made knew he was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing that could stop them from saying those words again. 

That you were Suna Rintarou’s girl.

And why wouldn’t they? The evidence against it wasn’t convincing in the slightest. Not when Suna was a wall to any girl who was interested in him, his attention wholly yours. Not when he hadn’t even bothered to look up from his YouTube video when you’d asked one night if he wouldn’t be interested in spending time with any of those girls. Not when his response was immediate and clear, like he’d never consider it.

‘ Why would I? I have you.’

That had been almost 5 years ago, and you hadn’t asked him something like that since. You’d just let yourself get used to the fact that it was obvious now–

The way his eyes search for you immediately in a crowded room.

The way he lets you fall asleep in his bed while he sketches out ideas for his clients on his iPad.

The way he’d stabbed the octopus-shaped hot dog bites in his bento like they’d personally offended him while Miya Atsumu was flirting with you.

You know now, probably more than even he does, that you’re his. You’ve accepted that fact with whatever it means, platonic or otherwise, because it had always been that way.

20 years, it had been that way.

So why – why the fuck – did he have to go and do something about it now , in the middle of a grocery store on a random Friday evening?

–

Suna hates that his heart skips whenever the bell above the shop door jingles. He hates that, for the last two days, he’s glanced over at the door every single time, hoping it was you.

He’d known you wouldn’t show. You usually don’t. But… something had changed between you two. Ever since the he’d handed you a can of fucking breadcrumbs and not-so-subtly hinted that you might be a girl who’s into begging.

He wants to hit himself over the head with the nearest blunt object.

He sighs, shaking his head, and pulls open the cabinets in the back room. The weekend had been hectic with appointments – it was enough to keep his thoughts occupied – but Mondays are notoriously slow, and now he’s stuck back here doing inventory and thinking about you.

The bell jingles outside again, but he’s got two artists and a piercer on shift today, so he can’t possibly be needed for anything outside of his appointments.

But then the door to the back room is slamming open, and the person he wants to see least in the world right now is barging through.

“ Why didn’t you tell me that Y/n works at Onigiri Miya?!”

Suna stares, unblinking.

“Who let you back here? They need to be fired.”

“Suna-” Atsumu tries to grab for him, but the man is quick to smack his hands away with the clipboard he’s holding. “-I need you to be honest with me.”

“What?” It comes out in a sigh, Suna counting stock on the first shelf of the cabinet he’s staring into.

“Are you hitting that?”

He loses count.

One breath, just enough to steady his growing agitation.

He starts counting again.

“Am I hitting what ?”

“ That .” Suna makes the mistake of glancing back at Atsumu – the man is gesturing in the space between them, making the shape of your ass and the curve of your breasts right in front of him. “I mean… Jesus, dude.”

Suna wonders if there are any more clipboards in the shop, because he’s thinking of smashing this one into Atsumu’s face.

“Care to be a little more respectful?”

Atsumu waves him off. Suna’s grip tightens on his clipboard. One little swing wouldn’t kill him.

“Are you fucking her or not?” When Suna’s lips part with surprise, his gaze finally showing a glimpse of emotion as he turns to tear into Atsumu, the twin cuts him short, oblivious. “Because if you’re not, can I have her?”

Suna’s free hand shoots out, fisting Atsumu’s shirt tightly and dragging the shorter man toward him.

“Miya, I swear to God- ”

“ Ah .” Atsumu smirks up at him. “You do like her. No wonder she didn’t give me her number that day.”

“What?” Suna furrows a brow. You hadn’t given him your number? “Where the hell did that come from?”

Atsumu just points down at the fist Suna has curled into his shirt, as if it were obvious.

“You like her.”

Suna shoves him away, watching with satisfaction when Atsumu’s back slams against the cabinets over on the opposite counter, the blond wincing slightly. Still, he finds himself being examined with knowing eyes.

He turns away, because he’s not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed by Miya Atsumu on a Monday afternoon.

“How do you do it, man?”

Suna just grunts in response and starts taking inventory again, waiting for Atsumu to elaborate. 

“How do you wake up every day in the same house as that and not lose your fucking mind-”

“Well, I start by having a shred of human fucking decency.” Suna almost tears the paper with how hard he’s writing. “Her body’s not the only thing worth looking at.”

There’s silence, and Suna glances over his shoulder again to find Atsumu just staring at him with deadpan eyes.

“No, really. How do you do it?”

Suna rolls his eyes and turns back to the cabinet, not wanting to admit that he has no fucking clue how he does it. But he has, on more than one occasion, had to rely on the self-control and discipline of a former athlete to keep him from snapping when you leave your room in the tight tank top and baby shorts you dare to call pajamas .

You’d been too self-conscious to wear revealing clothing in college – he’d had no idea how good he’d had it back then. Four years living with the girl who’d grown into a woman in the years of high school that you’d been apart. He’d managed to survive it, only to watch your self-esteem grow after graduation, and now he lives every day in his own personal hell.

He’s happy to see that the shy elementary schooler that used to cling to him had grown into this confident, successful woman – but fuck him, you really like to knock him on his ass when he’s least expecting it.

And when you’d laughed and asked him what a girl like you would have to do to get his attention, in the middle of a grocery store on a Friday evening? 

He’d almost dropped everything and dragged you home just to show you.

But he hadn’t, and you two had acted like nothing had happened when you’d gotten home. You’d put the groceries away, and he’d ordered takeout for your movie marathon, and then later – when he was sure you were asleep – he’d taken a shower, praying to whatever higher power that might exist that the running water would mask the way he’d choked out your name when he had come all over his hand to the thought of fucking you in that dress.

“You know, Suna-” Suna shakes his head to clear it, moving on to the second shelf. He organizes as he starts counting. “-you might want to actually make a move instead of just hovering over her.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you know?” He mumbles it, his jaw clenched in annoyance as he makes a few more notes on the inventory sheet. Atsumu’s response is smug.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything. But I would think that you’d want to do something about the fact that she technically isn’t yours at all.”

Suna stills, his gaze blank as he stares down at the clipboard. What is that supposed to mean?

“She’s still single, you know. But-” He hears Atsumu lift away from the counter and move toward the door. The blond opens it, sighing back at him. “-I don’t know. Maybe she won’t be for long.”

And then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him. 

Suna considers banning Atsumu from his shop entirely.

–

By the time Suna’s stepping through the door of Onigiri Miya, his mood has tanked significantly. He’d spent the rest of the work day in his office, ordering supplies and fighting off a headache with a third – and then a fourth – cup of coffee. And then he’d stared out the window, watching the sky darken and open up right in front of his eyes, the downpour sudden and entirely unmentioned by the weather app on his phone.

Still, he’d walked in the direction of the restaurant after closing up shop, his clothes soaked by the time he’s ducking into the air-conditioned restaurant. 

“Oh-” He looks up through his dripping bangs at the sound, finding Osamu at the swinging door to the kitchen. The twin disappears without another word, returning a moment later with a towel. He throws it carelessly over Suna’s head. “You’ll get sick.”

Suna hadn’t even realized he was shivering.

“Thanks.” He pats at his clothes and skin and then leaves the towel on his head, following Osamu over to a table. The restaurant’s basically empty, but he spots several takeout orders at the counter. At least they still have good business on a day like this.

“Want me to get Y/n to make you something?” Osamu pulls out his order notepad, clicking his pen with an obnoxious grin. Suna just breathes out a laugh, shaking his head and scrubbing the towel through his hair.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to distract her.”

“Well…” 

Suna meets his eyes. Osamu’s scratching at his neck awkwardly. “She’s already half-distracted, so…”

“What?” He stands, following Osamu to the swinging door. The twin pushes it open, revealing the kitchen on the other side. 

You’re standing at one of the stainless steel counters with your back to the door, rolling rice balls as you laugh at something Atsumu’s just said.

“-don’t think that’s a good idea at all-”

“You aren’t even slightly curious about the idea of dessert onigiri?!”

“Not enough to waste ingredients on it!” You shake your head fervently, setting another rice ball down on the tray next to you. Atsumu smiles flirtily, leaning forward onto the counter across from you.

“What if I buy them? Free ingredients for you to experiment with, how’s that? You can come over to my place, and we can-” His gaze cuts over your shoulder, finding Suna’s cold glare. Osamu hums sympathetically, mumbling low so only Suna can hear.

“Sorry… I tried to keep him from noticing her.”

Atsumu grins as if he can hear perfectly well what his twin is saying. Suna swallows, the words ‘ maybe she won’t be for long ’ echoing in his head.

“It’s fine. It’s none of my business.” He doesn’t see the way Osamu blinks at him in surprise, too busy keeping his gaze trained on Atsumu’s. 

You only now seem to notice the silence, your attention fully on the rice balls before. You hum in question and then turn over your shoulder when you see where Atsumu’s looking.

Atsumu doesn’t miss the fact that Suna only breaks eye contact for you.

“Rin!” Your eyes sparkle when you beam at him, and then you run to wash your hands. “Let’s go home! I thought up some new ideas for dinner – I want to try them out.”

Suna raises an eyebrow. Your shift doesn’t end for another half hour. 

Atsumu’s grin grows on his face.

“Oh, sorry, man. ‘Samu let her off early because of the rain, but I guess we just got caught up chatting.”

You shake your head to yourself as you dry your hands and move to store the prepped rice balls for tomorrow’s batch. You can hear Atsumu trying to get under Rintarou’s skin. 

He’d come in for lunch and only then realized that you actually work here, almost 3 years after you’d been hired. He’d disappeared after eating, and the smug look in his eye when he’d returned only 20 minutes later had told you that he’d certainly stopped by Suna’s shop to mess with him.

You’d already had a feeling, but that moment had solidified the fact that Miya Atsumu is not your type.

Still, you’d humored him all afternoon, dodging his obvious attempts to get a date out of you and paying more attention to Osamu when the owner would wander into the kitchen from the front, just so Atsumu doesn’t think he has a monopoly on your time.

And when you’d seen Rintarou at the door, wet hair falling into his eyes and cheeks flushed from the rain, you’d forgotten for just a moment that the twins were even in the room with you.

You rush to the back room after storing the rice balls, hurrying to put your apron away and grab your bag. The last few nights had been a bit strange, Suna’s walls coming up in the way they do only when he’s stressed. You hadn’t expected him to pick you up from work.

Maybe tonight would be different.

You hurry out to the kitchen, practically skipping up to him with a bright smile. He meets it with his usual deadpan.

“Stay here while I go down to the convenience store for an umbrella.”

You shake your head, latching onto his arm when he starts to turn away.

“Nope! We go together.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but you’re already bidding farewell to the twins.

“See you tomorrow, ‘Samu!” You offer Atsumu nothing more than a wave, keep the interaction minimal.

When you and Suna are gone, running past the window toward the convenience store, Osamu turns to his brother with arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you doing?”

Atsumu just smiles to himself knowingly. He really had been interested in you. But it’s obvious that it won’t go anywhere — you won’t even give him the time of day, but it seems like you’d give Suna Rintarou the world if he asked for it.

“Giving Suna the push he needs, apparently.”

–

“Do you like guys like that?”

You turn to look at Rintarou, but he’s not looking at you. You’re at the stove, mixing the last of the ingredients into the pasta dish you’d wanted to try, and he’s at the counter setting out some bowls and utensils.

Still, it doesn’t slip your notice that he’d kept his back to you when he had asked.

“Guys like what?” When he doesn’t respond, you realize what he’s referring to. You watch him with a growing smile, glancing back at the stove only to turn the burner off. “Guys like Miya Atsumu?”

His clenched jaw tells you everything. All you can do is snort, hiding your smile behind your hand. He turns to you now, incredulous that you would laugh at him.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing-” You keep laughing anyway. “I’m just wondering if you’re genuinely asking if I’m into another man.”

His eyelids flutter as he turns away, processing what you’ve just given him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Rin-” You sigh. “Why are you asking?”

He says nothing for a minute, just moving out of your way so you can scoop pasta into each of the bowls. “I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He’s always been so good at pretending he doesn’t care.

“Okay.” You smile innocently, setting the pot back on the stove and preparing to try your first bite. Waiting, because you’ve never been anything but entirely open with him, and you just know it’ll drive him crazy that you’re keeping him in the dark about-

“Why didn’t you give him your number?”

You laugh louder this time, blatantly in his face. He shoots you a glare.

“ What? ”

“Rin, are you trying to set me up with your best friend from high school?”

“I’m not-” He rolls his eyes. “That’s definitely not what I’m doing.”

“Then why are you asking?” You turn toward him, setting your fork back into the bowl. “What are you trying to figure out?”

“I just want to know if you like him. That’s it.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

He meets your eyes, confused.

“What? Obviously.”

“Why? It never mattered before.”

He blinks rapidly. “What…? When?”

You sigh, staring down at the counter. 

Does he really not get it? Has he really been this blind all these years?

“Why did you do… what you did? On Friday.”

He flushes immediately. “Because they were being rude.”

“You could have just told them off. Or glared at them. Or done anything but that -”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have done it?” He’s getting defensive, not used to having his actions questioned by you. Never by you.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just asking why you did it.”

“Because they were making assumptions about you, and they were definitely making assumptions about me.”

You search for his gaze, but he won’t give it to you. He just stares off to the side, down the hallway of your apartment.

“Right. Assumptions about my body, assumptions about your type.” He shakes his head, scoffing as if he’s filled with renewed irritation. “But we’ve been surrounded by assumptions our whole lives.” 

Now he meets your eyes, a brow furrowed. You lean back against the corner of the counter, breathing out a laugh. “You really never noticed? Not once?”

