#fun fact! this picture was ACTUALLY from a week or two ago

[fizzlecosmos]

Thinking about Eduardo for too long makes me punch drywall like a frat boy that just downed a Monster energy drink

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had. 

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you. 

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.” 

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered. 

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.” 

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse. 

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!” 

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains. 

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest. 

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away. 

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you. 

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive. 

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours. 

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second. 

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds. 

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood. 

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through. 

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did. 

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming. 

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips. 

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest. 

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them. 

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas. 

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar. 

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too. 

Everything would be done if another city fell.  

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry. 

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down. 

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him. 

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another. 

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm. 

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike. 

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that. 

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do. 

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness. 

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up. 

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did. 

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears. 

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!” 

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock. 

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious. 

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream. 

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static. 

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead. 

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out. 

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t. 

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life. 

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.” 

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile? 

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky. 

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him. 

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine. 

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact. 

Your face gains heat. 

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment. 

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow. 

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?” 

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began. 

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died. 

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar. 

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found. 

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.” 

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls. 

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.” 

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around. 

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more. 

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water. 

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering. 

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet. 

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important. 

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything. 

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course. 

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious. 

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years. 

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place. 

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet. 

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds. 

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?” 

You weren’t going to stop until you found it. 

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet. 

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him. 

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you. 

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you. 

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard. 

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?” 

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it. 

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.” 

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.” 

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after. 

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question. 

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile. 

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building. 

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told. 

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood. 

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch. 

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago. 

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system. 

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real. 

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three. 

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices. 

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.” 

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible. 

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet. 

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?” 

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years. 

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?” 

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh. 

The man forces a weak huff. 

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you. 

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same. 

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you. 

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck. 

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?” 

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.” 

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you. 

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon. 

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[lovelyela]

she looks like fun || theodore nott x fem!reader

synopsis: new years eve party, based on she looks like fun by arctic monkey. part 2 to she's thunderstorms :)

ela’s note: ignore the fact that it takes place on new years eve and we are half way into january LMAOOO. i wanted to use this song cause it was fitting and my friend suggested it :c

warnings: use of y/n, mentions of smoking, oblivious friends to lovers, cursing, mentions of drinking/alcohol, kissing, confessing, kinda cringe? lazy ending (again), mentions of parties, bad attempt at writing british people.

word count: 1.5k

・❥・

7 months, 30 weeks, 212 days, and a couple hours and a few seconds was how long ago you and theo met.

"aye, mate! ready for the party?" mattheo walked out of the bathroom, towel hanging low on his hips while steam flowed out of the shower.

you were throwing a new years eve party for the students at hogwarts who didn't go back home. mattheo and theo were getting ready.

theo's friends had long known about his new liking towards you, if you could call it that.

after the party in may, the two of you became close friends, finding time to study together, hang out, do projects in classes, and more. because of your guys' new memories and stories, he found himself falling for you even more day after day.

"course i am." theo said, scrolling mindlessly on instagram. your 2023 recap post came up on his feed. first, it was a picture of a sunrise, then one of a cheeseburger you had in italy or some other romantic-looking place. swiping more, he saw pictures of you and your friends, your achievements of that year, you with animals, and finally you snowboarding.

he even made the cut with a secretly taken picture of him staring at a thunderstorm with a blunt in his hand from the night you two met.

mattheo quickly got dressed and polished himself up before the two boys walked to the gryffindor common room.

the party hadn't started yet, but theo and a few other slytherin boys were helping you set up final details.

"hey guys!" you greeted mattheo and theo.

enzo was already helping, and draco and blaise went home to their families so it was just the three for now.

theo felt weak in the knees when he saw you. you were all glammed up for the new year, with your hair done nice and a silky emerald green dress to match the color of 2024.

you wore shoes that were much more elegant than the ones you usually wear, but they were still comfortable to dance and be in.

"you look stunning." theo said without much thought, simply just admiring you.

"thank you." you blushed, face heating up under his gaze. what theo didn't know was how you felt the same.

the times he glanced at you from across the room, the times he laughed at all your bad and funny jokes, the times he did little things for you like holding the door open, all those times did not go unnoticed.

he loved you, and the feeling was mutual.

"what can we help with?" mattheo smiled after a few beats of you and theo smiling each other.

"you can help lorenzo, i asked him to put out the snacks and drinks." you pointed to the other boy, who was putting his heart and soul into a cracker and cheese charcuterie board. mattheo went to him, and began pouring different chips into different bowls.

"and you," you focused your attention back to theo, "you can help me put up streamers."

theo smiled and followed you to the staircase, where golden streamers were put up half-way.

"i'll give you 20 galleons if y/l/n and nott get together tonight," enzo grinned at mattheo.

"i doubt it, they're both too shy to actually tell each other about their feelings." mattheo shook his head. "you know i'm always up for a bet though."

everyone saw it. the professors, your friends, even the paintings and ghosts of hogwarts. they all saw the way you and theo looked at each other, the way you two are always together. they've heard both of you talking about one another like you were desperately in love.

they also knew how oblivious the two of you were. how one of you could yell "i love you," in the other's face and brush it off like nothing.

the 4 of you finished the setup at 8:32, the perfect time as the party started at 9. people already started piling in and chatting with each other.

at 11 pm, you poured yourself a tropical drink, and you got onto the dance floor quickly with your friends and a smile on your face.

30 minutes later, theo was alone, watching you subtly from afar. mattheo was finding a girl to kiss for the new year, and enzo was with his girlfriend he met at the party in may, which actually turned out to be one of your best friends. the italian was debating whether or not to go for a smoke break again.

he decided why not, and went to a hallway empty enough. he cracked open the window and sat on the floor.

he pulled out his only blunt and lighter, but before he could even spark the steel box, your voice interrupted yet again.

"you have to stop running from my parties to smoke some weed," you smiled and set your drink on the windowsill before taking a seat in from of theo.

"and you have to stop showing up to my smoke breaks unexpectedly." he scoffed lightheartedly before putting the lighter and blunt next to your drink.

"but you love it when i do that." you frowned jokingly. "do you have another one?"

"no," he sighed, "i should stop smoking so much this new year." he said.

"maybe." you shrugged. "are you having fun?" you questioned, tracing shapes on your knee.

"i always have fun at your parties," he said, "you're lots of fun."

"i'm flattered." you smiled, "did mattheo and enzo ditch you?" you questioned. you saw enzo and mattheo inside, so you could only jump to conclusions.

"not necessarily ditched." he said, "riddle is flirting around and berkshire is with his girlfriend."

"they're cute!" you said, "they're almost at 6 months, right?"

"i think so," theo shrugged. "they're really a good match."

"i wish i had a match like that." you said, "they're so great together, they have each other's humor, they're both loyal and secure, they let each other live their own lives and be independent, they're fun to be around, just like the perfect couple."

theo bit his tongue. he couldn't tell you, he couldn't have you knowing how he felt.

you couldn't know about how you made his day. you couldn't know how your smile or gaze alone made his heart flutter. you couldn't know about how he loved your guys' cloudy day hang outs. you couldn't know how he thought about you every waking second. hell, even when he slept, he dreamt of you. you couldn't know about how he loved sharing every whimsical thought that entered his mind with you. you couldn't know about how much fun he had with you, talking shit about people who did you two dirty and being dickheads. you couldn't know.

"i think we'd be a perfect couple."

shit.

"what?" you were taken aback in the best way possible.

"i meant-" he tried explaining, but just like a cheesy romcom, your best friend, enzo's girlfriend ran outside for you.

"it's agora hills!" she said, taking your hand and pulling you into the room.

theo was speechless, it happened so quick, and your reaction was not promising whatsoever.

he almost started panicking, but he had to clear the air. the secret was out, and even though it might end the friendship, you had to know.

he entered the common room, searching for you in the crowded room. he saw mattheo with some slytherin girl, and enzo was talking to some guys in ravenclaw.

he ignored them and kept looking for you.

the same way he's looked for you his whole life.

agora hills stopped and a minute timer came on, people started cheering and it was evident. 1 minute until the new year.

he finally found you after you emerged from the crowd, you were so happy he was tall enough for you to easily scout him out.

"y/n, let me explain." theo pleaded.

"no need, theo." you smiled.

"30 seconds!" someone said in the crowd.

"i've liked you for so long. since you approached me in may, i was interested in you. i've been falling for you everyday since then. these past 7 months were so fun, and i know it'll fuck our friendship up, but i can't miss this opportunity." he yapped, rushing.

20 seconds.

you smiled, your heart becoming warm after he confessed after nearly half a year of waiting. "theo, i like you too." you said.

"10!"

theo blinked at you, not processing the information.

"9!"

"can i kiss you?" you asked.

"8!"

"what?" he asked back, caught so off guard since he was fully ready to be rejected.

"7!"

"can i kiss you, idiot!?" you smiled again, knowing he thought he was dreaming.

"6!"

the question you asked finally registered in his brain.

"5!"

"..are you sure?" he questioned.

"4!"

"yes, im sure, theo!" your grin grew wider.

"3!"

he smiled from ear to ear, heart fluttering when he realized this was real. you felt the same way.

"2!"

you both leaned in, eager to make you two official.

"1! happy new year!"

and you two kissed. sparks flew and it could be compared to magic.

the two of you pulled away after a few moments, and smiled.

"woah."

・❥・

reblogs, likes, and replies are ALWAYS appreciated <3

dni if you support pro-life, racism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, sexism or anything along those lines!

[justagalwhowrites]

So this may be awkward but I saw your dbf fic and thought what about best friend's dad? Obviously it would either have to be a no outbreak au where Sarah is in her 20s or several years after the show when Ellie is an adult. Maybe the oc is a few years older than Ellie or Sarah or whichever you choose. Maybe I just haven't read enough TLOU smut but this is one I haven't seen and I would love to read something like this!

OMG Hi bestie!

So THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT WITH THIS??? You sent this in FOREVER ago but I've been so hung up on Lavender and Beskar Doll I just didn't get around to this.

Anyway, HERE'S THE ASK FINALLY! I hope you like it!

UPDATE A/N: This is now a full series (has been for a while but I just realized I never linked to the master list from here.) If you'd like to read more, you can find it here.

New in Town

When you move to Austin for work, your best friend Sarah recommends that you hang out with her dad, Joel, to get to know the area. Sarah just never mentioned the fact that her dad is just your type.

Pairing: BFD!Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: SMUT! Fingering, oral (male receiving), protected P in V sex. Legal age gap (Reader is 35 Joel is 47.) No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 5.6k (wtf is my problem)

You should have made Sarah text you a picture at the very least. 

The bar was starting to get busy and you’d realized about 15 minutes earlier that you had no fucking clue what your best friend’s dad looked like. 

“You’re sure it’s not weird that I hang out with your dad?” You asked Sarah the morning you left town. 

“It’s not weird,” she waved you off, her curls bouncing. “Promise. He’s not like… an old dad. He’s fun. You get along with me so you’ll get along with him. It’s at least something so you’re not stuck in Austin not knowing anybody.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded and then sighed, looking at your coffee. One last cup of the good stuff in Seattle before your flight in a few hours. 

There was a knot in your stomach at the thought of leaving, now that it was actually here. You’d been in Seattle for two years now after moving here for work. Sarah was the only other woman in your department - not to mention the only other person under 40. She might have been 10 years younger than you but the two of you had become fast friends. She’d been there for a year - she’d started fresh out of college - when you came aboard and was kind enough to let you in on the office politics. 

“So fucking glad to have another girl around here,” she said after you’d been there about two weeks, her arm looped through yours as you walked to a restaurant down the street from your office for lunch. “Lunch just isn’t as good with old dudes…” 

Making friends outside of the office was just as awkward as you remembered and it wasn’t long before you and Sarah were hanging out all the time outside of work, too. She was probably going to be the thing you missed most about Seattle. 

But the promise of a big promotion - setting up your own team at the new branch of your firm in Austin - was too good to pass up. 

“Hey,” she put her hand on your wrist from across the small table. “You’re going to kill it down there. Just remember to demand me when the time comes to add a junior copywriter.” 

“Well, simply no one else will do,” you smiled a little. She laughed. 

You finished your coffee and Sarah dropped you off at the airport - your office paying to ship all your things down - and you flew off to your new life in Texas. 

After a week of settling in, you finally caved and reached out to Sarah’s dad. She told you to just text him and you kind of hoped he wouldn’t respond. Once the ball was in his court, you’d be off the hook. If he never responded and you never met the guy, Sarah could hardly hold it against you. 

“Hi! Is this Joel Miller?” You texted originally, following it up with your name and - just in case Sarah hadn’t bothered to tell him you were going to be texting - some indication that you weren’t a total stranger. “I just moved to town and Sarah told me to text you.” 

“There,” you said to yourself, taking a sip of wine as you sat back on your couch. “Done. Not my problem any….” 

Your phone lit up on your coffee table and you groaned. Of course he texted back. Of course he texted back fucking immediately. 

“Hi,” he said. “Sarah mentioned you might text. Said you might need someone to show you around town. Want to grab a drink later this week?” 

You rapped your fingers against the globe of your glass, the wine lush and red. 

“Sure,” you said. “I don’t start work until next week, so just let me know when and where works for you and I’ll be there!” 

You made plans to meet up two days later. You’d showed up a few minutes early, wanting to get the lay of the land before you met a stranger in a bar. 

Joel, it seemed, was a bit late. You kept looking up at the door, waiting to see someone who looked something like Sarah walk in. But so far, there wasn’t anyone who fit the bill. A few guys who looked like they were UT students deciding to check out something further from campus, four guys who who definitely had just gotten off motorcycles, one man who was almost stupid hot and looked about 10 years too young to be Sarah’s dad and a guy about your age with a date. 

You glanced at your phone. 9:13. At what point did you call it? Maybe try to pick up the hot guy who seemed to be hovering on his own at the bar. You hadn’t gotten laid in a while and you’d at least done your hair and makeup, even if you hadn’t tried to look like you were looking for a hookup. 

Your phone screen hadn’t fully dimmed yet when it lit up bright, vibrating with Joel’s name on the caller ID. You sighed and answered. 

“Hello?” You pressed your free hand against your ear, trying to drown out the sound of the bar behind you, but it sounded noisy on his end, too. 

“Hi,” he said, a bit of a Texas twang in his voice. “Just wanted to make sure you were still plannin’ on comin’ out tonight…” 

“Yeah,” you laughed a little. “I was wondering the same about you, I’m here…” 

“Where?” He said. “Don’t see you…” 

You started looking around then, too, looking at every face at every table around you before you settled on… the stupid hot guy at the bar. 

Who looked too young to have a kid Sarah’s age. 

Who had a phone pressed to his ear. 

Who was now staring at you. 

You raised a hand and smiled awkwardly, giving him a small wave. 

He looked surprised for a moment before hanging up his phone, grabbing his beer from the bar, and heading for your table. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, setting his drink down across from you and taking his seat. “I didn’t mean to keep you waitin’, I was just expecting someone Sarah’s age…” His eyes went wide for a second. “Not that you look old or anythin’, just… Not what I was expecting.” 

“Yeah, Sarah was the baby of the Seattle office,” you smiled a little. “She’s the best though. Thank God for her, I’d have been so bored there without her.” 

“Yeah,” he smiled and nodded. “She is the best.” 

Up close, Joel was still stupid hot. Uncomfortably hot. It was not fair how hot he was for him to be off limits because he was your best friend’s dad. His hair was dark and a little shaggy and you had to fight the urge to brush an unruly curl back from his brow. His eyes were the warmest brown with a light to them that made you want to just stare at him for a while. His crooked smile with one dimple, his slightly patchy beard, his unreasonably sculpted arms for a man who had to have at least a decade on you unless he was a teenager when Sarah was born. If you hadn’t met him this way, you’d be trying to get him home for at least a one night stand. But he was your best friend’s dad. Even if he made your core tighten and heat pool around your hips. 

It turned out, you and Joel had more in common than you’d expected. You liked the same music and he knew some good live music spots in town. You were both into hiking - and both agreed that the views in this part of the country would be kind of lacking compared to the Pacific Northwest. You both liked trying to find the spiciest food in town and eating it as a matter of principle. 

Of course, you hadn’t spent much time with men the age you THOUGHT Joel was going to be. Your only experience with men in their 50s was at work and that usually involved showing them how to save a word document as a PDF. You’d gone into this expecting to sit awkwardly with the guy for about an hour before going your separate ways. But you were pretty sure he was in his mid 40s, the same age as a lot of the guys you’d gone out with back in Seattle, and the more drinks you had the harder it was to remember that you weren’t on a date. You were hanging out with your best friend’s dad. She probably had to beg him to meet up with you, he probably had a girlfriend he’d much rather be spending time with on a Friday night instead of his daughter’s friend who was new in town. 

But he seemed happy enough to stay for hours. The two of you were laughing over a particularly bad movie you’d somehow both seen - Giant Spider Invasion - when the bar announced last call. 

“Shit,” Joel looked at his watch, clamping his hand over it after a second. “Didn’t realize how late it got. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take up your whole damn night…” 

“No, I’m sorry,” you waved him off, reaching for your phone for the first time in hours to try and order an Uber. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than entertain me.” 

“Not exactly,” he half smiled at you. That fucking dimple. “Don’t really got a thirvin’ social life. I get the feeling this arrangement was as much for me as it was you, knowin’ Sarah.” 

“She’s cunning, that one,” you said, putting in your destination address. You groaned. “Shit!”

“What?” Joel asked. 

“Surge pricing,” you sighed. “Come ON, it’s almost 2 a.m., it can’t be that busy…” 

“It’s homecomin’ weekend at the school,” he shrugged. “Everyone’s in town drinking.” 

“That’ll do it,” you sighed, bracing yourself to spend almost $100 on a car ride home. 

“I can give you a ride,” he said. You looked up from your phone, frowning. “I’m good to drive.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” you said, about to push the button anyway. 

“You’re not,” he said. “Trust me.” 

*** 

Joel was very nearly in over his head with you. 

Every part of him was practically screaming “mistake, mistake, mistake, you are a big fucking mistake!” 

You were Sarah’s best friend. 

You were more than a decade younger than him. 

You were starting a new job and a new life and he really shouldn’t be trying to date someone he’d just hold back. 

YOU WERE SARAH’S BEST FRIEND. 

But none of that seemed to matter. He was damn near ready to kiss whatever asshole at Uber came up with surge pricing. He’d never been happier for an excuse to give someone a ride home. 

It had been years - at least - since he’d felt like this about anyone. He’d known you for hours, no time at all, but it felt like years. Like he could say anything to you and you’d understand it. You were obviously smart, so fucking smart. After talking about movies with you for five minutes he was half convinced you saw an entirely different movie than he had, talking about allegories and symbolism and holding onto little lines he wasn’t sure anyone else would notice or think about twice. He wanted to see if you’d let him get to know you that way, if you’d have any interest in trying to know him that way. Fuck, he wanted to know you.

It didn’t help that he’d spotted you the second he was in the bar, absently turning your glass in your fingers, looking at one of the University of Texas themed Bud Light posters on the wall like you were examining it, your eyebrows drawn together, your mind clearly somewhere else entirely. You were fucking gorgeous. Gorgeous in a way that it was a problem, it was distracting, it made him not want to think about or look at or consider anything else. It took conscious effort to not stare at you. When he hadn’t known who you were, he’d been praying Sarah’s friend would stand him up so he could go talk to you. Fuck, he wanted to talk to you. 

And then you answered the phone. 

And you were Sarah’s best friend. 

Fuck.

“You settlin’ in OK and all?” He asked after you gave him your address and he programmed it into Google Maps. 

“Mostly,” you nodded. “It’d be better if I could actually get a maintenance guy to come out to my place but…” 

Joel frowned. 

“What’s goin’ on?” 

“The garbage disposal has a hell of a leak,” you sighed. “I don’t know shit about plumbing so I’m afraid to try to fix it on my own. And the ceiling fan in my bedroom seems like it’s trying break out from its drywall prison whenever I turn it on so that’s been pretty useless. Maintenance keeps saying they’ll come by but they never do. I don’t think I’ll stay in that place longer than a year, this is what I get for apartment hunting from across the country.” 

“I could look at it for you,” Joel shrugged before he was smart enough to stop himself. 

“No,” you laughed and shook your head. “You’ve done enough for me as it is, I cannot ask you…” 

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” he said. “I’m a contractor, my area of expertise is fixin’ shit shoddy builders fucked up. You have plans tomorrow? I can come by, take a look.” 

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. That’s what he was. Fucking stupid. 

“Tomorrow would be great, actually,” you said. “I’m just about unpacked but I have a whole box of under the sink kitchen stuff that’s still sitting on my table and driving me insane. But you’re sure I’m not putting you out? I swear, it’s nothing that urgent, I just need to light a fire under management’s ass…” 

“Not puttin’ me out,” he smiled a little at the idea of that. Fuck, you were doing him a favor, giving him an excuse to see you again. 

Stupid. 

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid STUPID. 

SARAH’S. BEST. FRIEND. 

“Early afternoon OK?” He asked. “Unless you gotta be somewhere…” 

“Yeah, so far my vibrant social life here includes you and the barista down the street who now knows I prefer my lattes skim,” you laughed. “I’ll be around, come over whenever works for you. I hugely appreciate it, you have no idea.” 

He watched you go into your apartment when he dropped you off, a townhouse that had definitely been built in the last five years. He sighed and shook his head. Shoddy fucking craftsmanship, things breaking that fast. He’d help you find a decent place when your lease was up. 

As a friend. 

Because he could be friends with you. That would be fine. Encouraged by his meddling but well-meaning daughter who’d arranged this to begin with. Friends help friends apartment hunt. He could be your friend. 

He fucked his hand before he passed out, trying to think of anything besides grabbing you and kissing you at the bar as he did. 

“Hey Dad! How’d it go last night?” 

His eyes were still bleary as he read the text from his daughter the next morning. 

“Hey Baby Girl,” he wrote back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. How was it already 10 a.m.? How was Sarah a morning person? She sure as shit didn’t get that from him. “Went fine. Your friend seems nice.” 

She wrote back immediately. 

“She’s the BEST. Seriously. Give her like 5 minutes and she’s going to show you the best food in town, she always found the coolest restaurants up here, places no one else from the office even knew existed.” 

Joel smiled a little at that. He’d heard a lot about you over the last few years, now that he thought about it. He wasn’t big on social media so he only ever saw pictures Sarah texted him - usually a selfie in front of some tourist attraction as she stuck her tongue out at him - so he’d never had a face to put to the stories. But you’d become an integral part of her life in Seattle. 

You’d started as a “cool new coworker.” Then you got a name. And then you just became a “we.” “We went to this awesome new restaurant.” “We checked out this concert last night.” “We decided to go up the Space Needle because screw it, why not be a tourist in your own city sometimes?” He never needed to ask who she meant, he knew she was talking about you. 

He just hadn’t known it was you. 

Which was another reason this was stupid. He could not even consider doing something with you, even just in his head, not when you were that close with his daughter. 

“You guys going to hang out again?” She asked. “I think you’d be friends!” 

Joel ground his teeth for a second. 

“Don’t need you to find me friends just because Uncle Tommy got married.” 

Sarah replied right away. 

“Well if you did it yourself maybe I wouldn’t,” she said. “And she needs friends, too. Plus this is really all for my benefit, if she can swing me coming to the new Austin office and y’all are friends, we can all just hang out together. Way easier to coordinate my schedule.” 

Joel laughed a little. 

“Going to help her with something at her apartment today,” he sent back. “We’ll see if she wants me around after that.” 

Joel managed to keep from going to your house the second he was dressed. This wasn’t a problem he’d had since he was a fucking teenager, obsessed with some girl from his bio class. He was looking at his watch every five minutes, hoping it was reasonable to leave his house and go to yours. 

He called it at 11:45. He figured he’d bring you lunch. You said you liked spicy food - the spicier the better - and if your garbage disposal was leaking, chances are you couldn’t cook much. You’d need to eat something. It was the polite thing to do, he reasoned. 

Joel went to his favorite taco truck and got a little bit of almost everything. It was way too much food for two people but fuck it, he didn’t care. As long as it was something you’d like, he really didn’t give a shit. 

You were in some kind of matching not quite sweatsuit when you opened the door, the tan fabric looking so fucking soft. 

“Hey!” You smiled broadly, like him coming over made your day. You looked at your phone screen. “Damn you really mean early afternoon don’t you?” 

He glanced at his watch. 12:23. 

“Figured you could use some lunch,” he held up the takeout bag. “Didn’t think you were able to cook much, disposal outta commission…” 

“Are you really bringing me food when you came over to do me a favor?” You asked, brows raised. He shrugged. “They weren’t kidding about that whole southern gentleman thing, were they?” 

“Gotta give you pretty things some reason to put up with us,” he smiled a little. You smiled back and held the door open for him. 

Your place was sparsely decorated but comfortable and it looked like you were just about unpacked. Joel set the bag of tacos on the small table off your kitchen and you staked your claim to the spiciest one. 

“If it’s too hot for you, no shame in tappin’ out,” he teased, unwrapping his own taco. 

“I eat men with low spice tolerance for breakfast,” you waved him off. “This’ll be cake.” 

You took a bite and chewed for a second before your eyes went wide. Joel tried not to laugh at you. 

“Holy shit,” you held a hand in front of your full mouth as you spoke, your eyes watering. “That’s so hot! How the fuck…” 

“Yeah, you northerners don’t know what you’re dealin’ with,” Joel smirked. “Welcome to the big leagues.” 

“Oh, it’s on now, Miller,” you said, wincing a little. “I’ve got this, you have no idea…” 

He laughed but you finished the taco, eyes watering and face sweating, the whole way. 

“Alright, think you’ve earned some handyman work,” he smiled a little. You chugged water, somehow managing to look good as you did. “Kitchen sink right?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Run the water for longer than 30 seconds and it leaks like crazy…” 

He did as you said, opening the cabinet below. You had a pot inside to catch any stray water. He turned the faucet on and after less than a minute, water was gushing out from the pipe leading down to the disposal. He shut it off. 

“Good news is, it ain’t the disposal itself,” he said, putting his tools down beside the cabinet. “Looks like they just replaced it and did a shit job setting it up…” 

He got down on the ground, lying down so his upper body was in the cabinet just as you came and perched on the counter nearby, watching him closely. 

“Let me know what I can do to help,” you said. “I feel bad, you coming over, bringing me food, fixing my shit…” 

“Don’t,” he said, frowning up at the plumbing. “Got me outta my house… can you hand me the wrench that’s in the lower part of the tool kit, the adjustable one?” 

He heard you slide off the counter to the floor and rifle through his tools before handing him the wrench, your fingertips brushing his when you did. His heart sped up. Fuck this was stupid. 

You settled in on the floor near him, near enough that he’d feel your leg brush his when he adjusted while he worked. You asked him about his favorite band and he asked you about yours. About favorite foods. About the one place on Earth you’d go if money and time were no object. 

“Alright, think I’ve got it,” he said. “Do me a favor, turn the water on…” 

“You sure?” You asked, a frown in your voice. “Don’t you want to sit up first?” 

“I’m confident,” he smiled a little. 

“Alright, turning it on now.” 

And his confidence was correct. 

For a minute. 

