#in some ways it IS the move to go to grad school right out of undergrad

[anna-scribbles]

h-how do you ever finish any of your work? genuine question because you seem to be productive despite your agreste syndrome and I need to learn your ways. but also how do you ever finish any of your work

unclear. last night i stayed up and finished a report worth 25% of my grade at about 5am, arrived on time for my 9am lecture, and spent about half of it zoned out while thinking about seventeen year old emilie agreste. and i was one of the most active participants in the class discussion

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

[daisynik7]

test drive

Pairing: ex-boyfriend!Eren x f!reader

Word Count: ~4.9k

cw: exes-to-lovers, a breakup scene (flashback) established past relationship, fluff, some angst, smut - car sex (cowgirl), blowjob, cunnilingus, face-riding, 69 position, sex with no condom, multiple orgasms, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, princess, baby)

Summary: You’re moving back to your hometown of Paradis after completing two long years of grad school in Marley. In desperate need of a car, you’re surprised to hear from your ex-boyfriend Eren, who graciously offers you one.  Author’s Note: Had this in my head for a while, brain is a little fried at the moment, but I just had to get this out! Likes, comments, and/or reblogs are always appreciated! Header image found on Pinterest, mdni divider by @/mikeykuns.

“Eren, do you think we should break up?”

The two of you are in your bedroom, finished packing the last of your luggage before you fly out to Marley tomorrow morning. It’s near midnight on the last day of summer. The windows are open, and the chirping of crickets is loud amidst the silence of the night air. He zips your suitcase closed, peering at you, confused. “What?”

It’s been the lingering question on your mind the past couple of weeks, but you were too afraid to mention it. Maybe you were hoping that the thought would go away on its own. You didn’t really want to break up. You love him. The idea of being apart scares you, though. The uncertainty, the unknown. Two years isn’t very long in the grand scheme of life, but who’s to say you don’t end up deciding to remain in Marley for good? Eren has already made it clear that he has no intentions of leaving Paradis. Would staying together be a waste of time when the future is so unpredictable?

You bite your lip, nervous to elaborate, voice timid. “I’ve heard that long distance is really hard.”

He stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. “So? We’ll get through it.”

“Will we, though? I’m going to be busy with school, and you’re starting your new job. Plus, Marley is so far away. When are we ever going to see each other?” 

He stares at you as if you’re sputtering nonsense. “We’ll make it work,” he answers, definitive. 

“It’s not going to be easy.”

He scratches his scalp, frustrated. “I don’t understand. Do you want to break up?”

You stay quiet, contemplating. When you don’t respond right away, he says, “You do, don’t you?” He sounds like he’s been betrayed, which in retrospect, he has been. By you, of all people. The person who’s supposed to love him. 

Breathing staggered, tears welling in your eyes, you murmur, “I just don’t know if we can do it.”

He begins pacing the floor, voice increasing in volume, rightfully upset. “You don’t know if you can do it. Me? I’m all in. You’re already giving up before we try.”

“I just don’t want either of us to get hurt!” you cry.

“What do you call this, then?!” he yells, tears rolling down his cheeks. “This fucking hurts! Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling this way sooner?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t sure! I was scared.” You sob into your hands. “I’m sorry, Eren.”

He’s shaking his head erratically, fists bunched in his hair. “I can’t believe you’re doing this right now. After all we’ve been through. You don’t even want to give it a shot.”

You swallow hard, wiping snot from your nose. “We can try it out. Let’s try it out,” you plead with him, regretting it. 

“No. It’s too late now. You already set us up for failure. Since you’re not confident about us, then maybe this isn’t going to work out after all.” He sounds spiteful. Daggers piercing through your heart in the form of harsh words. And while you struggle for breath, drenching the fabric of your t-shirt, you can’t blame him for reacting this way. You spent an amazing summer together, and the night before you leave, you drop a grenade like this. What were you thinking?

“Eren,” you beg, sniffling

“I gotta go,” he mutters, grabbing his keys, avoiding your gaze. 

“Eren, wait!” you shout, following him out the room. Down the stairs. Through the front door. In front of his car. “Eren! I’m sorry! I take it back!”

“Have a nice life in Marley,” he spits out, getting into his car, slamming it shut, and reversing out of the driveway without another word. Headlights reflect off the shimmer in your eyes, watching him leave.

That’s the last time you saw Eren. The next day, you boarded your flight to Marley and moved into your new home. You tried to call him, text him, even pestered friends and family to urge him to reach out to you. He never did. And all the while, you still don’t blame him for reacting the way he did. 

The two of you were happy. You loved each other. And when an inkling of hardship reared its ugly head, you ran for it instead of facing it. There’s no way you could have predicted that your relationship would fall apart. In fact, there’s many times that you’ve considered how much stronger the two of you would have gotten if you did stay together. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. If you had believed that sooner, you wouldn’t be living with this remorse. 

It's been over two years since that day. Life continued, though it was tough not having Eren around anymore. He was always your biggest supporter, the anchor that kept you afloat. Grad school wouldn’t have been as stressful if you had him by your side, but you managed to scrape by. You made new friends along the way while maintaining your relationships from home. Mikasa and you would chat regularly, and on occasion, she would mention Eren’s name in passing. You received little footnotes of his life through her, but overall, he’s a stranger to you now. 

That being said, you’re shocked to finally hear from him after that fateful night two years ago. 

Following graduation, you secured a job in Paradis nearby your hometown. For now, the plan is to move in with your family until you save enough money to move out. Unfortunately, you don’t have car. So, in an unexpected turn of events, you sit in the rear of a taxi, on your way to Eren’s. 

Eren: Heard you’re home and you need a car.

Those were his first words to you after two whole years of radio silence. After telling you to have a nice life in Marley. Of course, you were stunned when his name popped up on your screen in the first place, even more so to see his offer to help you. Most likely he was informed about your current situation by Mikasa. Nevertheless, it shocks you that he wants anything to do with you. 