You feel yourself grow frustrated when he just stares, eyes blank. Had it really just been you all this time? Experiencing the consequences of being claimed by a man who didn’t even realize he had done it. A man who, you now think, had lived a life without ever once feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

A man who looks like that , who can have whoever he wants, and a girl who looks like you . A girl who might have had a chance to date or find love when everyone else was, if boys hadn’t gone out of their way to avoid you just so they wouldn’t upset him . 

You know, even just thinking about it now, that you wouldn’t have been interested in anyone else anyway. It just hurts to know that you’d gone about your life under the impression that you were his, when you now have no idea if he was yours this whole time, too.

Rintarou breathes your name, cautious. An unspoken question – why are you upset with him?

“Did you ever date, Rin? When we were in high school?”

Suna furrows a brow. 

“No…?”

“Why not?”

Because I was yours.

He blinks and looks away. He doesn’t know if he can say that to you.

“Because I had you.” He thinks that’s close enough.

But your frown is deepening, and he realizes that it’s not nearly close enough.

“Do you know why I never dated?”

He searches your gaze, hating that it’s cold.

“You never mentioned being interested in anyone…”

“Because I wasn’t.” Your jaw clenches and you cross your arms over your chest. “Because I already belonged to someone – someone who made that fact very clear to any guy that could have possibly been interested in me.”

His lips part in surprise, and he looks like he wants to say something when he realizes what you’re saying.

But you just look away and slide your bowl toward yourself, shaking your head as you twirl pasta around your fork. 

“I didn’t realize that it might be one-sided — that maybe he didn’t belong to me . But I guess that’s just my fault for not asking. My bad.” It’s impossible not to see how bitter your smile is when you lift the fork to your lips and finally take your first bite.

Suna just stares when you hum and nod. There’s sauce on the corner of your mouth, a little more on your bottom lip. “‘s pretty good. I think you’ll like it.” A simple evaluation of your own cooking, as if you hadn’t just stopped time for him with the admission of your pain.

Pain that he’s realizing could have been prevented if he weren’t so fucking avoidant.

He steps toward you after a breath, reaching out and brushing his fingers across your knuckles just as you’re moving to grab another bite. Your fork clatters into the bowl when you pull away from the touch. You cross your arms and look away, avoiding his gaze.

But he steps too close, hovering over you in that corner of the counter. Only when his hand slips past the curtain of your hair and cups the back of your neck – the other presses into the countertop beside you, trapping you there – do you meet his eyes, your own wide with surprise.

“Wha-” The rest catches in your throat, because he’s dipping his head toward yours, hooded eyes examining something on your cheek. You stare past him, unable to find your breath, and feel the exact moment when your heart leaves your chest and makes its home in the base of your throat.

Rintarou presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, not enough to be a kiss but far too close to ever be able to take it back. But when you feel the pass of his tongue over your skin, burning into that spot and making it his, you realize that he’s not planning to draw that line with you again, the one that had always been there.

He’s going to erase it entirely, with the determination of a man who hates that it ever existed in the first place.

“You’re right. It is pretty good.” He breathes the words into that spot, and you realize that he’s talking about the food.

“Can I try more?”

He gives you no time to wonder what that means – no time to wonder ever again what he’s trying to say.

His lips push against yours, full and warm and everything you’d imagined they’d feel like. You gasp and pull away in surprise, but he’s there again, leaning forward to keep you right where he wants you. 

You can feel heat radiating off of his face, cheeks flushed and warm on yours when you cling to the front of his shirt, unable to do much else. He smiles against your lips and breaks the kiss, still close enough that your shallow pants mix in the space with his as you catch your breath, both of your chests heaving.

“What was it that your friends from college used to call you? That name that would make you blush.” You’re unable to look away from his lips, unable to understand that you can still feel the memory of them on yours. He smiles and leans close, mouth hovering over yours when he whispers. “‘ Suna Rintarou’s girl ’? Was that it?”

You flush, your eyes drifting shut when you feel him closing in on you again. 

“So you did notice…”

“I didn’t know about high school. You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to-” You can’t look at him. It’s too much, too overwhelming. “I took it for granted. That I was yours-”

“ Good .” He’s all you can feel, all you can smell and hear and touch. He’s everywhere. “You were supposed to take it for granted, that was the point.” 

His fingers close around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks and tilting your face up toward his. You know he can feel your racing pulse at the side of your throat. “Because you’re mine. You were always mine, and I made sure everyone knew.” His nose brushes against yours, breath warm on your lips. “But I guess I wasn’t clear enough… was I?”

You swallow hard, feeling the shallow laugh he breathes out when you don’t answer him.

“You’re my girl, aren’t you?” His bottom lip brushes against yours when he whispers to you. “And you were right to feel safe in that fact. Because I never looked at anyone else, not once.”

‘ Why would I? I have you.’  

Those words from 5 years ago come back to you, along with memories of the way he’d ignored the existence of any girl that would approach him, for as long as you can remember.

“And those women in the grocery store? Talking about how you’re not my type?”

You’re distinctly aware of how the hand he has on your face is starting to pull you closer, his own mouth drifting away to keep the sliver of distance between you.

“They must not have properly looked at you, Y/n.” He smiles softly down at you when your eyelids flutter open briefly at his words. “How could you not be my type? My type is you.”

The push of his lips on yours comes this time with his hands on your waist, tugging you toward him. He wraps an arm around you and lifts you without warning, setting you on the counter just as you’re gasping into his mouth.

He fills the space between your thighs the moment you spread them, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping your neck. You fist the front of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself to him and keeping him close.

You never want to let him go.

“ I’m yours, Y/n. ” He mumbles the admission against your lips, finally confirming what you’d been worried about. “I’m yours, you hear me?” 

His mouth drops to a spot under your ear, his voice filling your senses as his fingers play with the top button of your shirt. 

“Want me to tattoo it on my skin? Just tell me where – I’ll have it done by the end of the night.”

The button comes undone, and he’s quick to move to the next one, thumb and pointer finger working efficiently down the line as his other hand slips around your waist and pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, flush to his.

Your breath comes shallow when your shirt finally falls free, because he’s pressing his hand to the spot just under the curve of your breast and pushing his lips against yours possessively – claiming you. You can’t feel your fingers when you card them through his hair and pull him close, your skin filled with a tingle that spreads over your body like a sickness. Even your head is staticky, plagued by that tingle. Rendering you defenseless to him – Suna Rintarou.

“ I love you .”

You whisper it without thinking, Rin’s mouth stilling on yours. He pulls away, staring down at you with wide eyes. Your heart drops to your stomach when you realize what you’d said, and your face burns when he just stares, dumbfounded.

“I-”

“Again.” He looks entranced, gaze glued to your lips while he waits. Because he’d felt you say the words, but he wants to watch you say them – wants to witness it with his own eyes, because he’s terrified it hadn’t actually happened.

You wet your lips nervously and repeat yourself.

“I love you, Rintarou.” 

The three syllables of his name fall past your lips, stacking on top of each other just like the words right before them and stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

When he kisses you, it’s with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. Your back slams against the cabinet when he presses into you, but you don’t notice anything except the slide of his palms on your thighs as his hands disappear under the hem of your skirt. 

His pointer fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, tugging impatiently until you lift your hips. They’re gone and on the floor before you’ve fully processed that you’d just let him take your panties off. That this is going somewhere, fast .

“Sorry, that probably wasn’t very hot-” Rintarou’s mouth is in the crook of your neck, his teeth brushing against your skin in a way that makes you shiver and slide your fingers through his hair. “In my head, it was slow and sensual, but-” His hands slide over your thighs again, fingers digging into the plush skin as he pries them just a little further apart. His lips twitch against your throat, a smile sneaking through as he laughs breathily.

“-I’ve never felt this desperate before.”

You whimper when he pulls your hips to his, the front of his jeans pressing up against your bare core and sending a shock flying up your spine. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he sucks harshly on your throat.

You feel it, too – that desperation to just make him yours. To make this the truth, after so many years of just saying it was.

“‘s okay,” You pant, feeling his fingers dancing along your inner thighs toward a spot that’s extremely warm right now. “You can just make it slow and sensual next time.”

He breathes a heated sigh against your skin, the words ‘ next time ’ mumbled back to you, like he can’t believe that next time even exists.

And then he lifts his head and plants his lips on yours, his thumb finally sliding along your folds and finding your clit with terrifying precision. You gasp, and he swallows the moan that falls past your lips when he circles that little bundle of nerves, the same way you would when you would think about him late at night.

He does everything the way you’d always wanted – slides his fingers through your folds, buries them inside of you, and curls them against your walls in a way that has you seeing stars. He does it perfectly, all while kissing you stupid and whispering your name like he’s trying to decide exactly where it would look best on his skin, permanent and for the world to see.

He touches you like he’s always known how, as if this isn’t the first time. As if his heart isn’t about to rip out of his chest from the way you’re gasping his name, those three syllables stacked on top of each other in your mouth.

And when you finally come undone, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you cry for him, he’s saying it back – the words that he needs you to hear.

“ I love you .” He feels your tears soak through his shirt as your walls tighten around his fingers, and your body starts to tremble in his arms as you gasp for breath. “I love you, Y/n- I’ve always loved you, from the day that we met-” 

“ Rin-” Your arms curl around his shoulders, and you cling to him as you come down from your high. He holds you close and kisses you, letting you recover.

Eventually, you breath a harsh sigh and meet his eyes, your cheeks flushing when you see how he’s looking at you.

“Hi…” You mumble it in embarrassment, and then jolt in shock, because he’s wiggling his fingers playfully inside of you when he responds.

“Hi yourself.”

You smack his arm and look away, eyelids fluttering when he pulls out of you and sets his hand safely on your thigh. And then you let him kiss you, soft and slow like your eyes aren’t still blurry with tears from how hard he’d made you come.

Suna pulls away, eyes roaming your face. Your skin is flushed red, just like his own, and you’re wiping unshed tears from your eyes, your expression laced with embarrassment when you realize he’s just watching you.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling your shirt closed self-consciously – you feel strange, letting him see all of your rolls and stretch marks. His eyes are lingering on those spots, and you feel like he’s seeing too much. Seeing the things you were worried about showing him, because you thought in the back of your mind that maybe he would decide then that he didn’t want you, after all.

Rintarou lets you cover yourself, lets you drape your shirt over your chest and hide your tummy with your arms. He watches with a blank expression, gaze flicking between your movements and your eyes like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. But when you try to cover your thighs – try to move his hands so you can pull your skirt down – he sighs softly, knowingly, and stops you.

His hands catch your wrists, and he presses them together in your lap, locking them tight with one hand while he uses the other to undo all your work, those uncaring eyes unbearable warm on your skin. 

Tugs your shirt open with a pointer finger.

Pushes the hem of your skirt back up your thighs.

Leans down to press his lips to the tops of your breasts, an open-mouthed kiss over your racing heart.

He mumbles all the while, his mouth tracing a path up past your collarbones and toward your neck.

“There you go again-” A nip to the column of your throat, a pass of his tongue over the spot to soothe the pain. “-listening to the wrong people.”

He leans away, watching how his hands look on you, tattooed fingers kneading into unmarked skin – like he’s tainting you. Ruining you for anyone else.

The thought makes him grin, worsened when you look up at him with those wide, innocent eyes.

“My sweet girl.” He smiles grows at your blush, and he’s reaching to push your shirt off your shoulders. You let him, even though you look nervous at how much he’s going to see. He drags the fabric down your arms, but he stops when it pools around your elbows. A gasp falls past your lips when he yanks the material taut suddenly, your forearms pulled together and the swell of your breasts forced out toward him.

He eyes them hungrily, his smirk dark when you whisper his name nervously, your arms tangled up in your shirt.

“Why do you let other people get in your head?” He drags his gaze down your chest to your tummy and thighs, his tongue poking out briefly to wet his lips. “Have you seen yourself? You’re so soft – you know how many times I’ve thought about putting my hands on you?”

You breathe harshly, your chest heaving and snapping his attention back to it. Without taking his eyes off of your breasts, he reaches for you shoulders, sliding your bra straps off slowly, one at a time. And then he hooks a finger into one of the cups, meeting your eyes.

“Are you ready to start listening to me instead?”

You swallow, nodding shallowly. He keeps you entranced, keeps your gaze locked on his, even as he’s tugging both cups down past your chest, officially leaving you completely exposed to him.

And then he drops his gaze, and you watch his eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as he takes you in. He barely notices when you move, your tied hands inching forward in front of you until you’re close enough to touch the tips of your fingers to the front of his jeans.

He flinches immediately, his eyes flying down and then back to yours when he realizes what you’re doing. You watch his eyelashes flutter when you become bold enough to press the flat of your hand against him, and you finally feel just how hard he is.

The pit of your stomach twists with arousal as you palm him gently, and your heart is thumping harshly in your chest when his hips jut forward of their own accord, chasing the feeling of your hand on him.

You feel time slow to nothing when you reach to undo his jeans, because he’s dropping his gaze to watch what you do. The sound of the zipper makes him tense, and you watch him swallow harshly when you slip your hand down the front of his jeans, cupping him through his boxers.

Your own breath comes shallow, skin tingling where he digs his fingers into your thighs, anchoring himself to you. With a steadying breath, you reach into his boxers, wrapping your hand around him. 

And then you get distracted, because Rintarou is breathing out a moan and dropping his head back, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting with pleasure as he goes. You watch him closely, heartbeat rushing in your ears, as you slide your palm against him slowly.

“ Fuck- ” He breathes it out, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows harshly. You keep your eyes on him, stroking him slowly and watching his every reaction. 