And then it was like the floodgates opened and Joel was suddenly soaked. 

“Cut it!” 

You scrambled to obey as he got out from under the sink, dripping wet, shirt soaked. 

“Shit,” he looked down at himself. 

“I am so sorry!” Your hands were over your mouth, eyes wide. “One minute, let me grab you a towel…” 

You ran down the hall and came back with a small pile of towels handing them to him one by one. He started with himself and then put towels down below the sink. 

“I’m so sorry, Joel,” your eyes were so wide and earnest. 

“Not your fault,” he said, getting up, feeling like more than a bit of an idiot. “Your maintenance people just fucked something up big time…” 

“I have a washer and dryer,” you said quickly. “Let me wash that for you…” 

“Thanks,” he said and he peeled off the wet shirt and handed it to you. “Appreciate it…” 

He was so busy trying not to look at you that he hadn’t realized that you were staring at him, looking up him slowly, your lower lip in your teeth. Like you were interested in him, too. Like you were trying to keep your hands to yourself, too. 

Your eyes met his. This was stupid, this was very very stupid. You were standing close to him, so fucking close to him. 

“Joel,” you breathed. 

He was kissing you before he could talk himself out of it. 

*** 

You weren’t sure if he kissed you or you kissed him but you didn’t really care because fuck, he was touching you. Your arms went around his neck and his hands went to your hips, pulling your body flush against his as he all but devoured you. 

Like he’d done nothing but think of this since the night before, too. 

You were up for an hour after you got home, cursing your best friend for having such a hot dad and trying to not think about what would have happened if you’d dragged him into your apartment when he dropped you off as you ran your vibrator over your needy clit. 

Because how could you face Sarah if you’d fucked yourself to the thought of her dad? 

But you weren’t worrying about that now. 

Instead, you were leading Joel blindly through your apartment, to your bedroom. Your fingers tangled in his hair - wet from the explosive leak in your sink - as you kissed him. You pulled him against you as you sat back on your bed, crawling back toward the middle of it and tugging him along with you so he was hovering over you. 

“You sure…” he began but you nodded so fast that he didn’t even finish asking, just smiling for a second before kissing you again. 

His tongue was insistent inside your mouth, like he was trying to reach every part of you, but you liked it. The hot, aching need gathering in you liked it, liked that he was demanding and hungry for you to the point that, when his tongue slid back behind his own teeth it’s because he wanted to bite your lip with a growl. 

You squirmed out of the soft wrap that was covering your arms and he pulled at your tank top, peeling it away from you and leaving you in just your lacy bralette you liked to wear before you really got dressed for the day. His hand cupped your breast, palm brushing your firm nipple, and you moaned. Joel slipped his hand into the lace and touched the bare skin below and you involuntarily thrust your hips up toward him. He smiled against your mouth at that. 

“So eager,” he said, teasing. 

“We both have way too much on,” you panted against him. 

“Let me help you with that,” he slid his fingers below the band of the bralette and tugged it up and over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. “Jesus Christ…” 

“What?” You asked, breathless. 

“And I thought you were gorgeous before,” his eyes went over you slowly, tracing the edges of you. “Fucking hell…” 

You smiled and arched into kissing him again, fumbling with the button and zipper on his jeans as you did. When you got his pants open, you slipped your hand inside his underwear, finding his thick, hard cock and stroking him. It was gentle at first, getting a feel for him and fuck he was hard as steel below your touch. He was also easily the biggest cock you’d ever held, so thick and long you knew you were going to be feeling him for hours after you were done. 

Not that you minded. You wanted nothing more than to walk around with a reminder of him inside you for a while. 

Joel’s hands ran over you until he reached your pants and underwear. He pulled them off together, pausing just before your panties would be so far down that they would expose your dripping, aching slit. He pulled his lips from you. 

“This really what you want?” He asked quietly, his eyes searching yours. 

“I’ve been wanting this since last night,” you smiled a little at him. 

“Fuck, I was hopin’ you’d say that.” 

He pulled what remained of your clothes off and cast it aside, nudging you down so you were flat on the bed. He ran his finger over your slit, dipping into you just enough to make your entrance try to grip him but not enough that it gave your body something to hold. You moaned. 

“Don’t worry, beautiful,” he pressed his finger against your clit, rubbing in circles, making you moan. “Gonna take real good care of you…” 

He trailed his finger back down and sank it into you as his thumb pressed against your clit, making your body go tight around him. You rocked your hips against him and arched your back and you heard the smile in his voice as your hands flew to your comforter, knotting in the fabric there. 

“There you go,” he said softly, kissing over your jaw to your throat, nipping and sucking you as he went. “Fuck you’re tight, need you to relax and come for me so I can get inside you…” 

He added another finger, hooking them up into you, pressing into your inner walls and making you get tense and tight before you came hard around him, pussy throbbing so hard it almost hurt. 

“You’re gonna feel so goddamn good,” he groaned as he slid his fingers from you. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down with his jeans before he stroked himself, his fingers still slick with you as he did. 

“One sec,” you managed to find your voice and you stretched back to reach into your nightstand and grabbed a box of condoms. You needed to open it and pull one foil packet apart from the rest. “Sorry, haven’t needed one of these in a bit…” 

“Won’t hear me arguin’,” he half smiled at you. Fuck, that fucking dimple. You opened the condom and slid it on his tip, watching his chest heave as you did. You looked up at him through your eyelashes as you took his covered tip in your mouth, wrapping your lips around him and using them to unroll the condom the rest of the way onto his thick, hard length. “Fuck, beautiful, tryin’ to rush me through this?” 

You just sucked him for a moment, his head lodged at the back of your throat as you started to work his shaft with your mouth. His hand flew to your head, fingers twisting in your hair, as you went. He moaned as your tongue pressed against the underside of him before curling around his shaft. His grip on your hair tightened and you picked up the pace, all but choking yourself on his cock, not able to help yourself, until he pulled you back off him sharply, abruptly. 

“Really don’t want things to be over that fast,” he panted, tilting his head back toward the ceiling for a moment. “Fucking hell you’re good at that…” 

You smirked a little and he pushed you back down onto the bed before lining his cock up with your entrance. He paused and you moaned, rocking your hips against him, your whole body feeling like a spring that was coiled a bit too tight. His hands splayed wide over your thighs for a moment before sliding over your stomach, your breasts, back down again. 

“Still want this?” He asked, voice needy. 

“Want you,” you panted, nodding. “Need you, need you inside me…” 

“Good,” he said, his large hands spread on your thighs, holding you open for him, watching where he was entering you as his cock split you open. He moaned, panting for breath. “Fuck, gonna be addicted to you, just fuckin’ know it…” 

You pressed your hips up into him as he filled you totally, collapsing onto you as his hips met yours. He stilled in you, giving you a moment to adjust to the delicious stretch of him inside you. He was big enough that - if you hadn’t been so desperate for him, if he hadn’t already made you come once - you were sure that it would feel like he was breaking you in two. Like this, though, it was all pleasure with a hint of pain, just enough to make you feel so fucking full you thought you might burst with it. 

He started slowly but forcefully, dragging his cock back so only his head was inside you, his pace so slow that you felt his head on every ridge inside you. But he thrust himself back into you hard, like he couldn’t bear not feeling you again immediately, like being without you was almost painful. 

But he increased his pace, thrusting himself deep into you and pulling back before changing again, more rocking his hips down into you than fully thrusting into you. It meant he kept almost constant pressure on your clit, that the head of him was all but permanently against the spot inside that you immediately sought out whenever you used your vibrator. Your back arched into him and your pussy was so tight around him you were certain you couldn’t get any more wanting. 

“Fuck, need to feel you come while I’m inside you,” he managed, sliding his arms below you to press your bare chest against him. “Please, Beautiful, fuck, please come for me…” 

“Joel!” You cried out his name as you came around him and he fucked into you for another moment before you felt him throb inside as he spilled into the condom. 

He collapsed on top of you, panting for breath and you ran your hands over his broad back. After a minute, he kissed you gently and pulled himself from your wrung out body and lying beside you. 

“So,” he was still short of breath. “Got anythin’ around here I can come by and fix tomorrow?” 

You laughed a little, trying not to think of the fact that you’d just fucked your best friend’s dad. Trying not to think of the fact that there was no way this could be a one time thing. 

“Oh, I’m sure I can think of something,” you said. “I’m sure I can think of a lot of things.” 

[lovebugism]

Some blurb with grumpy fem reader and sunshine eddie?

He's constantly flirting with her and she only teases him or talking him down.

One time some cheerleader trying to flirt with Eddie and reader is so possesive, taking his hand and walking away. Eddie is wide-eyed, big smirk on his face and going after her with jumpy steps full of joy.

✶ ┄ SHE'S SO UNUSUAL !

summary: eddie's pretty sure he's loved you since the day he met you. you're pretty sure love is a neurochemical con job pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 2.8k warnings: none? maybe just the faintest hint of angst? a/n: let's play a game of spot the steven universe reference because a clip popped on my tiktok fyp a couple days ago and even though i've never seen it, i simply haven't been able to stop thinking about it <3 anyways thanks so much for your request! hope you enjoy!

( BLURB SLEEPOVER ) | ( MASTERLIST )

Eddie’s pretty sure he’s loved you since before he understood what the word really meant. He didn’t know a lot of things, really, especially not as a lanky-limbed teenager trying hopelessly to navigate puberty in a world filled with assholes and uncertainty.

The only thing he could be certain of was all the love he had for you.

He’s seventeen and hopelessly stupid and you’re beautiful and eons out of his league. He concludes that having the majority of your gen-ed classes has to be fate and that making fun of you is the easiest way to talk to you without feeling like he needs to throw up. 

So he takes to bothering you every day before class and sitting at the table beside you — despite the fact that it had been assigned to someone else at the beginning of the school year — until the teacher ultimately gives up and lets him sit next to you. He pokes fun at your Blondiemerch and how the same She’s So Unusual Cyndie Lauper cassette has been in your walkman for a week straight and the way you dot your eyes with pretty little hearts.

Every joke is sprinkled with the faintest hint of truth, though.

He tells you that he hates Blondie but that the shirt looks good on you, because everything you wear looks good on you. He says it’s hilarious that you can’t seem to listen to anything other than Cyndie Lauper but that he understands because he’s been obsessed with Metallica lately — and that he’d love to show you some of their music sometime. He says only children put hearts over their i’s, but that it's real cute when you do it, when you do anything.

“You’re so annoying,” you inevitably tell him with the roll of your eyes when he tells you exactly that. He can’t tell if the way the corner of your lip quirks up is from a half-concealed smile or a look of disgust.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he shrugs and knocks his leather-clad shoulder with yours. “It’s not my fault that I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s kinda your fault.”

He says it all with a playful lilt to hide how much he means each word. That he’s in love with you and has been since you were in middle school, when he had a godawful buzz cut and loving Rocky Horror Picture Show was your entire personality — at twelve. 

“Love at first sight doesn’t exist,” you argue while you mindlessly jot down notes from the textbook spread open between you, dotting every i with a practiced heart. “Love takes time and work. At the bare minimum, you should at least probably know the other person — and you don’t have a single clue who I am.”

He’s momentarily knocked asunder at your words, at how profound they are. It’s like a century-old philosopher is using a pretty highschool aged girl as a mouthpiece, and it only makes him love you more.

“Well, I could get to know you,” he retorts with a frown. “You just won’t let me.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?” you squint over at him. 

“Yeah. That love takes time,” he echoes and a grin pulls slow at his lips. “Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

When two years fly by, and you’re finally a senior (and Eddie’s repeating his last year of high school over again because the one before it knocked him on his ass), you realize that he wasn’t kidding around. He still tries hopelessly to get to know you and jokes that he’s a second-year senior only because he “didn’t want to leave you behind.”

“Couldn’t just leave you by yourself, sweetheart,” he says with a defiant shake of his head. “No way. Not with Jason Carver and all the other freaks roaming around here.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re the freaks here, Eds,” you monotone as you put in the combination for your locker.

He immediately notices the use of the nickname. It took you a year to call him anything other than Munson, and now he’s moving into Eds territory? It feels like his heart might burst. But you don’t seem to notice it so Eddie decides to keep it to himself, like sunshine in his pocket, lest he brings it up and he never gets to hear it again.

He presses a hand to his chest and leans in next to you. “Ouch, babe. I’m wounded. Truly. Sorry for wanting to protect a sweet little thing like you.”

You scrunch your nose and swat his hand away when he tries to squeeze your cheek.

“Some would say I actually need protecting from you.”

 “I am capable of pretty dangerous things, sweetheart.”

“Like what?” you scoff.

Eddie only grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You ignore the chill that his words shoot down your spine and pretend to be unbothered by the way they make your heart race. You choose to roll your eyes at him and stuff your arms with textbooks. “You better have a massive dick to back up that attitude, Munson, or people are gonna be real disappointed.”

“And by people you mean you, right?”

“Obviously not,” you monotone.

“Well, joke's on you, I’ve already disappointed everyone I know.”

“That’s not true, Eds—” you shoot back but then swallow the words when you realize you were about to say something too sweet. “There are billions of people in the world you haven’t met yet. There’s still plenty left to disappoint.”

“You’re real sweet, you know that?” he jokes with a smile. “Besides, if you’re really worried about the size of my dick, we can always break out a ruler and, you know, test your theory.”

“Ooh, sorry,” you wince. “I left my magnifying glass at home. Maybe some other time?”

“How about tomorrow?” he answers quickly and easily falls into step with you when you shut your locker and head towards your next class.

“I have a date tomorrow, actually. No can do.”

His heart stops and his throat swells and he forgets what words are for a moment or two. He can only blink at you for a few seconds. “A— A date?”

“Uh-huh. Jason Carver. He asked me out this morning.”

“You’re kidding,” he retorts bitterly with a scowl on his face. Then you start laughing at him and the world starts spinning again. He starts laughing too, but it’s more of a sigh of relief than anything else. “You— You are kidding?”

“Obviously I’m kidding,” you shove him. “Hell will freeze over before I am willingly anywhere around that guy.”

Eddie’s freshly beating heart starts to swell. It feels like more of an honor than it already has been, for you to want to willingly be around him.

“Oh, so you were just trying to make me jealous, then?” he squints over at you.

This time, you’re the stuttering mess as you try to figure out what to say.

He chuckles at you. “Because it worked, sweetheart.”

A couple of months or more go by and graduation nears — well, for you. Eddie’s still hellbent that he’s going to have to repeat another year, but you’ve made it your mission to get him to pass English.

He doesn’t even mind that it means he actually has to do the homework, as long he gets to spend time with you in the Hellfire room after school or share a snack with you at the picnic tables at Forest Hill.

It’s got him living in a state of grandeur. He’s hopelessly deluded, not only that he’s in love with you, but that you’re in love with him. And, for obvious reasons, you know that can’t be true.

Neither of you can be in love because you’re kids and you’re stupid and you don’t know a single damn thing about anything, let alone something as trivial and philosophical as love. It’s a neurochemical con job, everyone knows it. It’s not real.

Everyone thought Nancy and Steve were in love at one point, and then she called him bullshit at a party before fucking off with Jonathan Byers.

Everyone thought Jason and Chrissy were in love, too — that they would be everything Steve and Nancy couldn’t — and then she dumped him in front of the entire school after catching him being an asshole to a bunch of Hellfire club freshmen.

So, obviously, no one knows what love is. 

And by that logic, they can’t know when they’re in it either.

So you chalk up the butterflies and burning cheeks you always get around Eddie to being a dumb teenager who’s lonely and touch starved. Because it’s not love. It just can’t be.

Eddie begs to differ, though, and he swears he’s got the test to prove it.

It’s the spring assembly at Hawkins High, which means everyone’s gathered in the gymnasium on bleachers that are not nearly big enough to accommodate everyone, doing fuck all and grateful for not having to do any actual work. 

The cheerleaders do a couple of dances, the basketball team prances around the court — it’s all hopelessly pedestrian as far as you’re concerned.

You and the rest of Hellfire are located at the very top of the bleachers, as far away as you possibly can be from whatever the hell is going on below you. It checks out, though, because everyone else opts to keep their distance from the lot of you, too.

And you’re not exactly sure how the conversation started, but somehow you end up talking about crushes, and Eddie makes the too bold proclamation that you’ve got the fattest crush on him of all people.

“Leave her alone!” Dustin scolds him over the band, the only one actually trying to stick up for you. “Maybe this is something you should discuss, I don’t know, in private?”

You roll your eyes. “There’s no need. Because I don’t have a crush on you, Eddie Munson,” you tell him, stern and unwavering, as you squint over at him. Your glare follows the boy as he paces up and down the bleachers, two levels below you. “Sorry to bruise your ego.”

“Oh, so you won’t care if I tell Chrissy that I wanna take her on a date?” he asks you with a knowing grin.

“Why would I care?” you retort, then grumble. “It’s not like she would say yes anyway.”

“Well, she did ask me first.”

That quietens you instantly “…You’re lying.”

“Wanna bet?” he teases and leans down, resting his weight on the seating in front of him, until his face is level with yours. You can smell the nicotine on his breath and the mint gum he smacks between his teeth. 

If you were alone — and in some godawful teenage drama — you might’ve pulled him in for a kiss right there. At least, that’s what your brain tells you to do because your lips have started to tingle just thinking about it.

You hope Eddie hasn’t noticed the way your gaze falls on his own pink, plump, and very kissable ones. But the grin that paints his features then tells you that he has.

You play it off with a stoic expression and crossed arms. “Chrissy going from dating the captain of the basketball team to the town’s local freak would be an unprecedented low.”

“I’ll be sure to tell you all about our trip to Lover’s Lake tomorrow morning, sweetheart, don’t worry your pretty little head,” he promises before rising and spinning on his heels. He makes the trek to the lower level of the bleachers — a feat made more difficult by the crowd and the distance between it and him.

He makes sure to turn and look back at you every now and again, to make sure that you’re still watching him. You are. Of course, you are. And you hope the seething anger in your chest doesn’t show on your face.

“He’s not actually gonna ask her out, right?” Mike wonders.

“No way,” Dustin denies with the shake of his head. “The president of Hellfire can’t date a cheerleader… Right?”

Gareth shrugs. “He’s obviously bluffing.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t do that,” Jeff agrees. He turns to look over at you. “He’s been in love with you since middle school. He just wants to upset you.”

“Well, it’s fucking working,” you grumble under your breath. Your heart races and your vision swims as you watch him near the group of cheerleaders sitting on the floor of the gym. 

You want to believe that he’s bluffing, you really do, but you don’t doubt that Chrissy’s asked him out.

After she dumped Jason, she’d gotten strangely protective over the Hellfire club — constantly making an effort to talk to them all, ensuring that the rest of the school wasn’t acting total assholes around them. Hell, she’s even started being nice to you and you weren't even in the damn club.

She’s been hanging around with Eddie a lot more lately, catching up in the library and ranting about tests between classes. Everyone’s seen it. You’ve seen it. And it’s made you unbelievably jealous. 

Maybe you never noticed it before now because you used to be the only girl interested in talking to Eddie. But now he’s got the head cheerleader around to keep him company, to ask him out on fucking dates, and it leaves you seething in your rage.

And if love is anger, then you’re head over heels for Eddie Munson.

You rise suddenly from your seat and shove your way through the bleachers, muttering lackluster excuse me’s under your breath as you go and elbowing those who refuse to get out of your way. 

You reach Eddie just before he’s about to tap on Chrissy's shoulder. You take that hand and nearly jerk it from its socket the way you pull at him. Eddie is stunned, for all of half a second, thinking it must’ve been a fuming Jason Carver at the force of the grip around him. 

But it’s just you, all but dragging him out of the gymnasium with the strength of ten men in one angry teenage girl, and it makes him smile so hard it hurts.

He traps the grin between his teeth and locks eyes with the rest of Hellfire from across the room. He brings two fingers to his forehead in salute before he’s pulled out of the gym entirely.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases as you lead him down a long hallway. “Thought you didn’t give a shit if I asked her out?”

You don’t respond to his teasing. You just keep tugging him by his wrist through the empty school. He’s not even sure if you’re even breathing just now, or if you’re moving strictly on autopilot and rage.

You shove him into Mr. Kamisnky’s vacant classroom and lock the door behind you.

Eddie’s chest rises and falls with the heavy breath he exhales. “Well, shit, sweetheart... If I knew making you jealous was all I needed to do to get you alone, I would’ve done it a long time ago—”

“Say you didn’t mean it,” you interject, less than amused at his teasing.

“…What?”

“That you wanted to take Chrissy on a date,” you elaborate with arms crossed over your chest, protecting yourself, your heart. “Say you didn’t mean it.”

And Eddie laughs. He fucking laughs. Like everything’s a joke to him, like the mere thought of you being heartbroken over him liking Chrissy is funny to him.

It’s not. Well, at least not that bit. It’s laughable to him that you would even think he wanted anybody but you after he’s spent so many years fawning over you.

“Of course, I didn’t mean it,” Eddie scoffs. He tries to take a few steps closer to you, but you back away, not believing him. He softens. “I just wanted to make you jealous, sweetheart. I didn’t wanna… hurt your feelings.”

“Well, you did,” you monotone.

The boy’s brows furrow. “Hurt your feelings or make you jealous?”

“…Yes.”

A smile pulls slow at his lips. He tries to hide it but fails miserably. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I just wanted to see how you would react. And I am very pleased by this reaction… Even though my wrist feels like it’s broken.”

“Sorry,” you murmur to yourself, already embarrassed at how angry you’d gotten.

“Don’t be sorry,” Eddie declines with the shake of his head. This time when he walks toward you, you don’t back away from him. You even let him take your elbows in his hands and rub his thumbs over your warmed and jealousy-prickled skin.

“Actually, you know what, do be sorry,” he corrects playfully. “And make it up to me by taking me out. Somewhere fancy.”

You purse your lips to the side in attempts to hide your smile. 

“Benny’s Burgers?” you offer after a moment.

“Ooh. Burgers, fries, a milkshake, and a hot date?" he lists with a nod of approval. "You really know how to get a guy to swoon, don't ya sweetheart?”

[brucesterling]

Utopian Realism, a speech by Bruce Sterling

*I never posted any lecture of mine on Tumblr, even though Tumblr would seem to have plenty of elbow-room for hour-long, learned, European public lectures (with many lecture slides).

*Might as well give that a try and see what happens.

From the Technology Biennial in Turin, Italy, April 02024.

Thanks for coming to see me. As Loredana Lipperini just pointed out, I am Bruce Sterling, here to deliver my speech on the theme of “realistic Utopia” — the public Utopia, and the private Utopia.

This first slide would be the hero of my remarks today, because he’s the world’s biggest expert on Utopia. He’s called “Raphael Hythlodaeus.” In the Italian editions of the book “Utopia,” he’s “Raffaello Itlodeo.”

Here’s a picture of Raffaello personally meeting Sir Thomas More, and Sir Thomas More’s friend and host, Peter Gillis, in the year 1515.

The book was published 500 years ago in the Latin language. The author was Sir Thomas More — but Thomas More was a lawyer. He didn’t plan to be a novelist. In the book, he claims that he’s simply writing down the testimony of Raphael Hythlodaeus. The source for the book is allegedly Raphael (according to Thomas).

So, the novel “Utopia” was a kind of a hoax or a joke that Thomas More invented — while he was on vacation.

This book project happened because More had to leave England on official business. He had to leave his private home, and his beloved family, and take part in public life, as a diplomat in the service of the king of England. So, Thomas More had to travel, and go meet some Spanish officials in the city of Bruges on the European continent. So he left England, and he dutifully journeyed to Bruges. But — after some weeks of diplomatic struggle — he realized that the negotiations were going nowhere. His negotiations were a hoax and a joke, because the king of England and the king of Spain were quarreling. They had no intention of ever reaching an agreement.

So Thomas More had to spend six long months of his life in Europe pretending to be a diplomat and a lawyer, to satisfy reasons of state. He could not achieve anything useful or practical on that mission.

So, More was a bit upset by this situation. He left the city of Bruges, where nothing was happening. He went to Antwerp instead, because he had a friend there. His friend was a fellow scholar named Peter Gillis. Peter Gillis was an Antwerp city official. He was in government, and he was quite well-to-do, a very well-connected guy. So, he could play host to Sir Thomas More. Thomas More was welcome to stay in his private house for no money, and to eat the family’s food at no charge, and just relax as an honored house guest, for several months.

So, Thomas More and Peter Gillis are in this private home, avoiding actual work. They enjoy many free-wheeling, private, intellectual discussions, which are all about law, and justice, and business, and economics, and politics, and the general state of the world.

These two intellectuals agree that the state of the world is pretty terrible. Clearly the real world is quite bad, it’s not a Utopia at all. In fact the first part of the book “Utopia” is pretty much all dystopia. It’s about how bad things are in Europe, and it’s rather realistic too — these are grim assessments.

So, Thomas More and Peter Gillis, while discussing the world together, decide to invent this wandering scholar named Raphael Hythlodaeus. The wise and learned Raphael can speak Latin and Greek, just like they do — but Raphael has been to a country where everything works.

Peter Gillis even invents a Utopian alphabet, and he writes some poetry in the language of Utopia — just to demonstrate that he can play this fun Utopian game with his guest Thomas More.

Peter Gillis is willing to cooperate. He even pretends to personally introduce Thomas More to Raphael Hythlodaeus.

In the book, Raphael appears, and he starts talking. He recites the entire story of Utopia. Raphael speaks the book “Utopia,” aloud. It’s 30,000 words of text, so Raphael recites this book in one long afternoon. It’s a three and a half hour lecture, and Thomas More writes it all down.

However, it’s somehow not boring. It’s a brilliant, world-class lecture, because Raphael Hythlodaeus is quite an amazing guy. Raphael doesn’t look rich or famous. Basically, he looks like a sailor. He’s got a long beard, and he’s kind of weatherbeaten. He’s a long-haired wanderer in beat-up old clothes.

He says that he’s from Portugal — he’s a native of Portugal — but somehow he’s been to Persia, and Ceylon, and spent rather a lot of time in Belgium. He’s been to Brazil. He knows England very well. Raphael Hythlodaeus knows the Archbishop of Canterbury personally.

If you read the book carefully, it turns out that Raphael Hythlodaeus left Portugal — he went to Brazil to explore the new world — and he crossed South America, somehow. Then Raphael crossed the Pacific Ocean, discovering several new countries that nobody else ever heard of. Somehow, after visiting Ceylon, he returned back to Portugal.

So Raphael Hythlodaeus has circled the entire world — several years before Ferdinand Magellan and his fleet tried to do the same thing. Raphael is the first guy to ever travel around the world.

Why?

Why did he do it?

Well, basically, it’s because he’s a tourist.

He derives no political or economic benefit from all this wandering. He just wanders — he tours. He says that he had a lot of money once, but he gave all the money away — to members of his family, and to friends. He refuses to ever serve in any government. He understands law. He understands economics. He’s a super knowledgeable guy. But he never takes part in public politics, because he says that it’s slavery. There’s no reason for him to stop travelling and ever do that work.

Raphael Hythlodaeus is basically a dropout hippie backpacker. He’s a refusenik. He despises power. He despises wealth. He’s rigorously anti-materialistic. He’s an intellectual dissident.