You actually want to meet with him. It may be no more than a business transaction, but to see him in the flesh will be nice. Will it fix what happened? Probably not. It’s worth a shot, though, for some peace of mind. Maybe this is his own way of telling you that he’s over it, and that the two of you can finally put this to bed. 

So, you arrange a time to meet at his place. He gives you an unfamiliar address; it seems he moved out of his parent’s house not long after he started working. Mikasa had mentioned that before. What she’s never disclosed with you is if he’s been dating. On your way to him, your belly begins to fill with dread. Could you handle seeing Eren with another woman? Living together, happily in love? You want him to be happy, but with someone else? Deep down, you still love him. You never dated anyone seriously during your time in Marley. No one even came close to him. He’ll never get back together with you, not after what happened. In fact, you’re positive he’s already found someone, a person who will appreciate him and love him for all he is. Someone who isn’t afraid. It’s better he’s with someone else; you actually hope you see that today, so that you can finally move on. 

The trip takes over half an hour. You recognize the route being taken; the same one you would take on the way to Paradis University, where you and Eren met for the first time. During freshman year, Mikasa, your roommate at the time, introduced you to him. The two of you became fast friends, even faster lovers. The spark was there the moment you shook his hand, the moment he gazed into your eyes, flashing that charming smile at you. It was casual at first, no labels, no strings attached. Two horny college kids fulfilling their sexual desires exclusively with one another. Kisses and sex soon became something more, something special. By the time you were sophomores, it was official: he was yours and you were his. 

The driver enters a quaint neighborhood, pulling up to the front of a modern apartment complex. Once you pay the fare, you step out, inspecting the building. Eren lives on the third floor; each unit has a balcony overlooking the neighborhood, the nearby cityscape in the near distance. It’s a beautiful location and your curiosity gets the best of you. Who is he currently sharing his life with? Do they watch sunrises together from their grand view, sipping their morning coffee in domestic bliss? Should it be you instead? 

Before you get carried away with your imagination, you retrieve your phone from your bag, texting him that you have arrived and are waiting outside. There’s no reason for you to head up into his apartment, right? You’re here to check out his car; that’s it. You can’t help thinking that it would be fun to check out. For research purposes, of course.

He replies quickly, mentioning how he’ll head down to you. You take a few deep breaths, mentally preparing yourself to see him for the first time ever since your bitter goodbye. Do you hug him? Keep your distance? Should you say anything personal or keep it strictly professional? All of these conflicting feelings are fighting with each other in your head. There’s so much you want to tell him: your life the last two years, how sorry you are for the way it ended, how much you miss him. At the same time, you want a clean slate, almost as if you’re strangers meeting for the first time. 

As he steps out from the lobby, you freeze on the spot, dazzled by his presence. What strikes you initially is how long his hair has gotten; it’s enough to put up into a small bun, with a few stray strands scattered around his face. His eyes are as brilliant as ever, barely visible dark circles underneath from age or stress, most likely the lather; it hasn’t been that long. There’s still that youthful charm about him, though. That will never fade.

He's dressed in a plain white t-shirt and black sweats pants, an outfit reminiscent of his college years, laid-back and casual. You’ve always liked this look on him, always found it sexy. Too many memories of you stripping this exact attire off him, hasty to make love in the twin bed of his dormitory. You try to shake these thoughts away as he approaches you with a rigid disposition, hesitant and a bit awkward. He clears his throat before saying, “Hey.” His hands are in his pockets as he greets you. 

You respond with a gentle smile. “Hi.”

This is going to be harder than you thought. 

~~~

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since they broke up, since he last saw her. Two whole fucking years. 

Eren didn’t want to break up. The thought never even crossed his mind. He was determined to be with her the rest of his life, of their lives. That’s why he got so upset when she suggested it. They spent an entire summer together, perfect in every possible way, and she had the nerve to ask that question the night before the big move? Do you think we should break up? He couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. They were supposed to love each other forever. 

It doesn’t excuse the way he behaved to her afterwards. Instead of discussing it like a mature adult, he exploded, too caught up in the storm of emotions raging in his head. His ego was hurt, pride shot down, heart betrayed. Following that night, Eren was too ashamed by the whole ordeal; he thought it’d be easier to ignore it and move on. 

Move on. Yeah right.

He replays those scenes constantly. Her pleas of We can try it out. Let’s try it out. I’m sorry! I take it back! ringing in his ears like a broken record, reminding him that if they talked about it, if he had just turned around to work it out, maybe they’d still be together. They’d be happy. It’s the biggest regret of his life; not fighting for her and letting her slip away. A fleeting moment of weakness and fear leading to their ultimate demise. A tragic ending to such a beautiful story. Can they ever get the happy ending they wanted? 

He tried to date other women; it never amounted to anything serious. Eventually, Eren gave up on the dating scene all together, focusing his energy on other priorities like his career and friendships. He was hoping that one day, he’d magically be over her.

When Mikasa informs him about her move back to Paradis, he knows immediately he needs to meet with her. Seeing her one last time might be the key to moving on once and for all. So, he finally decides to be mature and contact her, under the guise of giving her one of his cars. In his defense, he’s been meaning to sell it anyways. He never could quite let it go, though, considering it’s the car he drove all throughout college, with her. Late night drives to Maria’s Point, holding hands and kissing beneath the stars. Fast food runs at their favorite drive-thru, her feeding French fries to him from the passenger side, cruising through the empty streets with their favorite music blaring through the radio speakers. Even the backseat has seen plenty of action during those years, the foreground to many naughty trysts away from campus. Every corner of it carries a memory of her; that’s why he’s been so reluctant to let it go. He still loves her. But that’s all in the past. This car will be the final peace offering that will allow him to move on. He’s got it all planned out. 

What he’s not prepared for is the rush of emotions that flood his chest upon seeing her. This is definitely not part of the plan. 

When he greets her, she smiles at him, the same radiant smile he’s yearned for the two years of her absence. One that instantly warms his soul. He does his best to maintain his composure. Keep it together, he thinks to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets while he clenches his fists, bursting at the seams. This isn’t part of the plan. 

He kicks the ground with his heels, fidgeting. “So…it’s been a minute, huh?” He does a mental eye roll to himself. Did he really say that? Idiot, idiot, idiot. 

She giggles, and he nearly combusts. How is it that a simple laugh can ignite every fiber of his being? He’s a fool for assuming he could get through this unscathed. “Yeah. It has. How are you?” Her expression is sincere; he always loved that about her, how intently she listens, how much she cares. Even after their harsh breakup, that sincerity remains. She’s making this much more difficult than he expected. 

He shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m okay. You?”

She mimics him, raising her shoulders. “I’m alright.”

He chews his lip nervously before asking, “Well, do you want to check out the car?” Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan, he reminds himself. 

She nods, following him to the parking garage to his designated spot. Her eyes widen when she sees it. “You want to sell me this?”

“Yup.”

She inspects it, mouth parted, surprised. “Wow. The Titan.”

He busts out in laughter, amused that she remembers the silly nickname they came up with freshman year. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

She turns to look at him, eyes twinkling, lips curled into a warm smile. “How could I forget?”

He swallows hard, saliva thick on his tongue. Fluttering in his core, tingling through his fingers. The question stumbles out quickly. “Want to take it out for a spin? A test drive?” 

Eren’s aware that this is dangerous territory. The two of them, enclosed in the small space of his car, memories in every crevice of the interior. It’s his chance to properly apologize for what happened. That’s how he justifies it, at least. Part of him also wants to recreate their past together. Riding in his car, fingers laced together on the center console, singing their favorite songs with the windows rolled down, wind blowing on their smiling faces. It’s infeasible; he doesn’t even know if she feels the same way. There’s that tiny portion of him that holds out hope; she did agree to meet him. That means something, right?

She contemplates for a moment. “Sure. Can you drive, though?”

“Still the passenger princess, I see.” 

“Some things never change, right?” She gives him a wink before stepping to the side of the car, waiting for him to unlock the doors. 

He gulps, thrilled and jittery at whatever adventure they’re about to embark on. In the corner of his mind, all he can think is 

Fuck the plan. 