Suna drops his gaze to your hand, and he moans again, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Because watching you do this to him just like he’d always imagined – your hand wrapped around him like that, so much smaller than his own, with your thighs spread for him and your breasts spilling out of your bra, your tongue poking out past your lips as you concentrate – it might just be a little too much for him after all.

You work him closer and closer to the edge, entranced by the way his chest heaves, the way he mouths your name silently as he unconsciously pushes his hips to meet the base of your fist every time you slide against him.

And then his hand is snapping down over your wrist, stilling your movements. You jump, staring up at him as he hovers over you, breathing harshly. He leans his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Too close…”

You pout, wanting to watch him come undone the way you had. Wanting to make him yours.

“But… I want you to…”

His response is a breathless laugh, eyes still shut tight.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

‘-you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.’ 

Your heart pounds in your head when the memory comes to you, just a few days ago. 

Oh, how you’d never imagined that you’d be here now. 

You tilt your head up toward him, lips brushing against his. He leans into it, eyes fluttering open to stare down at your mouth.

‘-unless that’s your thing.’

“…Please?”

Suna’s breath catches in his throat, and his gaze is locking on yours, eyes wide. His grip on you loosens in surprise, and you’re guiding his cock toward you, past the hem of your skirt, never taking your eyes off of him. He swallows hard, eyes flitting between yours nervously.

He breathes out shakily when the head of his cock slides against your entrance, his eyelids fluttering as he dips his head down and swears against your mouth.

“ Shit… You’re killing me…”

You whine against him, feeling the tip bump gently against your clit when he shifts toward you. “ Please , Rin. Please. I need you-”

He snaps when you properly beg for him, a low growl trapped in his throat when he pushes his lips to yours roughly. Reaching up, he fists your hair in his hands and angles your head so he can mold himself to you. He surges forward, and your back slams into the cabinet again, his mouth firmly on yours.

And then he reaches down with his free hand, pushing your hands away so he can guide himself back to your entrance.

“ I want you to say it . That I’m yours .” He murmurs against your mouth, and you mewl in response, because he’s pushing into you slowly. He stops and pulls his lips away when you don’t seem to hear him, and you almost cry out in frustration. “Y/n.”

You glare up at him, your gaze cloudy, because he’s buried halfway inside of you and still has the audacity to think that you’re able to focus on anything else.

“ What ?”

He stares down at you, seemingly patient, but you can see the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He’s trying hard to focus, too.

“Say I’m yours. Tell me, so I know you understand.”

Your heart drops to your stomach at his words, and you clench unconsciously around him. His eyelids flutter, and then his grip in your hair tightens.

“ Tell me , or I won’t move.”

You can’t help but laugh, even though it’s laced with a moan when he twitches inside of you.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

He just tilts his head and smiles gently at you, like he’s not struggling immensely right now.

“So that you know that this isn’t just me claiming you.”

You breathe heavily as you stare up at him, your chest soaring with affection. And then you reach out to cup his face, stacking the syllables of his name once more, filled with love and the silent promise that you’ll continue to say it like that, for the rest of your life.

“Rintarou-” He sighs when you pull his mouth to yours. “ You’re mine .” You push your lips against his, soft. “You belong to me now, okay? You’re not allowed to go anywhere. I won’t let you.”

He tilts his head, kissing you slowly, murmuring against you. “Promise?” When you breathe a confirmation, nodding, he takes a breath. Gives you just a breath.

And then he pushes forward in the next, until his hips are flush against yours.

You moan into each other’s mouths, your body tingling at the stretch. He draws his hips back, moaning your name breathlessly, and then snaps them forward, his patience gone.

You can only cling to him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, as he thrusts into you relentlessly. Your back slams into the cabinet with every snap of his hips against yours, filling the room with the sounds of your cries and the rhythmic promise of several noise complaints.

Rintarou barely notices, too lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him, tighter and tighter with every thrust. He pants into your ear, your name the only thing he has left in his head.

“I think you were made for me- ” He pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours so he can look at you. Your eyes are filling with tears again, and your voice cracks when you stutter over his name on the next thrust. “You fit so perfectly around me. Look-” He tangles his hand into your hair again, gripping tight and forcing you to look down with him. 

You choke on a sob when you watch how he slams into you, and he’s quick to lift your head so he push his mouth against yours, claiming each and every sound that falls past your lips. “You were made for me-” It’s barely audible over the noises you’re making, increasingly louder the closer he pushes you to the edge. Your foot swings and catches on something behind Rin, something that falls to the floor and shatters on the other side of the counter. He doesn’t even hear it. “ Just for me .” 

The coil in the pit of your stomach twists angrily, but it stands no chance of surviving when he reaches down and presses his thumb to your clit, just like he had the first time. The coil snaps instantly and without warning, and you’re throwing your head back against the cabinet as your vision goes white.

“ Rintarou- ” You think you might have screamed it, but your ears are ringing, because he hasn’t slowed down in the slightest. He just fucks you through it, his hips only stuttering when you clench tight around him. Only then does he slam his hands down on the counter on either side of you, his head buried in your neck.

He chokes on your name, and then you’re warm. Warm with the breath he heaves onto your skin, warm with the feeling of owning and belonging to him all at once. Warm as he spills into you, filling you up and making you his as he moans into your ear.

Finally, he stills. Slumps against you, chest heaving against yours as you comb your fingers through his hair with a trembling hand. He whispers against your skin, the ‘ I love you ’ just as warm as everything else, while he curls his arms around your waist. Eventually he lifts his head, bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat and his skin as flushed and hot as yours. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing this side of him.

He presses his lips against yours gently as he pulls out of you, and then he mumbles that he’s going to get a wet rag for you. You’re strangely proud to see that your 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man actually loses his balance and stumbles slightly as he’s turning toward the hallway.

He glances back at you, embarrassed, and then breathes out a laugh when he finds you smiling lovingly up at him. He shakes his head, disappearing down the hall with a mumbled ‘ shut up ’.

He reappears a moment later, cleaning both of you up gently and kissing you every few seconds, just because he can. You lean lazily against the cabinet, your mind hazy and full of Suna Rintarou.

But then you glance down at the counter, and you’re tilting your head in confusion.

“Where’d the other bowl go?” 

He hums curiously, realizing that there’s only one bowl of pasta there. You lean forward and peer over the edge of the counter, realizing what had shattered earlier.

“Oh.” His dinner is splattered all over the floor, the bowl in a million pieces.

Rin stares down at it, too, and then he turns to your bowl, lifting it toward you with a shrug.

“We can split this one.” He twirls some pasta around your fork and takes a bite. You watch him wince as he chews. He scowls slightly, setting the bowl back down. “‘s cold.”

You let out a laugh, pulling him toward you and giggling when he swallows the food with a grimace. 

“We can just order takeout.”

He looks down at you, taking you in. You’re still undressed, skin still flushed, eyes still hazy in your afterglow. And then he shakes his head.

“Yeah, I don’t think anything’s gonna be open.”

You frown, glancing at the clock on the stove. “It’s only 7.”

“Yeah. For now .” And then he lifts you, ignoring your protests as he walks the two of you down the hall to his bedroom. He throws you down on his bed carelessly and reaches to pull his shirt over his head. 

You watch with wide eyes and a fresh sense of arousal when he drops to his knees in front of you and wraps his arms around your thighs, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls you toward him impatiently.

“I’m not done yet."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

NLRB rules that any union busting triggers automatic union recognition

Tonight (September 6) at 7pm, I'll be hosting Naomi Klein at the LA Public Library for the launch of Doppelganger.

On September 12 at 7pm, I'll be at Toronto's Another Story Bookshop with my new book The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

American support for unions is at its highest level in generations, from 70% (general population) to 88% (Millenials) – and yet, American unionization rates are pathetic.

That's about to change.

The National Labor Relations Board just handed down a landmark ruling – the Cemex case – that "brought worker rights back from the dead."

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-08-28-bidens-nlrb-brings-workers-rights-back/

At issue in Cemex was what the NLRB should do about employers that violate labor law during union drives. For decades, even the most flagrantly illegal union-busting was met with a wrist-slap. For example, if a boss threatened or fired an employee for participating in a union drive, the NLRB would typically issue a small fine and order the employer to re-hire the worker and provide back-pay.

Everyone knows that "a fine is a price." The NLRB's toothless response to cheating presented an easily solved equation for corrupt, union-hating bosses: if the fine amounts to less than the total, lifetime costs of paying a fair wage and offering fair labor conditions, you should cheat – hell, it's practically a fiduciary duty:

https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/468061

Enter the Cemex ruling: once a majority of workers have signed a union card, any Unfair Labor Practice by their employer triggers immediate, automatic recognition of the union. In other words, the NLRB has fitted a tilt sensor in the American labor pinball machine, and if the boss tries to cheat, they automatically lose.

Cemex is a complete 180, a radical transformation of the American labor regulator from a figleaf that legitimized union busting to an actual enforcer, upholding the law that Congress passed, rather than the law that America's oligarchs wish Congress had passed. It represents a turning point in the system of lawless impunity for American plutocracy.

In the words of Frank Wilhoit, it is is a repudiation of the conservative dogma: "There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect":

https://crookedtimber.org/2018/03/21/liberals-against-progressives/#comment-729288

It's also a stunning example of what regulatory competence looks like. The Biden administration is a decidedly mixed bag. On the one hand there are empty suits masquerading as technocrats, champions of the party's centrist wing (slogan: "Everything is fine and change is impossible"):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

But the progressive, Sanders/Warren wing of the party installed some fantastically competent, hard-charging, principled fighters, who are chapter-and-verse on their regulatory authority and have the courage to use that authority:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

They embody the old joke about the photocopier technician who charges "$1 to kick the photocopier and $79 to know where to kick it." The best Biden appointees have their boots firmly laced, and they're kicking that mother:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

One such expert kicker is NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo. Abruzzo has taken a series of muscular, bold moves to protect American workers, turning the tide in the class war that the 1% has waged on workers since the Reagan administration. For example, Abruzzo is working to turn worker misclassification – the fiction that an employee is a small business contracting with their boss, a staple of the "gig economy" – into an Unfair Labor Practice:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/10/see-you-in-the-funny-papers/bidens-legacy

She's also waging war on robo-scab companies: app-based employment "platforms" like Instawork that are used to recruit workers to cross picket lines, under threat of being blocked from the app and blackballed by hundreds of local employers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

With Cemex, Abruzzo is restoring a century-old labor principle that has been gathering dust for generations: the idea that workers have the right to organize workplace gemocracies without fear of retaliation, harassment, or reprisals.

But as Harold Meyerson writes for The American Prospect, the Cemex ruling has its limits. Even if the NLRB forces and employer to recognize a union, they can't force the employer to bargain in good faith for a union contract. The National Labor Relations Act prohibits the Board from imposing a contract.

That's created a loophole that corrupt bosses have driven entire fleets of trucks through. Workers who attain union recognition face years-long struggles to win a contract, as their bosses walk away from negotiations or offer farcical "bargaining positions" in the expectation that they'll be rejected, prolonging the delay.

Democrats have been trying to fix this loophole since the LBJ years, but they've been repeatedly blocked in the senate. But Abruzzo is a consummate photocopier kicker, and she's taking aim. In Thrive Pet Healthcare, Abruzzo has argued that failing to bargain in good faith for a contract is itself an Unfair Labor Practice. That means the NLRB has the authority to act to correct it – they can't order a contract, but they can order the employer to give workers "wages, benefits, hours, and such that are comparable to those provided by comparable unionized companies in their field."

Mitch McConnell is a piece of shit, but he's no slouch at kicking photocopiers himself. For a whole year, McConnell has blocked senate confirmation hearings to fill a vacant seat on the NLRB. In the short term, this meant that the three Dems on the board were able to hand down these bold rulings without worrying about their GOP colleagues.

But McConnell was playing a long game. Board member Gwynne Wilcox's term is about to expire. If her seat remains vacant, the three remaining board members won't be able to form a quorum, and the NLRB won't be able to do anything.

As Meyerson writes, centrist Dems have refused to push McConnell on this, hoping for comity and not wanting to violate decorum. But Chuck Schumer has finally bestirred himself to fight this issue, and Alaska GOP senator Lisa Murkowski has already broken with her party to move Wilcox's confirmation to a floor vote.

The work of enforcers like DoJ Antitrust Division boss Jonathan Kanter, FTC chair Lina Khan, and SEC chair Gary Gensler is at the heart of Bidenomics: the muscular, fearless deployment of existing regulatory authority to make life better for everyday Americans.

But of course, "existing regulatory authority" isn't the last word. The judges filling stolen seats on the illegitimate Supreme Court had invented the "major questions doctrine" and have used it as a club to attack Biden's photocopier-kickers. There's real danger that Cemex – and other key actions – will get fast-tracked to SCOTUS so the dotards in robes can shatter our dreams for a better America.

Meyerson is cautiously optimistic here. At 40% (!), the Court's approval rating is at a low not seen since the New Deal showdowns. The Supremes don't have an army, they don't have cops, they just have legitimacy. If Americans refuse to acknowledge their decisions, all they can do it sit and stew:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/26/mint-the-coin-etc-etc/#blitz-em

The Court knows this. That's why they fume so publicly about attacks on their legitimacy. Without legitimacy, they're nothing. With the Supremes' support at 40% and union support at 70%, any judicial attack on Cemex could trigger term-limits, court-packing, and other doomsday scenarios that will haunt the relatively young judges for decades, as the seats they stole dwindle into irrelevance. Meyerson predicts that this will weigh on them, and may stay their hands.