He’s not a pilgrim of any religious faction. He doesn’t engage in any trade while he travels. He has no career. He’s not a lawyer. He’s not a banker. He’s not a patriot — he’s never going back to Portugal. He cut his ties with the homeland. He’s cosmopolitan.

Any town in the world is good enough for him. Antwerp is just fine. He’s happy to be in Antwerp, although he has no reason to be there. He’s just in Antwerp while talking to Sir Thomas More. He has no wife. He has no mistress. He has no children, no grandchildren. He has no duties. He never has to change clothes.

Every day — he says — he just does whatever he likes.

He just does whatever he likes!

Raphael Hythlodaeus is the most utopian figure in the book “Utopia.” He’s a one-man Utopia. He’s a personal Utopia — because he makes a utopia all by himself, just for himself.

This struggle between the private, personal Utopia, and the political, public Utopia, is present from the beginning of the book “Utopia.”

In the book, Raphael says that he lived with the Utopians for five years. He knows everything there is to know about them. He studied them very closely. He knows the Utopian language, he knows their alphabet, their history, their military, their judiciary, their economic system, their justice system. He knows how they educate the youth. How they raise crops, what they eat, how they dress, the transportation system. Everything.

He just comprehensively knows everything about that society — every driving force that matters, every aspect that makes a country a country.

So Thomas More and Peter Gillis, they make lunch for him. They just invite this world traveller over to the private house they share. They offer him something to eat.

After they eat together, Raphael is quite happy to tell them everything there is to know about the Utopian system. For no pay — no reward. He doesn’t want any credit in the book, either. He just delivers Utopia to them, in one comprehensive talk.

Then Raphael Hythlodaeus just disappears. He has complete existential freedom. He just drifts around the planet like the wind. He’s a Utopian tourist. He’s a traveling one-man show. He’s like an exile on planet Earth.

He’s a fictional character and the book “Utopia” is a fictional book, but Thomas More was a very real person. More was inventing this Utopia game, and making it up in detail, mostly to amuse his host Peter Gillis, who was feeding him, and sheltering him.

But Thomas More ran out of vacation time. He was on vacation in Antwerp, but he had to go back to England. He had to return to his private house, and to resume his public career as a working lawyer.

He had no more time ever to write any fiction. Thomas More never wrote fiction again. He wrote a lot of government tracts. He wrote sermons and legal opinions. No more fiction, though.

After about a year in England, More bundled up all his Utopia papers. He put the game aside, and he sent all the paperwork to Peter Gillis. He said: you know, Peter, I have no leisure time to mess with this game anymore. Why don’t you see if you can do something with it? You participated, so just do anything you want with this Utopia project. Maybe Erasmus can help you.

That would be Desiderio Erasmus of Rotterdam, the very famous European scholar. Erasmus did help — he helped Peter Gillis, and together they published the world’s first edition of Utopia.

That’s the book. You can see that Erasmus is the editor. Erasmus has added plenty of his own witty epigrams to the text. Erasmus knows this book is innovative and strange, and he’s trying to increase sales by including some Erasmus content.

The book was a private joke for Thomas More — because it was only published in Europe. This is him, by the way.

This is the author of Utopia, when he had achieved high rank in the English government. Thomas More doesn’t care about novelists — there was no such profession, there were no copyrights. He’s an intellectual scholar who became a public politician. He works for the English government — the royal court in London. He’s prosperous. He builds a grand private mansion for himself and his family. This is the house:

His book Utopia is not published in England — not while More was alive. The English knew practically nothing about this novel, written in Latin, in Europe, by their Lord Chancellor, rather discreetly.

Here’s Thomas More in his private life.

This a sketch of a portrait that he’s working on, together with a hired artist. More has a gold chain around his neck because he’s become the Chancellor of England. However, his private family life is of great concern to him. Thomas More is writing many careful hand notes on this sketch, so that the artist can paint it properly.

This is a portrait of Thomas More’s entire household. Not just himself — all his relatives, and also his household retainers, everyone under his roof. They’re all gathered in his house, to be recorded for posterity.

It’s really quite a nice private house. It’s got a very high-tech clock on the wall. If you look at it: flower bouquets, vases, curtains….

All the women in this portrait have books. Because they’re all literate. Thomas More has educated every woman in his house. They understand Latin. They can write Greek. They know astronomy, music, mathematics. They’re some of the most highly educated women in the world. He educated them privately. Inside the house. Women could not go to school, but he pulled in the best scholars and he had them give lessons to his wife and his daughters. And retainers. And anybody who’s listening.

More’s private house is a kind of Utopian University.

This is the eventual painting which was made from the sketch.

The fellow in red, that’s Thomas More’s father.

Dad was also a lawyer, and he was also involved in politics. But, he got involved in a serious controversy. He was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

That was dad’s experience. He had to go inside the Tower of London for a month. A terrible place. A dungeon. Political opponents of the English regime, they’re tortured and sometimes murdered in the Tower of London. A very sinister place.

One month of that Tower of London prison experience was plenty for dad. He retired from public life immediately. He never sought political power again. He just went back to the house with Thomas More and the very educated girls. There was plenty to do in there. It’s a private house, but look at it, it’s nice. There are carpets. Dogs. Nice clothes. They have some messengers, like a scholar in the back, writing some mail. It’s so civilized that it’s like a different world.

Things go well for a while — but then the author of “Utopia” himself gets into some very serious and realistic political trouble. Because the king of England is divorcing his wife, who is a Spanish princess. He’s removing the Kingdom on England from the Catholic church. It’s basically a Brexit situation.

He’s seceding from Christendom, and declaring himself the spiritual head of the Church of England.

Thomas More does not approve of this. He’s very pro-European, he’s a diplomat. He knows the idea is terrible. There will be nothing but trouble from it.

He tries to be diplomatic with the King. He gets into all kinds of legal arguments. This is no use. King Henry the Eighth, he’s determined to marry six different women. It’s realpolitik. It’s a political crisis. The king will not back down. More leaves power, he tries to escape the dismal mess and go on vacation. He just goes back to his private house. Like his dad.

I’m not in the government, he declares. I want nothing to do with government. I don’t seek power. I don’t want wealth.

But his private life cannot protect him. The regime insists that he has to sign a public declaration that the King has moral authority over the Pope. He’s just required to sign this — to collaborate. He refuses. It’s a very long, painful controversy. He doesn’t want to sign. He’s fighting on ethical principle. I’m a private citizen. I’m in my own house. I want nothing to do with politics. You can’t make me sign public documents against my will.

That struggle doesn’t end well. Here is a painting of the author of Utopia getting arrested for treason against the state.

In the foreground of the painting, his daughter is clinging to him. Don’t take Dad from our house! Then in the background of the painting, Thomas More is getting publicly executed. His head is chopped off with an axe on a block.

The details here are interesting. The realism of what really happened to this utopian author. They cut his head off his body in public.

Then, one of the daughters managed to collect his body. She didn’t get the head. The head was boiled in a pot, in order to preserve it. Then it was painted with tar. His head was painted with pitch as a kind of preservative.

Then the head of the author of “Utopia” got stuck on a long spike on the London Bridge.

This was customary justice in England at the time. This definitely happened to Thomas More. In historical fact, his head was placed on one of those spikes on the top of the arched bridge, in much the same way that you can see here in this everyday London woodcut.

After a month of public exposure, of the author’s head on a spike, the legend says that one of his other daughters somehow managed to collect his head. Somehow, she retrieved the head off the spike, even though the boiled, tarred head was supposed to be thrown into the river Thames. That was the custom with the heads of traitors.

She had no house, because her father was a traitor and the house had been confiscated. So she’s homeless, but she’s clever and well educated. She speaks Greek, speaks Latin, she understands astronomy, music, mathematics. She’s a cosmopolitan woman from a private house, and somehow she manages to persuade the “Keeper of the Heads” to convey her father’s severed head.

She carries it away from the public shame of the London Bridge. It’s not clear what happened to the head. There are a number of various stories about what she did with it afterwards.

To my mind, this is the ultimate “realist utopian” image. If somebody says the word “Utopia” to you, you should think of an adult woman smuggling the severed head of her father away from an execution.

That’s what it’s like. You write “Utopia” and your grieving daughter somehow steals your chopped-off head, and smuggles your head away in a bag.

Now we forget about Thomas More for the rest of the presentation — because he’s dead. Meanwhile, there’s Italy. Yes, Italy!

In Italy, nobody much cares about More’s head being cut off, but they are reading his book “Utopia.” Because Italians — it turns out they love Utopia. The book’s editor, Erasmus, is very popular in Italy — the University of Torino gives Erasmus a degree in theology. So Italians eagerly read Thomas More’s book in Latin, and they understand that this is speculative political fiction. It’s quite an interesting thing to do.

There’s even a kind of fantascienza genre of utopian writing — not in England, but in Italy.

There’s a whole set of utopias written by various authors.

Most of those authors aren’t English — English people know your head comes off, you don’t want to mess with it — but there are all these other guys writing Utopias.

There’s Tommaso Campanella — his book is still in print. You could go buy it today. It’s kind of interesting.

There’s Ludovivo Agostini. He still has some interest to scholars. The Imaginary Republic.

What a good idea.

This is Anton Francesco Doni.

He’s probably the weirdest author of historic Utopias.

He wrote one that’s rather like science fiction, a weird book meant to be funny and entertaining. Doni’s quite an odd character.

Here’s an Italian political anthology where many Italian political writers are describing the real politics of real places. In the end, they just throw in Thomas More’s Utopia. Why not? Does it even matter if it’s an ‘imaginary country’? It’s about the principles of understanding countries. How do you describe them? How do you explain how they work?

That’s what matters about utopias. That’s the realistic reason to do it.

Now we come to a realist political writer who understands Thomas More. He likes to quote Thomas More. He’s Catholic like Thomas More. He’s a Latin scholar — although he writes in Italian.

Unlike Thomas More, he’s extremely realistic. This is Giovanni Botero.

Or, rather, a well-deserved statue of him. Botero wrote a book which was a utopian manifesto, but for the city of Torino.

Yes, Torino was a planned project with a political theory. Here’s his street here in town — it’s over in the Quadrilatero — the oldest part of the city. The “Via Giovanni Botero.”

Here’s his book, which is all about politics, and it has an afterword. It’s a political book about government, including a work of analysis about cities.

How do you build a grand and magnificent city?

There are a lot of cities all around the world — how do you make one grand and magnificent? What if Torino was magnificent and grand?

How would you make a small town in Piedmont magnificent and grand? What policy would you pursue? How could rulers take policy steps to achieve “grand magnificence”?

Clearly this seems like a utopian idea. Why would Torino ever be grand? This is what Torino looked like when Botero was writing about it.

He is urging the Dukes of Savoy to make this little village magnificent and grand, but it’s not grand, it’s not magnificent. It’s just a small, typical Piedmontese town with a huge fort in the upper left-hand corner.

As Botero points out in his manifesto, no city in Piedmont has ever been grand. Torino is a modest city, like Asti, like Bra, like Cherasco. Botero himself is from Piedmont. He knows the history of the region. He is frank and honest about it, he’s a realist. There’s just never been a big city in Piedmont. No grand city like Genoa, Venice, Rome… This region of Italy had never had any grand magnificent town.

Why not? Well, Giovanni Botero is very keen on studying history, and geography, and law, and economics, and demographics, industrial policy and geopolitics, and other disciplines that did not have names in his own time. However, he somehow absorbed the political lesson of Utopia about how to imagine the town as a whole, functional place. How to get it to exist, how to get it to work.

Botero has learned to think in a utopian way that is realistic. He tells his readers that determined people can really do it. He doesn’t merely preach that Torino will somehow be grand. Instead, he says: what are the general principles of cities becoming grand?

This realistic map is Torino as a kind of Cherasco. It’s charming, in Cherasco. I’ve been to the historic town of Cherasco here in Piedmont, and it’s very nice, actually. I always enjoy it there in Cherasco.

Cherasco is the “world capital of snails.” If you’ve ever been to Cherasco, you would know the “Festa della Lumaca.” The Lumache… they’re great. They’re Slow Food, those snails. If you like “slow food” those snails are really, really slow.

It’s fabulous, I love them, and that is Torino without Giovanni Botero. Without the grand plans of Giovanno Botero, Torino is basically Cherasco.

Unfortunately I don’t have time here to discuss Botero’s ideas in detail, but I promise you, if you read his book, you will understand Torino much, much better.

He makes a very practical case for grandeur and magnificence. You don’t do it on a whim. There are political reasons to do it.

Botero says, to maintain a living city, you need three things. First, you need cheap bread. Not just bread, but enough that it’s cheap economically. Plenty to eat, always there.

Second, you need peace, because if the city is under siege all the time, and people are getting killed, and it’s some mere struggle for survival, that won’t allow the town to function. It just won’t be able to work.

Third, you need justice — so that the population doesn’t cut each other’s throats. There’s no civil war in the streets. People can get on with their productive business.

So, Botero says that peace, bread and justice are the basic necessities. But — they’re very difficult to maintain. Often, they will fail. Then the city will suffer a setback.

But — if the city is grand and magnificent — people will return. You will attract people with a spirited imagination who can appreciate the grandeur and the magnificence. That is the quality of urban people that you actually want. That’s why you do it.

So that was Botero’s realistic utopian plan. Unlike Thomas More, Botero did not get killed. He could have been killed, because life in the Ducal Court of Savoy was very dangerous, but he was allowed to retire with dignity here in Torino. When he died in Torino, he had the pleasure of seeing that indeed the town was becoming quite grand rather quickly.

So, that’s what a realistic Utopia can look like as a political success on an urban scale. The public utopia — but what about the private Utopia?

Botero shows us how to do it as a politician — and kind of get away with your grand plans — but what about our friend Raphael Hythlodaeus?

Raphael doesn’t want to do any public politics. He just wants to do as he himself pleases, every day. Does he also have a possible victory condition?

I actually think he does — the homemade private Utopia. Just one fellow. Like him. One wandering sailor with no great wealth and rather modest resources.

If he has determination, he can lead a surprisingly different life on private principles. Even in the 20th century.

So, this is the American artist Alexander Calder. A very inventive fellow. He spent a lot of time in Europe. Alexander Calder was a sailor for quite a while, much like Raphael Hythlodaeus. Kind of dressed in rags, not much money, a wandering dropout guy with one pair of shoes. A Paris bohemian artist who spent some time in Montparnasse.

In this picture, Alexander Calder decides to build his private Dream Home.

Out of this wreckage here. A big dead building.

Luckily he has Mrs Calder to help him, so he’s not completely alone. Mrs. Calder here — “Louisa James Calder” — she happens to be a cultured Boston aristocrat who speaks excellent French and has a lot of elite social contacts.

Her family said that she was “looking for a different way of life,” and when she married him, boy did she ever get one.

So here she is, making some French bread while Calder’s reading some art book. If you’re a design critic you would notice this is a very peculiar kitchen. Very peculiar indeed.

Here’s a photograph of his other house in France.

Calder probably made at least half the furniture in this room. His wife made the rugs. She was helping out, she liked to make carpets.

This is his studio. People said it looked like an airplane had crashed into the building. Calder had some unique personal filing system. He did not regard this as as a disturbed environment. This was his idea of efficiency. He was a very efficient and effective artist. He made 20,000 artworks in these studios over a 50-year career.

There are eyewitness accounts of him, grabbing his tools, grabbing pieces of stuff, and never misplacing anything. Nothing ever got lost in there. It’s otherworldly, very private, very weird and very personal.

This is a Calder handmade bread toaster. Why? Why would you need to make a personal toaster? You could just buy a toaster — and this one’s obviously dangerous. It’s not even made of industrial components — it’s made from scrap of no commercial value, made of bits of wood, leftover pieces of stone, and wire.

I’ve looked at it a lot. I’ve tried to figure out why Calder would do it. He built at least five of these. Five completely different self-invented unique toasters.

Why?

Why not just go buy the toaster at a store? Well — he very much wants to hand-make a toaster. He wants his toaster as a radically different toaster, the one that belongs to him. This is a “utopian device” in the sense of something that seems visionary, farfetched and silly.

It’s just not practical, not realistic — but it’s practical and realistic for him. Calder tended to make art out of objects that the world had abandoned. Like the Turinese “Arte Povera” method — find junk, and dress it up, and re-format it.

He had a different value system. To him this is is not junk. To him, this is a struggle for understanding.

Here he’s making forks. Why?

Why would anyone go to the trouble to make forks? Especially out of cheap wire, because these are wire forks that he hammered flat. So that wire would behave more like forks.

I think what happened here — Calder liked hand tools. People called him a machine artist, because he made sculptures that moved, and sometimes had motors. But he only had two machines in his studio — a drill and a grinder.

He had no other machines. He preferred making personal things with his hands. Expressive tools — in his own hands.

So he’s sitting and he’s eating with a fork — and he realizes this is a tool in my hand. This fork is a tool in my hand. Why isn’t it my personal fork? Why doesn’t this fork have more of my own values?

Right? It’s a Utopian Fork! It’s my personal very different Fork. I don’t care how long it takes me to make it. I want it to express! I want to hold it in my hand and eat with it.

It’s not for sale. These are not commodities. They are what they are — artifacts from a very different value system.

He was a successful artist — at the end of his life, very successful. Calder was quite a wealthy man, and after he died, then his heirs were very wealthy indeed — by artistic standards.

His home in France is an art center now. You can go there and make art in his studio.

These may not quite look like utopian objects, because they’re so personal. But it’s probably what a handmade personal Utopia actually has to look like. You have to dig down to the original basic principles.

It has the freedom of Raphael Hythlodaeus. It’s intelligent. It’s erudite. It’s well traveled, cosmopolitan. But the rules of the world do not apply to it. They just don’t. It’s “Utopia fai-da-te.” It’s a house as Utopia, it’s private, it’s homemade.

You could you do this yourself, personally, after you left the hall of the speech here. Great — I go back to the house, I make my own Fork. Right? You could, it’s not impossible. You could do it. He did it. He’s proving to himself that he can do it. It’s just — that it’s very rare.

Why? Why do you need a personal Utopia? Why does that matter to you? Where is the benefit? Why not just buy the same toaster that the guy has next door?

Raphael Hythlodaeus could go back to Portugal. He could get a job. He could get married. He could work for the Duke. The private Utopia — it’s like one man trying to to do everything that the world can do for him.

Also, Calder’s alone in the countryside. He’s not in the city. He doesn’t have any critics watching him, as he makes unrealistic forks.

What about the city, the public utopia, the City full of other people? What about — for instance — the Utopian city of Torino? The grand, magnificent Turinese realistic utopia?

What can be said about it, here and now?

Well, I have some passing ideas on that subject — mostly because I have read Giovanni Botero.

Botero wants to use grand magnificence to attract people into the town. His strategy is about a town that can survive. Not because it’s a town that is really good at snails, but because it is a grand city with glamour and charisma. That’s why why you want to do it.

Also, it’s pretty clear that to me that this — realistically — is what Torino has been doing for much of my lifetime. Torino was a city that suffered economic setbacks in the 1970s, and was having some basic Botero-style trouble with the food and the justice system and so forth.

But — when the heavy manufacturing failed — it has been slowly trending toward art, design and especially tourism. Heritage tourism. The Baroque architecture in Turin has not been this sexy in 300 years. Botero’s grandeur is an international tourist draw. It’s becoming like a Turinese Florence.

You might have to visit it over a long period to see this urban transformation, but it’s realistically happening. It doesn’t look or feel like a utopian project — because it’s basically about attracting tourists.

However, tourists have utopian aspects. Mostly because they’re struggling to escape from their real lives. They’re dying from too much realism — the harsh reality of their crushing lives. They want to experience something that feels different and refreshing, if only for two weeks.

A basic Turinese problem here is that Torino is progressive, but a heritage tourist industry, which is very attractive to tourists, has no avant-garde. Their stifling interest in your past holds you back. You can’t do “futuristic heritage industry.” Why? Because you can’t move forward into the past.

Supposedly.

Supposedly, you can’t show anybody any “new past.” You can only show them old, decayed remnants from the past that have always been here, and have somehow survived to the present day. You can’t show them an exciting, innovative past that no one has ever seen before.

However — if you wanted to be realistic and utopian — you might actually do this.

While Giovanni Botero was alive and writing about how to build Torino, this was Torino’s most grand and magnificent building.

Everybody in Torino knew this building. It was the Mole Antonelliana of medieval Turin. This is the “Tower of St Gregory,” the tallest tower in Turin.

Giovanni Botero saw this Tower every day. Everybody in Torino saw this Tower every day. If he was alive, among us in this room, he’d be horrified to realize it was gone. It would be a tragic loss. A Torino with no “Civic Tower”? A dystopian disaster! Scarcely a real Torino at all.

If the Civic Tower was still actually here, it would attract endless tourists. It happened to be demolished in the year 1801, because Napoleon knocked it down. There were efforts to rebuild it, but these efforts failed due to lack of economic realism.

However, if you did restore the Tower of Saint Gregory from utopian impulse, you could offer it to tourists as an exciting new heritage building. You could do that, because the city of Torino has excellent archives, and there are all kinds of records about exactly what this Tower looked like during the 500 years that it towered over Torino.

The Turinese are very skilled at restoring partially damaged buildings. They do that all the time. So why not just restore the entire building? Why not be bold and inventive, and utopian and realistic, and make a completely vanished building come back to life?

This grand and magnificent Tower has been gone since 1801, but now it’s back again. It was history, but now it exists again. It’s not illegal to restore vanished buildings. Physically, it wouldn’t even be that expensive to do it — certainly not by the standards of many other ambitious Turinese urban projects.

It’s mere custom, and the habit of mind, that makes you think that old buildings can’t suddenly spring back to life out of the records. Of course they can.

When I started this speech, I said that Raphael Hythlodaeus was a tourist. He went to see Utopia. He took a lot of notes. He never settled in Utopia. He never married a Utopian woman. He never emigrated to Utopia. He didn’t ask for Utopian citizenship.

He just witnessed Utopia and then he lectured about it.

But there is no “Utopia for tourists.”

If you’ve ever been a tourist, you know it’s actually a rather dystopian user experience. The experience is more or less horrible.

Maybe you want to go to another country — because you’re a tourist. You want to experience a different way of life. You want refreshment, you want escape from your reality.

Well, first you go to the airport — where you’re treated as a terrorist. They literally go through your luggage, your shoes.

Then you reach the border and there you’re treated as a clandestino, or maybe a smuggler. They’re extremely suspicious and hostile. Those are not even realistic efforts. They don’t really serve the cause of law enforcement or of civil order. They’re actually systems which are built for intimidation. They’re there to make you feel worse and to be sorry that you ever decided to travel. They’re in place to hurt your feelings and discourage you.

Then, as a tourist — when you’re a tourist in a foreign city — everyone hates you. Attempts are made to tell you to enjoy yourself, to eat the expensive food and spend your money on nice clothes, but there’s very little there that’s for your actual benefit.

That’s all just basically advertisements. That’s the business model. The local people want nothing you might offer as a human being, they simply want your cash. They don’t want you around. And for good reasons. When masses of tourists arrive in your city — when you’re a really successful tourist city — it’s like the city dies wherever they step.

There doesn’t seem to be any civilized way to deal with them. Even if you’re a tourist, you hate the other tourists.

These people — tourists — are the people within your city who realistically need a Utopia. You don’t need a Utopia. They need the Utopia.

If you’re a native of the city, you’re used to the city. You cherish the city. You’re a patriot. You want to live in the city with your memories, your urban experiences, that make it your place, your city.

You don’t want your City to be a Utopia — not even your own backyard! Here in Turin, if someone said, “Make the San Donato district a Utopia” — Everyone in San Donato would immediately say: “Make Campidoglio do it!”

“Make Cit Turin do it! Not us!” Then they would force San Salvario to become the Utopia, because San Salvario is full of foreigners and they never know what to say.

So if you want to build a utopia -- realistically -- you should build one for tourists.

I’m not sure what that would look like. I could speculate about it a little. I think it would be mostly psychological.

It would be like a a wellness retreat. Some kind of spa. I’m thinking some large Turinese building like a derelict factory. Empty — like the Cavallerizza. Or the former “OGR,” the dead train repair yard. Some derelict space turned into a big utopian box.

It should be soundproofed. It should be airtight — like a gambling casino, where no clocks are visible. There are no windows. The air should be filtered because the air in Torino is terrible. There are hundreds of tourists inside this utopian box. Maybe thousands of tourists in there.

It costs nothing to get into the box. It’s a free public amenity in Turin — built just for them, entirely for them.

But to get into this Utopia they have to remove their phones. They have to remove their clothing. They have no wallets, no purses, no purchasing power.

No money. No identity. No passports. They have to remove themselves, that’s the key to it. They’re free — free not to be who they are.

What’s in there? Nothing. There’s nothing to buy. There are no thrill rides, no multilingual experiences.

I think the tourists themselves should probably disappear. They should be wearing special effect suits, like this.

Special tourist holiday suits that cause people to vanish. They blend into whatever is projected on the walls. I think that projection is probably Torino — dream-like utopian images of Torino.

Not the realistic Torino, with Turinese people in it, but a tourist utopian Torino, grand, magnificent, unearthly — and there’s no plot. Nothing happens there. Nothing bothers you. Everything is under gentle surveillance. You’re a utopian tourist. You’re just peacefully drifting around through this foreign space, and you’re also foreign. You could sleep in there if you want.

Most tourists, they don’t really want thrills or excitement. They are tourists to escape the everyday trauma of their miserable lives. They’re not moving toward the attractions. They’re running away from their dystopian suffering. So they should be in a utopia, and they should vanish. Nobody has to look at them. They’re engrossed in Utopia. Eventually they come out then maybe they spend some money before they go back to their private lives elsewhere.

Okay, now I’ll close with a few personal words. I’ve spent a lot of time in Torino myself — sometimes on a tourist visa. But I have never once been “on vacation” in Torino.

Never. I never had a job here. I don’t labor here. I’m not a voter. I don’t participate politically. I don’t stare at the tourist attractions. I don’t even eat the tourist food.

For my wife and myself, Torino is our city of romance. We had known about one other for rather a long time, but Torino is where we first met.

It seemed utopian to think that we might ever be together. Because there were all kinds of good, sensible reasons why people from Texas and Serbia should never get married. For the two of us to be a husband and wife, it seemed farfetched and absurd, and yet, there was something realistic about it. Because it was Torino. We were really together there. It was true, it was real life.

A romance is a remote possibility — like mere wishful thinking, an empty dream — that can suddenly spring into real life. You can never plan for that to happen. But when it does happen, you become very aware of it.

It’s not that I went to Torino, or that she went to Torino — rather that we went to Torino. We do participate in the life of the city, but we’re just not Turinese. I can’t claim that we have any conventional purpose here at all. Nothing political, nothing economic, nothing diplomatic. Nothing that fits into a business plan or a government form.

Mostly we’re in Torino because in Torino we are us. In Torino we became us. A rather mysterious and utopian quality for a city to have. So Torino is not Utopia, but we do appreciate your kindness and your hospitality. So, thank you for that, and that concludes my speech.

Thank you for your attention.

[cherrychilli]

Do over

Part 3 of Caught

Steve Harrington x Hopper! Reader smut, AFAB reader

Summary: Hopper finds out that you’ve been dating Steve Harrington in secret and you’re both left to deal with the aftermath of your father's unfortunate discovery.