~~~

You weren’t supposed to get in it with him. The idea was to meet him and do the exchange, simple as that. When you recognize the car, all the memories you shared flood into your mind. You let your emotions get the best of you; you want one more special moment with Eren. It’s only fair to your relationship to end it on a good note, right? You weren’t expecting anything more than closure, which was what the both of you needed. 

He doesn’t tell you where he’s driving to, but he doesn’t have to. By the time you’re on the highway, you watch the sun set in the distance from the rearview mirror. You pass by multiple signs, indicating Maria’s Point in x number of miles, the amount decreasing the closer you approach it. The two of you chat, condensing all from the past two years into a half hour car ride. You describe your experience in grad school, he talks about his full-time job. It’s cordial, like two old friends catching up after a while being apart. Except the both of you are fully aware of the elephant squished in the backseat of The Titan. Neither of you mention anything about it.

He drives up the familiar hill leading up to the panorama at the top of the cliff. This spot of Maria’s Point is often secluded, which was perfect for you and Eren back in the day. He parks away from the edge, the last rays of orange and pink hovering on the skyline. With a twist of his keys, he shuts off the ignition and it’s silent. Suddenly, after effortless conversation, you’re shy, unable to speak. 

Luckily, he does. “I actually want to talk to you about something important.”

You snap your seatbelt off, adjusting to give him your full attention. His hands remain on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers nervously. “I’m sorry for the way I acted that night.” He doesn’t need to elaborate; you know exactly what he’s referring to. You’re caught off guard from the apology, so you keep quiet, waiting for him to continue. 

After a deep breath, he explains, “I blew up, and I shouldn’t have. I got upset because I thought you had given up before we even tried. But I know you were scared; I was too. Regardless, it wasn’t right and I’m sorry. For that and for avoiding you after.” He slides his hands around the wheel, dropping them to his lap. His eyes are forward, avoiding you. 

When he doesn’t have more to add, you respond. “Thank you. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have blindsided you. I should have told you how I was feeling instead of ignoring it until the last minute. Like you said, I was scared, so I ran away from it without even giving it a shot. It wasn’t fair to you, and it wasn’t fair to us.” He’s focuses on you now, listening carefully as you talk. “Just so you know, I never blamed you for how you reacted. I deserved it.”

He shifts his body towards you, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t deserve that. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

You blink away the oncoming tears from your eyes. “It’s okay, Eren. We can do that now.”

The stillness that follows is concerning. He studies you with an unreadable expression, contemplating. Then, he leans closer to you, elbow resting on the center console, his breath tickling your cheeks, whispering, “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

You gravitate towards him, lessening the space between you, gazing at his lips. “You don’t?”

“I never wanted to in the first place.”

Drifting forward, you rest your forehead to his, the skin-to-skin contact rekindling the spark that burned so brightly not too long ago. “Eren.”

“I miss you,” he confesses. “Every fucking day.” 

His lips graze yours, eyes watching you, waiting. Unable to hold back any longer, you kiss him, melting into him seamlessly. The two years of remorse vanish in an instant, and you’re transported in time, as if you were never apart. You touch your palm on his chest, his racing heartbeat thumping against your fingertips. He slides his hand around the nape of your neck, cradling you gently, deepening the kiss. His lips are soft on yours, prudent and delicate, careful not to overbear you. 

You pull off to catch your breath, clutching at his t-shirt so that’s it’s bunched into your fist. “I missed you, Eren.”

He swallows loudly, eyes half-lidded in a daze. “I missed you so fucking much,” he mutters, driving his tongue inside your mouth, kissing you desperately now. He drinks you up like he’s dying of thirst, the only cure to his drought. You match him, opening wider, swirling your tongue with his. His lips trail to your neck, sucking on the pulse point beneath your chin.  