Meyerson might be wrong, of course. No one ever lost money betting on the self-destructive hubris of Federalist Society judges. But even if he's wrong, his point is important. If the Supremes frustrate the democratic will of the American people, we have to smash the Supremes. Term limits, court-packing, whatever it takes:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

And the more we talk about this – the more we make this consequence explicit – the more it will weigh on them, and the better the chance that they'll surprise us. That's already happening! The Supremes just crushed the Sackler opioid crime-family's dream of keeping their billions in blood-money:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/11/justice-delayed/#justice-redeemed

But if it doesn't stop them? If they crush this dream, too? Pack the court. Impose term limits. Make it the issue. Don't apologize, don't shrug it off, don't succumb to learned helplessness. Make it our demand. Make it a litmus test: "If elected, will you vote to pack the court and clear the way for democratic legitimacy?"

Meanwhile, Cemex is already bearing fruit. After an NYC Trader Joe's violated the law to keep Trader Joe's United from organizing a store, the workers there have petitioned to have their union automatically recognized under the Cemex rule:

https://truthout.org/articles/trader-joes-union-files-to-force-company-to-recognize-union-under-new-nlrb-rule/

With the NLRB clearing the regulatory obstacles to union recognition, America's largest unions are awakening from their own long slumbers. For decades, unions have spent a desultory 3% of their budgets on organizing workers into new locals. But a leadership upset in the AFL-CIO has unions ready to catch a wave with the young workers and their 88% approval rating, with a massive planned organizing drive:

https://prospect.org/labor/labors-john-l-lewis-moment/

Meyerson calls on other large unions to follow suit, and the unions seem ready to do so, with new leaders and new militancy at the Teamsters and UAW, and with SEIU members at unionized Starbucks waiting for their first contracts.

Turning union-supporting workers into unionized workers is key to fighting Supreme Court sabotage. Organized labor will give fighters like Abruzzo the political cover she needs to Get Shit Done. A better America is possible. It's within our grasp. Though there is a long way to go, we are winning crucial victories all the time.

The centrist message that everything is fine and change is impossible is designed to demoralize you, to win the fight in your mind so they don't have to win it in the streets and in the jobsite. We don't have to give them that victory. It's ours for the taking.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 7 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: One phone call was never going to be enough for Bradley. Another opportunity falls into his lap, and he emails you right away to see if you can make a little time for him. When he shares a bit more with you than he bargained for, he's pleasantly surprised once again by how open and authentic you are.

Warnings: Fluff, language, Bradley being vulnerable

Length: 4300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Bradley was never usually one to get lost in a daydream. He was exceptionally good at focusing on flying when he was in the air. If he had a task to complete on the ground, he always got it done. But when he spent the rest of his day after talking on the phone with you in his bunk, he wasn't focused on much except the sound of your voice. Then he dug out the pictures you'd mailed to him so he could see your face as well. The combination of everything about you was almost too much, and he didn't know how he'd manage in person.

He still had weeks of his deployment left, and he'd never wanted to get home so badly in his life. That first date was already set. He was annoyed he couldn't give you a firm idea on when it could happen, but you didn't seem to mind too much. In fact, you told him you'd be ready whenever he got back. And that you'd take him any way you could get him. Well, as long as you still wanted him next month, you could have him.

With a smile on his face, Bradley reached for the stack of letters from your class and took the time to judge the drawing contest. All he really did was award each kid their own unique superlative. The purple jet that he thought was Violet's won the 'I Wish the Navy Liked Colors' award. Jayden's drawing of the jet with the dog named Vanessa for a pilot won the 'She Probably Flies Better Than I Do' award. And the one that looked like a dragon won the 'Fanciest Scales' award.

He wrote on the back of each picture, chuckling the whole time. Then he got to the one you drew, and he noticed something he'd missed when he first opened the newest box from your class. Next to his name written on the side of the F/A-18, you'd drawn a little heart. He was all smiles as he flipped it over and started writing.

Hey, Gorgeous,

This one's my favorite, but don't tell the kiddos, okay? The little heart really sold it for me. I can't wait to see you.

Bradley

After he packaged everything up and dropped it off to be sent back to the states, he made his way to dinner. He ate his meatloaf alone once again, but he hadn't felt lonely in months. The adrenaline rush of the phone call was finally starting to wear off, but he felt warm all over. You'd be asleep now back in California, but maybe there was a chance you had in fact emailed him that selfie before you went to bed. And that is what once again lured him back to the lounge. You had a vise-like grip on every part of him, and he was itching to know exactly what you looked like tonight while he was talking to you.

Unsurprisingly, he had to wait a bit until there was a computer free that he could use. Sundays always seemed to be when the lounge was swamped, but he didn't mind. He just sat back and thought about the way you said his name. He could imagine you whispering it. He could even imagine you screaming it.

"Shit," he grunted, hopping up when it was finally his turn, and he logged into his email account to find that you wrote to him approximately fifteen minutes after the phone call ended. And when he opened your message, he leaned in a little closer to make sure nobody else around him could catch even a glimpse of the photos you attached.

His heart started beating in that same erratic way it had when he listened to you telling him you thought about kissing his scars. Not only had you emailed him a sweet looking selfie of you in bed wearing an oversized sweatshirt, you sent a second, decidedly spicier one, too. 

Bradley ran his hand over his mouth and mustache, trying not to groan as he quickly memorized every detail of that second photo. You'd removed that oversized sweatshirt and snuggled down under the soft looking sheet, and there was not a scrap of shirt fabric covering your arms or chest. Inch after glorious inch of the soft swell of your breasts was visible before the sheet forced him to imagine what the rest would look like. And he had a very vivid imagination.

When his hand dropped down to his side, he realized he was staring open mouthed at the photo. The little smirk you wore in it let him know you were absolutely intentional about this, and that was such a huge turn on for him. This is how you wanted him to see you. Fuck. He scrolled back up to the first photo where you were wearing your sweatshirt and a much more innocent smile, and he whispered, "Okay, Gorgeous. You've ruined me."

He realized as he scrolled all the way back up to your actual message that there were probably a lot of guys who got sent straight up pornography from their wives or girlfriends when they were deployed, but this had to be the hottest looking thing that ever graced his inbox. And you were still completely covered up. He shook his head to clear his mind as he started reading.

Bradley,

Thank you for the phone call. I'm sitting here kind of regrouping while the butterflies are still going crazy in my belly. I can't pinpoint exactly what it is with you that sets them off, but hearing your voice for twenty minutes straight has turned me into a boneless heap on my bed. I'm almost afraid of what might happen to me if you touch me.

It's gone. I deleted my profile and the entire dating app. I'm no longer looking for single guys with jobs who are between 30 and 40 years old. I'm just looking for a 36-year old Naval aviator who wants to take me to the beach in Coronado to watch the sunset with Thai food and Prosecco.

I hope you come home soon. Do you have any idea how much longer you'll be gone? Why isn't the Navy taking into consideration the fact that you and I have a date to go on? I'd just really like to see your face in person as soon as possible.

I'm attaching two photos, probably against my better judgement. Maybe it's just my excuse to get you to call me Gorgeous again. I can't wait to see you.

Your favorite pen pal

He wanted to wait until he had some gym selfies to send, but he couldn't leave you hanging. Not when those two, flawless photos caught his eye again. So he started typing up a response, and soon he found that he wanted to talk to you on the phone again badly enough that he was going to go back to one of the admirals to see if there was any way he could.

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

You had such a hard time falling asleep on Saturday night after talking to Bradley. It was like your body had accepted the inevitable before your brain had. You were completely enchanted by him, and the call made it so much worse. Hearing him call you Gorgeous through your phone speaker was almost more than you could handle. You were turned on and too warm, even without your sweatshirt. You couldn't believe you sent him that photo. You couldn't believe you trusted him enough to keep it private.

He probably dated women in the past who sent him things that were way more explicit than a selfie where they were covered up, but you were still a teacher who wanted to keep her job. You loved your class, and you knew nobody else could handle your kids as well as you could. But you wanted to give Bradley what you could for now.

It was the description of the perfect date and the promise that he'd kiss you as soon as he saw you that kept playing in your mind. And you let it keep playing on loop, because he lived in Coronado. And that's how you finally dozed off. When you woke up on Sunday morning, you had a brand new email in response to your selfies.

Gorgeous,

I'm thrilled to hear the app is gone. All of the other single guys aged thirty to forty are probably at home crying right now, and I can't blame them. I'll just sit here with a smug look on my face.

That phone call was one of the best of my life. The way you say my name is somehow better than I imagined it would sound, and I'd been spending a lot of my free time thinking about it. Hearing your voice and seeing you in these photos is a privilege. That second one had me staring with my mouth hanging open for a few minutes. I think I just about memorized it, but I'm going to check one more time before I log off. Okay, maybe two more times. As much as I love it, I don't want to feel pressured to send me things like that. But dear god, Gorgeous, I mean it when I say you take that word to a whole new level.

You don't need an excuse to get me to call you Gorgeous. Hopefully by next month, you'll be hearing it so much in person that you'll be sick of it. And it's not a matter of if I touch you, it's a matter of when.

As soon as I have a better idea of when I'll be back in San Diego, that information will be in your inbox immediately.

I can't wait to see you,

Bradley

You couldn't wait that long. You would never make it. Your sheets were brushing your bare skin as you thought about him calling you Gorgeous so many times that you got sick of it, but you knew that would never happen. You were going to need another hobby or maybe five to help you pass the time, but for now, you decided to work on your lesson plans for the coming week.

Your kids would probably be happy to learn that you were planning on extending your aviation lessons to the end of the school year. Or at least until Bradley got back. What you wouldn't give to have him visit your classroom. Just the idea of him standing in front of the board, maybe in his flight suit, left you light headed. You already knew your kids would be absolutely delighted to meet him after writing back and forth so many times.

After you managed to distract yourself for a full day, you were just getting into bed when you heard your phone ping with a notification. "Oh god," you groaned in pleasure. When you opened the new email from Bradley, you were met with the promised gym selfies. One was of his reflection which was taken in a long mirror that seemed to cover most of a wall. You could see some other people working out in the background, but front and center was Bradley curling a massive looking dumbbell in snug shorts and a shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

You dropped down onto your bed and zoomed in on his biceps. "Dear Lord." Your heart was hammering in your chest now. Did he not know what he looked like? Did he not know that his body was absolutely flawless? The second photo was even better. The half-smirk, half-smile and the peek of pretty, white teeth. The slightly messy hair. The chocolatey brown eyes. The scars with the beads of sweat running down them. "Unbelievable."

And then you read the short message.

Two gym selfies, as promised. You asked for a nice closeup of my face, and that's as good as it gets. Talk soon, Gorgeous.

You were still looking at the photos when you fell asleep.

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

Bradley shouldn't have been surprised that another mission was in the works. He'd been so caught up in you, he almost expected smooth sailing and a direct path back to San Diego so he could get on with his personal life. But no such luck. After several days holed up in planning sessions, the only real happiness he found was in each new email from you.

There was another class photo in one. There was a selfie of you at a Thai restaurant in another. And there were always a lot of fun details about your day, too. But it was the bits where you let him know you were thinking about him that made him a little weaker for you with every passing day. His favorite was when you told him you donated all of your DVDs of movies with spiders in them. He also loved it when you told him that your students wanted to meet him.

If he could just get back, you and he would be watching all the spider-less movies together, and he'd be more than happy to visit your classroom. But, fuck, this deployment was dragging. He was tired, but he wasn't sleeping well. And there seemed to be cabbage rolls every evening in the cafeteria. When he finally made it out on deck a few days before he was supposed to fly the mission, he ended up talking to Marty.

"You need a hand with that?" Bradley asked the mechanic as he worked on taking apart an engine.

"Sure, Lieutenant," Marty replied, handing Bradley some very greasy bolts and a wrench. "Just hang onto those for me."

Two minutes of watching him work, and Bradley wished he'd brought his phone with him to record a video for your class. "The kids would love this," he muttered, and Marty chuckled.

"You still sending stuff to that elementary class back in San Diego? The pen pals?"

"Yeah," Bradley replied. "I think I've kind of adopted them. Or maybe they've adopted me? Either way, I've been writing to them this entire deployment. And... you know how you asked me if I was dating a teacher a few months ago?"

Marty looked at him and laughed. "Let me guess. You fell for their teacher?"

He nodded and sighed when he thought about you. "Yeah... it's just been a lot of emails and letters and one phone call, but now I can't wait to get back home."

"Damn," Marty grunted as he removed another bolt. "Some guys have all the luck." Bradley ended up helping him lift some heavy parts from a crate as Marty told him, "I have a ten minute FaceTime call scheduled for later this week if you want to use it to talk to your new girlfriend again."

Bradley was ready to jump at the chance to see your face and hear your voice at the same time, but instead he said, "I can't take that from you, but thanks, man."

Marty shrugged. "I'll just end up talking to my sister again. You can have it."

Bradley stared at him for a few seconds. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"All yours."

Bradley stayed long enough to get the details and help Marty unload everything else he needed to finish his project, and then he got cleaned up and went to the lounge to email you. If you were able to talk to him over FaceTime, it would be everything he needed to get through this last flight mission and end his deployment on a high note.

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

"Lieutenant Bradshaw said my drawing is the funniest one!"

"Lieutenant Bradshaw likes the rooster beak I put on my jet!"

"Lieutenant Bradshaw said mine is the least realistic in a good way!"

You were trying not to laugh as you looked at each of the little messages Bradley wrote on the backs of the F/A-18 drawings. They were all somehow well thought out and personalized. It was as if he actually knew these kids. But you supposed that in a way, he did. You kept going back to your desk to look at the note on the back of your drawing.