A/N: This little series was so much fun to write. Thanks to everyone who liked, reblogged, commented and asked to be tagged. Hope you all enjoy the conclusion!

Warnings: NSFW, Minors DNI, breeding kink, P in V sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, pussy spanking, slight daddy kink

Wordcount: 4.8k

Not proofread

“Hopper’s daughter? Are you insane? Like, actually, clinically insane?”

The full body shock is immediate as Robin begins to pace rapidly back and forth, running her hands through her frazzled hair disbelievingly while her eyes double in size and her mouth hangs agape.

It was big news. Steve knew that and if it wasn’t such an urgent problem he would have allowed her more time to wrap her mind around his bombshell of an admission.

“Yeah yeah- enough of that- what do you think I should do? I mean, I can’t just go over there without a plan. I need to map something out. And quick! before he thinks I’m trying to hide”

But it’s no use, his impatient plea falls on deaf ears because she’s still reeling.

“A dead man- I’m talking to a dead man right now”, she rambles to herself before turning on her heal to begin pacing in the opposite direction.

Steve sighs defeatedly, realizing that he can’t rush her into a more coherent state.

This time with more patience, he attempts in a softer tone like one might with a particularly anxious toddler, “alright, why don’t you just take these in the back- get this all out of your system and then come back and help me, please”. He places a stack of newly returned tapes in her arms and directs her towards the back room with a hand pressed gently against her back. Somehow, she manages to find her way despite her unfocused gaze and her repetitive utterances of “I can’t believe this – I just believe this” while shaking her head from side to side.

Getting caught with you, especially in the way that it had happened, by your father, the Chief of Police was...not ideal. But Steve was determined. He cared for you and he needed to make it clear to Hopper that you weren’t some girl he was using for sex.

Steve returns to the counter and fishes out his wallet, in desperate need of a pick me up.  Flipping it open, a smile tugs at his lips as he looks down at a picture of the two of you together. Your ‘first date’. The picture was taken at the photo booth two months ago when you’d ran into each other at the county fair. You both knew the other was going to be there with your respective groups of friends – there’d been so much tension between the two of you during the weeks leading up to the fair. Very ‘will they won’t they’ as cliché as it sounded. You’d had your first kiss together that night too. Steve remembers how demure you seemed in your pretty dress as the two of you walked by the tree line, away from your friends and away from the rest of the crowd. Everyone was too preoccupied to notice the way you both looked at each other or the fact that you’d wandered off to be alone. He’d wanted to kiss you so badly but held off thinking it might be too soon.

Everyone had this idea in their heads about you. They all treated you like you were made of glass and the last thing Steve had wanted that night was to scare you off by being too forward.  But there was another side to you and that was the night he caught his first glimpse. He was in the middle of relaying a story – something funny Dustin had done – and it wasn’t that you were disinterested in hearing it. You liked hearing how fondly he spoke of the younger boy. You found it incredibly sweet how their unlikely friendship came to be but there was a pressing matter on your mind and you couldn’t resist any longer. Your hands reached out to grasp at the front of Steve’s shirt as you pulled him down for a sudden kiss. It was unexpected but he melts into it quickly, remembering everything from the sound of the fireworks going off in the distance, to the taste of cotton candy on your lips.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t wait anymore”, you’d said when you finally parted for air.

He realized you weren’t nearly as fragile as people thought you to be.

Quickly checking over his shoulder to make sure Robin hadn’t shuffled back in yet, Steve carefully pulls the picture free from behind the little plastic display to sneak a peek at the one he’d hidden underneath. It was one of the pictures he had taken of you yesterday. He couldn’t resist – he had to have one with him while he kept the others hidden away in his room. Your face wasn’t in it- he’d promised you he’d be careful. It was a shot of your body – stretched out on his bed, still clad in your lacy underwear and peppered with fresh hickeys.

He can feel his cock begin to stir in his pants and he knows better than to get hard at work but he can’t help but let his eyes linger a few moments longer. Who would have known just by looking at you that this was what you’d been getting up to in secret.

Steve’s so busy admiring every curve of your body that he doesn’t take immediate notice when the front door swings open. No one really came in at this hour – kids were supposed to be in school and the adults were usually at work right about now. When he does finally look up it feels like he’s just stepped off the edge of a cliff, wallet slipping from his fingers and landing on the opposite side of the counter.

Jesus, Fuck

Hopper’s mirthless, raging face looms over him, his stare alone somehow willing Steve into fearful submission.

The fear intensifies when Steve’s eyes dart down momentarily to realize that his wallet’s landed right beside Hopper’s boots – thankfully, picture side down.

Steve’s mouth’s completely dry and all he can hear is the sound of his own blood coursing in his ears. Jim Hopper was a big man, by anyone’s standards. Big enough to make even the most arrogant drunk think twice about picking a fight with him. Right now, he seemed impossibly big. Almost mountainous, even.

The look on Hopper’s face told Steve everything he needed to know and now all the boy could do was wait. With no one around to see, there was no way the Chief wouldn’t swing. Right?

He clearly wanted to. What father wouldn’t?

God, this is going to fucking hurt…

“This is major. Huge! There’s no way he won’t kill you, I mean really- “

Like a godsend, Robin strides back towards the counter, only cutting herself off when she sees who’s walked into the store.

Steve takes his first breath since Hopper showed up, relief washing over him. A witness!

He eyes Robin from where he’s frozen in place, a mix of helplessness and desperation evident on his face.

She knew she needed to do something to help her friend from getting his face caved in. Despite being the one who hadn’t messed around with Hopper’s daughter, she struggles to maintain a calm cadence, croaking out a very nervous, “Hey Chief, here to check out the new releases?” to distract him.

Steve’s nothing but thankful for her awkward but sincere effort to break the dangerous tension mounting in the store but Hopper ignores her altogether to turn back to him.

“Whatever you think I might do to you if I ever see you near my daughter again is nothing compared to what I’ll actually do to you, understand?”

Steve nods quickly. Even if he wasn’t afraid for his life he knew there was no convincing Hopper of anything right now. There was no room to carefully explain or reason. There was barely any room to breathe. He’d have to plead his case later.

With one last ire fueled stare at Steve he turns to leave, eyes briefly skimming over Steve’s wallet on the floor before stomping out of the store.

Robin cautiously inches over to Steve, eyes trained on the door, wondering if Hopper might just change his mind and come back.

“Are you okay?”, she finally asks.

“Ask me again in an hour”, he replies weakly, blood yet to return to his pale face.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

You knew this was hard for your father. He had trusted you and you had lied. You should have been honest from the start. Sure, he wouldn’t have been crazy about the idea of his daughter dating Steve Harrington but if you hadn’t tried to hide your relationship and instead, had explained how happy Steve made you, things might have turned out differently.

“He won’t be bothering you again”, was what Hopper said to you when he came back home that morning. You hadn’t even realized he’d been gone. You’d accidentally slept in late, exhausted from having cleaned up your father’s mess last night and your many futile and tearful attempts at trying to convince him that Steve wasn’t the kind of boy he thought he was.

Hopper seemed pleased with himself, having scared the shit out of your boyfriend with not more than a look and a single warning. Instantly, you knew what he’d done and now it was your turn to start yelling. It goes on for hours – you, trying to make it clear that he had no right trying to decide who you can and can’t date and him, trying to shoutexplain that he’d done it for your own good because according to him, all Steve wanted to do was take advantage of you.

“If he’s such a good guy, why didn’t he try to explain himself this morning?!”, Hopper boomed

“You probably didn’t give him the chance! All you do is intimidate!” you shot back defiantly

“He was corrupting you- I needed to keep that pervert away!” he retaliated.

Frustrated and well beyond your limit, you angrily tread to your bedroom and slam the door behind you, locking yourself inside before burying yourself underneath your blankets. It infuriated you. You’re an adult now but this was Jim Hopper. As long as you’re under his roof, he still calls the shots.

You avoid Hopper the next day. Only coming out of your bedroom when you hear the cruiser pull way as he leaves for work. You use that time to fix yourself something to eat and wonder around the cabin, wracking your brain for solutions before going right back inside when you hear him return in the evening.

Hopper can’t find it in himself to apologize because he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. The way he sees it, some handsy boy treated you with less respect than you deserved and there was no way he was about to let that continue. But at the same time, he couldn’t stand to have you mad at him.

You’re the only person he’d ever even attempt to make peace with after a bitter fight. He’s just about to knock on your door when the phone begins to ring. With an irritated huff he walks away from your door to answer it. He sighs again, rubbing at his temple as he listens to the caller on the line. “Alright, I’ll be right there”, he grunts back and hangs up the receiver. Grabbing his keys, he’s about to head to the cruiser but he decides to try reaching out to you one more time before he leaves.

He knocks gently against your door. No response. It hurts because he knows that you’re up and not actually asleep – he’d seen your shadow from under the door not very long before the phone had started to ring. Carefully softening his tone, he starts, “Honey…I have to head out again- there’s some sort of commotion down Marley Street- house party that got out of hand – some little sh- someone set a couch on fire and it spread- it’s a mess and I have to get down there”. No response still. “I might be out a while so keep the doors locked…I’ll be back as soon as I can”. Hopper turns to leave but the sound of your room door being unlocked has him whipping back around. You crack open your door just a couple of inches and his face drops when he sees your eyes all red and your cheeks puffy from crying all day. He may not be the calmest person around or the easiest person to reason with but you knew he had done what he did because he cared about you. You didn’t like being mad at him either knowing that it hurt him too. “Be careful, dad”, you reply softly. He smiles back tenderly. “Thanks, hun”. You both part a little somberly but hopeful that the next time you talk, you’re more likely to reach an understanding than another screaming match. You both just needed some time to cool off first.

You decide to clean yourself up with a nice hot shower when you hear the cruiser take off. Returning from the bathroom you remember that you hadn’t been able to call Steve the day before – too busy and exhausted from all the yelling. You dial and wait. When he doesn’t answer fresh tears start to emerge. You try to tell yourself that maybe he’s out with Robin right now but part of you worries that Hopper had managed to get to him with his threats and that he was avoiding your call on purpose. You put the phone back down, sick of listening to it ring.

You retreat under your blankets again, ready to softly cry yourself to sleep and let the cycle repeat itself.  You’re about 3 minutes into it when a sudden series of taps against your window make you still your breath. You’re alone. It’s dark. And now you’re very, very scared.

You’re just about ready to scream bloody murder when you recognize the face peering through your bedroom window.

“Steve!”

You throw the blankets off yourself and practically sprint to your window, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

“He’s gone, right?”, he whispers cautiously when you unlatch the window and open it for him.

“He left about 30 minutes ago- something about a fire down Marley Street”, you beam despite the context of the news you’re relaying.

“I saw – I drove past it on my way home from work- probably Jake Ramsey’s fault. That guy’s always passing out flaming shots.” He crawls through your window and straightens out before continuing. “No one got hurt but the whole place is a mess. Drunk kids all out on the lawn, fire department was called. Pretty big – I knew they’d call your dad in and that meant you’d be alone so…”

You throw your arms around him and squeeze, “I tried calling and when you didn’t answer…I’m so glad you’re here”, you mumble into his chest.

“I never went home, babe. I just drove straight here”, he replied, hugging you back with a reassuring squeeze.

You crane your neck back to look up at him, “My dad didn’t scare you off?”

Steve suppresses a nervous laugh at that. Hopper did scare him. Almost effortlessly so but he decides to leave that part out when cups your face with his palm, thumb stroking your cheek lovingly. “Not enough to keep me away from you”, he replies honestly.

He leans down to meet your waiting lips, kissing you softly. It’s a tender, sweet moment but it slowly changes into something more needy when you purposely press your chest up against his and one of his hands trail down to glide along the curve of your ass over your sleep shorts, squeezing your flesh before breaking the kiss to suck at your neck.

“You never got to tell me over the phone- how exactly did he find out?” he makes out against your skin.

“Left a stupid notebook behind in the car- he drove back to the center to give it to me- Loretta told him I didn’t work there”, you reply, eyes fluttering shut.

“Oh?”

“But he didn’t realize yet that it was me he’d caught you with that night- he thought you’d been going around with some other girl- stringing me along during the day- probably didn’t think I’d ever put out for anyone”

Steve scoffs. “Course he didn’t. The Chief of Police’s daughter? Little innocent thing like you? You’d have to be a fucking loon to try and get under her panties”, he pulls at your waistband playfully and lets it snap against your skin.

You giggle before replying. “Remember when we started by using condoms?”, you card your fingers through his hair, occasionally pulling at the soft brown locks when he latches on to a particularly sensitive spot.

“Can’t remember a thing before you let me slip inside without one, babe” he nips at your earlobe.

You blushed remembering the first time you’d done it without one.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

You’d planned it to be a surprise. You didn’t tell Steve that you’d gotten on the pill yet, deciding that you wanted to have a little fun with him first. You tried to contain yourself as you watched him roll on the condom that day before you began to ride him in his bedroom. You staved off your own orgasm until you could tell he was getting close by the way his abdomen clenched and the grip he had on your thighs would tighten. “Stevie, this isn’t working” you’d whined in faux frustration as you ceased bouncing on his cock. You almost felt bad when worry washed over his face and he sprung up from his pillow to look at you face to face. “What’s the matter, angel? need me to be on top?”, voice full of concern.

“it’s not that- I’m just tired of not getting to feel you”, you pouted back.

“Baby, I’m literally inside you right now”, he let out a short disbelieving laugh.

“that’s not what I mean” you pull yourself off of his cock, letting it slip from your hole.

“I need this off- It’s getting in the way”, you point at the condom curled over his dick before you begin pulling it free from his length.

You enjoyed the dumbfounded look on his face a little too much as you tossed the latex aside and held on to his shaft, making a show of rubbing his bare cock along your slick pussy. “Oh, Steve, that feels so good”, you moan out, aiming his tip at your clit and pressing the two very sensitive areas together. 

“Shit- baby, hold on-“

You’re not deterred, you can feel how badly he’s tempted to let you ride him raw but you anticipate his hesitation all the same.

“But Stevie, imagine how good it would feel”,  you whine back. It’s downright cruel the way you’re teasing him right now but you can rest easy knowing that the torture you’re putting him through is going to be well worth it-and he’d agree.

“Sweetheart- fuck- it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s really not that”, he chokes out

“Please, Steve? I wanna feel all of you”

His resolve is crumbling by the second. “Baby, maybe we should wait until you get on the pill? You know,uh be safe?”, he sounds barely convinced by his own reasoning, phrasing everything like a question.

“So, you’ll fuck me without one if I get on the pill?”, you purr back teasingly to clarify.

The truth was he wanted to fuck you without it and you knew it.

“Yeah baby, I’ll give it to you just how you want it”, he strains.

You pretend to look thoughtful for a moment before shrugging your shoulders with contented smile. “Mm, alright”, you hum back innocently.

His breath hitches when instead of releasing his throbbing dick, you raise your hips and line up his cock with your entrance, pushing down until he sinks all the way inside.

You both moaned at the feeling. Your tight warmth envelopes his dick and you can feel every ridge and inch of it pulsing inside you.

“Fuck fuck fuck – did you- when??”, he chokes out, barely coherent but you knew exactly what he’s asking.

“Last week”, you moan out, a satisfied smile stretching across your face.

“Surprise”

He didn’t last much longer without it but it didn’t matter. You liked knowing the kind of effect your pussy had on him. And he made it up to you 15 minutes later. Thrice.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

You let the memory fade away when he works a hand between your bodies to rub over your clothed cunt.

“W-well- there was one left over. I left it inside the notebook- completely forgot about it- slipped out right in front of him- that’s when he put it all together”, you force out in a whine.

Steve stills his hand over your mound, pulling away from your neck to look down at you with concern.

“So, he knows I’ve been fucking you raw?”

“No…, I don’t think so- he never found my birth control pills”

Steve’s expression relaxes for a moment before he eyes you up and down suggestively. “Hm. Too bad.”

Your eyebrows shoot up at this. “’Too bad’? Isn’t our situation bad enough?”

He only smirks before returning to mouthing at your neck, slipping both hands underneath your shirt to give your breasts some attention.

“How pissed do you think he’d get if I knocked you up?”, he breathes against your ear.

The questions catches you off guard and you don’t know what to say because you’re too busy trying to process the way his words have begun to make your pussy throb.

“If I put a baby in you- got you all nice and big”, he squeezes your tits with both hands for emphasis,

“- couldn’t hide it then- then he’d know- everyone would know”

You let a moan slip at that, dragging your cunt along his thigh for some relief.

“That what you want, baby? Really stick it to your old man if I got you pregnant right under his own roof”

Your head’s swimming but you still manage to whisper-shout back at him, “Steve! We’re too young”

He chuckles, “I know that- I mean eventually”.

“I can tell you want it too” his eyes flick down to where your shorts have begun to turn damp against his jeans.

You see it too and you’re too far gone now to try and deny it.

“Fuck- please just fuck me before he gets back”, you finally give in.

Your shirt lay discarded in the corner of your room and your nipples throb faintly with the memory of how he’d played with and sucked them moments ago, leaving them all pert and puffy. You’re all spread out on your bed underneath Steve, a shaking whimpering mess and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

“Stevie, please hurry- can’t let him catch us again”

“You know, if you weren’t so busy thinking with this” he brings his open palm down on your clothed clit with just enough pressure to make you yelp, “we wouldn’t be in this mess”.

You relish his faux admonishment. You both know that the two of you share the blame in getting caught but he isn’t wrong. You’d been so needy for him and he liked chiding you for it.

“Needed my cock that bad, angel?” he brings his hand down on your delicate folds again.

“That why you left the condom in your notebook? Smart girl like you- you know better than that”

Smack

“So forgetful…mind all blank now that your pretty little pussy’s being used?”

Smack

“All those years without anyone to touch you and now- “

Smack

“You can’t get enough of it”

“Steeeeve”, you draw out in a desperate whine.

He ignores your plea, “Jesus, how can you sleep in these damn things, they’re so tight. I can see every part of you”.

You’d outgrown this particular pair of shorts a while back. You could still fit into them but he was right, they looked like a second skin on you. He ogles the outline of your cunt through the pale purple cotton and your face warms up when he pinches your pussy lips together. You wiggle your hips and that earns you another slap.

“Take them off- panties too”, he commands.

You do as your told, shimmying both off before he’s forcing you back on your bed with your thighs spread.  

He doesn’t say much this time, instead busying himself by landing several hits directly onto your naked cunt until your clit’s all swollen and your labia’s all pink from the impact. You can hear how wet you’ve become with every smack and he just tuts at the sight between your legs.

“So impatient…”, he lets out in a low groan, inspecting your arousal by rubbing your slippery slick between his thumb, index and middle fingers.

The way your thighs twitch and tremble with every slap isn’t lost on him. He’s confident that he could probably get you to cum from this alone and he’s so tempted to do just that but you’re right. As much as he wants to take the time to put his theory to the test, he doesn’t want to risk another encounter with your father just yet.

He brings his hand between your legs again, this time gently rubbing soothing circles into your abused little bud.

“Want me to make it feel better, baby?”, he coos.

Your chest rises and falls with labored breaths as you nod affirmatively, eyes all watery.

He picks you up and carries you away from the bed, sitting you down on the edge of your desk instead. Your college brochures tumble to the floor and your neat little pile of transcripts tip over and messily fan out behind you.

Your legs fall open as he impatiently sheds his clothing too.

Taking one last moment to tease you, he taps the head of his cock against your aching clit until you choke out a pathetic ‘please’.

He takes pity on you then and you both watch as he finally pushes it in, savouring the stretch.

It’s going to be quick and rough, you both know it but you still gasp when he pulls back far enough to begin driving his cock into you in a hurried pace. You can feel yourself beginning to gush, eyes rolling back as you chant his name again and again. Pens and paperclips rattle and roll off your desk, a mess of stationary littering your bedroom floor.

You’re so cockdrunk your unfocused gaze eventually lands on the framed picture at the corner of your desk. You and your father, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and you leaning in close to him as you smile for the picture. Your arm shoots out to turn the picture face down – his face is the last thing you want to see while you’re getting railed and you don’t need another reminder of how pissed he’d be if he knew you were seeing Steve in secret again – in his own house even.

Steve notices your expression and laughs, low and a little dark. “Forget him, baby, I’m your daddy now”.

He picks you up by the waist and you gasp. You’re forced to support yourself with your palms planted flat on your desk behind you and your arms extended. Your legs immediately wrap around Steve’s waist for stability and you’re left to hold on as he grips your ass and begins pounding into you, much harder than before. You squeal at the intensity, desk creaking dangerously beneath you while your tits bounce on your chest.

Your arms ache from having to support your weight but your building orgasm soon captures your complete attention.

“Getting close, angel?”, he grits out with a smirk

“So-so close, daddy”, you pant back out.

Steve groans approvingly when you say it, and he can tell that you like it too because your cunt clenches around him like a vice.

“Daddy, I’m-“ you let your head fall back as the coil in your abdomen snaps and your orgasm ripples through you. Your silky walls clamp sporadically around Steve’s cock and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he spills into you with a deep grunt, driving into you with short, hard thrusts until he has nothing left to give.

Somehow, you’ve managed to keep your arms outstretched but they start to wobble and he notices, easing you down onto the surface of your desk and pulling out to watch his spend flow back out of your hole. Cum seeps out of you and leaks directly onto your half-completed college application forms but you’re too blissed out to really care. You’ll gladly pick up another set of papers when the feeling starts to return to your trembling legs.

You stare at each other, eyes half lidded, sweaty and panting.

Steve’s the one to break the momentary silence when he reaches out to frame your face with his palm again. 

“I wanna be with you- no more sneaking around. I know he won’t like it at first but let’s be upfront with him. Make him understand”.

Your chest blossoms with adoration and you blush under his affectionate stare.

 “Maybe at dinner? This Friday? I’ll pick a place” you offer, still a little breathless.

 “Yeah” he smiles back at you warmly.

“Some place that gets packed, alright?" he adds.

And then a tinge more seriously so that you understand what he means. “Witnesses, you know?”

[nymrs]

ney with an introvert shy gf

#4. OPPOSITES ATTRACT | Neymar Jr

Neymar and you were complete opposites. He loved being around people and would never mind being the centre of attention. Singing and dancing in public - an everyday thing for him. You on the other side had to really get used to people before finally opening up and showing your fun side. Whenever Neymar and you would attend a public event, you couldn’t wait to finally go home. In the beginning of you two dating, when you were just hanging out with his mates, you would simply chill there and actually never say anything until you had to. Since you had his friends and teammates around you all the time, it got better for you of course. When it came to paparazzi and Neymars fans though, you couldn’t seem to jump over your boundaries. They knew who you were, what you looked like, but you’d always turn stiff and silent when a camera was around.

And that was the exact same case now. Neymar and you had to attend one of his clubs public events. You’d prefer to stay home and wait for him, but you couldn’t leave him hanging. It was a very important event for Ney and his mates' wives and girlfriends would be there too. "Minha beleza [my beauty]", he smiled watching you from the doorway, "Você está lista? [are you ready]" You took a last glance into the mirror and sighed, "I'm not sure. I'm still torn between this dress and the black one. What do you think?" The dress you wore was simple, but it was a bright red. Usually, you’d prefer to wear something more decent, but Neymar bought you the dress some weeks ago, saying you should save it for a special occasion. You knew he would love to see you in it, but you disliked wearing bright colours in public, you didn’t want to stand out. "I love seeing you in red, you know that", he winked and took a few steps towards you. You chuckled before he finally put his arms around your waist and placed a shirt kiss onto your lips. "Don't worry babe, you're gorgeous."

At the event, the two of you were seated with the rest of his club, having dinner and casually talking to each other. When Neymar and the boys had to give some interviews, you decided to spend the time with Antonela and Jessica. Whatever these two have been talking about, you didn’t even care to listen - Neymar was the only one you gave your full attention to. Him in a suit. You didn’t know what exactly it was, but it just made you weak, no matter how often you’ve seen him in these clothes before. While your eyes wandered up and down his figure, you didn’t even realise he was walking towards you until he finally stood right in front of you with a huge smile on his face, “Enjoying the view?" You looked up at him, then quickly took your eyes off him again as you tried to hide the fact you were blushing. "Time for the carpet", he said, holding out a hand for you. You stared at him in confusion, not quite understanding his gesture. "Are you finally coming with me?", he asked as he noticed your irritation. "On the carpet?", you scoffed, "No way Junior."

"It’s only for a few photos, you don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to talk. Just pose in front of the cameras a little. For me?", Neymar tried to convince you but you responded by shaking your head from left to right, repeating this movement again and again. "As you know, I'm allergic to cameras." He sighed at your sarcasm, his lips in a thin line. The pleading look he gave you was his last try to get you to go with him, but you ignored his pout and took out your phone of your clutch. With his hands in his pocket, he slowly started stepping away from you. You chew on your bottom lip, knowing damn well you disappointed your boyfriend – and you felt guilty. His mates entered the room, coming back from taking pictures; Lionel with Antonela, Marco with Jessica, Marqui with Carol. It would only be Neymar all alone again. You rolled your eyes at yourself, pushing your phone back into your clutch and started jogging after Neymar. He instantly recognised your small steps and stopped his walk. "Thank you", he whispered, giving your hand a light squeeze after intertwining it with his. You entered the hall and your heart was racing due to the amount of people watching you, all cameras directed at the two of you. Neymar led you to the middle of the carpet and naturally started posing. You tried your best to not freak out, but you flinched at every flash and held your breath whenever someone was calling your name. You weren’t used to it, it felt unnatural and awkward to you. Your eyes started blinking heavily, there was no way you could take another flashlight right into your face. Instinctively, you pulled Neymar closer to you and hid your face in the crook of his neck. He first was confused as you did so, but also couldn’t help but smile at how adorable you were. You practically felt how his lips formed a smile, which made you grin to yourself while you were still hiding from the photographers. "Our photos are for sure going to be different from all the others", he chuckled lowly. The feeling of excitement inside of you rose, but to your surprise, in a positive way. You imagined what the journalists got to see now and realised how random you actually were. "What?", Neymar asked when he heard you laughing quietly. You were unable to hold back another laugh. "You really are special, like very very special", Neymar grinned as you finally pulled away from him and stared into his eyes. The two of you simply looked at each other for a short time and then bursted out in laughter. Hearing Neymars laugh made you laugh even harder. Seeing you holding onto your belly, squinting your eyes while still having an arm wrapped around him made him laugh even more. Even the photographers couldn’t stop themselves from smiling at what they’ve just captured. "I'm so sorry", you managed to shout out as Neymar and you were about to leave the carpet.

Returning to your shared house, you continued apologising to your boyfriend. "I don’t know what got into me. I guess it was the nervousness and excitement", you explained yourself. Neymar laughed it off as he got out off his jacket. "Y/N, babe, não se preocupe [don't worry]. Thank you for going with me and making it so much fun. I’d love to see pictures they took", he reassured you, cupping your face between his hands before placing a sweet kiss onto your lips. "Do you think they already released some?", you said, scrolling through your TikTok for you page when you saw they did, indeed. "Ney, olha [look]!" Some fans were fast enough to make edits about your appearance and you were in love with those edits - you watched how you hid your face in his neck, the way he wrapped his arms around you while looking down at you in full adoration, this smile you loved so much forming in his face. The way you both didn’t stop laughing and never let go of each other while doing so. You’ve actually forgot everything around you for a short period of time, blocking out the cameras and photographers, and just enjoyed each others company. This unconditional love could literally be felt through this little screen you were watching those edits on. You smiled to yourself when you noticed Neymar hugged you from behind, watching those edits with his head placed onto your shoulder. "Eu te amo meu anjo [I love you my angel]", he mumbled, pressing a soft lips on your cheek.