“Eren,” you moan, running your fingers through his hair. 

“I love hearing you say my name. Fuck,” he swears, licking at the spot. He marks you on the other side, nibbling lightly at your skin with his teeth. “Did you ever think about me?”

“Every day,” you admit, eyes closed as he moves to your ear, pinching your lobe between his lips. “And you?”

“All the time,” he answers. He breaks away, cupping your cheek tenderly in his palm. “I’m still in love with you. I love you.”

Your breath hitches, throat tight with emotion, though you manage to utter, “I love you too.”

He beams at you before suggesting, “Should we get out of here? Go to my place?”

Tugging at his collar, you shake your head with a smirk. “I can’t wait that long.”

Understanding what you’re implying, he suggests, “Backseat?”

You give him a wet smooch and a nod. He chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Are you that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait to go home?”

Glancing at his lap, the evident bulge protruding from his sweats, you scoff at him playfully. “Don’t act like you aren’t either. Look how big you are already.”

He grins, exiting the driver’s side and quickly sliding into the backseat, spreading his legs wide, hoisting his shirt off to reveal his chiseled torso. “You’re right. I’ve been waiting two years, please don’t make me wait any longer.”

You follow him to the rear, shrugging your blouse and pants off hastily until you’re down to your underwear. He marvels at your bare figure, licking his lips while you kneel beside him. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, scanning you up and down, almost in disbelief. “Would you think about me whenever you touched yourself?”

Nestled to his lap, ass sticking out, you nod, rubbing your face on the erection straining against the fabric. “I only thought about you, Eren.”

“Fuck,” he groans, mesmerized. He pets you, brushing his thumb across your cheeks. “Me too, sweetie. No one makes me come the way you do.” He lifts his hips to slide his bottoms and boxers down his legs, exposing his hard cock standing stiff and pretty, glistening with precum leaking from the tip. 

You’re salivating, spit coating your entire mouth, hungry for his cock. Without wasting another second, you swallow him, surrounding him in your wet heat until he hits the back of your throat. He bucks up slightly, thighs trembling beneath you. “Fuck,” he swears, trailing your spine, gliding to your ass. “Always so good to me.” He slips beneath your panties, teasing your entrance. “Can I fuck you with these fingers? Please?”

You nod with his cock in your mouth, slurping the drool trickling on his shaft, bobbing on him. He slides one in, then another, pumping them in and out of you as you moan around his dick. He wriggles inside you, stimulating your sweet spot, gushing on his digits with your first orgasm. His follows immediately after, his load spurting onto your tongue, guzzling every last drop of him. 

You release him, turning over so your head is resting on his lap, peering up at his face. His hand is between your legs, rubbing the soft plush of your thighs, smiling down at you. He teases your clit, flicking his wet fingers on it, causing you to whine. 

“You still like it when I play with you like this,” he purrs, watching you twitch from the pleasure. “My good girl always comes so much for me.” He caresses your forehead gently, toying with your swollen bud. “Can you give me another one, princess?” Too many times do you remember him pleasuring you, sitting in the passenger seat, you gripping to his wrist, directing his hand to your pussy. Tonight is no different; he’s just as relentless, tapping away at you until your creaming for him once more. 

“I need to fucking taste you,” he growls, slipping his fingers past his lips, licking them. “Sit up, sweetie. Ride me while you make me hard again.”

It’s clumsy maneuvering in the cramped space, but eventually, you get into position. He’s below you, slurping at your sopping pussy as you’re bent over his cock, licking the head as you stroke him off. The windows begin fogging up, the air sweltering and humid. Your knee digs uncomfortably into the cushion, the other hangs off the edge of the seat, foot planted to the floor. Eren manages to fit his impressive stature, one leg angled and stretched towards the driver’s side, the other laid across the backseat, enough space for you to blow him while you ride his face. 

“I missed this sloppy cunt,” he muffles, spreading his tongue on you. He spits, smearing his frothy saliva across your clit, puckered around it, sucking. 

Once he’s hard again, you beg, “Fuck me, Eren.” You’re close to another climax and you’re desperate to come with him in you this time. “Please.”

He laughs, lifting you off, his face glossy with your slick, covering his nose, mouth, and chin. “Whatever you want, princess.” He sits up against the seat, legs splayed like a throne for you to sit pretty on. You straddle his lap, rubbing your pussy on his cock before guiding it into your entrance. 

You both drawl out, “Fuck,” kissing messily, arms wrapped around each other in a snug embrace. You ride him feverishly as he fucks up into you, gripping onto your hips tightly, bouncing you on his dick. You’re both sweating immensely, the temperature in the car sweltering, but neither of you mind it, too concentrated on each other’s orgasms, too addicted to the high you’re chasing together. 

“Fuck, baby. I’m so close,” he groans, picking up the pace, his thighs slapping lewdly against your ass.

“Come inside me, Eren. Fill me up,” you whimper, pushing the hair away from his sweaty forehead. 

“Yeah? You want it? Take it then. Take it sweetheart.” His eyes are shut tight as he shoots his load, thick cock pulsing inside you. You ride out your orgasm with him, scattering delicate kisses on his face. He grins, gazing at you with a hazy expression. 

“What’s that look for?” you ask, booping his nose. 

“Nothing,” he replies, cheeks rounded into a bigger smile. He squeezes your face between his palms. “I’m just happy. So unbelievably happy right now.”

You place your hands over his, leaning into his touch. “Me too.”

You stay comfortably like this for a few minutes, Eren cracking the windows open to let out some steam. You joke, “So, are you still going to sell me this car?”

He chuckles. “How about I give it to you. I was going to anyways.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It was supposed to be a peace offering. But I like this outcome way better.”

“Me too. But I’m not going to just take it from you. Let me pay you for it.”

He tips your chin to look at you, grinning wide. “How about you move in with me instead?”