Hey, Gorgeous,

This one's my favorite, but don't tell the kiddos, okay? The little heart really sold it for me. I can't wait to see you.

Bradley

Seeing him was all you could think about now. You were almost completely convinced that your feelings would translate well from virtual to personal interaction. How could they not? He was as sweet and sincere over the phone as he was through his writing.

When you checked your phone after your kids were dismissed for the day, you tapped on a new email from Bradley before you started packing your bag to head home.

Gorgeous, any chance you have ten minutes you're willing to spend on a FaceTime call? Tomorrow night around 8:00 for you?

You squeaked in delight at the mere thought of it. His face and his voice and his words and his attention all at the same time? Ten minutes of it?

Yes! I'll be ready!

Now you had to wait. You also had to get your friends to bump up the Friday night dinner reservation to 5:00. And you needed to make sure you looked nicer than you did when you were usually lounging at home in your oversized sweatshirt. 

So when Friday evening rolled around, and you barely made it home from dinner by 8:00, you were a little frazzled. You wanted to take the time to fix your makeup, and you wanted to change into a cuter shirt that your friends would have definitely called you out on if they saw you wearing it to dinner, but there was no time. Your phone was already ringing at 8:01.

This time, the butterflies erupted as soon as you accepted the call and saw Bradley sitting there in his flight suit with a hesitant smile on his face. He didn't even have to say a word to make you feel like you were going to float up to the ceiling even as you tried to sit down on your bed.

"Bradley," you breathed softly, and his smile grew exponentially. 

"Hey, Gorgeous."

You bit your lip as you took in all the details of his face on your tiny phone screen. His brown eyes were wide as he did the same to you, and you couldn't stop yourself before you said, "Hey, Handsome."

His cheeks immediately flushed with a pink tint, and he looked down at the table in front of him with a bashful smile. You wanted to climb through your phone to get to him, settle yourself down on his lap, and feel how rough his flight suit was against your hands. You wanted to tip his face up so he was looking at you again, and when he did that on his own, you almost screamed in delight at what he said next.

"Damn, Baby. You didn't need to get all dressed up just to talk to me. You look beautiful right now, but I'm also partial to your sweatshirt."

You looked down at yourself and then back at him with a little laugh. He was staring at you in awe as you said, "I always look like this."

"You always look like this? You always look this hot?" he asked, that little grin you liked so much dancing around his lips. "Seriously?"

"Well, I mean, I didn't do anything special. I wanted to, but I ran out of time, and I definitely didn't want to miss your call."

Your heart was thudding as he really scanned your face and let out a low whistle. "I guess I'll find out for myself soon enough. About two more weeks to go, and then I'll be home. I just got that information today."

"Two weeks!" you exclaimed, nearly dropping your phone. Images of beach sunsets and Bradley's big hand holding yours filled your mind. "That's better than I was hoping for!"

You watched him run his hand through his hair, almost like he was nervous now. "Same. So what do you say? Two Saturdays from now, as long as everything goes as planned, you want to go on that first date with me?"

"Yes, Bradley," you replied immediately. "If you want to spend your first day back on dry land with me, then that's absolutely what I want to do."

His voice was deep and raspy as he said, "Then it's a date." But his eyes still seemed uncertain, and you knew instinctively that there was more going on as he asked, "You think... maybe we could talk about date number two for a minute? I was thinking we would go out to a restaurant so I can prove to you that I clean up okay."

You had to press your lips together for a few seconds before you said, "I have no doubt in my mind that you'd look just as good in a tee shirt as you would in a tuxedo."

That made him laugh as he scratched along the stubble on his jaw. "Humor me, Gorgeous? We would end up going out on a second date, right?" he asked, and somehow you could tell that something else was on his mind. "Maybe we would even go on a third?"

"Would?" you asked softly. "Don't you mean will?"

"Shit, I'm sorry," he said, leaning in a little closer. "Yeah. We will."

You and he studied each other as you asked, "Is there something wrong?"

He leaned back in his seat, and your heart started beating a most uncomfortable rhythm. "Damn it," he muttered, closing his eyes briefly as he took a deep breath. "We only have a few minutes on here, and I'm fucking it up because I'm nervous." You noticed he was rubbing his palms along his thighs, and he looked you in the eye as he said, "I really like you. All I can think about is getting home and doing all the things I promised. I don't usually feel like I have anything special to look forward to in San Diego. Or at least I didn't before we started talking." He cleared his throat and added, "I'm flying a final mission here in a few hours. It's a sensitive one, and... I just wanted you to know that I'll be thinking about you until I have to put my head down and get to work."

"Oh," you gasped, suddenly more aware than ever that he had the kind of anxiety inducing, adrenaline spiking job you could only ever dream of. Your fourth grade classroom was tame by comparison. Your students were nothing compared to opposing fighter jets. His career was dangerous.

Tears filled your eyes as he groaned a little bit and whispered, "I'm sorry, Baby. I kind of killed the vibe."

"You didn't," you told him quickly, studying the concern written on his features. Then your voice got even softer as you asked, "How will I know you're okay?"

He cleared his throat and said, "Sometimes they close off communication as we get closer to port. Of course I'll email you if I can, otherwise I'll let you know when I'm back in San Diego." His brown eyes flicked to the side and then back to you. "I'm going to have to go in a minute here."

There were a lot of things you knew would have to be left unsaid for now, so you told him what you could. "I really like you, too," you promised him, and some of the worry melted away from his face. "And I'm thinking dinner at an Italian restaurant for our second date. That way you can get cleaned up nice, and I can wear a dress that I'll be stressing out about all night long. And you can tell me that I look gorgeous while my foot keeps intentionally bumping yours under the table." He was smiling now, so you decided to go for broke. "And you kind of promised me takeout on your couch with a spider-free movie. I was hoping you'd play a song on the piano for me. I was hoping to cover both of us with a blanket and kiss you senseless. How does that sound?" You were gripping your phone a little tighter, hoping you'd be able to hear his response before he said he had to go.

"That sounds perfect, Gorgeous," he said, looking a lot calmer now. "Let's do that."

"Please, be careful."

"I will."

And then he was gone.

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

Bradley needed to make it home, because he decidedly had a lot to do there. Nat was expecting not one, but two dinners out of him now. There were eighteen fourth graders he wanted to meet. And as he ended a FaceTime call with the woman of his dreams while she had tears in her eyes, he knew he wanted to go on those dates more than anything else. If he never got to meet you in person... well he couldn't even think about that right now. He was supposed to report to his jet on the main runway in an hour, but you kept popping up in every corner of his mind. You were more emotionally open with him over a ten minute call than Vanessa ever was.

"Bradshaw!" He turned to see a petty officer coming toward him with a box. "Last mail call."

"Thank you," he replied, already smiling as he recognized your handwriting. His nineteen pen pals were here to keep him company once again, and his heart swelled with something he didn't even want to try to identify at the moment. All he could do was drop the box off in his bunk and tell himself he'd open it when he got back after nightfall.

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

Vulnerable Bradley is nervous just thinking about what might happen. He's starting to feel like Gorgeous could be be the one waiting on the San Diego end of all of his deployments from now on, but he needs to get through the rest of this one first. Maybe they can meet in the next part? Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 8

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[dr3amfyr-e]

crybaby - j.v. ( w. 5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. again. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ childhood-friends-to-lovers. someone said idiots in love, and yes! modern au. everyone lives au. liberal usage of the em-dash. foul language. pushing the rhaenicent agenda. an incredible amount of yearning and pining. mention of reader's hair. mentions of anxiety. reader has a breakdown in semi-public. subplot where reader is sick. reader is so down bad its crazy. targ-tower cameo! aemond bitter af and for no reason. wrote a bit of dialogue that is so foul but i only realized it after i typed it and its not being taken out. luke is so little brother coded. i directly quote a serial romance novel thats so cringe. part one here. ⎯ ୧

can be read stand-alone, but theres a lot of context in part one !! thank u all for being patient :3

“It's called Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature.”

Looking up from your twelve-page study guide, you meet Jace’s bright gaze where he sits at the foot of your bed, “That sounds… complicated.”

He shrugs, long fingers brushing up through his thick curls, “I need to take it, it's cross-listed for literature and political science so I’ll get credit for both. I think it’ll be interesting, plus if you take it too…” He leans a little closer, grinning in your face. 

“Send it to me,” You reply, highlighting a section in the packet about climate change and its impact on migratory birds in pretty pink ink.

You promise to look it up, to get back to him later, but it's hollow and you know it. He's already given you that pretty smile, flashed his dimples and stared down at you with his dark eyes — your grave has been dug. You will take  Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature and read pages of boring political theory because Jace asked and Jace has you wrapped around his finger.

He shifts on the mattress, lying down on his front and scooting decidedly closer to you. His laptop is open in front of him, eyes trained on the screen through his glasses, perusing the course catalogue for the spring semester. 

“Isn’t it a bit late to pick classes?” You ask, stretching your legs out in front of you, “It's December, next semester is in, like, four weeks.” 

Jace is a perfectionist, a pre-planning freak who has three calendars: a planner that he carries everywhere, a big desk calendar at his apartment for easy access while studying, and his digital calendar. Its colour coded — he has a browser extension that allows him to make events on his Google Calendar any colour. So, it's very unlike Jace, who does his schoolwork the night it's assigned, to pick classes two months after registration opened. 

“I just like to look,” He replies, “This class is Wednesday and Friday, from ten to eleven o’clock. Does that work for you?” 

You nod, because it will work. You’ll rearrange your schedule if need be. It's pathetic, really, how easily he gets you to do things.

It's quiet for a while, Jace scrolling on his computer while you fill in your study packet. 

“When is your last final?” He asks. 

“Next Friday.”

“So you’re leaving Friday?”

“No, my train ticket is for Saturday.”

“Damn, I’m leaving Tuesday,” A lull, “When do you come back.”

“The Sunday before classes start. You?”

“That Friday.”

The conversation continues like that, mindless and short but so very comfortable. It's often like that anymore, with little eye contact and no real attention paid to each other besides the brief words — and, not in the way that feels awkward or tense, but in the way that old married couples chat over morning coffee and the paper. Maybe it's the lifetime of friendship that does it, or that you spend more nights in his apartment than your dorm.

You see each other twice more before the holiday. 

The Monday that exams start you meet at the coffee shop that became yours in the first two weeks of school. The middle table by the bay window is where you always sit, and the barista has Jace’s order memorised — because he gets the same drink every time you come, a caramel macchiato. 

He groans into his hands, ignoring both his coffee and his half of the cheese danish that you’d split, “I feel like I did poorly.”

He’d suffered through days upon days of studying for the political science exam that had plagued him all semester, to be taken today at noon. It was a three-hour exam, mostly multiple choice with two essay questions. You’d been with him through the worst of the studying: in total, forty-seven pages of research papers and scholarly articles printed at the library, and six books varying from fifty to five-hundred pages. He had filled up a plethora of pages in his notebook, and at least three in a word document. There was no study guide, just a list of broad topics. He was facing the consequences of taking a 300-level class in his first semester. 

“Jace, darling,” You reply, reaching out to press a reassuring hand to his arm, “You studied for that test more than I think anyone in the history of this school has studied for anything ever. If you didn’t do well, that's a reflection of the professor, not you.”

He doesn’t seem to want much to do with that rationale, sliding his hands down to rest his chin in them. He's pouting, glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at you through his lashes, “What if I failed?”

“Then… I don’t know,” You reach up to pull one of his hands down to the table, twining your fingers, “Then you failed, and that sucks. But you’re sporting a solid one-hundred in the class now, you could get a fifty on that exam and still end with…” Quick mental math. If the exam is weighted at twenty percent, then, “- a ninety percent.”

“An A-minus,” He whines. 

“Jace,” You chastise sweetly. 

He huffs, his pouty stare turning into a glare with no heat behind it. He wants to whine and mope about exams. What harm does it truly do?

You push his half of the danish towards him, “It's over now. You studied hard, you did your best. There's nothing you can do right now to change your grade. You can’t control it, so there is no point in trying to.”

Jace likes control, he likes to be in control. A psychological idiosyncrasy plaguing many eldest children and children of divorce. The quintessential therapist's advice about what you can control and what you can’t control had been revolutionary for him during one of his bi-weekly appointments — the whole family had them, Rhaenyra and Alicent were big proponents. 

Regurgitating that to him, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re giving unsolicited advice, always works wonders to ground him when he's disproportionately anxious over something out of his control.

He deposits you at your dorm with a kiss on the cheek that evening.

On the Friday you leave school, Jace drives you to the train station. He packs your bags into the backseat of his hoity-toity hybrid Porsche Panamera and lets you play with his radio all the way there.

You’re an hour early to the station — Jace is early everywhere. He sets his paper copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings on his lap in the little lobby, slipping his finger into the book where it is dogeared. Yet, he makes no effort to read, his attention solely on you. 

“A month is ages to be apart,” He says, voice soft and thoughtful.

You scoot a little closer, elbows knocking, “It won’t be so bad. We can talk.”

His watch glimmers in the overhead light of the train station when one of his hands settles safely on your knee. Small white face, silver hands and framing, thin black band — it's Gucci, something his mother wore in the nineties. His fingers trace the edge of your skirt, and in the silence begin to smooth down your kneecap to your shin. 

“You must be cold,” He murmurs, thumbing the material of your nylons. 

“I’m alright.”

Your train is called before he can shed his coat and drape it over your lap, as he so desperately wishes to do. 

He hugs you, tightly, before you board. He's so warm, his black jumper is soft against your cheek, and you can smell his cologne where your nose lands in the crook of his neck — patchouli and something earthy and fresh, Brutus Oroto Parisi. 