[hollandorks]

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter eleven

Summary: After the sudden deaths of your mother and grandmother, you’re forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke your heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, you vow to get to the bottom of your former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what you’re expecting. a

a/n: I'd like to say week was crazy and that's the reason the update took a little longer than usual, but actually I had the week off and I was just taking a break! Anyways, things are starting to get a little crazy now...oops

Series Masterlist

word count: 2.3k

How many more women would die? 

And how much time did that buy her before she was next?

Two nights after the second murder–another woman who eerily resembled y/n–she finally got a text from that same unknown number. 

11 tonight, same place. 

She was almost giddy. She had been hiding in her room for two days like a good girl, trying not to bug Gordon or even Martinez as they investigated the second murder. But she’d be damned if she wasn’t going crazy again already. 

The news was calling it a potential serial killer, but she knew better. They all knew better. 

It was the Gallo family hunting her down. 

She dressed in warm, dark clothes again and texted Alfred where she was going. She wanted to leave early, but knew it was a bad idea. She waited until a couple of minutes after eleven to go downstairs, just to be sure the Batman was out there. As she stepped into the elevator his one word text came through. Outside. 

She was excited to see him. She finally had something to look forward to, and it was talking to a vigilante, of all things. 

And there he was, leaning against the motorcycle without a care in the world. She let her eyes trail from his legs crossed at the ankle to his crossed arms to his masked face. Despite the fact he was literally covered head to toe, a thrill went through her. 

“Hi,” she said lamely when she was close enough. 

He simply handed her the helmet and got back on the bike. 

Some of the excitement went out of her like a balloon deflating. “No hello?” she said, her voice light and teasing.

“Hello. Ready?” he asked when her arms were around his waist. She rolled her eyes. 

“Ready.” 

They sped off into the night. She let her eyes close. She was almost at peace for the first time in weeks, and it was in the wake of another murder and on the back of a motorcycle with a vigilante she barely knew. 

But she had not been made to be idle. Sitting at home, hiding from mobsters, was doing her in. Add to that not only boredom, but grief and painful memories from all sides, and she was surprised she really hadn’t jumped out of a window yet. It was the reason she and Bruce were constantly sneaking out as kids, the reason she had taken extra classes for fun in college, the reason she did things that were objectively stupid. The reason she was an investigative reporter and not in a more steady, safe job. 

The motorcycle jolted to a stop. 

She opened her eyes and slid off, tucking the helmet under her arm. 

Even though she knew what to expect, the fear still stole her breath. She really, really hated heights, and yet she was willingly going up onto rooftops. Stupid. She muttered to herself as the soft noise of the grappling hook split the quiet air. 

Y/n tried really hard not to embarrass herself by clinging to Batman, but it didn’t work. At least this time, she let go quickly and didn’t fall on her ass. 

She cleared her throat as she stepped away and murmured a thanks. She inched carefully towards the center of the rooftop to get her bearings. It was a different roof this time, next door to the one they’d been on that first night. 

“Thanks for doing this,” she said quietly as she set up her camera. The pub below was twice as busy now that it was the weekend. 

“Is it so bad at home?” he asked after she had taken several pictures, startling her. She glanced over at him, but he was busy studying the street below. His gloved fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his leg. 

“Yes,” she said without thinking. She looked through the camera’s viewfinder and adjusted another setting for the low light and the distance. “I mean–sort of. It’s complicated.” 

“Complicated?” 

The camera shutter was the only sound between them for a minute. “I told you my grandmother and my mother died.” A soft noise of assent. “And to start with, Wayne Tower, as nice as it is, is full of memories of my grandmother. She raised me. Every time I walk around a corner I–” The words stuck in her throat as the grief rose unbidden within her. “–I have no idea if something is going to remind me of her and then I have to remember that she’s gone. It’s like getting punched every time. Or having the breath knocked out of you.” 

“I understand,” he said softly, and she knew that he had lost someone too. 

She blinked back tears and nodded. She focused on the pictures to distract herself. “On top of that–” She couldn’t admit it. Because how pitiful would it sound? How stupid, how childish, would it sound to say, On top of that, I told Bruce Wayne that I loved him three years ago and he broke my heart and I still can’t stand to be around him. “It’s complicated,” she finally said again. “Someone broke my heart, and I haven’t gotten over it. I’m not sure I ever will.” Her voice lowered until the last words were almost a whisper, choking her until she could barely speak. 

There was a sharp intake of breath next to her. 

She faced him but he was staring below.

She frowned and tried to see what she had missed that made him make that noise, but she couldn’t see anything. 

They lapsed into silence. 

“Got any snacks in that fun belt of yours?” she asked a while later. Her voice was falsely light to her own ears. But what else was she supposed to do? She had basically trauma dumped on a virtual stranger. It was awkward, too awkward. She grit her teeth and silently cursed her mouth for running away from her, like usual. 

A huff that might have been a laugh. “No. No snacks.” 

She faced him fully this time, one hand on her hip while the other still held the camera. “No snacks? What kind of vigilante are you if you aren’t prepared for everything?” 

He shrugged but he was smiling. “A bad one, I guess.” 

“I’m making my own belt for next time and filling it with snacks,” she muttered. 

Things were a little easier after that. Batman still didn’t talk much, but she did come to learn that he made most of his gadgets too–like the gauntlets that held a grappling hook–and most of those things he had added after bad experiences. 

“One time I fell in the sewer because I didn’t have a flashlight,” he said in a low voice. She had to smother her laugh so as not to draw attention. “Now I have two.” 

She was also able to elicit an answer about his favorite snacks, learning that he had a surprising sweet tooth. She asked if he ate healthy in order to stay in shape for being a vigilante, and he answered that his diet focused on strength and stamina. She made a joke about protein shakes that had him turning a cough into a laugh. 

It was nearly one in the morning when she saw him. 

They had been chatting quietly, the music coming from the perpetually open pub door drowning most of it out, when a man stepped outside. 

Y/n almost dropped the camera. 

“He’s here,” she said in a whisper. She quickly snapped pictures. 

She hadn’t expected to recognize the man who had escaped. 

But there he was, standing below her, talking to one of the women smoking as she leaned against the bricks by the front door. 

“You’re sure?” Batman asked. 

She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat. Her hands shook so badly she had to fight to steady them so as to get a good picture. 

He had been closest to her that night. His face in the most light. 

He had been holding the gun. 

It played in her mind again, the noise drawing their attention, the almost slow-motion turn of four heads. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. 

And, somehow, it was like the man heard her.

He looked up, across the street and to the roof, and met her eyes.

Y/n scrambled back away from the edge. 

“He saw me,” she whispered. “He saw me.” 

Batman was crouched next to her, hidden by the low wall that ran around the entire edge of the building. 

“You’re sure?” he said again, but his eyes were on her face this time. It was too dark to tell what color they were. Probably not brown–they were too light. 

She mentally shook herself to focus. “I’m positive.” 

It was his turn to curse. “Fuck,” he muttered. He grabbed his phone and texted something quickly. He was actually good at texting–she had expected him to text like an old man with just his pointer finger. 

He put the phone away and crept closer to the edge of the building. He peeked his head over the wall, barely clearing it, but it was enough. He ducked back down as a shout rang out. 

“Oh God,” y/n said. The fear threatened to overwhelm her. If the pub was a hangout for the Gallo family–and at this point, she was certain it was–that meant a lot of armed men and maybe women were right there. 

They were trapped there, the motorcycle hidden next to a dumpster down below. 

Next to a very convenient fire escape that led straight to where the two of them were currently crouched. 

“Listen to me,” Batman said, drawing her focus. He was crouched over her where she was still splayed in a half-crouch from her mad dash to get out of sight. He touched her chin. “Do exactly as I say. We’re going to have to move fast. The priority is getting you and that camera out of here and not leading them home, do you understand?” 

She nodded frantically. “Yes,” she said on a breath. “What do we do? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

“It’s not your fault.” He was grabbing something off of his belt and texting at the same time. “Gordon’s on the way but it’ll be too late. If they’re smart, they’re going to surround the building. Someone will be sent to the roof from inside, someone up the fire escape.” He held three small flat disks in his hand and pocketed the phone again. “When they’re distracted, we’re going to make a break for it. Can you drive the motorcycle if you have to?” 

She stared at him, openmouthed. “Yes,” she said after a second. “Bruce taught me, years ago. I can figure it out.” 

“Good. I’ll stay to fight if–” 

“No!” she said, the word too loud in the darkness. Below, it had gone quiet. Too quiet. 

Batman seemed to realize it at the same time, his head tilted. “The music’s off,” he murmured. “We’re going to have to move.” 

He crept to the edge of the wall and peered over.

A gunshot echoed through the night. A chunk of brick exploded close to Batman’s head. She squeaked and covered her mouth to hide the sound. Her eyes were wide as he came back to her side. 

“Hold on tight. Run if I say run. Do you understand?” 

She nodded. She had never been so afraid, even that first night she had met him. She hadn’t been surrounded then. She hadn’t had to do anything but run and now–now there was so much more on the line. 

“If you have to leave me behind, do not go straight home. Ride around as much as you can, as randomly as you can, and try to meet Gordon somewhere. Got it?” 

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her, still crouched, to the spot closest to where the motorcycle was. 

He was giving her so many instructions she could barely keep up. Run, stay alive, get to Gordon. Leave him behind if she had to. 

She didn’t want to leave him behind. She didn’t know if she could. 

He let go of her long enough to throw each of the three flat disks in a separate direction. Two landed in the alley below, one at each end. 

“Ready?” he asked, an echo of the start of their night. He held something out to her. The motorcycle key. 

She shook her head but he was grabbing her anyway. There were three small explosions. Smoke poured out of the ground. There was shouting, gunfire. 

She realized her face was wet with terrified tears. 

Batman leapt. 

The ground rushed up at them fast, too fast, and she fought against the instinct to hold on tighter, to close her eyes. She needed them wide open, needed to be ready to run. 

With a yank, he pulled up right before they hit the pavement, and landed impossibly softly on his feet. 

There was smoke everywhere now. She could barely make out the dumpster the motorcycle was hidden behind. 

“Go,” he whispered in her ear and gave her a shove. 

She ran. 

There was more gunfire behind her and she ducked on instinct. Her hands smacked against the side of the dumpster as she lost her balance. 

“Over here!” she heard from somewhere in the smoke. There was a loud grunt and more gunshots. Her heart was pounding so loud it echoed the gunfire in her ears. 

She sobbed through her teeth as she ran the last few feet to the motorcycle. She could see nothing in the smoke other than shadows and the vaguest outlines of the streetlights at either end of the alley. 

She almost dropped the key but managed to slide it into the ignition. She waited to start it, waiting for one shadow in particular to materialize into a familiar form. Where was he? He hadn’t told her to leave without him, but what if–

She screamed as hands grabbed her and yanked her off of the motorcycle. 

Next Chapter

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@ktficworld @grunge-n-roses5 @anon-cat-posts @projectdreamwalker @warsaur @lachillona02 @crazyunsexycool @doetic @alexiris @that-girl-named-alex @harry-bowie-mercury @vaniasagitaa @widows-writings @missing-loki @exactlyelegantwizard @miriamnox @mavenmoon @eclipsedplanet

[eoieopda]

<whispers in your ear> Cheol x Reader where he’s her brother’s friend? 🙏

the one with seungcheol and the ruse

pairing: choi seungcheol x jeon!reader summary: your knight’s shining armor is actually of flannel, but he gets the job done. cw: reader’s gender/sexuality are left up to interpretation, annoying ex, alcohol mention, the setting is a bar, wonwoo doesn’t actually appear but my girl lee youngji does (lmao) au: older brother’s best friend, fake dating (sort of) type: drabble (fluff-adjacent) rating: pg15 wc: 1.4 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

The similarities between you and your brother start and stop with genetic material. While you’d rather die than spend a Saturday night at home alone, Wonwoo would sooner drop dead than divorce himself from his PC just to leave his apartment. 

All things considered, it’s not much of a surprise when you roll up to the bar with your friends and find your brother’s there without him. Just the same, you’re not shocked when the cursory wave you give goes unnoticed; they’re all too busy guzzling shots to care who walks by.

All but one, that is.

The oldest, Seungcheol, lifts his pint glass in acknowledgment when he sees you come in from the cold. That gesture comes with a bonus in the form of a lazy half-smile, which almost has you tripping over your own feet. Now effectively tattooed on your brain, you still picture that lopsided grin while you cross the room to claim a booth.

Of the boys taking up space at the bar, Seungcheol is the closest to your brother — and, as a natural consequence, the closest to you. So, you tell yourself, it’s only natural that your focus keeps drifting in his way. More than that, it’s polite, checking in to make sure he’s having fun. 

Wonwoo would want that for him, after all.

Right?

More often than not, Seungcheol is too engrossed in his friends’ shenanigans to feel your casual — polite — gaze burning a hole in the side of his head. Even though he’s not looking in your direction, you find it hard to stop glancing in his. It can’t be helped; it’s always been this way. There’s only one conclusion left to draw: 

Choi Seungcheol was tailor-made to distract you.

First, it’s the fact that his hair is quite a bit longer now than when you saw him at your parents’ anniversary party a few weeks ago. The more you stare at those dark waves, the more you try to justify it to yourself. As far as you’ll admit, it has nothing whatsoever to do with how soft those tresses look; nor any desire you may or may not have to touch them and test your theory. 

No, you’re simply trying to determine what vitamins or supplements he takes to achieve that perfect shine — because whatever he’s doing is working.

When you stop gawking at his head, it’s his hands that trip you up. The way they grip Soonyoung’s biceps when the younger of the two starts wobbling, threatening to topple over onto a soju-sticky floor. The urge you feel to throw yourself at the ground and see who catches you is purely scientific, you tell yourself. 

Research.

If it’s not his body, it’s the sound he makes, laughing like a mad man with his whole chest. You have to peel your velcro gaze off of him to see what he’s laughing at: Kim Mingyu, who attempted to catch a tossed peanut in his mouth but ended up getting hit between the eyebrows.

You’d let yourself be pelted with peanuts if it made him laugh like that again — and, quite frankly, you have no excuses left to give about why that is.

Nine times out of ten, your friends are smirking when you finally turn back around because they know exactly where your eyes keep wandering — and to whom. They point out the way your cheeks and ears flame up. Each time they do, you blame it on the alcohol, though none of you believe it.

When you turn around for the tenth time, however,  they’re not smirking. Instead, they’re pushing their empty glasses your way.

“You’re on refill duty, aren’t you?” Youngji asks with a single eyebrow raised. 

You’re not, but she’s not blind. She knows how much you want to hover, and how desperately you need an excuse to do so.

Seungkwan, quick on the uptake, chugs what’s left of his cocktail. His face is still twisted from the sour syrup when he waves his now-empty glass in front of you. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to; his narrowed eyes are menacing, and they tell you everything he’s thinking.

You sigh, put-upon, even though everyone knows you aren’t. Lips pursed tight, you keep that giddy grin to yourself as you collect the glasses and skip off towards the bar.

After giving your orders to the bartender, you glance — for the millionth time — over to your brother’s friends. The one you’re looking for is nowhere to be seen. Bravely, you do your best not to pout.

“Hey,” comes a low voice from behind you.

It’s a miracle that your head doesn’t roll with how quickly you swivel around. 

As soon as you do, your face falls. The excited flip in your stomach is swiftly replaced by a wave of nausea. Your tone is clipped and drenched in disappointment when you respond: “Can I help you?”

Your ex never could take a hint. They breeze right past that deadly look on your face, sidle up next to you at the bar until their shoulder is damn near bumping into yours. Worse, they open their mouth to speak again.

“Haven’t seen you around much lately —”

Is that not the point of breaking up with someone?

Desperate, your eyes scan the room for anyone who might notice the giant, neon exclamation point flashing above your head. Nobody you stare pointedly at feels your gaze on them, so you switch targets — again, again, again. Your brother’s friends are equally as useless as your own, it seems.

What if you tap “SOS” in morse code?

“— I’ve missed you. Missed us.”

Shit. 

Why didn’t you learn morse code?

You’re ready to sprint headlong out of the bar entirely when an arm — thankfully not your ex’s — drapes around your shoulders. With a quick glance up, you confirm that there’s truth to the meme: not all heroes wear capes. 

As it turns out, some heroes wear flannels, and they accessorize them with jaws clenched tightly enough to crack teeth.

“Jagi, who’s this?” 

Seungcheol’s posture relaxes just a little when he looks down at you. You swallow and keep your swooning to a minimum. There’s sweetness dripping from his tone that you want to bathe in. 

“I thought I’d met all your friends by now.”

When you let him pull you closer to his side — so close that your head can rest against his goddamn pectoral — you tell yourself that it’s just part of the bit. The affectionate smile he sends your way is part of the ruse. He’s convincing, though; you’d fall for this con, too.

You and your moon-sized eyes begrudgingly shift focus from Seungcheol to your ex, who still hasn’t taken the hint. That lovesick smile of yours is gone in an instant, giving way to the flattest affect you can muster. The sugar-laced voice you speak with is a far cry from the unblinking and unapologetic expression on your face. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t recall your name! What was it?”

Suddenly, Seungcheol unwraps his arm from around you. He seems to sense that this change-up startles you, so he winks at you while he leaning forward into the space between you and your ex; hands reaching for the drinks you’ve been waiting on.

Oh, you realize. He’s making sure you get the last word.

You swallow thickly as you reach out to take your burden off his hands. He shakes his head and beckons you with a smile, eyes softening. “C’mon, sweetheart. I’ve got these.”

You do as he says, following close behind him like a puppy, and you only stop when he does. Seungcheol looks back over his shoulder, calling out first to the bartender: 

“Can you put these on my tab? The name’s Choi.”

Then, dropping all pretense of friendliness, to your ex:

“Get home safe, eh, chingu?”

When you both resume your path to your table, you squeeze his elbow and whisper, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he urges, shaking his head a second time. Although he’s smiling, there’s some unspoken conflict in his eyes that you can’t quite parse. You can’t ask after it, either, because he stops stalling and sighs, “That’s what pseudo-brothers are for, right?”

[kiddbegins]

Cuteness Aggression - Connor Rhodes

Requested: yes

Word count: 707

Warnings: random facts that are boring included

A/n: these are all facts I genuinely just… knew…

masterlist

Something you always managed to do in your free time was find a way to learn some random information or fun fact that you could spread around to those around you. You’ve randomly educated everyone about the great molasses flood of Boston in 1919, that William Mitchell created pop rocks by accident in the 60s while trying to make instant soft drinks, the fear of long words was hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (which you could spell easily) and bucket loads more.

Each time it was met with excitement, your friends always adored hearing about them. No matter if it were history, science, english, anything based. If it was a fact coming from you, it was interesting. Sometimes you got the annoyed person that had had a bad day or just didn’t have the capability to soak up information that night but usually you were fine.

First and foremost on your biggest fans list was none other than Connor Rhodes, boyfriend of five years and fiance as of two weeks ago. He loved hearing you talk or ramble. Gave him the perfect excuse to just sit and listen silently. 

He was never much of a talker and usually that meant that his lovers would get annoyed when he was too quiet. But you never minded. Of course you’d make sure he was alright if his vibe was off that night but usually he was just content in listening to you.

Like a couple days ago when you went on a whole spiel about the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers and how the Missouri river was considered the longest river in the country when half of it was actually the Mississippi river because the two merged in St. Louis and the Mississippi is the one that leads down and out of New Orleans. Granted it was only by a mile but that mile still doesn’t make up for the fact it was stealing its length from the Mississippi.

Did he care about which river was technically longer? No. But the way you genuinely got worked up over it made him smile so wide his eyes crinkled. Which in turn made you grin because truly his eye creases were just one of your favorite things about him.

“Connor, wanna hear what someone at work said today?” You happily asked, falling onto the bed and looking over at the man who was already shirtless and under the covers. Of course he nodded, pulling you to lay down properly.

As soon as your head hit the pillow your smile grew, “So, I was talking to Annette right? And she was telling me about her cats and that she has an orange cat and a calico cat, which they’re adorable. I'll show you a picture after,” You interlocked your fingers with his as you spoke.

“Anyway, did you know that most orange cats are boys and most calico cats are girls? Isn’t that cool? Like no matter what-” You were cut off by a long and lingering kiss to the lips, followed by peck upon peck to your cheek, forehead, temple and all the spaces in between.

A giggle built up in your throat as you scrunched your face up, Connor’s nose bumping against yours as he pulled back slightly, “What was all that for? You trying to shut me up?” You teased, knowing full well he’d never try and make you stop talking.

He shook his head, placing a light kiss to the tip of your nose, “No, you’re just really adorable when you get excited over the stuff you learn.” Connor spoke softly, his heart feeling like it grew a million and one times just by looking at you.

Your cheeks tinged dark red, a bashful smile on your face, “I- oh,” You muttered, always flustered when he complimented you. Whether it was on your appearance or something smaller like this it made butterflies fly all throughout your stomach.

“God I can’t wait to marry you.” He mumbled, pulling you forward for another kiss, this one more sensible since he wasn’t overcome by cuteness aggression. His hand slid to the side of your face, simply holding you there.

You brought a hand up to cover his, pulling back just enough to speak, “Neither can I.”

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[gretagerwigsmuse]

'cause you care, and i swear that i'm here, but i'm there it's gettin' harder to hunt me down (Part 2/2)

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Reader

Summary: In hindsight, your crush on Bradley started innocently enough - he came into the bar one evening and you thought he was cute. Well, more than cute, but it all had to start somewhere...

OR Y/N and Bradley over the course of many, many weekends at the Hard Deck

Author’s Note: enjoy part 2! thanks to everyone for all the support on this, it’s been so fun to write for a super active fandom. i also posted this on ao3 if you’d like to read it all at once. let me know if you like it!

[Part 1]

-------

one and a half weeks ago

You spent the next week thinking about texting him, wanting to text him, wanting to talk to him. But it never seemed like the right time. 

Plus, Bradley was probably - and justifiably - busy. He didn’t need you bugging him. He was assigned to that mission you kept hearing whispers about and Penny told you that two of his friends, Natasha and Bob, were in an accident earlier that week. And then Admiral Kazansky passed away on Thursday.

So, it had definitely been a busy week for Bradley, to say nothing of how busy you had been at work. You were sitting in on so many depositions you thought your head was going to explode, in addition to all the briefs you were helping the ADAs write. Your head had been swimming in legalese for days and you actually relished what was sure to be a busy Saturday shift after an already chaotic Friday one. 

Penny had mentioned to you on Friday that there was going to be an informal reception at the Hard Deck after Admiral Kazansky’s funeral on Saturday, so she would need everyone at work a little earlier to help out. 

You, Jimmy, and Maddie were all at work getting the bar ready when Penny showed up around three o’clock to say that the reception was winding down at the Kazanskys’ and that everyone would be at the Hard Deck within the next hour or so. 

Despite everything going on, you did hope to see Bradley there and at least talk to him a little bit, ask how he was doing, see if he really meant to give you his number last week. Maybe see if he wanted to hang out, just the two of you, once his mission was over? A girl could dream after all -

“- Well aren’t you just a pretty little picture?” 

You rolled your eyes upon hearing Jake’s voice, but still turned around to face him. He looked sharp in his dress blues - and he knew it. “What can I get you?”

“I’d say you, but we are all supposed to be in mourning, so I’ll just take a beer for now.”

You leaned over to get a Budweiser out of the cooler and slid it over to him. “I’ll put it on your tab -”

“- But first you gotta tell me what’s up with the sundress?” He jutted his chin out towards you. “And not that I don’t love the normal jeans and t-shirt look on you, but this is something else, darlin.’”

The unexpected compliment, even coming from Jake of all people, coupled with his southern drawl, caused you to blush. The sundress wasn’t anything that would be considered garish or in poor taste in light of the circumstances that day, but you did feel pretty in it. 

“I wanted to wear something a little nicer because of the funeral, is that so wrong?” 

“Ain’t nothing wrong about you, honey.”

Jake took a long sip of his beer, staring you down the entire time. You knew he never would actually do anything about it, but you always got so embarrassed whenever he flirted with you. You didn’t like the attention it brought - you liked when guys were more intentional, more reserved in regards to their actions towards you.

“What is it with men and sundresses?” you said under your breath, not expecting a response.

“Ehhh,” he shrugged, “probably the fact that most of them are see thru…”

You glanced down at your dress and then back up at Jake, who was smirking. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re fine,” he waved his hand, “and not for lack of trying - or should I say looking - on my part…”

Your expression remained unimpressed and you were contemplating asking if he wanted to close his tab to get him out of your hair; meanwhile, Jake’s eyes roved around the bar and lit up when they seemingly landed on whoever he was looking for. 

“You don’t believe me, fine, let’s get a second opinion on the appeal of sundresses, not limited, of course, to if they’re see thru or not - oh, this’ll be good - Bradshaw!” 

Shit. Shit. He wasn’t asking Bradley to come over? God, it would be less mortifying if he asked Captain Mitchell. Because Jake couldn’t know? Could he? 

Granted, Jake was a pain in the ass, but he was way more perceptive than anyone ever gave him credit. And he was also the textbook definition of a gossip.

“Bet you’d just love to hear ol’ Rooster croon about -” 

“- Don’t you dare -”

You crossed your arms across your chest and glared at Jake, not taking your eyes off him as you slowly moved over towards The Bell. The opportunity had never arisen for you to ring The Bell before, but you’d always wanted to do it. And to have it be because of something Jake said? Well, that was just a bonus. 

Before you could put your hands around the rope, Bradley sauntered over and stood beside Jake. “What do you want, Bagman - hey, Y/N.”

“Hey, Bradley,” you said with a smile, ignoring the fake gagging expression Jake was making behind Bradley’s back. “Can I get you a refill?”

He ducked his head and smiled. “Nah, I’m good for now. Maybe in a little while though - so, what do you want, Hangman?” his tone changed immediately and you held back a laugh at the abrupt one-eighty. 

“Well, Y/N and I were -”

You kept sneaking glances at Bradley while Jake was talking. God, he was even more handsome up close and seemed so confident and self assured in his uniform. He looked way too distinguished in his dress blues and you were slightly thankful he had left his hat back at his table. Maybe he’d let you try it on later if - woah there. No. There would be no later. 

Lieutenant Bradshaw was not going to take you for a ride while wearing that stupidly attractive hat and uniform of his. He was not going to pull you close to him in some darkened hallway and whisper absolutely filthy things in your ear about how he wanted to fuck you in the cockpit of his plane -

“- Y/N?” You startled, turning to face Jake and Bradley, the former of whom had interrupted your daydream. “Was just asking Rooster here why he thinks you’re looking so dolled up for us tonight?”

Bradley shoved Jake. “And I was just telling Bagman it was probably because of the funeral.”

“Exactly - see, he gets it!”