“What?” you giggle, unable to contain your smile, thrilled by the suggestion.

“Move in with me,” he repeats, nuzzling his nose to yours. 

“Isn’t this is a little too soon, considering we just got back together?”

He stretches his arms out, relaxing into the seat, smirking at you. “We already wasted two years without each other, I’m not wasting any more time.”

You scoot closer to him, kissing his cheek, then his lips. “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”

[livingemkayde]

ch vi. bruises

joel miller x f!reader x unrequited!tommy miller (no outbreak AU)

chapter six of chaser

warnings: 18+ minors please dni. ooof okay where to start, smut unprotected p in v, mentions of bruising from sex? fighting like actual real life fist fighting, rough but sweet sex, grinding, lowkey some cockwarming?? kinda unwanted kissing, tommy being annoying and somewhat overbearing, and unwanted touching, but not sexual. caroline. just, caroline. because she deserves her own warning for this one. no use of y/n.

summary: everything comes to a head at tommy's birthday party.

a/n: this is genuinely the longest part/chapter thing i've ever written so enjoy. tommy is really annoying in this one, im still deciding if he's going to have a redemption arc. sorry this took so long. as always, i love you all so much. MY TUMBLR LITERALLY SHIT ITS PANTS WHEN I TRIED TO EDIT THE TAGLIST SO IM SORRY IF YOU GUYS GOT TAGGED LIKE 400 TIMES.

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel says, almost a whisper. You’re still not sure if he’s talking to you or Tommy. You can't take your eyes off Tommy’s gaze. From the looks of it, Joel’s question makes Tommy more angry and way more confused.�� “Joel,” you say, trying to look for any indication in Tommy’s face that he’s not going to go bat shit crazy. “‘S fine. We’re okay.”  But Joel doesn’t listen. Because he’s Joel Miller and maybe you can’t see it right now, but you can hear the concern dripping off his tone—an indication that he won’t ever leave. Not now. So he stalks towards you both and you try to shake your head no, and he doesn’t listen. 

You can almost remember it like it was yesterday. 

A few weeks back, the first time you invited Tommy in for a drink after dinner. Sarah was asleep back at the house, Joel was doing — god knows what. The sun was set, the mosquitoes were probably out, and there was a quiet, even maybe too quiet silence when Tommy pulled up to your house. 

He had asked what the rest of your plans were for the night. 

You had said nothing much, not knowing it was an invitation — he stayed till 2 a.m. that night. 

But it was okay. Because he made you laugh and you enjoyed his company. He was interesting. Tommy told you about how he never wanted to go into contracting in the first place. About his broken bones, his all time biggest regrets, how he was smitten with his old high school flame turned mean cheerleader until graduation. 

It was the first time you ever realized he was — well — his own person in the sense. Not just Joel’s younger brother. But Tommy. Tommy Miller. 

Maybe in another life Tommy might’ve even been good for you. A perfect pair — a match. He wasn’t mean and brooding and he certainly didn’t have 12 years on you. 

And he made you smile. And he was genuinely—genuinely interested in your life. Your post grad prospects, college, books, and even how you played soccer just like Sarah when you were younger.

But when he leaned in that night, closer to you than ever before. You froze. Like genuinely frozen, and you couldn’t even dare to look down to his slowly approaching lips, let alone how his arms caged you in. 

“First kiss?” you remember him asking.

You had just stuttered out nonsense, not wanting to breathe too hard and run the risk of pushing your lips flush with his. 

“I — um —” you nervously laughed. You couldn’t even think—not in the way you should—not when the first person that comes to mind when Tommy says, kiss is his brother. 

He had leaned in closer then—more tentative. Like you were a scared deer in headlights or a frightened kitten and he was inching forward, wanting to move closer. 

But you didn’t really do — anything. 

And he had pulled back a bit, gave you a teasing look and a ruffle on the head and continued with the conversation.  

In all honesty you were scared that he might've been inching forward to kiss you. The small fear settling through a slightly erratic heartbeat and nervous laughs. 

You were scared then, but can’t really remember the last time you’ve felt this kind of fear. 

Hurt, discomfort, shock, maybe. 

And although it was being quickly replaced with anger, you don’t remember this feeling — this kind of fear. Not even the kind you get from watching a scary movie — where you can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins and then dissipating when the screen goes dark, and the lights turn back on and all you have to worry about is if the scary nun from the big screen will appear in your dreams. 

You can remember all the last times you’ve gotten mad, sure. Mainly at the Miller brothers. 

But never fear — well, not until right now. 

Because whoever that Tommy was is definitely not the same guy staring back at you right now, with a bruised fist, an angry look swirled with hurt marked permanently on his face and one emotion that you can definitely place behind his eyes — jealousy. 

_

Some hours earlier. 

You spread colorful tablecloth over the mismatched tables in Joel’s backyard. The string lights are being hung up, Joel stands on a ladder towards your right, the sound of a hammer echoing through the small backyard. 

You pick your phone out of your back pocket, checking the time. You also find it in you to check Tommy’s texts again, but no other messages have been sent since last night. You look down at your phone — at the messages — and sit against one of the tables. 

Yesterday: 

You: can we talk in person?

Tommy Miller: I’ll see you tomorrow at the party?

You hadn’t seen the text until this morning, when Joel and you found it in yourselves to get out of bed, have a shower, and start setting up for the party. So when you saw it, you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat. 

You’re a bit nervous at the prospect. You did not want to talk to him at his party—honestly just trying to text him so that the air would be cleared for the party. 

But his words echo in your mind. 

“Just think ‘bout it before you say no.” 

You let out a cursed sigh. 

Tommy had to know. Right?

If he knew the dreaded ‘no’ was already braced on your lips he had to know. That this thing between you and Tommy would never work out. That you’re way better as friends. That it would ruin everything — the dynamics of it all — that you were smitten with his brother and you guys had just slept together for the second time without Tommy’s knowledge and that—

“Alright?”