“God, I’ll miss you.”

One morning, a week into the holiday, a letter shows up. It’s written in the black pen he’s so fond of, and you admire his neat penmanship as you read the detailed account of his holiday celebration. You smell the expensive cologne he wears and recognize Helaena’s handmade stationery. He gives you a sheepish smile over a FaceTime call when you bring it up. 

When you see him on campus again in January, not much has changed. You're both in your respective majors, he lives in the nicest building on campus, and he hates your roommate. She’s taken to referring to him as your boyfriend; you correct her the first two times and then give up. 

Classes are harder with the emotional slump attached to winter. You talk to Jace often, but don’t see much of each other outside of class. And then you get sick. 

Banging. Loud banging. It wakes you up from your fever-and-Doxylamine induced sleep. Per college dorms, your first assumption is that it's your loud-ass fucking neighbor! Again! Having bunk-bed-breaking sex like she does every Thursday night with her ugly ass boyfriend who radiates such a strong odor of weed and computer science that you can get a noseful of him a meter down the hall. Doxylamine tends to make people agitated.

Before you can weakly pound on the cinderblock wall, there's a muffled call of your name. It comes from the hallway, and it's followed by another bang — which you begin to realize is knocking. 

Crawling out of bed, you blearily pad to the door. You don’t have to peer through the peephole to see who it is. The voice is soft, low, and endearingly posh. Clearly, it’s- 

“Jace?” You grumble when you open the door, mind foggy from the cold medicine.

It's early January in London, and the beige cashmere jumper he wears isn’t warm enough — it's a woman’s cut, but it fits him like Loro Piana himself measured the fabric to Jace’s body. The cold weather is visible in the flush of his face, the snowflakes that linger in his hair.

“I’ve been calling you for hours, darling,” He speaks gently, voice heavy with concern. 

You blink at him, not responding with anything more than a little, oh.

His hand finds your upper arm, leaning closer to hone your attention, “You look awful,” He guides the both of you back into your dorm room, “Are you unwell?” 

You nod, “My roommate brought it back from holiday break.”

Jace huffs sharply, mumbling something to himself, no doubt about your roommate. He walks you back towards your bed, gently pushing you to sit.

“Have you been to the clinic?” He asks, one hand coming to cup your cheek.

“Twice.”

His hand slides up, finers gracing your temple to push some stray hair behind your ear, and then landing upon your brow bone, “You’re burning up.”

It's quiet for a few moments, hands retracing back down to cradle your face as he inspects you. He's focused, calculating and planning in his head — it's an energy you’ve seen him embody countless times, assessing the scraped knees, bruised foreheads, and aching tummies of his younger siblings. 

“What time is it?” You ask, after watching him bustle about your room for about thirty minutes. He's such a mother hen: making tea, procuring medication you didn’t know you had, wetting flannels, adjusting your blankets.

“Ten,” He replies, settling into your twin-size bed next to you and pressing a mug of piping hot tea into your waiting hands, “It's peppermint. I wish you kept chamomile, or really anything herbal.”

You disregard his latter comment, resting your head on his shoulder. Soft. As an eighteen-hundred pound jumper should be, “You came here in the dead of night? In the snow?”

He slides his legs under the blankets, sinking down into your pile of pillows and stuffed animals and pulling you closer, “I took the bus part of the way. Plus-” His hand drags across your shoulders, “I needed to see you. You missed class today, and I haven’t heard from you since Monday. I had nearly driven myself to the brink of madness with worry.”

You groan, turning your head to bump your forehead into the jut of his shoulder, “I hadn’t thought about class,” Bump, bump, bump goes your head, “Did I miss anything important?”

He hums, looking down at you, “We had to turn in a paragraph detailing our preliminary ideas for that big Arthashastra comparison essay. Doctor Dunlavey loved your connections to the political system in The Silmarillion.”

What? You lift your head to look up at him, “I didn’t do the assignment.” You had been too sick to think about school-work.

“Well,” He shrugs, lightly enough that it doesn’t disturb you, “Who's to say? He doesn’t have your handwriting memorized, he has hundreds of students.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, “Thank you, Jace.”

He sleeps in your bed that night, insisting that you’re sick enough that someone needs to keep an eye on you. Dressed in a loose pair of your pajamas, he curls around you in the tiny bed. His body spills warmth through both of your sleepwear, and maybe it's the fever or the cold cinderblock of your dorm but there is no physical proximity that quantifies as close enough to him. 

He's gone by the time you wake up, late into the morning. Naught of him but a text.

i had to go to class and i didn’t want to wake you up, sorry

be back later x 

And true to his word, he arrives that evening with a travel mug of lavender chamomile tea and the cough medicine he makes Luke take when he’s sick. It’s so bad that you nearly choke at the taste, but he leaves the bottle and you’re better by the end of the week. 

You’re both more diligent in seeing each other going forwards.

Your phone rings one day in mid-February — a silly picture of Jace in a bright red hat, one of Helaena’s, pops up on your screen, followed by the affectionate nickname he’s saved as in your phone. 

You even get a chance to say hello, his voice immediately bursting through the speaker, “Do you have plans for the third weekend of February?” 

You think through your mental calendar, “I don’t believe so, nothing that takes priority over you at least. Why do you ask?”

You can hear him fiddling with something on the other line, the clicking of a pen echoing from his bedroom to your ear. Every year his family hosts a gala, raising an ungodly amount of money for their charitable cause by selling high-priced tickets. And everyone comes, because the Targaryens are the royalty of the one percent. 

“Come?” He asks, “Please, I think you’ll enjoy it. Plus, it’ll be like a little holiday for us.”

And again — you’re wrapped so tightly around Jace’s finger that you don’t even think before saying yes. You don’t think through many things regarding this, which lands you in a guest bedroom in Rhaenyra and Alicent’s massive London estate.

In truth, it's not a guest bedroom, but rather Daeron’s old room. It is decorated with posters of classical musicians and string instrument charts; vinyls line his bookshelf, alphabetized and all orchestral. Daeron stays with Alicent’s brother in Paris during the academic year, attending a private secondary school with a music-based curriculum. He had been practically a prodigy at the violin. 

The room is sandwiched between Luke and Aemond, directly across the hall from Jace. There are a number of guest rooms in the house, but they’re all the next floor up and Jace had insisted that you stay across the hall from him. It does feel a bit odd to change into your pretty black dress while staring down a battalion of Daeron’s music awards and a very large framed photo of Otto Hightower. 

“I don’t mean to be judgemental, but who keeps a photo like this of their grandfather in their bedroom?” You ask, adjusting the straps of the dress, “I would understand if he was dead, but Otto is… not.”

Jace laughs from where he lounges on the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. After nearly two decades of friendship, there's little that hasn’t been seen and very lax boundaries. He had watched you change innumerable times before, but today his eyes are decidedly diverted onto his phone. 

“Good?” You ask, turning from the mirror, and giving him a spin. 

Jace stares, uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes are trained on you, scanning the dress, mouth closed and brows drawn so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well. He's a bit rigid where he’s propped up on the bed, clearly contemplating. 

After an unnerving amount of time, really only five seconds, he speaks, “You look nice.”

It's… odd. Measured and closed off, a complex thought that you don’t have the context from his internal monologue to understand. Did he not like it? Or was he stunned into silence by your sheer, Goddess-like beauty?

“We match,” You offer meekly, gesturing between your dress and his black suit jacket and slacks. A lame comparison. Nearly everyone at these events wore black.

But he smiles nonetheless, a genuine smile that shows off his pretty dimples, “We do.” 

Jacaerys drives to the event, and you’re squished in the too-small backseat of his car, between Lucerys and Aemond. Aegon is in the passenger seat, talking incessantly, and Jace wishes he would shut up so he can think about the silky material of your dress in peace. 

It's a precarious set-up, truly. Jace drives a four-door, but it isn’t meant for six adolescents in formal attire. Aemond is stiff as a rod next to you, pointedly staring out the window and only interacting to bite back at anything Aegon says. Occasionally his bony elbow will bump your side or his knee will knock into yours, and he’ll pull away as if you’re red hot, shooting you a glanced glare. 

The radio is its own battle. Upon entering the car it had connected automatically to Jace’s phone, playing a few seconds of the theory podcast he had been listening to and earning a collective groan. Luke was quick to sync his phone instead, the Ramones brash drums blaring from the speakers. Aegon changed it to chav rap. It ensued like that for the whole car ride — punk rock to rap, volume up and down and up and down. 

The ballroom is glorious. All high domed ceilings and white crown moulding and gold leaf details. There’s a massive chandelier in the centre of the room that drips with perfect crystals. An astonishing world it was that Jacaerys grew up in. Overwhelming 

“Are you alright?” Jace murmurs, hooking his arm into yours as your shoes click against the marble floor. He can sense your unease, feel it in the way your forearm tenses at any particularly fast movement or loud aristocratic laugh. 

“Fine,” You assure, shooting him a smile.

Of course, Jace doesn’t buy it. Your pretty smile doesn’t reach your eyes, it's tighter than normal. He knows things like that — he’ll never admit it, but every one of your microexpressions are programmed into his brain. 

Arm-in-arm the pair of you reach a semi-circle near the bar. Rhaenyra, Corlys, Luke, and Helaena. The boring financial drivel meets your ears from several paces away, and it's mind-numbing up close. 

‘I don’t think you can quantify the inherent need for biodegradable fuel in those metrics.’ 

‘Well, I would argue that you can. In such a high output industry you have to calculate the necessity for every pence.’ 

You nod along, putting up a convincing facade of business intellect while Jace adds in expertly to the dull conversation. Helaena, to Rhaenyra’s left, is about as interested as you.

It's only when Otto breaks into the group, and the conversation shifts from the most cost effective biofuel to is shipping on a mass scale a pertinent trade in post-Brexit England that you’re pulled away. Though not by Jace, who has become more engrossed in the conversation than he is in you, but by Luke. 

“You seemed to be drowning,” He smiles up at you, offering his arm. 

You take it gladly, “Thank you for saving me.”

“Don’t worry, I was drowning too.”

Activity on the balcony is scant; one lady sits in a metal chair sipping a glass of champagne, an elderly man stands at the far end of the railing peering at the London cityscape down below. Luke leans his elbows against the rail, propping his head up in one hand. 

“How's college?” He asks, looking up at you.

You hum, leaning down to mimic his posture, “Oh, it's fine. It's a lot of work,” There's a lull in the conversation as the two of you bask in the lack of hustle and bustle, “Have you started thinking about college yet?”

He shrugs noncommittal, picking at the nails of his free hand. He's very quiet for a while, and you allow him that because every life decision feels massive and dire at fifteen. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “Grandfather said that he wanted me to inherit his business after my dad, but now mum is talking about me being her successor.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Jace doesn’t want to inherit.”

“I know.”

“He wants to be a lawyer, like Alicent. And I don’t blame him, but that puts a lot of pressure on me. Because now it's like I have mum and grandpa expecting me to be great, and I stand in their conversations and I don’t understand half of what they’re saying-”

“Luke,” You softly interject in his rushed rant, running a careful hand down his arm, “No one expects you to be perfect. You’re still a child, you’ve not even taken your A-Levels yet.

He nods solemnly.

“I know that it feels like the weight of your family legacy rests on your shoulders, but if you also defer inheritance it will be just fine. You have, what — like, ten siblings?” He gives a little laugh at your reasoning, “Plus, Laena and Baela, and Rhaena who could take over after your father.”

Luke nods, “I suppose you’re right,” He elbows you gently in the ribs, “You’re pretty wise, you know?”

It's your turn to laugh, nudging him back, “So, what do you want to do after school?”

He traces mindless little stars into the railing, “I’d really like to study music. Some of my friends and I have been playing together, and we’re talking about starting a band.”

“That's really cool, Luke!” You beam.

He smiles sheepishly, “I mean, it's nothing grand yet. We haven’t decided a name, and we’re a bit at odds about a genre.”

“Well,” You smile, “When you lot play, let me know. I’ll be in the front row!”

The calm quiet is broken when the door to the balcony opens, “Luke, darling. Mummy needs you.”

You both turn to see Alicent peering out of the doorway, body still inside the ballroom. Her arm slips around your waist in an endearingly maternal way as the three of you make your way back towards Rhaenyra.

“How are you, lovely?” She asks, rubbing between your shoulder blades. Her pear and saffron perfume, Guidance Amouage, floods your olfactory senses.

“Well!” You reply, leaning into her warm touch, “This is all so wonderful. I’m very glad Jace invited me.”

She smiles back, “Me too.”

Being a guest of the host by extension, you’re required to stay for the duration. So, you watch people dissipate as your energy dwindles. By the end of the night, nearly eleven, your upright position relies heavily on the support of Jace’s arm around your waist as he chats with his grandmother, Rhaenys. Politics, environmentalism, blah blah, drivel, drivel. You might do more to participate if the five hours of nonstop interaction and three glasses of champagne weren’t pulling your body towards the ground, but you settle for little engaged nods. 

The car is less crowded on the way back — much to everyone's chagrin, Aegon called an Uber halfway through the gala. You’re allowed the front seat, and spend most of the ride dozing off to the tune of The Velvet Underground & Nico, 1967.

You sleep in Jace’s bed that night, despite your own quarters being directly across the hall.

When Jacaerys realises he’s in love with you, you’re crying in the library stairwell. 

“I’m fucked,” You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with the force of your misery. 

You had been studying together, preparing for the rest of your midterms when a notification came through your school email with an updated exam grade. 