Jake smirked. “Oh, I’m sure he gets it. He gets it plenty - say, thoughts on sundresses, Bradshaw?”

“Fuck off,” Bradley grumbled and then tossed you a quick smile. “She’d be well within her rights to ring The Bell on you.”

You nodded and took a step over towards The Bell again. “Bell hasn’t been rung all night…bet this crowd would love a free round after the long day they’ve had…”

Bradley put his hands in his pockets and rocked on the backs of his feet, eagerly watching the scene unfold. Meanwhile, Jake just scowled. 

“Minx. Well, on that note, I’ve got to beat Fanboy and Bob in a game of pool. So, I will see you around, my dear.” 

As he disappeared over Bradley’s shoulder he mouthed the words you’re welcome and you fought the urge to flip him off. 

“Sorry about him, we really shouldn’t let him off base.” 

You laughed. “Ehh I've dealt with worse at Stanford. He’s mostly harmless, all bark no bite - at least where I’m concerned.”

That caught his interest and he leaned forward on the bar. You briefly glanced down at all the different medals and ribbons on his jacket and saw him doing the same thing with your sundress. 

“What uhh - what do you mean?”

“I don’t know - I guess he just kind of haggles me or flirts with me, but it’s not like he means anything by it? So, I don’t really mind.”

Bradley frowned. “How do you know he doesn’t mean anything by it?”

“It’s Jake,” you said like that was enough. But it apparently hadn’t been because Bradley was still looking at you intently. You blushed. “I don’t know, he teases me about being a lawyer and all the pantsuits I’ll have to wear - which is ironic coming from a guy who wears a uniform everyday.” At this Bradley conceded a nod. “But like he doesn’t actually want to date me or sleep with me? I think it’s just second nature for him? Like that’s just how he talks?”

“Maybe…”

Someone a couple seats down from Bradley requested a couple waters and you quickly got them settled before turning back to him. “And then the whole sundress thing…”

“What about it?”

You were suddenly nervous, anxious even. “He called you over to get your opinion -”

“- Yeah, on why you were so dressed up -”

You groaned. “- Oh my god, you’re literally wearing a suit and have medals on your chest! I’m not the one who’s dressed up here, it’s a sundress for fuck’s sake. If you think this is dressed up, you should see what I wear to work!”

Bradley held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. You aren’t dressed up, you’re in very normal attire for working behind a bar.”

“Thank you,” you settled down, but then remembered you hadn’t finished what you were saying earlier and cursed yourself for bringing up the topic in the first place. “He called you over to get your opinion on if my dress was see thru or not -”

“- He what?” 

Ironically, the first rumble of thunder filled the Hard Deck at Bradley’s words and you almost smiled. 

“He said that was the appeal for sundresses for guys and wanted to know if you agreed,” you mumbled. 

“Why would it matter what I - not that I’d look for that in the first place - because I wouldn’t, I mean -”

You cut him off, saving you both the embarrassment. 

“- He knows we’re friends - friendly, I mean. He knows we’re friendly and he was just trying to mess with me.” 

The more you explained it, the dumber it sounded. God, you’d kill for a distraction. Why was no one else up at the bar getting drinks? But Bradley just nodded - once - and leaned back. 

“Right.”

Another rumble of thunder sounded, this time followed by some lightning. You could hear the rain pounding on the roof of the Hard Deck and dreaded going out into the storm. There was no way you were going to bike home to your bungalow in the monsoon outside and contemplated calling an Uber, surge pricing be damned. You quickly pulled your phone out from under the bar to check the weather. The storm wasn’t going to stop until three and it was only just after ten thirty. 

“You okay?” Bradley asked. 

You nodded and put your phone back. “Yeah, just looking at the weather. Storm’s not gonna stop for awhile, kind of snuck up on me. I biked here.”

“You biked here?” For added measure, a particularly strong gust of wind howled outside. 

“Well, there wasn’t any rain in the forecast when I looked this morning,” you quipped, “I don’t live too far away, so yes I normally bike here.”

“I can give you a ride home - I mean, if you want?” he said after a moment. 

You glanced around the relatively deserted bar. It was slow for a Saturday night after the majority of the funeral guests had left and you had no doubt Bradley would be bored out of his mind waiting around until your shift ended. It looked like his friends were getting ready to leave soon anyway. 

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to make you wait around for me. You’re sweet for offering, though.”

“Offering what?” Penny came up behind you with a crate of clean glasses. 

While Bradley said hello to her, you took the crate from her hands and set it on the bar top to empty. “Uhh Bradley offered to give me a ride home, but I said he didn’t have to wait around for me.”

Penny shrugged. “You can head out early if you want? As long as you get those glasses put away, you’re all set.” She winked at Bradley and you pretended not to notice.

“Great, thanks - guess I’m all yours then.”

“Guess so…”

With Penny’s blessing, the two of you dashed across the parking lot towards Bradley’s Bronco some ten minutes later. Once he saw to it that you were all settled in the car, he ran back over to get your bike and then put it in the trunk. By the time he got in the car, he was completely soaked - from his fancy white hat all the way down to his shiny black shoes. The car roared to life beneath you both and the radio played softly in the background. 

“All set?” he asked and you nodded. “So, where am I headed?” 

“Uhh just take a right out of here and head down the street for about a mile or so.”

“Sounds good.” He pulled out of the parking lot and set off down Orange Ave and past the Hotel del Coronado. The streets were deserted, everyone seemingly put off by the rain and the late hour. Bradley drove with more care than you had originally figured, but that could have been due to the rain. Silence stretched between the two of you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, easy. 

“Thanks again for the ride, Bradley.”

He shrugged. “S’no big - hey, you know you can call me Rooster, right? You don’t have to call me Bradley all the time.”

It felt weird to use any of the teams’ call signs, like you didn’t have the right to do so.

“I only know you as Bradley, would be kind of odd to call you anything else, I guess.” You frowned suddenly. “Do you not want me to call you Bradley -”

“- No, no. I mean, I like it. Ever since I joined the Navy, it’s pretty much been Rooster or Bradshaw. No one consistently calls me Bradley anymore.”

“Hmmm, Lieutenant Bradley Rooster Bradshaw definitely is a mouthful.” 

He laughed. “Might be a bit hard to fit on my drivers license.”

“What if I call you Brad?” It sounded weird coming out of your mouth and you laughed at the expression on his face. “Yeah, I didn’t like that either - oh, take a right here and it’s the second house on the left.”

Bradley turned onto G Avenue and, though it was dark and raining heavily, the Mentors had left the porch and driveway lights on, which still illuminated the entire house.

“Holy shit, Y/N.” Bradley let out a low whistle as the Bronco rolled to a stop in front of the Cape Cod inspired, cedar shingle bungalow. 

Well, maybe bungalow wasn’t the right word for the main house, but it did sum up the guest house you were staying in on the property. You couldn’t see the ocean from your bedroom in the little bungalow out back, but the beach was still only a couple hundred feet away. It was lovely, really - completely renovated, had a full kitchen and dining room, was totally private, was a quick drive to your office and bike ride to the Hard Deck, and Mrs. Mentor - your mom’s closest friend from childhood - even let you pick out the linens in the bedroom. It was perfect. And you were going to be sad to say goodbye to it when you went back up to Stanford in the fall. 

Bradley was still looking at it in awe and you chuckled. “Okay, to be frank, it’s not my house. It’s my parents’ friend’s house and I’m just staying here for the summer - plus, I’m in the guest house out back.”

He leaned over the steering wheel to peek at the house in front of you both and shifted the car into park. “Oh, the guest house, excuse me. I was gonna say, here I am telling everyone to tip you 25%, meanwhile you’re practically living on millionaire row in Coronado…”

You had noticed your tips had increased over the past couple weeks and were faintly mortified that Bradley had told people to do that. But at least it would explain some of their knowing looks lately. 

“Oh, shut up.” You elbowed him in the stomach and he exaggerated a groan. “Tell them to stop doing that, too, it’s not necessary. If they feel the need to do it for anyone, let it be Maddie and Jimmy - I’m serious,” you added when Bradley just smiled.

“Then why do you do it - bartend?” He cut the engine and it was just the two of you and the pitter patter of rain on the roof.

“Well, I used to be a waitress and thought it might be fun to change things up.”

Bradley shook you a look. “You know what I mean…”

You shrugged. “I was fine getting my own place for the summer - contrary to my father’s beliefs, the DA’s office does pay me - but my parents swung this for me instead and I felt kind of…spoiled, I guess? Like I’ve lived a really privileged life and I guess I just want to contribute in some way? I’m not saying I’ll be able to pay my parents back for some seventeen odd years of private school on top of college and law school amongst other things, but I’d like to start somewhere? And until I really make good money, the Hard Deck it is.

“Plus, it gets me out of the house and stuff - out with people and everything. I don’t know too many people around here and there’s always someone new coming into the bar and it’s never boring, so…”

Bradley nodded, considering this, and you. “I think we’ve got a leg up on the lawyers there.”

“Possibly…”

He just shook his head fondly. “Alright, counselor, I think there’s an umbrella in the back seat if you want to use it? I’ll get your bike.” The door creaked open and he jogged to the truck bed, while you fished around for a massive golf umbrella in the back seat.

You mentally prepared yourself to brave the rains and got out of the car. But instead of heading to your front door, you went around to the back of the car, where Bradley had just gotten your bike out. You held the umbrella over his head.

“You can go in,” he said over the rain, “I’ll be right behind you.”

You shook your head and shifted the umbrella again so it was completely covering him. “I’m already soaked - and that uniform looks important.”

He chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “Fine, but I’m pretty sure we can both fit under here. As long as you’re okay with your ten-speed being the casualty?”

You looked up at him and smiled. “I think I can live with that.”

The two of you dodged some puddles on the driveway and made your way up a short set of stairs to your front porch. There was barely enough room for the two of you on the landing, to say nothing of the bike Bradley was half carrying, half leaning against the porch railing, so you were practically on top of each other under the umbrella. Despite being soaked through, you could still feel the heat pouring off his body. You’d never been this close to each other before - you could faintly smell his cologne and felt the hard planes of his chest against your back as you shakily unlocked the door. You could blame that on being cold from the rain. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Once you got through the threshold, you flicked on the lights and your little bungalow lit up before you both. Practically everything was white - the walls, the linen couches, the curtains, the marble countertop, the kitchen cabinets, but oddly that made it easier to clean - at least that was what Mrs. Mentor had said. There were subtle pops of color in the throw pillows and rugs, in addition to the artwork lining the walls. Plus, everything looked great against the herringbone hardwood floors. It was definitely to your taste, but you wished the assorted knick knacks and decor doting the space had been yours and not something Mrs. Mentor picked out at Serena and Lily.

“Okay, now this is exactly how I imagined your place would look.”

You scrunched your nose. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or -”

“- Oh without question, Miss Hospital Corners. I’ve seen you clean the bar, you’re freakishly neat. Jimmy and Maddie don’t put nearly as much effort into it. I like it though.”

“Har har,” you rolled your eyes, “make sure you take your shoes off, but you can put the bike in the storage closet over there?”

“The bike goes in the storage closet? Jesus, this place is fucking nice,” he muttered and then set off towards the storage closet near the back of the bungalow.

While he was gone, you gave the living room and kitchen a quick once over, looking for anything out of place - read embarrassing - but found nothing. You turned on some additional lights and headed over towards the kitchen. 

“You want some water or anything?” 

“Sure,” he shouted back. You could hear his footsteps getting closer to the kitchen as you fished around in the refrigerator.

You didn’t turn around as you asked: “Still or sparkling?” 

He let out an exaggerated groan and you finally turned around to see him taking off his suit jacket so he was just in his white dress shirt. “No mineral water? Come on, Y/N, you’re slacking here.”

“Oh, please forgive me for my egregious error, Lieutenant Bradshaw. I won’t let it happen again,” you said, laying it on thick. 

You were both standing there, smiling at each other like idiots and the kitchen suddenly felt too small. Bradley took one step towards you, then another, causing your arm to brush against the cool stainless steel refrigerator as you leaned back. You peered up at him and he opened his mouth to speak, but something out of the corner of your eye in the fridge caught your attention.

“- Oh, there’s a - it looks like there’s an extra Topo Chico back here - so, mineral and sparkling water.” You held the bottle between the two of you and practically thrust it into Bradley’s chest.

His eyes flitted between your face and the bottle, before settling back on you. A slow smile crept across his face. “I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t really know what mineral water tastes like.”

“And here I thought you were a man of refined taste?” He shrugged and then took a sip. “Initial thoughts?”

“It’s fizzy,” he stated the obvious, “and also a little salty? But it’s good, thanks.”

You smiled, pleased and then fished around in the fridge for another bottle for yourself. When you closed the refrigerator door, your hand brushed against your dress, reminding you of how wet you still were. You hazarded a quick glance over at Bradley, noting the way his wet shirt was practically plastered to his body. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt. You swallowed. 

“I can put your clothes in the dryer if you’d like?” He raised his eyebrows. “I mean, maybe not your jacket, but the rest of it? Like your shirt and pants and stuff because I feel like that jacket’s something that needs to be dry cleaned and like I wouldn’t even know where to start with putting the medals and pins back on -”

“- That would be nice, thanks.” 

“Okay,” you squeaked. “I’ll probably do the same. In fact, I’ll just wash everything too, the machine’s really quick.

“The laundry’s just over here.” You thumbed over your shoulder and he followed you. “Wait! You don’t have any clothes to change into uhh - I have a couple sweatshirts that might fit you, if that works? You’re out of luck with the pants, though. You’re like almost a foot taller than me, but I can try -” 

Before you could ramble any further, you dashed off to your bedroom, hunting through your closet for your baggiest sweatshirt. The worn, grey Pebble Beach crewneck was slightly big on you, so you hoped it would fit Bradley. For good measure, you also grabbed a pair of sweatpants you’d had for years. They probably wouldn’t fit him, but it was worth a try. Finally, you changed out of your own sundress and into a pair of cashmere pajama shorts and an oversized oxford before you headed back down the hallway. 

“I found one, hope it fits…” you trailed off, any further words you had been about to say were lost to the ether at the sight of Lieutenant Bradshaw standing in his uniform pants and his uniform pants only in your hallway. 

“Oh, uhh thanks,” he ducked his head, “figured I’d save you some time, but should’ve warned you -”

“- It’s fine - you’re fine.” He was more than fine, really. Very fine. And tan. So tan.

He took the sweatshirt from your hands and slipped it on. Shockingly, it did fit him, but probably wouldn’t be the size he would’ve bought had the sweatshirt been new. “I uhh got you some sweatpants, too. So, I’ll just let you change. The bathroom’s down the hall if that works better than doing it in the hallway - changing in the hallway, I mean.”

Bradley blinked slowly, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He seemed just as embarrassed as you were. “Right, thanks. I’ll just - yeah.”

While he was gone, you threw in a quick load of laundry, figuring he could throw his pants in himself. Normally, you wouldn’t mix the whites and the darks, but time was of the essence here and you wanted to get everything cleaned. Bradley probably didn’t want to hang out in your living room all night. 

By the time he came back, you had started the laundry and were sitting in front of the TV, watching the SNL cold open. 

“How do I look?” He did a little spin, showing off the too short sweatpants and too tight sweatshirt. 

You laughed. “You’ve never looked better. Here, have a seat.” 

He sat down on the couch close, but not too close to you and you both relaxed as you watched the opening monologue and the first couple sketches. Like in the car, the silence wasn’t awkward between the two of you - it was easy. You both sipped your drinks, occasionally glanced at your phones, laughed at the sketches, and eventually you got up to put both your clothes in the dryer. Neither of you were terribly fond of the musical guest, so you started chatting again, gradually getting into deeper conversation topics.  

“So, what do you do next - in the Navy?” you clarified, “After this assignment is over and everything?”

Bradley considered this. “Probably just go back to China Lake.”

“That’s near Death Valley, right?” 

“Hmmm, it’s about halfway between Death Valley and Sequoia.”

“And do you like it out there?”  

He thought for a moment before replying. “No one’s ever really asked me that.”

“But do you?” From what you knew about that part of the state, it was very remote. Though you’d only known Bradley for a couple weeks, you didn’t really see him in a place like that. 

“I don’t know? It’s fine, I guess? I have my own house, which is nice, but - I don’t know. It’s quiet and sometimes that’s nice. But sometimes...”

“It’s not. No, I get it.” 

“Plus, it’s not really a - never mind.”

You shot him a look. “What? Trust me, I have no allegiance to China Lake, my feelings won’t be bruised if you were about to say something shitty about it.”

He made a face and then flopped back on the couch. “It’s gonna sound stupid, considering I don’t even - well, it’s not exactly where I’d want to have a family or make a life with someone, really. And I know that’s dumb to say since I don’t even have a girlfriend, let alone a family, but yeah. I don’t see myself making a life there.”

“Is there any place you’d like to go instead? I know you guys don’t exactly get to pick, but like, best case scenario, where would you go?”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll get a promotion if I get picked for this assignment and it goes well?”

“But where, Bradley? Humor me.” 

You didn’t know why it was so important for you to find this information out. It wasn’t like you’d see him again after he was done with his assignment at North Island. He would go back to China Lake and you would go back to Stanford until graduation and then hopefully to San Diego. So, why? Why did you want to know everything about this man?

“You planning out my life for me, Y/N?”

“I’m a big planner.”

“Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed. You seem like the type to index your tupperware containers.” You rolled your eyes at his teasing. “What do you see down the line for me then?”

You twisted your mouth in thought. “Well, first things first, you have to come back from this mission safe and sound, think you can handle that?”

Bradley sat up on the couch suddenly and mirrored your position, sitting criss-cross applesauce, and looked at you solemnly. “I’ll try my hardest.”

“Good, that’s good,” you stammered, caught off guard by his earnestness. “So, uhh you get back here safely and then get a promotion to become - shit, I don’t know what comes after Lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant Commander.”

You scrunched your nose. “Really?”

“Followed by Commander -”

“- How original -” yon quipped. 

“- Then Captain -”

“- Oooo Captain Bradshaw has a nice ring to it. I like that better.” He laughed. “Alright, so now you’re a Captain and get to pick wherever you want to be located and you’re thinking you want somewhere with a beach because your dear friend Y/N said the salt air is good for your health, so you pick Hawaii -”

“- There isn’t a naval air base in Hawaii -”

“- You’re kidding?” That goddamn Ben Affleck Pearl Harbor movie had you all turned around. 

Bradley shook his head. “Nope, just a regular old naval base and I don’t really know how to sail, so that’s out.”

“Aren’t you in the Navy?”

“I land on the boats, sweetheart, I don’t sail them.” 

Your cheeks grew hot once the pet name slipped out, seemingly by accident. “Well, why don’t we skip that part for now and focus on the girl.”

“What girl?”

“The girl you’re going to find and want to make a life with,” you teased, leaning into the bit. 

But Bradley wasn’t laughing. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, Lieutenant,” you teased, “I’ve seen you at the Hard Deck. You keep playing that piano, I know you could definitely have your pick. How old are you?”

“Thirty five.” You hadn’t thought he was that much older than you. The other pilots were in their late twenties. “And what about you?”

“I’ll be twenty seven in a couple weeks.”

Bradley cocked his head. “Awwww, Y/N, you’re almost a real grown up.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled. You wanted to pivot the conversation to something else - something more neutral - when your eyes landed on Bradley’s fancy white hat that was still on the kitchen island. “Can I wear your hat?”

“So much for being a real grown up…”

“Please? It looked very jaunty.”

“Jaunty?” You nodded, a huge smile on your face. 

“It’s the perfect word! Or maybe dapper?” 

He considered this for a moment. “I like dapper better, actually. Why do you want to wear my hat so badly?”

“Is that not kosher?” You scrunched your nose. “Like since I’m not in the Navy, I can’t wear it?”

Bradley sighed and tried to look serious as he thought over your request. “You’re lucky I brought it in here with me…” 

He got up from his spot on the couch and crossed over to the kitchen where he had left his hat and other personal belongings. With much pomp and ceremony, he dusted off the hat and held it out for you to take. It was slightly too large for your head and the brim slipped down your forehead to the bridge of your nose. Bradley chuckled softly and leaned down to fix it and suddenly it felt about ten degrees hotter in the living room. 

“You happy now?” he whispered. 

You matched his tone. “Very.” 

He sat back on the couch again, but this time closer so that your thighs were almost touching. His hair had dried and it was fluffier than you had ever seen it and you were dying to run your hands through it. He’d probably let out a little moan before pulling you into his lap. 

You’d slide your hands up his chest before eventually clasping them behind his neck and would slowly bridge the gap between the two of you. You’d kiss him passionately, eagerly, while he’d be hesitant at first and then respond with a fervor. His hands would grip your hips, grinding you down against him, and he’d let out a moan as you divert your attention from his lips to his neck. You’d mark him so everyone would know he was yours when he showed up for inspection -

“- Why’d you never text me?” he asked suddenly. 

You shifted on the couch, rubbing your thighs together slightly, and then took the hat off. You couldn’t believe you’d let yourself get lost in your daydream, especially with him sitting right next to you. 

“Oh uhh, I guess I didn’t want to bother you? I know you have that mission coming up and didn’t want to distract you or anything. It sounds important.”

Bradley conceded a nod. “Yeah, but you can still text me. I might not reply right away, but -” You leaned over to grab your phone off the coffee table. “- What’re you doing?”

You tapped out a couple words and a moment later felt Bradley’s phone vibrate on the sofa. “Texting you.”

“I see you had my number saved already…”

“I may have…” You’d done so before you even left the Hard Deck that night - as Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. “And now you can text me and bother me at work.”

Bradley sighed. “Probably won’t be able to, too much next week. Might be out of town for a bit.”

“Oh - oh.” You read between the lines. “You’ll text me when you get back though, right? Like just to check in?”

He reached across the couch to grab your hand. “Yeah, of course, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand back and both smiled, though it didn’t quite reach either of your eyes. The mission was coming up, meaning that not only was Bradley off to some unknown region of the world to do some unknown, though probably heroic and terribly dangerous act, but that he would also probably be leaving town shortly after. Your window of opportunity was narrowing and you didn’t know what was worse:

Not being able to tell him how you felt. 

Or telling him only to hear your feelings were unrequited. 

---------

half a week ago

A week later saw the Top Gun Twelve celebrating a successful mission at the Hard Deck. It served a dual purpose - obviously toasting to the mission, while also giving everyone who was heading back to their home base a proper send off. 

Jake was giving a surprisingly emotional and rousing speech to all the aviators and mission support staff in attendance that night. It was filled with plenty of 

teasing remarks, but also had a sweetness to it that you knew some of the others wouldn’t have expected. But that was Jake - all bark, no bite. Underneath it all, he was just a big softie. 

You were half listening as you emptied the dishwasher behind the bar, trying to get all the champagne glasses ready for the toast. You also kept sneaking peeks at Bradley, who was standing towards the back of the group, a smile on his face. He looked lighter, clearly happy the stress of the mission had abated and he even came over to talk with you earlier. 

“So, I kept my word, you know?”

“Oh?” You leaned your elbows on the bar, a coy smile on your face. 

“Uh huh, not only did I come back safe and sound, as promised, but I also texted you…”

“So, you did, Lieutenant.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “It’s actually Lieutenant Commander now.”

“Oh, my apologies Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw,” you laid it on thick.

“Apology accepted. But see, I think all this entitles me to a reward of some sort.”

“I’m sure the Navy has you well taken care of.”

He leaned across the bar to whisper in your ear. “What if I don’t want it to be from the Navy, sweetheart?”

Your body prickled with desire and your breath hitched. This was new territory for the two of you. Even last weekend, the closest you had gotten was briefly holding hands. Granted, you talked about just about everything under the sun, but this - the unspoken sexual tension between the two of you - was still relatively new. And you desperately wanted to explore it - now. You just hoped Bradley did, too.

Bringing yourself back to the present, you had just grabbed the last champagne glass out of the dishwasher and took a couple steps over to the counter where you’d placed the other ones, when you lost your footing. Your high tops slid over a stray ice cube and you tripped, quickly losing your balance and dropping the glass on the floor with a resounding crash. 

You landed with a thud and a groan. “Shitttt, owww.” 

You lifted your hand up to rub your elbow when you noticed a huge piece of glass sticking out of it. Blood quickly started oozing out of the wound and you found yourself getting light headed at the sight. 

“Oh, fuck...”

There was a slight commotion on the other side of the bar and before you could even blink Bradley was leaning over the counter. “Shit, Y/N are you okay?”

Your eyes clouded with tears, totally overwhelmed by the situation and Bradley quickly hopped over the bar top and crouched down next to you. 

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, sweetheart.” He gently grabbed your hand and started looking over your injury. “I got you.”

The blood continued pouring out of the wound and you moved to take out the glass, but Bradley stopped you. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a couple people swarming around the bar top, but only Bradley sat beside you. 

“No, don’t take it out yet. We don’t know how deep it is.” He grabbed a stray rag from underneath the bar and started dabbing at your cut.

You took a deep breath, trying not to freak out. You really hated blood and the sooner you got the glass out, the sooner you could wrap up the cut. “I don’t care, just take it out.”

Penny dashed over with the first aid kit. “Here, honey,” she said to Bradley, handing him a plethora of gauze and band aids. It was clear none of them really knew what to do beyond how to wrap up the wound or tie a tourniquet. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.”

“Do you think I need stitches?” The thought made you queasy and you knew before Bradley even spoke that a trip to urgent care was in your future.

“Might be a good idea, this looks pretty deep - can I get some water, Penny?”

She quickly poured some water from the tap and brought it over to Bradley. He dabbed a clean cloth with it before wrapping it around your hand again. 

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m gonna wrap this and then we’re gonna see my friend, sound good?”

Penny looked at Bradley questioningly once the term of endearment slipped past his lips, but other than that, made no comment. 

“Is friend code for something? I’ve seen Goodfellas, I know how this usually works.”

Both Bradley and Penny laughed. “At least we know she’s not in shock,” Penny said.

The two of them got you on your feet and you realized you’d amassed quite the crowd. You looked down at your feet, not wanting to meet anyone’s eye. This was the last time you were going to see some of them, too. Great final impression.

“Alright, show’s over,” Bradley said good naturedly and for the most part, everyone left you alone. 

A couple of the Top Gun pilots you’d gotten to know over the last couple weeks hung around, including Jake, Mickey, Bob, and Natasha. 

Jake’s eyes were filled with concern as he approached you. “You alright?”

You grimaced and held up your hand. “Could be worse.”

“Try not to move it too much, you don’t want the glass to come out before you get to the doctor,” Natasha said, “but I’m sure Bradley will take care of you.” His name was said with a slightly teasing lilt, leading you to believe this wasn’t the first time the team had ragged on him about it. 

“We can call ahead, let them know you’re coming?” Bob offered and Bradley nodded at him.

“Thanks, man. We should get going, though.”

They all offered various platitudes and well wishes and then the two of you were off to where you presumed was the base. Bradley drove extra carefully, even drawing up a line of cars behind him on 4th Street, and you raised your hand above your heart as instructed by Mickey. Once you got through the security gate, he drove a little faster. It was your first time actually on base and you only wished you could enjoy it more - all those hangars and buildings holding god knows what kind of planes and state secrets.

“My friend Ryan’s working tonight, best medic I’ve ever had. He’ll be able to stitch you up, no problem.”