Joel stands in front of you, dipping his head to see a scowl marked on your face. You quickly — maybe even too quickly — forget about the messages, hell, forget about Tommy. 

Because Joel looks handsome. He’s always handsome, you’ve thought since the moment you met him at the bar. There’s something intoxicating about him, his arms, the curve of his neck. His brooding nature does him justice — a uniqueness about him that makes you want to uncover more, learn more, see more. 

You remember last night—very vividly through small ebbs and flows of sleep. The moonlight seeped into your skin as you both rolled around in gray sheets. 

It makes your cheeks heat a bit at the thought. 

You remember everything. Every little detail. You don’t think you’ll ever forget. 

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. 

“Yeah, sorry. ‘S just…” you trail off, he nods his head in understanding, coming closer to you. 

He braces his hands on either side of your body, caging you in. Your faces study each other’s mere inches apart. 

“Tablecloth givin’ you trouble?” Joel teases in a soft whisper, looking down at your lips, then back to your eyes. 

“Funny,” you say with a grin and run your tongue over your lips. 

“You need help, baby, all you gotta do is ask.” Joel’s small smile plays on his lips for a fleeting second. You miss it as soon as it’s gone. 

“Duly noted. But I’m not the one who’s been hanging up string lights for the past hour.”

He pats your ass a bit, teasing you and pushing out a playful sigh. 

“Perfection takes time.” 

Joel’s beginning to dip his head to kiss you, but you find it in you to bite back.

“And yet the left side’s still lower than the right,” you whisper, pulling your head back slightly. He turns quickly to look at the fence, but gives you a harder slap on your ass when he realizes the lights are, in fact, straight. 

Joel chuckles, pushing off from the table, you turn back around to continue fixing the cloths, and look back at him over your shoulder. 

He’s looking back at you too. 

“You’re killin’ me,” he says, and you smile to yourself when you turn back around. 

_

You look around the backyard and check your phone for the millionth time since the party started. You can hear Sarah running around, screaming a bit while jumping into the pool. But your brows furrow when you find that Tommy still hasn’t texted you. 

You spot a tuft of red hair swinging through your vision and spin to find Janet Baker squeezing through the crowd. 

“Janet!” you say, approaching her quickly. You’re happy to see her—Tommy didn’t invite many people you’re familiar with. 

“Hey, Doll. Thanks for the invite!” she says, pulling you into a quick hug, but when she sees the look on your face, her mouth drops into a frown. “Sweetie, you okay?” 

“Yeah, sorry. I—Tommy didn’t…I don’t really know anyone here,” you reply while sheepishly looking around the small, bustling backyard. It’s the kind of feeling you try your best to avoid. Like everyone is in on some secret joke that you have no clue about. Or everyone knows each other and you can’t even put faces to names because you don’t know any names—like right now. 

“‘S fine—I’m happy to see you made it,” you let out a defeated chuckle. 

“‘F course, baby. Charlotte really wanted to see Sarah,” she nods towards the girls in the pool, Charlotte’s red hair looking strikingly similar to the woman standing in front of you. Janet seems to be on her second drink of the afternoon, you saw her tipping back a solo cup out of the corner of your eye earlier. 

“What are you drinking?” you ask her, nodding at her cup. 

“Someone brought a fancy lookin’ wine I popped open,” she says, giving you a sly smile. “Why don’t we get you a drink? You’ll like this,” she says, you don’t have much time to react, she’s already pulling you towards the drink station. 

You both settle into a comfortable silence, looking around the backyard while Janet pours your drink. 

“So,” she says, giving you a wink. 

“So…” you echo, sending a nervous laugh her way. 

“Who’s that girl,” she nods towards Caroline while passing you a cup, you take a big sip, Janet fills it back up to the top without a second glance. 

“Caroline,” you say looking at her and Joel. They’re talking to some other people, a small group of them congregating by the barbecue. 

“Caroline…” Janet tests out on her tongue, willing you to continue. 

“Caroline—Joel’s,” you can’t help but chuckle. “date. I guess.” 

“That bother you?” she says, finishing the bottle of wine while the two of you walk back towards the edge of the pool so she can watch Charlotte and Sarah. 

“Nope,” you say, and it’s not a lie. Sure, it might be a little weird to see another woman clinging to his arm after yesterday. But you know now. And that’s all that matters. 

“Joel can—” you laugh again, “—Joel can do what he likes.” 

Janet stops walking suddenly. You tear your gaze away from Joel and look at her with a confused furrowed brow. 

“Sweetie…” she says with eyes that look way too knowing for your comfort or peace of mind. 

“Janet…?” you say, though her gaze just intensifies. 

“You mean to tell me it happened since I last saw you?”

Your eyes widen, a shocked look crosses your face and you quickly try to replace it with a bad mask of confusion. 

“W-what? I—” 

“Don’t lie to me, doll,” she warns, and she looks like she really means it. 

“Janet…” you say in a not as effective and halfhearted warning tone back. 

“Don’t you dare,” she wags her finger—a final warning. 

What has gotten into you and why can’t you find it in yourself to lie to this woman?

“Don’t te—” she gasps, “Janet, I mean it. Do not tell anyone.” 

She shuts her half open mouth and makes the my lips are sealed motion across her face. You laugh while stealing a glance at Joel. 

“I told you,” she whispers to you in a hush, joining your eyeline towards Joel.

You stay silent for a moment, just taking everything and everyone in—but at the same time just looking at Joel. when you finally break the silence you’re a bit shocked at your question. You’ve never talked about Joel like this with someone who actually knows him. Everything has always been a secret—like you were supposed to be ashamed or something. You never were.  

“How did you know?” you ask, hushed. You’re not sure she’ll even hear you. 

“Would love to say it was intuition, sweetie—but—it was him. It was written all over his face.” 

_

You stayed with Janet for the better portion of the hour, all through silent peaks at your phone to see if Tommy had texted you. When it was getting to the point where people were getting curious, you’ve just about had your limit. 