Sheer terror, cold unyielding panic that starts just below your throat and twists its way down your spine and back into your lower intestine. The grade was a forty-two, which brought your total grade down to a fifty-eight. 

In the least melodramatic way possible you’d shut your laptop and told Jace you were going to the bathroom. But the bathroom was at the back of the room, and you had gone to the hallway — plus, he just knew better.

Gentle footsteps, you see his Sambas first and hear the crack of his knees as he sits next to you on the stair step. 

“You’re not fucked,” He murmurs back, his voice low and soft. One arm comes around your stooped shoulders, the soft fabric of his cardigan brushing the back of your neck, “It's only midterms, angel. This is nothing that you can’t reverse.”

The first thought in your head is easy for perpetual straight-A student Jacaerys to say, the next thought is much more self-pitying. You don't voice either, head falling to your knees.

You aren’t allowed to stay like that for long, firm hands come to your arms and pull you up. From there, they run slowly up and down — from your scapula to your bicep, over and over. And his chest blooms with warmth when you respond well, calming down. He runs his thumb over the soft skin underneath your eyes — first the left eye, and then the right — brushing away tears. 

Jace’s typical form of comfort plays on his lifelong role as eldest sibling; it's usually coddling, while he mothers you and tries to problem solve. This is not that. It's something deeper, more genuinely concerned. He isn’t trying to solve your ailment, he just wants to make you feel better. 

“It's just a grade,” He soothes, “It's just an exam, a midterm. This makes up maybe ten percent of your overall grade, and I know that you do well on everything else,” His head is cocked, looking at you so sweetly, “I bet it only looks this bad because it's mid-semester, your score will go up in a few weeks.”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut as the last stray tears fall. 

“You’re alright,” He whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek, “Hm?”

Jace is alone that night, Montblanc pen held in perfect writing posture as he journals — an exercise recommended by his mother. The highlights include:

It was gutting. I just wanted to make it better & I didn’t know how. 

Inappropriate time to kiss her face, I couldn’t think of anything else.

I’m usually so good at comfort and reassurance, I don’t know what's wrong with me. 

Fuck, I’m hopeless. 

Things feel different to me now. Not in a particularly bad sense, just different. Maybe it's the transition from childhood friendship to adult friendship. 

I read that god awful serial romance novel last holiday because grandma left it sitting out – A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kelypas. And I remember this passage like ‘I want you under me. I know you deserve more respect than that.’

I found it, “I want you under me. On your back. / I’m sorry. You deserve more respect than that. But I can’t stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough. / I want to talk with you forever. I remember every word you’ve ever said to me. / If only I could visit you as a foreigner goes into a new country, learn the language of you, wander past all borders into every private and secret place. I would stay forever. I would become a citizen of you.”

I’ve been thinking of that passage, like it's playing aloud in my head. What does that mean? 

I don’t particularly feel that for her. 

I get some of it, like ‘I want to talk with you forever, I remember every word you say.’ Anything else though, the romantic bits, I don’t. 

Though, the kissing her face was new. It was compulsive almost, like I had to do it. 

Need to call mum. 

“Is it fair to you?” Rhaenyra asks through the phone. It's late, past the time she puts the little kids to bed, but she's never not answered a phone call from one of her children. 

Jace sighs, worrying one of the buttons on his cardigan, “What if it ruins everything?” He asks, “What if I tell her, and she never speaks to me again and then I lose my best friend?”

“But is that fair, Jace?” She reasons, “To go about a lifetime of friendship keeping this massive secret from her? It won’t go away, my love. It will fester and fester and eat at you for as long as you know her.”

He doesn’t have a good reply to that.

“Jacaerys, I spent twenty years pining after my best friend — so long that I had time to marry, have three children, and divorce. I spent years and years suffocating in regret, because I missed my chance to tell her and build a life. I got another chance, which is very rare, and it was no less scary that time. But, I knew that if I didn’t go for it then I would never have the opportunity to live the life I had spent my entire adolescence dreaming of,” Rhaenyra sighs, “My sweet boy, don’t let this slip away because you’re afraid.” 

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, he thinks. 

When you accompany him home for summer break, hand in hand, it's with a new depth to your relationship. ‘Tis better to have loved.

tags<3 @one-big-fangirl

check out my event ! ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

[library-ghoulette]

With You Always

Pairing: Copia (Frater Imperator) x gn!reader (lightly implied, that forehead kiss can be platonic if you want it to be)

Rating: Gen

Tags: Second person POV, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst

Words: 931

Summary: Papa V Perpetua's ascension and catchy new single raise difficult feelings for Copia. Luckily you're there, and you know all the right things to say to assuage his insecurities.

A/N: I wrote this because I have been both listening to "Satanized" on a loop and feeling the need to comfort my comfort character all day long.

You can also read this and all of my other fics on ao3!

Blasphemy! Heresy! Save me! From the bottom of my heart, I know—

"You're doing it again."

"Hm?" You look up, confused, from the invoices you've been filing. "Doing what again?"

Copia is seated at his desk, staring at his computer, brow furrowed and a sour expression lining his face. He doesn't look up at you when he answers.

"Singing."

"Oh." Your cheeks color with embarrassment. The new song has been stuck in your head since it premiered last night—to much fanfare for the new Papa—but you hadn't realized that at some point you had actually begun singing along under your breath. "Sorry, Pa— Frater. I'll keep it down."

He gives a little hmph in reply, and you return to your filing. The office—it used to be Sister's office, but you're just about used to the larger space being Copia's now, used to the new uniform, used to most of the changes even if your tongue still stumbles on the new title from time to time—fills with the soft sounds of papers shuffing into folders and the clicking of Copia's mouse. It's relaxing… Well, kind of. Just when you think to yourself that his clicking is starting to sound a bit aggressive, you hear him swear at the computer with a level of vitriol that frankly seems a bit much to throw at a humble spreadsheet.

"Everything okay?" you ask timidly.

"Of course everything is okay. Why would it not be okay?" Copia replies, voice tight in that way it gets when things are decidedly less than okay.

"You've just seemed a bit on edge today? Since the premiere?"

He gives you a brief look over his shoulder before quickly looking away. "I'm fine."

"You know, if you want to talk about—"

"I don't."

"Okay." You shrug, slide the file cabinet drawer closed with a satisfying thud, and open the drawer for the next range of letters. Continue transforming chaos to order, one form at a time. You've known Copia long enough and worked with him closely enough not only to clock his tells, but to know that he will break in three, two, one—

As though on cue, he sighs heavily and pushes back from the desk,rolling his chair around to face you.

"It's not even that good, this song, you know? 'Satanized'? 'Urges to burst'? What the fuck is that?"

"It is awfully catchy," you venture.

Copia snorts, incredulous. "Catchy? You know what song is catchy? 'Rats' is catchy. Now that's a lead single. I was nominated for a Grammy with that one, you know."

"I know."

"And 'Call Me Little Sunshine'!" Copia continues, triumphant. "Another Grammy nomination! And I could have won, too, if…"

But he trails off, and in the heavy silence following that if, you hear what is left. If there had been a third album cycle. If he was still Papa. If he'd had just a little more time…

Copia abruptly turns to gaze out the window, jaw set, his eyes glistening. You know that he's not really seeing the early spring day on the other side of the stained glass.

After a moment, he asks, "They seemed happy, didn't they?"

"Who?"

"My— the ghouls. In that video, they seemed happy." He swallows hard. "With him."

This isn't about Grammys, you know, or tours, or albums, or movies, or any amount of success that can be measured in accolades or dollar signs.

You close the space between you, coming to stand at Copia's side, close enough to reach out and thumb away the tear tracing its bitter path down his cheek.

"They're not going to forget you," you say softly. "You know that, right?"

"They already have."

"No, listen to me." You apply gentle pressure, turning his dear, sad, stubborn face up so that he has no choice but to look at you. You repeat, more forcefully this time, "They are not going to forget you. Not the ghouls. Not anybody. I mean, how could they?"

And now it's your turn to blink back the tears prickling your eyes.

"How could anyone forget everything that you've given to this Ministry? Yes, the songs, the tours, the movie. But it's more than that. You've touched millions of hearts, given countless people joy and comfort and a sense of belonging."

"But— but I'm not Papa, anymore."

You shake your head. "It doesn't matter. The entire Ministry, everything we're doing here? It could end tomorrow, and you would still be with all of those people forever. Your songs, your words, memories of nights filled with music and magic, all of that love… Nothing can undo that. Not time or distance or different outfits or some new guy in a shiny mask."

Copia chuckles in spite of himself, the laugh causing more tears to fall. But these he quickly wipes away, and takes your hand in his. "Such a stupid mask."

It's a pretty cool fucking mask, but wisely, you keep this thought to yourself, instead reassuring him, "There are plenty of people who still consider you their Papa."

For the first time all day—honestly, for the first time in longer than that—some of the tension melts out of Copia, his shoulders dropping out of their anxious hunch. He runs his thumb over your knuckles and asks, almost shyly, "And what about you?"

"Me? You even have to ask?" You bend down and press a kiss to his forehead, feeling the worried creases there smooth a little, as though your kiss is a balm to his very soul. "You'll always be my Papa."

[espace--positif]

A Taste of Home

A Zayne x Reader Shortfic [Love and Deepspace]

Summary: Perhaps all things did eventually have to end. This dreamlike holiday season certainly would. But for now, you could allow yourself to savor each moment, one cookie at a time. Pairing: Zayne x Reader WC: ~1.7k Content tags: holiday fluff, domestic fluff, baking, humor, implied sex

Read on AO3 // Masterlist

A sweet, spicy, and warm aroma wafted through the apartment, coaxing you away from the article plastered on your computer screen. It was an unmistakable scent — Zayne was baking again. Your stomach rumbled in response to the call of the delicious scent. Your eyes lingered on line after line of text as you tried to wrangle yourself back into focus, your feet already swinging away from the desk towards his bedroom’s doorframe. It had become your bedroom too, over the last few days.

It was meant to be a single movie night at his apartment to commemorate the holidays and the first evening you’d been able to spend together in weeks. You’d been missing him terribly, and you didn’t need to guess whether he’d felt the same — he’d paused the movie mere minutes after the title screen, and you’d made up for the lost time by getting lost in each other, moments of bliss punctuated by heated kisses full of longing and fervor as snow piled softly outside. And you’d stayed the next morning, and the next, until the days blurred into one, like an unending dream.

You knew that this blissful time would come to an end, of course, as all things did, when the haze of the holiday season would inevitably dissipate and you’d be thrown back into your usual routine. That arduous routine that would find you facing wanderers and him performing tedious surgeries, away from each other. But for the moment, you’d let yourself grow comfortable in the constancy of his presence, let yourself grow accustomed to the somewhat cold and austere decor of these halls that betrayed none of the warmth they made you feel.

You’d injected some of that warmth in yourself, in the form of bright, neatly weaved garlands of LED lights you’d hung up on any wall that could accommodate them, and pillowy soft fake snow you’d set underneath the tiny — and also fake — tree you’d been surprised to find Zayne had already put up near the decorative fireplace. You’d lightly goaded him on his unexpected display of a festive spirit as you laid out the cotton candy-like snow, an observation he’d dodged by rebutting that he could have made more believable fake snow using his Evol. You’d quipped that actually decorating was half the fun. And besides, you enjoyed leaving small marks of yourself in his apartment in the form of decorations and trinkets. He didn’t seem to mind, as you’d always find them exactly where you left them, even months later. Small, yet indelible.

Another whiff of the enticing aroma, full of cinnamon and spice and vanilla, pulled you from soft reminiscence, and you were decidedly drawn away from your computer. Your slippers softly tapped beneath your feet as you sauntered down the stairs and slid into the kitchen, where the oven’s warmth emanated from. As you’d expected, you found Zayne pulling a tray of golden brown cookies from the oven. He was dressed in a dark grey wool sweater, one of the many you’d gifted him, and his sharp features basked in the soft glow of the warm overhead lights. A small smile adorned his lips as he beheld his cookies, and he looked gentler than a soft winter’s breeze. You stood in the doorframe for a moment, savoring the picture in front of you, before another rumble of your stomach urged you to savor some of the tasty treats now laid out on a cooling rack on the counter. The sound drew Zayne’s attention to you, and he let out a soft chuckle.

“Hungry, are we?” he said as he discarded his oven mitts.

“How could I not be?” you replied. “This entire place smells like a bakery.”

You stepped past Zayne as casually as you could, your hand softly grazing his back as you closed the distance between you and the object of your stomach’s desires. You stole a glance at him as you approached the rack; he was tidying mixing bowls and measuring cups from the countertop, and so you figured this was your opportunity to strike.

“Wait,” came his voice, soft yet firm. “They’re hot. Let them cool.”

“You don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m just looking at them!” you protested.

You heard Zayne hum over the slight clatter of metal bowls. “I know what you’re doing. You’re going to try and eat them when my back is turned, then you’re going to burn your tongue.”

Guilty. That had been your exact plan, tongue burning and all. It was a price you were always ready to pay when it came to freshly baked goods, and Zayne unfortunately knew you well enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I’m just admiring the artistry, honest,” you lied, a playful smile coloring your words.

“Is that so?” Zayne moved closer to you, towards the sink, dishes in tow. “And what grade does my artistry earn me this time?”

For the first time, you actually stopped to look at the cookies. You’d noticed their... peculiar shape earlier, but you’d been too enamored with their enticing smell to really pay attention to anything else. Now, you could see that each cookie was meticulously hand-crafted into some sort of animal, with chocolate chunk dotted eyes, a globular head, rounded ears (or extremely curly hair?), and a questionable large appendage at their side. They were all almost carbon copies of each other, and you admired how he’d managed to make them so faithful to each other. Other than that, you had no idea what to make of the bizarre yet endearing cookies.