You sniffled and wiped at your tears with your other fist. “I’ve never needed stitches before.”

He smiled at you and patted your leg. It reminded you of your thoughts from earlier in the evening and how you wanted to get even closer to him - you just hadn’t envisioned it this way. 

“First time for everything,” you mumbled, “you ever have stitches?”

“Occupational hazard.” His hand still hadn’t moved from your thigh. “I was worse when I was younger - eyes closed, head first mentality. But then I got spooked on a mission and started overthinking everything. Haven’t had a close call since - well, since recently, I guess.”

“I want to ask, but don’t at the same time.” The Bronco hit a bump in the road and you hissed. “Shit.”

Bradley rubbed slow circles on your thigh with his thumb. “Sorry, we’re almost there. Keep holding your hand up.”

True to his word, you arrived at the clinic on base a few moments later, where an older looking gentleman in fatigues was standing out front waiting for you. Bradley parked - terribly, you might add - and quickly got out of the car.

“Rooster!” the guy, who you assumed was Bradley’s friend, Ryan, called out. 

“Hey, man. Thanks for helping us out, this is Y/N.” Bradley nodded towards you as he helped you out of the car. 

Ryan held his hand out for you to shake then thought better of it. “Nice to meet you, Robbie said you had a nasty fall and might need some stitches?” Robbie? He must have meant Bob.

“Yeah,” you winced after you stepped off the curb funny and the pain shot all the way up to your hand. Ryan and Bradley held the clinic door open for you and then Ryan directed you down the hallway past the triage area.

The clinic was quiet at this time of night. You imagined it was only really busy during the day during training missions or flights - more serious injuries were probably taken care of elsewhere. After walking past a few closed doors, Ryan led you into one that was open and had all the lights on - you assumed it was his personal exam room. 

“Alright, have a seat over here and let’s take a peek at this sucker.”

Bradley helped you up on the exam bench - needlessly, though that didn’t mean it was unappreciated having his hands on you for even a brief moment - and Ryan started unwrapping the dressings Bradley and Penny had hastily applied at the Hard Deck.

Despite the pain you were in, the wound traveled well and Ryan mentioned how pleased he was that you hadn’t taken the glass out yet since it could’ve hit a nerve. As he prepared you for taking the glass out, you subconsciously grabbed Bradley’s hand with your other hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze and didn’t once complain at the vice grip you had it in as Ryan stitched you up.

“She’s a trooper, Rooster,” Ryan teased Bradley once he finally finished. “Now Miss Y/N, you’re gonna be in town for a while, I presume?” You nodded. “Good, good. We’ll set something up in about a week or so to take these stitches out. It’ll scar for a while, but shouldn’t be too permanent.”

You glanced down at your now heavily bandaged hand and turned it cautiously. “Thanks, Doctor Ryan - really, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, letting us come in like this.”

The older man chuckled. “It’s no big, Bradshaw here knows I like the late shift, so this gave me something to pass the time. And hey, I like that - Doctor Ryan.” You smiled and made a mental note to send him a thank you card addressed exactly as such. “Now, what plans do you kids have for the rest of the night?”

Bradley shrugged. “Not sure, it’s this young lady’s first time on base, though…”

“Then I think a full tour is in order, don’t you?”

You tilted your head. “A full tour - at night? Is that even allowed?”

Ryan laughed. “I’m sure they’d let your Bradley do just about anything he wanted on base right about now…” You glanced at Bradley - your Bradley, apparently - but found he had ducked his head and his cheeks were red. “A tour certainly wouldn’t be out of the question.”

Bradley let out a sigh, but didn’t seem too put out. “What do you say, sweetheart? You want the full tour?”

This time it was your turn to blush. The term of endearment rolled off his tongue so nicely and you were reminded of all the times he had uttered it earlier in the evening as he was taking care of you.

“I’d love to, actually.” The two of you stared at each other, smiles doting both of your faces when you remembered there was someone else in the room.

Ryan chuckled. “Well, don’t let me keep you…”

“I’ll be sure to tell anyone that it was your idea, lest we get caught…” Bradley recovered quickly. Ryan just waved him off. “You ready?”

After thanking Doctor Ryan again for all the help, you and Bradley left the clinic and climbed back into the Bronco. He took as much care getting you situated this time as he did earlier in the evening - even going as far to buckle you into your seat. And if his hands lightly grazed underneath your t-shirt as he pulled back, then you just hoped your blush wasn’t as obvious as his. 

Like Doctor Ryan mentioned, the base was relatively deserted this time of night and Bradley cruised down the streets with ease, calling out different buildings and whatnot. The base wasn’t just military buildings - there were also stores and restaurants and other facilities for the naval officers and their families - it was like its own little town. 

As the Bronco rolled up to stop sign, you recognized the street you had come in on going one way, but with a muttered fuck it Bradley turned in the other direction and started driving deeper into the base. 

You didn’t ask any questions, you just leaned your head against the window, lulled by the low murmur of the radio and Bradley’s smooth driving as you flew past a new set of buildings, each one larger than the next. Eventually, you stopped in front of what you figured was a hangar and Bradley parked the car - this time better than when he did at the clinic - and cut the engine. 

He turned towards you. “Alright, remember if anyone asks, Rear Admiral Peters said we could be here…”

Your mouth gaped open slightly as his words sunk in. “Wait, wait Doctor Ryan is a Rear Admiral?”

“And a shit-stirrer, too, but -”

“- You had a Rear Admiral take a piece of glass out of my hand? What the fuck, Bradley? Like he doesn’t have anything else better to do?” 

He just laughed. “It’s literally his job, he’s a doctor, Y/N - do you even know what a Rear Admiral is?”

“No,” you sassed right back, leaning closer towards him, “but I do know it’s higher than a Lieutenant Commander -”

“- A highly decorated Lieutenant Commander, I’ll have you know…” 

He glanced at your lips and then back up to your eyes. And he had the absolute dopiest smile on his face and you wanted to kiss it off - just climb over the center console and straddle his waist and kiss him, injury be damned. Because Bradley looked so goddamn happy and irresistible and at ease with himself and you. 

“How could I possibly forget,” you whispered, drawing closer towards him. The air in the car was electric, like there was some invisible string pulling you together.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he rasped, “Let’s go see some planes.”

You two got out of the car and made your way into the hangar. Bradley seemed to have way too much fun sneaking down the corridors, Mission Impossible style, and he kept shushing you when you laughed at his increasingly dramatic evasive maneuvers. Eventually, you got to a locked steel door and Bradley took a keycard out of his pocket and the lock hissed. He grabbed your hand and you two walked through the door before your mouth gaped open at the sight before you.

“Hoooooly shit,” you said in awe, looking up at the rows upon rows of planes spread out before you. “There’s no way we’re actually allowed to be here - even with Doctor Ryan’s blessing.”

“I mean, I think I can be granted a little leeway - after practically saving the world and all.” You shoved his shoulder and he let out a grunt. “Come over here, you can see my new plane.”

You let him drag you across the hangar to an F/A-18 in the corner. “New plane? What happened to the old one?”

A wicked smile crept across his face. “That’s classified, sweetheart.” 

He said the words teasingly enough, but you understood that for Bradley to have a new plane, that meant something had to happen to the old one - like it getting blown up or shot at on that fucking crazy mission. But you reminded yourself that he was standing here beside you, looking as giddy as a kid in a candy shop and you temporarily pushed the thought out of your mind. You approached an F/A-18 on the far side of the hangar with the words “LCR BRADLEY ‘ROOSTER’ BRADSHAW” printed just underneath the canopy.

“This is - wow. I feel so small standing next to these - not literally, just like it’s so much bigger than me.”

Bradley’s lips quirked up slightly. “That’s how I used to feel, that’s how I knew I wanted to fly.”

“Did you want to fly because of your dad?” You’d heard Penny and Captain Mitchell mention Bradley’s father plenty in passing, but Bradley, himself, had never brought him up.

“Yeah, kind of hard not to. I don’t remember him too much, but what I did was all about flying and planes and the Navy. Almost didn’t happen either.”

You turned to face him. “Oh?”

“Maverick - Captain Mitchell, pulled my papers at the Naval Academy. It sent me back four years.” That was why he was so much older than everyone else. “It’s hard to be a naval aviator if you don’t start at Annapolis.”

“Did you do NROTC in college? They had it at USC, a couple people in my major were in it. I remember they’d already been up for hours when I was rolling out of bed for my 9:35 class.”

Bradley nodded. “Yeah, I did it at UVA and was probably exactly like those kids before your 9:35. I had the biggest fucking chip on my shoulder, too. I was just so - angry at Mav and hadn’t been thinking as straight as I should’ve and my mom had just died. I was a mess.”

You were dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”

“Some parts of it are kind of surreal, too - about the whole Navy thing, I mean. Like when I was first made a Lieutenant, I realized I had surpassed him - my dad - in rank and that every subsequent promotion would only further the gap between us.”

“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be proud of you. I’ve heard the way Captain Mitchell talks about him, he seemed like a great guy.”

“Yeah, I think he would be.” Bradley sighed and gave the plane a quick pat. “Well, uhh what about you and your parents, huh? How do they feel about you being a hot shot lawyer?”

You laughed. “Oh, they’ve told all their friends at the club about how their daughter’s going to be District Attorney some day.” That got you a laugh. “But I could totally sell out and go into corporate or entertainment law and they’d still be proud of me.”

“What do they do?” 

You both had started walking amongst the planes again, slowly making your way back to the door. “My mom doesn’t work, never has. She and my dad got married right after they graduated from USC, but my dad’s an exec at a golf company up in Carlsbad.”

Bradley seemed impressed. “I assume they both play, too?”

“My mom plays at least five times a week, but my dad might get three rounds in if he’s lucky.” 

“Hmmm, now that’s a problem I’d love to have.”

You scoffed and glanced down at your bandaged hand. “You’re telling me.” 

It was quiet between you two for a moment, but it wasn’t strained. As always, it was easy. Bradley’s right hand kept brushing against your left as the two of you meandered between the planes. You took a chance and linked his pinky with yours. Emboldened when he didn’t pull away, you laced the rest of your fingers with his. 

“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t in the Navy?”

Beside you, Bradley sighed. “Sometimes - especially when I’ve had a tough day or am on a deployment.”

“And?”

“I loved history when I was in school - still do, really. Military history, historical fiction, old school spy novels - that sort of thing. So, I think I’d be a professor - or a history teacher at the very least.”

You smiled. “No, that sounds perfect, actually. You seem like a big reader, too, though I can’t really say why.”

Bradley laughed and it echoed throughout the hangar. “Fills the time on base. But I think I’d focus on post World War II history, like the Cold War, all leading up to the early nineties.”

“You’ve thought about this,” you said earnestly. He nodded, looking almost bashful. “You could still do it?”

“What? Go back to school and get my PhD?” he joked. “I’d be surrounded by all those young kids -”

“- You’re thirty five, Bradley, not eighty five - plus, I thought you were younger when I first met you?”

He jumped on the topic change. “Oh really now?”

You rolled your eyes and swung your still clasped hands. “You have a young disposition, okay? But uhh back to the original topic…you can still do whatever you want, Bradley. We all can and you deserve the chance to try, too - if you want, that is.”

He absorbed this, thinking it over seriously and you two stopped walking. “I’m gonna miss having my little planner around - also my future lawyer.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You didn’t like being reminded that this had an expiration date. It kept bringing up your thoughts from last weekend; did you tell him how you felt and risk rejection or just resign yourself to leaving things as they were and wait until you went your separate ways? 

Because you liked him - you really liked him and you thought there could be something special between you two. But did he see it the same way?

A noise snapped you both out of your thoughts and Bradley glanced around, looking for the source. “Come on, we should head out.”

You two made your way back to the Bronco, this time with less spy moves from Bradley and giggling from you. The drive back to your bungalow was more subdued and the silence heavier than normal between you. Something had shifted between you two in that hangar. 

After minimal instructions from you on how to get back to your place - Bradley said he had an idea where to go, but didn’t want to get lost - you two got out of the car and he walked you to your front door. You had just turned the key in the lock, opening the door slightly, when you stopped to look up at him.

“So, uhh thanks for everything tonight - again. I really appreciate it - and hey, it’s a good thing I’m not right handed. Might make work a bit of a pain next week,” you were rambling at this point, but you didn’t want him to leave. 

He ducked his head. “It’s no big, I’m just glad I was around to help.” 

Oh, god. Why did he have to look so cute and adorable when he said that? Damn him and that stupid smile of his. Why’d it make you feel like the only girl in the world?

Suddenly, unable to waste another second, you surged forward on your tip toes and grabbed a hold of his shirt with your hand before putting your lips over his. When he didn’t respond right away, except to put his hands on your waist, you immediately pulled back and let out a deep breath. 

You couldn’t believe you’d actually done that and gave into your impulses and just kissed him. And for him not to react or do anything about it? You couldn’t even muster up the courage to look him in the eye and see the expression on his face.

Fuck. Oh god, oh shit. 

“Right, sorry. Uhh thanks again, but I have to go - early day tomorrow and all that.” It was Sunday, but that didn’t matter. “So, I’ll see you around? Or maybe not because - yeah, thanks again, Bradley -”

“- Wait, Y/N -”

But you’d already snuck past him and crept through the door, closing it behind you. God, you were such an idiot. You were friends - that was all. All those little endearments and looks were just how Bradley acted around everyone.

Maybe.

So, why didn’t he kiss you back? Why didn’t he want you? You’d done everything right; taken your time, gotten to be friends, and - fuck. Your eyes started to fill with tears. God, this was so embarrassing. You leaned your head back against the door and took a couple deep breaths, centering yourself. You stood there for god knows how long, going over everything from tonight, from last week, from each interaction you’d had with Bradley. How were you going to face him at the Hard Deck the next time you saw him?

Eventually, minutes later, you shook yourself out of your pity party and went into the kitchen. You put your kit of medical supplies from Doctor Ryan on the counter and started going about your nightly routine, content with wallowing in bed all morning until your shift tomorrow afternoon.

But it was funny. Looking back as you laid in bed, you realized you didn’t hear the Bronco pull out of the driveway until after you turned the kitchen light on.

---------

today

The unfortunate thing was the woman, Abby, seemed rather perfect. She worked on the base in Comms or Targeting - you weren’t quite sure, but Bradley seemed to know exactly what she did - and had her Masters in Aeronautics and Astronautics from MIT. 

Mickey had set the two of them up. Apparently, he and Abby went to undergrad together at Vanderbilt and had reconnected when she had transferred to North Island a couple months back.

She had two Dirty Shirleys - you tried not to scowl at the irony - and Bradley had two pints of Sam Adams. 

And she was pretty - really pretty. She wore a sundress that you desperately wanted to ask where she bought it from and her brown hair looked really soft and shiny in the way that you could never get yours to be and - god, she was perfect. And seemed really fucking nice, too. It would have been so much easier to hate her if she had been a bitch, but she actually seemed pretty cool to hang out with. You cursed Mickey for having such a lovely friend.

Plus, she sounded perfect for Bradley. She was smart, accomplished, and seemed to be rising fast in the Navy. They both rattled off Naval jargon and acronyms like nobody’s business, but you couldn’t tell if Bradley seemed a little more subdued than normal because that was how he acted on a date - a real date - or if he wanted to spare you from any further embarrassment?

Which brought you back to your original thought that this might’ve been easier if Abby wasn’t so fucking perfect and pretty. Because Bradley was pretty, too. Well, maybe not pretty, but he was handsome. And they looked good together. And they’d probably go on a bunch of dates and get married and trot around the world with their equally beautiful kids, probably named after his parents in some variety and - fuck. You took a deep breath and went back to drying some glasses further down the bar from the couple.

You absently glanced at your right hand and the wound still stretched across your skin. Doctor Ryan had called you yesterday about scheduling an appointment to get your stitches taken out and you had originally planned on asking Bradley if he wanted to come with you - if only to be given a chance to see Doctor Ryan again, obviously - but now you weren’t so sure.

Maybe this date of his was a blessing in disguise? It could be a clean break after Saturday night. It wasn’t like you would both be in San Diego for much longer. Bradley was probably heading back to China Lake within the next few days - he hadn’t heard if a base change was part of his promotion yet - and then you would be back up to Stanford in late August. This thing - this stupid, silly, unspoken thing between the two of you wasn’t meant to last. Better to lose him now then later on when you had really fallen for him. 

(But you already had. You totally had.)

With a glance at the clock above the bar, you figured you would ask the couple if they wanted another drink after you had heard the sound of a straw sucking on air a couple minutes ago. You made your way over to the two of them - only to see Abby with her hand on Bradley’s bicep - and took a deep breath, steeling yourself.

“Your dress is really cute,” you said honestly, the comment slipping out before you could think better of it. 

Abby thanked you and mentioned the store where she had bought it. “And I must say,” she added teasingly, “you have to be the best dressed bartender I’ve ever seen here.”

“Oh, I actually just got off work at -” you started to reply, but Bradley cut you off. 

“- Y/N’s been working in the DA’s office this summer, she’s in law school at Stanford.” Damn him.

Abby turned her attention back to you and you nodded shyly. “Err yeah, I normally just work here on the weekends, but Penny needed some last minute help tonight, so here we are. Me and my business casual - I even have a blazer in the back room if needed - but uhh, do you guys want another round of drinks?”

They both glanced at each other, feeling the situation out. You could tell Abby wanted another drink with the way she was twirling her paper straw around in her empty glass, but Bradley just shook his head and pushed his empty pint towards you. 

“Nah, we can close out.”

“Cool, sounds good. I’ll be back with your check then.” You nodded and turned on your heel towards the register. 

The back of your neck prickled with awareness as you swiped Bradley’s credit card through the reader. Though you couldn’t be sure, it felt like his eyes were on you. You tried to block out their chatter behind you, but you caught a couple words from Abby: 

we should --- again --- back on base --- maybe

You grabbed the check-pad and slipped the receipt and Bradley’s credit card into it with a little more force than necessary. As you approached the couple, you found Abby looking at you curiously and you subconsciously shrunk back into yourself.

“Uhh here you guys go, have a - have a good night.”

Abby called out a thanks, but you had already headed towards the other side of the bar, not wanting to wait around to hear whatever empty platitude Bradley would surely offer. Though you didn’t turn around to see for yourself, you could hear the scrape of their barstools on the wood floor and the tinkling of the bell above the door, signaling the couple had left. 

You let out a great sigh and rested your elbows on the bar before resting your head in your good hand. Fuck. Stupid fucking Bradley Bradshaw - what kind of a name was that, anyway - going off and making you think - what? What did he really make you think? That he liked you? Did he really lead you on? No. He had been nothing but friendly and kind to you over the past month or so. 

Granted, sometimes you had caught him looking at you like you had hung the moon. And then there was how sweet and protective he was last weekend when he brought you on base and how insistent he always was with making sure you got home safely. But that was just - that was just friendship, wasn’t it? He was just being thoughtful. It probably had something to do with being in the military and having a strong moral code. 

Maybe.

The bell above the door chimed again and you righted yourself to see who it was - and promptly wished you hadn’t.

Bradley. 

“Y/N…” He strode across the bar towards you.

You swallowed thickly. “Can I get you something else?” Your words were all business and professional, but you knew he had seen you slumped over the bar.

“I uhh yeah, actually. I was just curious if you needed a ride home or anything?”

“Well, it’s not raining, so no, Bradley I don’t need a ride home,” you snapped, not at all feeling bad about the hurt expression flitting across his face.

“Right.” He rapped his knuckles against the bar top. “But maybe I can wait around until you’re done with your shift? Talk?”

You just looked at him blankly. You really didn’t want to talk, but it was inevitable and at least if you did it now, you were going home anyway and could wallow all you wanted. “I guess…”

He sat a couple seats down from you, seeming to know you needed some space, and started watching the Padres game. You could tell he was glancing at you as you went about getting ready behind the bar and you eventually took pity on him and got him a glass of ice water.

Penny only needed you till nine that night, so Bradley didn’t have to wait around long. At one point, Captain Mitchell came in and the two chatted for a bit. If nothing else, you were glad to see that things between the two had been resolved. Both Penny and Bradley had alluded to something happening on the mission that brought Uncle Mav back into Bradley’s life and you were pleased the men’s time at Top Gun had resulted in something positive. He kept sneaking looks at you, even while talking to Captain Mitchell, but you avoided making eye contact or acknowledging him. 

And then it was time for you to clock out and talk with Bradley. You briefly considered sneaking out the back to avoid him, but figured you couldn’t drag this out any longer. You stopped by the mirror in the backroom to fix your hair and check your makeup, but then chastised yourself for caring and went to meet Bradley outside. 

There were a couple of picnic tables off the back of the Hard Deck towards the beach and that was where you found him. The soft light of the moon, coupled with the porch lights off the back deck made him look so handsome and you couldn’t help but be disappointed he hadn’t been dressed up for you. 

Bradley turned around at the sound of your approach. “Hey…” 

“Hey…” You crossed your arms over your chest, protecting yourself. Your navy blue blazer normally felt like a suit of armor against snooty colleagues and pretentious law school classmates, but now it just made you feel stuffy and bookish after seeing Abby in that pretty sundress.

“So you uhh wanted to talk, so - talk?” you stuttered.

Bradley took a couple tentative steps towards you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I had no idea you’d be here and I know that -”

“- Why’d you do it? Why’d you make me think you liked me and then - and then throw it back in my face - by going out with the most perfect girl in the world, mind you - when you know -”

“- You weren’t supposed to be here -”

“- And that makes it better, Bradley? That I wasn’t supposed to be working tonight so I wouldn't have to wait on you and your date? I don’t do this - I don’t go after guys too often. You could’ve just told me you didn’t like me, I’m a big girl, I can handle it. Kinda already got the hint on Saturday night.”

You would’ve accepted it with grace had he actually told you he didn’t like you. Granted, you probably would’ve had a good cry when you got home and texted your friends from school all about your failed summer romance with a naval aviator. But you would’ve accepted it. 

He heaved a great sigh. “But I do like you, Y/N.”

Despite his confession, you couldn’t help but feel small. “Then why’d you go on a date with Abby tonight? She seems lovely, by the way…” you couldn’t help but mutter.

“She’s Fanboy’s friend. He had set her up with Hangman initially, but he had to leave town sooner than he thought and couldn’t go, so he asked if I would.

“And I didn’t see the harm in it; I’d see her once, just hang out and talk, and she’d never be the wiser that Seresin couldn’t make it. It’s why Fanboy picked the Hard Deck, actually - it’s not exactly a first date spot - and he knew I wasn’t looking for anything with her. 

“But then I walked in and saw you standing there and my heart dropped to my stomach and I froze. And you seemed so normal about everything and I kept wanting to text you and explain, but didn’t want to be rude, so I figured I’d just tell you after and then I saw you when I came back in the bar later and you just - you looked so sad that I just had to make sure you knew - because I don’t think she’s the most perfect girl in the world - not at all. But I think you might be - for me.”

You felt your heart softening and took a step closer to him, though he didn’t seem to realize it, too caught up in his own feelings.

“I had this whole plan, actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna ask if you wanted me to come with you to get your stitches out and then we could get dinner after? Like a proper date - away from the base and the Hard Deck and everything? And I know that isn’t exactly what anyone would want to do on a first date - no one ever really wants to go to the hospital, but -”

It was funny how close Bradley’s idea mirrored your own. “- I would’ve liked that,” you said softly.

He sighed. “I like you, Y/N - so much. And I really like to be given a chance with you. You just caught me off guard the other night and I shouldn’t have let you go without telling you that, but you bolted before I even got the chance to say anything. So, now I want to say that I’m sorry - for tonight and Saturday and making you think I didn’t - that I don’t like you.”

“I like you, too,” you practically whispered, “It’s just - Bradley, what are we doing here, though? How does this end well? I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have pushed - you’re going back to China Lake and I have to go back to Stanford in the fall and we could’ve parted as friends.”

You didn’t want to fall for him anymore than you already had. He just made it so goddamn hard to resist him.

He stepped forward and took your hand. “I don’t want to part as friends or whatever - I want to be with you, Y/N. For as long or as little time as we’re allowed. My transfer request went through, I’m going to be stationed here - on North Island. So, we have the rest of the summer to spend time together and get to know each other even more.”

You ducked your head and smiled. God, you knew you were going to cave into him and his stupid smile and sweet words. “The rest of the summer, huh?”

A smile crept across Bradley’s face and he bit his lip. “Maybe longer, too. Depends on if you want to keep me around when you go back to being a hotshot lawyer and all..”

“Hmm, it’s too bad Stanford’s a seven hour drive from North Island...” You’d looked it up once, okay? Fucking shoot you.

Bradley rolled his eyes. “You’re forgetting one thing, sweetheart.” You scrunched your nose. “I have a plane.”

“That sounds like misappropriation of government funds, Lieutenant…”

He took a step towards you and slipped his hands over your hips. He had an impish smile on his face. “That’s Lieutenant Commander to you, counselor.” You ducked your head. “But I do have my own plane.”

The image of Bradley standing in front of an old fashioned Cessna briefly flashed through your mind. Maybe he’d take you flying in it? “And you’d fly up to see me? You’d do that?”

“Yea -” you surged forward to kiss him, cutting him off. This time he kissed you back and you wrapped your arms around his neck, the both of you losing yourselves in the kiss. All too soon, Bradley pulled back and laughed. “Why are you always cutting me off to kiss me?”

You clicked your tongue. “Maybe I think that mouth of yours could be put to better use elsewhere?”

“Oh yeah? Want to know what I think?”

This time he leaned forward to kiss you, coaxing your lips open with his tongue. He tasted like beer and smelled him home and you didn’t want him to let go of you. You threaded your hands through his sandy colored hair, finding it just as soft as you’d always imagined. After a moment, you pulled slightly on his lip before dragging your lips along his neck up to his jawline, making sure to slightly graze your teeth against his skin. Bradley pulled you closer towards him in response and pressed his hips against yours. 

You wished you hadn’t been wearing a blazer and a work dress and that Bradley didn’t have that light blue oxford on - even though he had looked so handsome in it. Because you wanted to be closer to him and feel his skin against yours and have him tell you how beautiful you were. 

He pulled back to smile at you and you found yourself doing the same. You both probably looked a little dopey standing there staring at each other with the most adoring smiles on your faces, but for right now it was perfect. 

“You’re worth going the distance, Y/N.”

Because now you had all the time in the world.

-----

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[typingcorgi]

unexpected (part ii of a three-part series)

gif by @joelmjller

read part i here

rating: e (minors, please shoo. you will be blocked) word count: 4k pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: teacher!reader, pre-outbreak timeline, canon divergent timeline, hint of vague age difference (if he's 36 I'm thinking like the reader is 5-10 years younger but honestly insert whatever age you want), fingering, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), protected p in v sex (yay for responsible joel), praise kink makes brain go brrr, porn with plot, soft-ish!joel, no use of y/n story summary: a one-night stand with a handsome stranger doesn't go as planned. chapter summary: you invite joel to your place. you both know why he's there. author's notes: this is actually going to be a three-parter, not a two-parter, lol. sorry. thanks to my lovely friend @magpie-to-the-morning for your support in developing this chapter! no apocalypse, yay! this is part one of a multi-part series. excited to get this new ball rolling. this is just going to be a fun romp away from the mushroom zombies, okay? have fun getting yours ;) and as always, please feel free to reblog or leave a comment! your feedback is so very appreciated.