You approach Joel quickly, you don’t miss Caroline’s stunned face but you really can’t be bothered with—that—right now. 

“Joel?” you ask, pulling at his arm a bit, he excuses himself from the group and follows you towards the backyard's edge. 

“Where the hell is your brother?” you whisper.

“He’s not here?” he asks, the same hushed tone also pushing through his voice at your question. 

“No! I called him, but he’s not responding,” you pipe back while pulling out your phone. Though the lack of notifications from Tommy—just as before—tells you enough. 

You both look at each other for a fleeting second. But the same worried look is probably etched on both your faces — fuck. 

“This fuckin’ guy,” Joel mutters under his breath while pulling out his own phone and then putting it up to his ear. 

You pace around the small area you and Joel are in, observing the unfamiliar faces. 

“Nothin’,” Joel grovels, taking a peak over the fence towards the street to see if Tommy's truck has pulled up. “I’ll try ‘im again — just — you should mingle,” he says, still looking down at his phone. 

“‘S fine. I don’t really know anyone here anyways,” you say absentmindedly, looking through your phone for Tommy’s contact and putting your phone up to your ear. 

You hear yelling and shouting from the entrance to the backyard. You slowly lift your head, reluctant to tear your eyes away from frantic texts. 

You spot him, in all his glory. Tommy Miller. Two hours late to his own birthday party—though he looks like he couldn’t care less, hugging old friends and new ones. He spots your eyes in the crowd and you can’t even be bothered to smile, a frown is almost permanently placed on your face—Late to your own birthday party? 

He nods his head toward the house, a silent invitation to talk when he’s done greeting the guests. You nod back and turn to Joel, Tommy turns to everyone else. 

“He’s here,” you say, pulling Joel out of his own phone, he does a double take towards the entrance and huffs out a groan. 

“Goddamn idiot,” Joel says, running his palm over his eyebrow. 

“I’m gonna go—” you say, nodding towards the house, towards Tommy. 

“Yeah. Alright,” he replies, though he looks a bit concerned and unfocused, looking towards Tommy, then back to you, “You need me, ‘m there.”

“‘M not telling him about us on his birthday and It’s Tommy, Joel.” 

Tommy—harmless. 

Though Joel’s look sends a sweat to your palms for some reason. You don’t know why he’s worried. 

It’s Tommy. It’s fine. 

Right? 

You hope as much as you make your way through the crowd. You beeline for the house and slip past the sliding doors into the kitchen where cups and bags of chips lay open and equally sprawled. 

You can hear the door slide open and shut again behind you as you try and salvage the mess. 

“Baby,” Tommy says, rounding the corner and coming close to you, “‘M sorry. The concrete guy was supposed to drop off the shipment tomorrow but he came today and needed a signature—” 

“Tommy, it’s okay,” you almost have to will yourself to say. You also have to remember it’s his birthday. 

He looks down. 

“‘S okay. It’s your birthday. Happy birthday,” you reassure with a small smile. 

“Looks great out there,” he says, fiddling with his phone in his hand. 

“Thanks.” 

You’re suddenly a bit nervous. You hadn’t really thought about everything that had happened when Tommy being late to his own birthday party was blanketing all the drama. But he’s here now, and you have no idea what to say. Maybe it would be better to not say anything at all—not address the fact that he asked you out, or you and Joel. But that guilty gnawing feeling eats you alive the longer you stand in silence. 

“Joel helped you?” 

“Yeah. I went shopping yesterday and dropped off the stuff here then we set it up this morning,” you say, nodding towards the backyard and then your car parked out front. 

“You went shopping on your own?” he almost sounds offended. 

“I wanted to go on my own.” 

Tommy doesn't look convinced. 

“Really, T. ‘S fine,” you brush off, leaning back against the kitchen counter and crossing your arms. He stares at you from the other side of the kitchen. 

“Caroline here?” he asks, a hesitant look on his face as he switches from looking at the ground to your face—almost like he’s looking for a reaction. 

“She’s out there somewhere,” you nod, keeping a neutral face masked with a small smile. “You should mingle. Just wanted to make sure everything was alright.” 

But he doesn’t move, he just keeps fiddling with the case on his phone again, looking down to the floor—his feet. 

“I— you said you wanted to talk in person.” 

Shit. 

You both look at each other, waiting. A game of cat and mouse. 

“It can wait, T. Enjoy your party,” you say, gesturing to the crowd outside. 

“Is it about—is it about what happened Friday?” 

“Tommy,” you say, almost warningly. This situation is shitty enough as is. You really don’t want to spoil everything—even if there’s nothing left to spoil. 

He doesn’t say anything. His thumb fiddling with his phone is the only sound coming from inside the kitchen. He looks at you, waiting for you to continue. Almost unbearable. You crack way quicker than you’d hope to last. 

If he wants it like this, at his own birthday party, then so be it. 

“Fine. I just—I wanted to…” you scramble for words but they jumble in your mind. 

“I’m—” you fall short again. “About what you said. What you asked me. I don’t think that it’s…something I want. I’m—sorry.” 

“You don’t think it’s something you want? Or you know that—” 

“Tommy,” you say, giving him an awkward stifled laugh. Like he’s being childish with his response. Because he is. “I don’t—I’m sorry.”

He turns away from you suddenly, towards the window above the sink and just stares at it for a long time. You can see his chest puffing. When he finally turns back around, it’s different. It’s the Tommy you know. 

“‘S okay,” He says. 

Maybe he’ll get over it quickly—you hope. 

“Are you okay? I’m—I mean I hope that this doesn’t change anything since I’m still gonna be around—” you lift your arm up to run a ragged hand across your forehead and through your hair, you don’t even notice that your shirt riding up, “— I just don’t want it to like—” 

“What is that?” 

Your eyes snap to Tommy’s, confused. You think he might be looking out the window again but his eyes trail to you, but lower. Like he’s looking at your hips—because he is. You’re still confused for a second, before examining your shirt, looking for stains or anything out of the ordinary. But you don’t find anything, your top spotless. 