Zayne must have noticed your silence, as he swiftly shut off the sink and turned to face you and the countertop that housed his creation. You realized you were squinting at the display and immediately straightened. “Uh, it’s a high score. The highest!”

Zayne narrowed his eyes as he moved towards you after drying his hands on a towel. His arm settled comfortably around your waist as he stared at his cookies from behind you, gaze seemingly second-guessing. Oh, you were laying it on far too thick.

“They’re cute. They’re, uh…”

You trailed off, hoping he would finish your sentence and enlighten you on exactly what you were looking at.

Zayne’s sharp gaze turned back to you. “Yes, what are they?”

Good lord, you had no idea. ‘Alien’ was frankly your first guess, but you refrained from verbalizing it.

“Animals…” you chanced.

“Yes.”

“B-bears?”

Zayne let out a dramatic sigh, and pinched his temples with his free hand. “No.”

It was all you could do not to let out an exasperated sigh of your own. The not-bears stared at you, chocolate eyes silently chastising you.

“Look at the tails,” said Zayne.

Baffled and wondering where you were meant to be seeing said tails, you failed to suppress a giggle. And at that, Zayne’s lips pursed into a small pout. “You have no idea what they are, do you?”

The genuine incredulity in his voice combined with the army of identical yet nondescript blobby cookie-creatures staring at you turned suppressed giggles into a fit of laughter. You tried to stop yourself from laughing, but the floodgates were already open. It wasn’t long before you felt Zayne’s own rumbling laughter at your back, and the sound warmed you more than the sweltering heat of the oven ever could. You laughed together for a while, fits occasionally quieting down until you dared to look at the cookies again and they’d start back up.

After a while, the spell finally broke, and you sighed contentedly in between small chuckles. Zayne’s hand traced light circles into the soft fabric of your hoodie as you leaned into the warmth of his body. It had been so easy to fall into this blissful domesticity, so natural, so comfortable, that you wondered how you’d ever let it go.

“They are cute. I never lied about that,” you said gently, voice barely above a whisper. Then, suddenly reminded of your original mission, you quickly swiped one of the cookies and bit at the appendage. It almost melted in your mouth, a delicious swirl of cinnamon, chocolate, and perfectly crisped brown sugar lighting up your taste buds. “Mm, and they’re delicious! That’s all that matters, Zayne.”

You raised the cookie to his mouth and he bit into what was meant to be its head. An approving hum left his lips as he savored his creation. You almost inhaled the rest of the cookie, and as you reached for another one, Zayne broke the comfortable silence with a single word. “Clopidogrel.”

The gears in your head ground to life, your eyes widening with recognition.

“Squirrels!” you exclaimed far too late.

It all made sense now: the appendage was meant to be a large tail, and the little niblets of dough at the cookies’ heads were small ears. Granted, the shapes and proportions were all wrong, a detail you attributed to dough expanding when baking, or perhaps Zayne’s memory of the actual anatomy of a squirrel being less than reliable. Regardless, you knew for sure you never could have guessed that the cookies were meant to represent your mutual, nut-loving, questionably named friend from Akso Hospital.

“Next time, I’ll just make them into circles.”

“Mm. No, I think you just need more experimentation,” you mumbled between mouthfuls of cookie. “The shape language could use some work, you know.”

“You just want me to make more cookies,” Zayne frowned in mock annoyance.

“Is that really so bad? You get to eat them too, you know,” you smiled, reaching for your third, or fourth, or perhaps sixth cookie. You’d lost count.

“Then next time, you get to make them with me,” he mumbled warmly into your ear. “Maybe they’ll turn out better with your expert artistry.”

“Deal,” you replied, turning your head to face him. You couldn’t help but bring your hand up to trace the contour of his jaw, suddenly enamored with this moment, this warmth that you weren’t willing to let go of. He leaned down and planted an unhurried kiss on your lips, and it tasted of cinnamon and chocolate and perfectly crisped brown sugar.

Yes, perhaps all things did eventually have to end. This dreamlike holiday season certainly would. But for now, you could allow yourself to savor each moment, one cookie at a time.

Note: This is inspired by the very first time we get to meet Zayne in LADS, and MC mentions how he made her little “snowballs” when they were younger. But they were actually seals! I remember thinking Zayne looked offended, so I can imagine he gets quite sensitive about his little creations lol. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays <3

[aealzx]

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Prologue | AO3

Previous Next

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“You came all the way out here to ask me to identify a plant?” Pamela was understandably incredulous as she blocked Tim from entering her current residence.

“Weeelll,” Tim drawled, shrugging with one shoulder. “Spoiler and Orphan said you’d be the best to contact. We could go elsewhere, but then I’d have to find somewhere else for these bacon and egg sandwiches,” he explained, revealing the hand that was behind his back to be holding a paper bag for a local food joint. It was a bribe. Or payment for services rendered if one wanted to be posh about it. But he was fine calling it a bribe.

“Aw hell yeah!” Harleen’s voice came from further in the establishment, and Tim caught just the faintest hint of a smile twitching Pamela’s mouth. She tried to resist, but Tim held his ground with a decidedly innocent smile, the bag of egg sandwiches still held in offering.

Eventually Pamela sighed and held out her hand. “Fine. What identifiers do you have for it?” she relented, letting Tim set the bag of food on her palm.

“Not much honestly. The locals call it a blood blossom, but I doubt it’s a haemanthus coccineus. We don’t have a picture, but we’re told it looks like a red rose bud with black leaves,” Tim answered. He’d done his own research already while waiting for the food to be made, and that was part of the reason he didn’t feel bad for following through with the others’ idea to ask Pamela. He had a few guesses already, but it would be nice to get a second opinion.

“A rose with black leaves?” Pamela repeated, her disappointed expression becoming thoughtful. “That’s it? Nothing else?” she asked soon after, frowning deeper if possible.

“Nothing else,” Tim confirmed, both disappointed and pleased that Pamela also didn’t seem able to come up with an answer.

“Sounds made up,” Pamela answered bluntly, shifting to move back into the building. “There aren’t any roses with black leaves unless they’re mutilated. The closest you’ll get is a begonia switzerland if you’re just going by appearance.”

“Oh…. that’s what I thought too,” Tim hummed, raising a curled finger to his chin.

Pamela’s eye twitched. “Then why did you-.... Goodbye,” she stammered, then figured it wasn’t worth her time to deal with Tim further, and closed the door on him.

Tim could only snort in amusement, raising his voice for just a moment. “Thanks for the info! Enjoy the food!” he called, grinning as he turned to grapple himself back to the rooftops.

So the blood blossoms were either an extremely obscure name for some other plant, or they didn’t actually exist. And if they didn’t exist, then what had poisoned Danny? At least Dick and Damian were heading straight to the manor to follow up with Alfred about meals, and bring the tissue sample with the plant based poison to where Bruce could use their tech to better analyze it. And Barbara had already mentioned she’d meet them there, so while they might not have a good start on two of the three questions they should at least be able to figure out who these kids were exactly.

—----------

“They don’t exist,” Barbara’s conclusion about the five Phantom kids they had custody of was short, but did little to answer any questions the others had. After spending a few hours gathering her data she had decided to join the others at the manor, the three who had returned from the rescue mission, Bruce, and her now gathered in the Bat Cave by the computer. Admittedly that hadn’t been something they fully expected to hear, so there were sagging shoulders from both Dick and Tim at the announcement.

“You ran the search in all of the databases, yeah?” Tim asked, immediately trying to figure out what they had missed. Barbara was usually extremely thorough. It was hard to believe she came up with nothing on a group of five people. Especially when two of them had superhuman abilities.

“Yes, Tim,” Barbara responded quickly. “If you’ll let me continue before you try to solve the problem yourself I’ll save you some steps,” she added, getting a mildly teasing smile. When Tim relented with a mild shrug Barbara turned her chair back to the computer, pulling her reports up on the huge monitor.

“The DNA samples came up with no results. Amity Park doesn’t exist on any map. There’s no social media posts about any combination of their names. And the photo Jason sent of Jazz’s ID also has no results. It doesn’t even resemble the official driver’s license format of Illinois or any of the other states, so it’s not hard to see why the bank teller would call it a fake,” she listed, bringing up the reports from her data scouring as she mentioned them. “The only activity I can track from them is here in Gotham, starting 72 days ago. I believe that’s when they first arrived here.”

The date caused Bruce to shift, breaking out of his silence once it seemed Barbara had finished summarizing her findings and drawing a connection to a separate report he’d gotten more than a month ago. “72 days ago is when the Justice League got readings of an anomaly on the outskirts of Gotham. Investigations revealed some remains of unknown technology, but no one was there with it.”

“...What kind of anomaly?” Dick asked, tensing slightly at a thought that crossed his mind. Unknown DNA, unusable bank and ID cards, two of them claiming to be beings that were never heard of before now.

“Please don’t say multiverse breach,” Tim whined, revealing that he’d had the same thoughts as Dick.

Instead of answering them Bruce just opened a different report, having been locating it as his sons had been speaking. When the data appeared on screen both Dick and Tim let out extended groans, their forms sagging even more as Barbara chuckled softly.

“It had to be dimension garbage,” Tim whined more, squinting at the report confirming suspected multiverse breach residue in the affected area.

“That explains all the missing data,” Barbara commented, just glad to have an explanation for why all her research was coming up blank prior to the anomaly. It was because they literally had nothing on this earth before then, and not because they were some sort of geniuses that could manage such an extensive data wipe to make even her systems come up with blanks.

“That also explains why Dr. Isley was unfamiliar with the blood blossoms,” Damian added, seeming unfazed by the revelation.

“And literally everything else that was weird about them,” Tim encompassed, frustration bleeding into his tone. What kind of puzzle didn’t even have answers in this world? He felt like that was cheating.

“Do they seem aware that they are no longer in their dimension? We’re sure this wasn’t a deliberate transport?” Bruce asked, masking his growing concern for the dislocated children by suggesting they might still be hiding something.

“Please, these kids can’t hide anything that well,” Tim huffed, giving a wry smile. “The only reason they’re able to hide anything is because they’re also oblivious. Otherwise it’s way too easy to tell they’re keeping something a secret.”

Bruce only frowned more at the response, and Barbara couldn’t help add her own support of the idea that the Phantoms had no idea they weren’t even close to home. “They seemed to have had enough to deal with, I don’t think they had time to consider it. Almost 80% of their activity ties back to them looking for ectoplasm. The other 20% is just general medical care and necessities of living.”

“Ectoplasm is the stuff they said Danny needed,” Dick added unnecessarily.

“I remember,” Bruce responded, though he could also understand why the kids had such a hard time tracking down a source. Most of Gotham didn’t even believe in ghosts, and the only people he or his family knew that matched the category were Boston and Greta. “Their search led them to a Lazarus water exchange.”

“Yeah. But apparently even though it’s similar enough, the Lazarus water is ‘freaky’ and they don’t want to use it according to Danielle,” Dick confirmed, using air quotes for what the small girl had said.

“All five of them have traces of another substance I’ve never seen before that seems similar to residue from Lazarus water as well,” Barbara spoke up to add, reaching over to the computer once more as she once again had their attention. The DNA analysis reports were enlarged, and she used a screen sketch app to mark the unusual traces. “It’s most prominent in Danielle and Danny, though Danny’s levels read a lot lower. But the other three have small traces as well.”

“The one called Danielle made mention of Danny having expended a significant amount of energy, to the point his accelerated healing ability has been hindered. And that there was a lack of locations with an abundance of said energy for them to absorb,” Damian recalled, ignoring the face Tim pulled as he slowly turned to look at him.

“You made that sound way more complicated than she did,” Tim grimaced.

“Silence Drake,” Damian retorted simply.

Dick could only snicker while keeping his gaze on the reports like Bruce was doing. “This will make it easier to track some of the substance down. I’ll see if I can create a collection device to make it easier for us to get larger amounts, and work on a way to neutralize the residual plant material,” Bruce commented, already making plans for the next course of action.

“After dinner,” Dick enforced, resting his hands on the back of Bruce’s chair.

Bruce seemed to consider it, falling silent and keeping his gaze on the monitor, giving no answer other than a short grunt after a long stretch of quiet.

Dick only leaned on the chair more, pulling it back slightly. “Aaaaafter dinner, Bruce. Thirty minutes isn’t going to be that big of a loss,” he prodded.

“...Alfred put you up to this, didn’t he,” Bruce pointed out instead of responding to the request.

“He did,” Dick confirmed, admitting to being requested to make sure Bruce got at least one hearty meal before getting lost in his work once again.

Bruce considered it longer, and by then the rest of his children were already on their way back upstairs. Did he really want Alfred hassling him again? “... Very well. After dinner,” he relented, getting to his feet with a slight sigh and locking the computer screen.

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Dimension hopping confirmed~ And I just realized I now have 2 fanfics that involve dimension hopping X'D that was unintentional.

Questions for the people following/interested: because I'm not familiar with most of DC or really DP's canon and fanon content and there's so freaking much of it out there, which characters would you like to see involved? No guarantees that they'll be in if I can't figure out how to get them to fit, but I need somewhere to start researching stuff X'DD. Also there's essentially 2 goals, wake Danny up, and get Team Phantom back home. How difficult should these tasks be, and which one would people rather have more focus on?

This fic originated from a prompt I found, so I think it might be fun to kind of keep that going? A different kind of writing exercise than what I'm used to. So that's why the questions instead of me just going heheh have a cliffhanger.

Though I will say I'm still of the opinion of no romance, so please don't suggest pairings |D

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