There is nothing quite like a Friday night attached to a three-day weekend. With Columbus Day right around the corner, you have the next seventy-two hours to do quite literally, whatever the fuck you want. For the first time in weeks, school is the last thing on your mind.

And apparently, you’re the last thing on Joel’s mind. You gave him your number a week ago, and even though you know three days is the average length of time before your date gets in touch with you again—can you even call your debauched bathroom rendez-vous a date?—not getting so much as a message on your voicemail has you a little freaked out.

Okay, a lot freaked out.

You’d written your number down on a napkin. He could have lost said napkin in the middle of Austin’s city streets, and now, a total stranger has your information. Just fucking great.

You kick off your shoes as you pull yourself out of your fabricated daydream—more like a nightmare. As you move through your apartment, you don’t waste a goddamn minute. You unclasp your bra beneath your shirt, pulling the straps from your shoulders and sliding them down your arms before tossing the garment into the hamper.

Maybe it’s better Joel hasn’t called. You can totally picture yourself just holing up in your apartment for the next three days and calling in delivery every night after running downtown to the nearest Blockbuster and renting a couple of cheesy romantic comedies. The guy behind the counter knows you’ve rented How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days at least three times since it’d been released on DVD, and that fact is only mildly embarrassing.

Still, your job forces you to be a creature of habit. Days like last Friday night, hooking up in public restrooms—that’s not your norm. Your feet are killing you. Sometimes you just need a weekend that demands very little of your attention or energy outside of the four walls of your bedroom.

By 9:30, you’re in your pajamas with a glass of red on your bedside table. The TV is playing a rerun of some new reality dating show—you think it’s called The Bachelor, but honestly, you tuned in during the middle of the episode, so you’re not sure. Your bed is your fucking safe haven. There are stacks of students’ essays in your tote bag abandoned on a kitchen chair, but you know damn well you took them home to only pretend to grade them. 

You’re good and settled in your bed before the tune of your cellphone ringtone chimes from the living room. You nearly trip over your own feet scrambling out of bed to race to it (but no, you’re not even the slightest bit desperate, here), and the caller ID reflects a number not registered in your address book.

It sends a little shock of anxiousness through you, a flash of adrenaline as your stomach drops, but you hit the pick-up button, taking the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a low voice rumbles from the other end of the phone, and immediately, you know who it is.

Holy shit. He actually called.

“Wow,” you breathe, your tone somewhere between vulnerability and flirtatiousness. “And here I thought you totally forgot about me.”

Joel chuckles on the other end of the line. “No, nothing like that. Just been workin’ like a dog all damn week. Either that or I’ve been taking care of my kid. Or she’s been taking care of me. Sometimes I don’t know the dif—”

He cuts himself off with a laugh, and you giggle softly into the receiver, because was Joel this charming when you met him last weekend?

“I just mean, I finally got a moment to myself is all,” Joel finishes. “Figured I’d get in touch.”

“I’m glad you did,” you confess, sinking into the comfortable cushions of your loveseat. You kick your legs across the arm of it, suddenly feeling like a freshman girl talking to her senior crush before the big homecoming game. Even though you’ve barely started conversing, your heart is absolutely racing, anticipating the questions he might ask you, the plans you might make. It’s entirely too late for a dinner date, and you’re not sure Joel would even want a commitment as serious as sharing a meal with you, but there’s a small part of your naivete that remains hopeful. If Joel had been looking for a one-night stand, why had he asked you for your number?

“Yeah, well, I’ve bored you with enough details of my week,” he says, and it’s as though you can hear the smile in his voice. “How’d yours go?”

“Good,” you say, trying to think of more interesting ways to elaborate on your one-note response. “I mean, as good as teaching high school students on a Friday before a long weekend could possibly go. They either have too much energy or not enough.”

Joel laughs at that. “That’s right. Supermodel moonlighting as a teacher. I get it.”

“You’re cute,” you laugh.

“So’re you.”

You blush. You fucking blush. Joel might have admitted to being out of the dating scene for a while, and even if his comments are simple and somewhat predictable, he’s got some serious charm.

At some point in the conversation, Joel confesses he’s alone for the evening. His daughter is at a sleepover—she’s a good kid, so if she wants to stay at a friend’s house on a Friday night here and there, I’m not one to protest—and you’re alone with nothing but your mostly-empty wine glass and your Nokia 3310, beeping intermittently to signal that your battery is going to die.

There’s a pause in the conversation as you internally debate your next move: continue to engage in slightly awkward small talk, as though he hadn’t completely rocked your world seven days earlier, or the option you’re leaning towards: invite him over. Hadn’t Joel been angling for this exchange to end up that way, anyway? His daughter isn’t home tonight, so there’s no reason for him to be home himself.

“You should come over,” you offer, suddenly sounding a hell of a lot less cool than you had moments earlier when you’d flirted.

The fluster is contagious. Even if this is secretly what both of you had hoped for, what both of you sort of expected, Joel is just as nervous as you. “Y—yeah,” he stammers, and it sounds like he needs to fight to find the word in the back of his throat. “Definitely. Uh, what’s your address?”

Joel knows where you live. Well, he knows the area. He says he used to pass your street every morning when he’d drop off his daughter off at school, back when she was in third or fourth grade. The notion of him waving goodbye to an eight-year-old and telling her he loves her and hopes she has a great day at school makes your heart absolutely squeeze. A part of you wants to forgo your in-person booty call for a round of phone sex because you’re fucking wet from that vision alone, but instead, you tell him you’ll see him soon and end the call.

You take a deep breath and let it sink in. Joel is coming over to your apartment tonight. There’s a half-full glass of pinot noir on your bedside table, a mess of dishes in the sink, not to mention, you look like a total mess. Your pajamas are more functional than they are sexy, your hair is falling every which way, and your eyes are probably tired. It’s been a long week, and there are some things that even the promise of great sex can’t immediately resolve—like your current energy levels.

Fuck it. You plug your phone into its charger and hurry toward the bathroom, readying yourself for your visitor.

Within fifteen minutes, you’ve changed into a pair of jeans and a tank top (you don’t plan on wearing it long, anyway, but there’s something too comfortable about opening the door in fleece polka dot pants). Your hair is tamed and you’ve even applied a respectable amount of makeup; just enough to appear as though your job hasn’t completely zapped the life from you over the past week.

You’ve just finished tidying up when there’s a ring at your doorbell. You buzz Joel in, and you can hear his footsteps making their way up the flight of stairs from the ground floor to yours. Every step causes your heart to beat quicker, the anticipation to bubble beneath your skin, and you wonder if it’s the same for him, too.

He knocks at your door and you immediately smile when you see him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hello, darlin’.”

You stand there for a moment, catching sight of all the little traits that’d caused you to draw to him in the first place. The crinkles around his eyes, tired and friendly, the bit of gray found in an otherwise patchy brown beard, the broadness of his shoulders beneath a worn denim shirt.

And the fucking pet name, god. Joel is so fucking smooth and he doesn’t even realize it. Or maybe he does and you’re a damn fool. Either way, it works, and you welcome him inside without another hesitation, closing the door behind him.

You offer him the only alternative to wine you have in your place—beer—and he accepts both the bottle and its opener. You try not to be mesmerized by the sight of his hands maneuvering over the bottle cap or the sight of his lips as he takes a swig, and when he tells you you’ve got a nice place here, you have to ask him to repeat it because you haven’t entirely heard what he’s said.

“Your place,” he repeats, one side of his lips curving into a slight smirk. “It’s nice. You know how to decorate.”

“Yeah,” you say, and it sounds like something caught between a laugh and a gasp. Joel is approaching you, placing the beer on your countertop while he corners you in, his hands placed on the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

“You know, not that I wouldn’t enjoy talkin’ over a drink with you, but if that was all we were in for, I’d take you out somewhere,” he rumbles. You swallow nothing but air, your face growing hot as Joel’s gaze falls to meet your eyes, then your lips.

“Yeah,” you repeat as you nod.

“Yeah,” he echos with a chuckle. “Is that all you’re gonna say to me tonight?”

“No,” you say, and you feel like a bona fide idiot. Joel’s index finger curves beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

“I’m gonna make you sing tonight, baby girl,” he murmurs, and then his lips are on yours.

You push your weight off the edge of the counter, winding your arms around Joel’s neck while his hands hold the flesh of your hips. The man is made out of electricity, suddenly shocking you to life and warming your blood. You part your lips while he kisses you, giving him permission to search your mouth as you lead him to your bedroom step for step.

The television is still on when you step into the room, only the faint golden light of your bedside lamp illuminating the space within the four walls. Joel pulls away to catch his breath and you rush to locate the remote.

“Should I be flattered you chose spendin’ time with me over watchin’ The Bachelor?” Joel teases as you turn off the TV.

“Shut up,” you laugh, and then you’re on him again. Your hands find the top button of his shirt, steadily unfastening each so that you’re free to push the garment down his shoulders and arms. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this, exposed to you, chest rising and falling with each breath. It nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It’s not like it’s a new realization, of course, but…Joel is sort of gorgeous. He’s staring right back at you and you can tell he’s searching for some sort of quip or teasing remark, but nothing comes. Instead, he’s leveling the field when he reaches for the hem of your tank top, and you raise your arms to facilitate him.

Both shirts and your bra are abandoned on the floor of your bedroom. Joel lays you onto your bed and fucking worships your tits, tonguing one pert nipple while his hand roams and kneads the other breast. He’s gentle, maybe a little clumsy, but eager. Eager to taste you, to explore you, to map out the path of your form and learn what makes you gasp and moan.

And you do. You fucking do. You whine as your fingers take hold of the back of his head while he lingers on your breast, teeth grazing against the flesh of one before turning his attention toward the other.

“Singin’ for me already, huh?” Joel asks, voice deep. Your hands fumble with the buckle of his belt, unfastening the leather from around his hips before you unbutton his jeans. He doesn’t appear to be in any rush, though. Joel’s focus remains on your chest; his hands have a gentle hold on the side of your ribs and you arch your back as you whimper his name, furthering his access to your body.

“I need to—I need to feel you more,” you confess. “I want to—”

“So do I,” he interrupts you, as though he’s read your mind. Whatever it is you want, Joel wants it, too, even if he’s more willing to take his time, more willing to drag it out—a welcome change from the circumstances of last weekend.

His lips trail from the underside of your breast down your abdomen, lingering at the skin just above the button of your jeans. Joel’s gaze meets yours and you nod, hoping you don’t appear too desperate or frantic, though you’d be completely unsurprised if that’s how you look.

Nimble fingers unfasten the button and pull your jeans down and off your legs, the black thong you’d chosen earlier that night going with them. Joel ascends your body once more, but catches you off guard when he takes one of your pillows and slides it beneath your tailbone.

“Been thinkin’ about this all week,” he murmurs as his index and middle fingers collect the wetness at your center. The half-smirk he’d given you earlier returns and you lick your lower lip in anticipation, breath catching in the back of your throat. 

“From the looks of it,” Joel adds. “So have you.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Yeah, I have.”

Your eyes roll back when Joel slides one digit inside of you to the knuckle. He curls his finger, finding the spot that’d driven you wild the last time you were together. Joel’s deep eyes are half-lidded, his expression one that exists between complete satisfaction and needing more. 

Needing more of you. To feel you writhe and wriggle beneath him, to taste you, to feel the hot clench of your cunt against his own body.

He kisses your mouth while slipping in a second finger, finding a rhythm with his hands to prime you, ready you for the rest of the evening. You groan, your eyes rolling back even further than before. 

“F—fuck, you feel good,” you breathe while he tongues the salt from your neck.

“You do too,” Joel hums in response. “But I wanna know how you taste.”

If Joel had been taking his time before, he wastes none of it now. He immediately seeks your clit, lips securing around it while he suckles and tastes you. He stays just like that for a while before his mouth finds the slick between your folds, and Joel pushes deeper, groaning at your flavor. 

Your hands claw into the bedsheets while he feasts on you. It feels as though Joel is the only damn thing that can bring you pleasure like this. Every tremble of your body beneath his mouth, every tense of the muscle in your thighs like you mean to crush his head between them—it’s entirely too much. You inhale sharply as Joel holds your thighs in his strong hands, pushing them apart to give himself unfettered access to your body. You can’t hide from him, and what’s more, Joel doesn’t want you to. He embraces you. He drinks you down.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters against your skin, pulling back for only a moment to catch his breath. “Seein’ you like this. I wanna feel you, baby. I want you to come on my tongue.”

You can’t find any words to offer him in response. You just whine, one hand gripping his messy hair while you pull him toward your core, urging him to continue, to let you finish. And you do. Joel lets you with the last several strokes of his tongue, stroking your clit while his fingers curl and pulse inside of you.

You’re a mess. You’ve soaked you both, and when Joel rises from his spot between your legs, he catches your lips against his. They’re soft, glimmering with evidence of your desire, and you you taste your own flavor sitting on his tongue.

“Shit,” you pant against his mouth. You’re still catching your breath, letting the muted colors of the room before you fall into view as you come down from your peak. Joel chuckles to himself as he kisses the edge of your jaw.

“You liked that?” He asks, and you’d think he was being a wiseass if he hadn’t sound so genuine.

“Mhm,” you hum, kissing him again.

—

It’s sudden, the way the tables have turned.

You’ve got Joel on his back now. He’d only gotten up to fetch the condom from his jeans’ pocket, but once he rejoined you in bed, you’d pushed him down, thrilling in the tiny pleasure of getting him beneath you.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he repeats, staring up at you as you straddle his hips. “Fuck, I got lucky tonight. In more ways than one.”

You swat his arm playfully, leaning forward to nibble at his earlobe while one hand seeks out his cock. You’d thought the comedown from immensely satisfying oral sex might satisfy your need for him, but you’d been so fucking wrong.

“I’m going to make you sing,” you whisper in his ear, soft and knowing. Joel groans in response while you sink onto his cock, gradually allowing yourself to fully take him inside of you.

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Fuck, you’re huge.”

“You can take it, baby,” Joel encourages you, his fingers pressed into your hips. “I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.”

You whine as your hips begin to rock, and Joel matches your movements. You’d demand that you’d do all the work right now but fuck, the way he hits your body just like that is not something you have the ability nor the desire to protest.

He fills you and suddenly the whole world makes sense. He fills you and you’re not sure how you managed to endure the last week without him. Every thrust of his hips, every moan that falls from his perfect lips, every squeeze of his fingertips against your body is only further cause for you to become nearly addicted to it.

He watches you as your move in time with each other, as your breasts bounce to the rhythm you’ve set for each other. He grounds his weight into one broad palm, pushing himself up so that he’s sitting upright beneath your body. He lets you continue to ride him while he fucks you underneath your form, teeth grazing against the gentle curve of your chin.

It’s sudden, the way the tables have turned. And without much warning, they promptly turn back. 

“So good,” he growls. “You gonna gimme another one? I know you have it in you.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you nod, a desperate little wail escaping your mouth. Joel’s chuckle quickly turns into a moan as your walls clench and flutter around the hard line of his cock. He fucks you through it anyway, maintaining the pace you’ve built together.

“Good girl,” he rumbles in praise. “That’s my good fuckin” girl.”

Joel says that, and it’s all over. Joel says that, and you tumble over the crest he’s forged for you. You come and he continues to fuck you through the aftershocks. You shatter and he kisses your temple and tells you to go a little longer and you do. You fucking do. You might follow Joel to the ends of the goddamn earth if he asked that of you.

His forehead braces against yours while he meets his own edge. Your name is a groan in the back of his throat when he comes and it just might be the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

He hisses as you slide off of him, your bodies sweaty and sticky and warm, and a part of you thinks he’s immediately going to leave. A part of you thinks he’s going to grab his clothes and his keys and tell you he’ll call you again soon and you fear he never will.

It’s a fucking shame, how quickly you pull yourself from the supposed afterglow.

Joel’s breathing is labored but he kisses you despite it, his hand coming up to run through your messy head of hair.

He holds you in your own bed. Your back is flush against his chest while he asks you questions about your life: how long have you lived in Austin? How long have you been a teacher? What’s your favorite book to teach? The softness of it causes your heart to squeeze while you share the answers with him.

You’re just about to reciprocate his questions with some of your own before a ringtone sounds, but this one doesn’t belong to your phone.

“Sorry,” Joel apologizes as he releases his hold on you, sliding out of bed. He pulls on his jeans, grabbing his phone from his back pocket before he takes the call.

You sit up, listening to one end of the conversation, and surmise it’s Joel’s daughter. His tone is gentle, reassuring, and it only furthers the pleasant ache in your chest. Until this point, you’ve only heard anecdotes of Joel’s adventures in fatherhood but never witnessed him engage in it.

He ends the call with a brief see you soon, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Was that your daughter?” You ask, sitting up.

“Yeah,” he says, swiping his shirt off your bedroom floor. “She was supposed to be stayin’ over a friend’s house, but they got in a fight and she asked me to pick her up. I don’t ask questions, I don’t have the brains to figure out…girl drama, but I gotta go.”

“Of course,” you say, and you’re not at all taken aback at his sudden leave. No, if Joel needs to get his daughter, that’s obviously paramount to pillow talk. There are no questions as he pulls on his boots and you pull your top overhead and your jeans over your legs.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes at your door. You shake your head and dismiss it immediately.

“Don’t apologize,” you assure him. “Please. Go get her.”

He kisses your cheek and gives your hand a little squeeze, and you revel in how it completely eclipses the size of your own.

“I’ll call you soon,” he tells you before he leaves.

Your apartment is quiet without him. You know you’ll replay the night in your head before you fall asleep, but before you do, you decide to prepare your apartment for a productive Saturday morning.

You prepare a pot of coffee, programming the machine to start brewing promptly at eight o’clock the next day. You toss the remaining wine from your glass and drain Joel’s beer down the sink, dumping the empty bottle into your recycling bin. You take your stack of essays from your tote, leaving them neatly on your kitchen table alongside a case full of newly-purchased gel pens. You know the version of you who wakes up tomorrow will be grateful for the care and preparation you’ve taken right now, to ready yourself for a productive morning.

The first essay in your stack belongs to Sarah Miller.

[someonewhogotanaccount]

It's intro post time!

Hi! I'm KitCat!

~The end~

Okay okay maybe you need a little bit more.

As I already said, I'm KitCat, master procatsinator and moving catastrophe, nice to meet you. (Though, everybody calls me KitKat, Kit or Chocosy, which is perfectly fine as well as any other name you want to give me ;)

I'm a minor, so all the creeps please leave now. My motto in life is "live and let live", so if you're here to hurt somebody, please leave too. Thank you :).

The typical things (that I actually forgot when I first posted this): I'm a straight white European Christian girl (teenager) and therefore probably the person with the most boring background, according to Tumblr ;).

I have two "adopted daughters": 1. My Killercat and tuna-demanding master Pauline 2. ";)", the bracket face (she can adapt any form of bracket face if she wants to, but the winking one is her favourite)

Some random facts about me: - my favourite colour is something between purple and dark blue - I have no clue how to write the word color/colour - I'm a German and from Germany (obviously) - I have no clue about the 'typical German culture', since my family was in Poland, Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Russia for around three hundred years and only came back to Germany 30 years ago or so - I love brackets and bracket faces - I have no clue about aesthetics - I consider myself a writer - I have no clue how to continue my stories - I love cats (who would have guessed that) - I have no clue how to make an intro post - I have a stupid sense humour - I have no clue in general but I'm trying :)

You can consider me as: Your silly Tumblr neighborhood KitCat and founder of the hug-ducks ;).

Do I take Tumblr serious? No. I'm that one friend that will be hyperactive the one day and then just dissappear for the next three weeks without a word. But if you ever need me, my inbox is always open. Vent as much as you want to, I'll try to comfort you.

Random stuff: I often misunderstand stuff, so if I'm acting weird, there is a 1/3 chance that I misunderstood you, a 1/3 chance I wanted to make a silly joke and you misunderstood me, and a 1/3 chance that I'm just weird ;). I'm a "Very vibey" (@mushroomcarrotstick) person, btw. @hijabi-desi-bookworm told me once I was "literally one of the best and ~vibest~ people" she knows. Do with that whatever you want, but my name is KitCat Chaos Vibey Clueless Badass Silly for a reason. Oh and if ANYBODY tells you that I'm cute, they are liars. All lies. I'm a pure badass and never ever search after the leta vs. kitkat war. It's better to let the past behind us and move on.

Sooooo, what else can I write here? Hmmm.... AH! MY MOOTS! I FORGOT MY MOOTS!!!

How do I do this now... you know what? I'll just make a list of the moots and then put the link here.

What else? Fandoms, maybe? (current obsession right on the top) - Worm (Parahumans) - Renegades - Claim the Stars (still waiting for the second book) - pjo, hoo, toa - The Inheritance Games (currently reading the second book) - tpq - kotlc - Warrior Cats (don't make fun of me. These books are my childhood and I will read them until I die) - Shadow League (never read the fourth book as it wasn't translated)

Also I enjoy listening music by Imagine Dragons :).

Yeah well, that's it, I suppose. I have an ao3 account as well, but that's only Renegades fanfiction so far. If you want the link just ask or smth.

Since everybody does this, I'll drop an "aesthetic picture" that should give the same vibes as my blog:

(source for the chaotic arson cat ;)

[daily-linkclick]

What is the theory abt lg being from an alternate timeline? I’ve been seeing a lot of ppl talk about it and idrk where it comes from, and what are your thoughts??(have a nice day!!)

this ask magically appeared in my inbox just today but apparently it was sent weeks ago, holy shit! thank you for waiting op LMFAO

anyways, it's a theory that's been around before season 2, iirc! mostly because we had little to nothing lore wise around their powers, and its just fun thinking about while we waited for anything canon. there were a few things that did hint at lu guang being from an alternative timeline, being that we don't know his age and backstory, and his weird hair color (not a lot of people sporting full white hair, or any unnatural hair color in link click, at least)

those aspects don't necessarily point to him being from an alternate timeline, but they also could be hints towards it! but there's new content that makes this theory potentially canon! it's from this music video played during Bilibili World. it features an alternate mv for vortex, which is interesting because we see lu guang falling first:

in it, there are several shots with cheng xiaoshi wearing completely different outfits, some injured and one seemingly dead? Plus a frame that shows four cxs's merging into one. maybe it's just ooo pretty visuals, but there's a looot of imagery that implies different timelines (shard fractals, reflections, mirror images, etc)

There's also this shot, with lu guang wearing an alternate fit we've never seen - and he's wearing more black in this one?? his s1 fit also featured a dark shirt and pants but his flannel color was more dominant. this leads me to believe that this is lu guang but less experienced (another timeline).

maybe all of this is just non-canon for marketing, they did market lu guang as dead for all of pre-s2 lol, but i like to believe this is them teasing lu guang's past! even if he's the main character, he's someone who's past we know the least of. i'd argue we find out more about side characters than we do about him actually - which makes me (and a lot of other people) think he's from an alternate timeline!

that's the gist; i'll put my own thoughts under a read more so this post won't be insanely long

my own thoughts on the theory is that i think lu guang is from multiple alternate timelines. the frame with multiple cheng xiaoshis, and the one where four merge into one makes me believe lu guang met cheng xiaoshi in his timeline, but cxs either died or had a miserable life. he kept going into different timelines in an attempt to save him / be in a timeline where cheng xiaoshi is actually safe and happy, and finally got to the timeline we see in the show.

though that part requires him having more than just the power to look into what happens in a photo. but there's been proof of lu guang hiding what he knows / has with cheng xiaoshi (re: him hiding the fact emma died, and him hiding the photo that liu tianchen gave him). he's also an incredibly private person. if he hides from his closest friend, who's to say he isn't hiding something from the audience either?

we also don't know how they got their powers. if lu guang originally had the power to dive back into pictures, then it would make sense on how he's able to go to different timelines. also, studio lan clearly emphasizes the fact that the pair are two halves of a whole, and the show is more interesting because of that dynamic.

as an extra: lu guang's doting nature makes a lot of sense too, he just doesn't want to see cheng xiaoshi miserable again! it's a pretty known fact that cheng xiaoshi didn't have any friends (besides qiao ling) before lu guang, and his life insantly got better when they finally were a trio (interesting that it was mainly because of a mysterious person that popped out of nowhere). here's a fun twitter thread by t3mp0s about the trio's dynamic

lastly, i just think it'd be fun if at one point cheng xiaoshi slowly discovers what lu guang did in his past for him. and how hypocritical lu guang would sound after saying "past or future, leave them be" if he never applied that to cheng xiaoshi! either way i still want to see a cxs saving lg arc man... they keep teasing it EVEN IN THE MV

that's it!! i know link click's best quality is the trio going through other people's stories, but i think they're preparing us for the biggest one: lu guang's.

[snek-panini]

I participated in Renegade Bindery's Binderary challenge this past February, and since it ended about two weeks ago it's probably time for me to start posting photos of the finished books, yeah? I made eleven books this year, many of which were multi-volume sets, and I'm going to start with the one that I had the most trouble with, Jane Austen's Persuasion. This project was nothing but trouble, and honestly every time I look at it I see nothing but its flaws. The cover is Allure book cloth from Hollander's (wisteria color; I bought it for another project last year and had a lot left over) with gold metallic HTV for the title and graphics. The last project I did with these materials was a dream; the cloth took HTV like a champ, better than any other project I'd done, and yet this time with the same roll of cloth and type/brand of HTV I couldn't get it to stick. You can see two spots where it's gone on crooked in the above photo, and below the cut you can see additional problems with the spine:

Yikes. It is peeling. I read the book once and it is peeling. I've never had this problem before; it won't always stick at first, but once I get it to stick it stays that way. Not this time.

Top view, with the endbands I sewed that have their cores visible. Again, not a problem I've had before but was a recurring theme this binderary; several of my Binderary books have it. Also platinum silk moire endpapers that were really hard to photograph and have both a wrinkle and a glue stain. It's my first time working with silk moire and I'm not sure I'm a fan, but three of the other books I made also have it and I didn't have nearly so may issues with them. So I think this book may have just been cursed. It's not pictured but the ribbon bookmark developed some kind of mysterious dark smudge in the middle somewhere between me gluing it in and me taking these photos. I do not know how this happened. The gilding went well though. That I can say.

Couple of images of the typeset. I had to print the title page twice because it came out streaky the first time. I actually really like the typeset, which is what makes the rest of the issues with this bind so frustrating. It's pretty! I did well on that part! I wanted the exterior to be just as pretty and I'm upset that it's not!

Fun fact: Persuasion was actually my least favorite Austen when I first read it. But I was in my early twenties then, and I thought it would be fun to bind myself a pretty copy since I didn't own one, and reread it and maybe have different feelings about it now I'm on the other side of thirty. And I did reread it after binding, and I do like it better, and I'm sad that the exterior parts didn't turn out as well as I had hoped. Half the reason I bind public domain stuff is so I can show off my skills to IRL people who aren't in fandom, and not have to explain what fanfiction is or why it has so many dicks in it, and there were so many issues here that I don't even want to do that.

The good news is that this was the low point of binderary and most of the other books gave me results I like better. I'm still doing titles for a lot of them, so we'll see how fast I can get them done and photographed, but I've definitely got more books in store in the near future.