“What? I don’t—” 

“No—” he takes a couple quick steps forward, into your space, you try to find his eyes—yours blown out with confusion and shock but his are trained and laser focused to your waistline. 

“What’s—” he tries to pull up your shirt, you shove him back out of reflex. “You’re hurt, what happened t’you?” 

He almost pins down your hands to see your skin under your shirt, dipping his head to look at your waist and hips and you suddenly know. You know there are hand shaped bruises littered across the skin of your waist, turning it deep purple. Handprints that match Joel’s exactly—almost like they’re burned into you. You saw it this morning. It’s why you didn’t bother to put on a swimsuit and decided to keep a top on instead. 

What’s even worse is you know Tommy saw it too. 

“Tommy!” you’re yelling now, fighting his grip. 

You slip up, unable to get a good hold on his wrist like he now has on yours and he pushes the shirt up to reveal the bruises. 

“What the hell is that?” 

“Fucking—get off!” he backs away with your second shove, a different kind of look on his face. “Jesus,” you huff out, yanking your shirt back down. 

You both stand there. A pregnant silence between you. You can almost hear the gears turning, he stares blankly. Putting it all together. Like maybe you’re not hurt, but you wanted it—wanted it from another man. Somewhere in the back of his mind he might keep wishing someone hurt you so he didn’t have to feel so betrayed. So when he asks, it’s like he doesn’t want to admit that it’s true—the quiet possibility of someone else in the picture. 

“Who,” he says slowly, pointing down to your waist, “did that?”

“Tommy—” you say, but footsteps cut you off, you both turn your head to the entrance of the kitchen as Joel rounds the corner. He looks out of breath and his eyes flicker from Tommy and his finger pointing down at your waist then back to you. 

“We alright in here?” Joel stands, hesitant, his fingers play with the bottom hem of his shirt in an anxious way. Like he doesn't know what he’s just walked in on—you’re not entirely sure you know the answer to that either. You aren’t sure if he’s talking to you or Tommy so you stay silent, waiting for the man in front of you to respond. 

“Yup,” Tommy replies, too angry to be believable. 

Joel looks at you but he doesn’t say anything. Not out loud. 

No. You try to say with your eyes. We are definitely not alright in here. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel says, almost a whisper. You’re still not sure if he’s talking to you or Tommy. You can't take your eyes off Tommy’s gaze. From the looks of it, Joel’s question makes Tommy more angry and way more confused. 

“Joel,” you say, trying to look for any indication in Tommy’s face that he’s not going to go bat shit crazy. “‘S fine. We’re okay.” 

But Joel doesn’t listen. Because he’s Joel Miller and maybe you can’t see it right now, but you can hear the concern dripping off his tone—an indication that he won’t ever leave. Not now. So he stalks towards you both and you try to shake your head no, and he doesn’t listen. 

He stands beside you, putting a flat sprawled palm on Tommy’s chest and silently tries to push him backward. But Tommy breaks first, pushing Joel’s hand off him, staggering back while looking at you and Joel.

And maybe he gets it then, you think. Because Tommy lets out a deep chuckle—like you’ve got clown makeup on. Like he’s never seen anything more funny. He’s a lot of things but he is not fucking stupid. So he looks past Joel to your eyes. To your face, almost covered—ridden—in guilt and he can see everything. 

“Really?” Tommy says, not sparing Joel a glance. 

“You put your fuckin’ hands on her?” Tommy says, almost at a whisper which makes it all the more intimidating. You can see Joel’s back puff, his anger rising. But you also know Joel would never hurt his brother. Not on purpose.

But you’re scared. You’re really fucking scared in this moment because Tommy is entirely too worked up and you know whatever excuse Joel is going to say won’t help. 

“Easy,” Joel says, his voice cutting through the tense silence. 

You’re sweating. The hot summer of July in Austin getting to you. They stare at each other for a long time. Like at the kitchen table, like when you all first met. But this time, Tommy breaks, and his eyes flicker to yours, he takes a tiny step to the side so he can see you better. 

“Is this why? Is this why you’re fuckin’—jesus, fuck. ‘S this why he went to get you a tire?” you stand, you can’t really say anything, your stunned figure doesn’t move.  

“He hurt you,” Tommy breathes out, his voice almost breaking if he wasn’t so angry. You shake your head. 

You both know that the bruises aren’t from hurt. That they’re far from it. 

“He didn’t,” you reply. 

“No, no, baby. He’s—you’re—” Tommy almost looks like he can’t believe it, shaking his head, switching between you and Joel. The look you give him shuts him up, and makes him back away, until Joel unclenches his fists and relaxes his shoulder a fraction. 

“I didn’t really want to tell you like this, I was—” 

“Fucking my brother?” he bites back, interrupting you. 

That makes you a bit mad. You’re not in love with his attitude, nor his tone. It’s not like he has any right. It’s not like either of them do. 

Joel moves to speak but you do it first. 

“Don’t give me that,” you say, almost laughing, though the situation is not funny, not in the slightest. “We’re not dating, Tommy. We never were.” 

Caroline strides in at that, looking at the scene unfolding in the kitchen. She stops short of the three of you, her mouth slightly agape. You roll your eyes, fucking perfect. Let’s just bring the party in here instead. You’ll give it to the woman. She has impeccable timing.

“Needed some napkins…” she trails off, holding the empty napkin stand in her right hand up so everyone can see. “I—I can come back.”

“Did you know?” Tommy turns to her, gesturing to you and Joel. 

“Tommy,” Joel says from in front of you, a warning. Tommy ignores him. 

“Did you know?” he asks again, Caroline stares back shocked. But she does consider it, rolls the idea around in her head before speaking. 

“Them two?” Tommy nods. “Her?” 

Okay. You really don’t love that tone. You silently chastise yourself for thinking she was nice at the bar when your first instinct was that she was a bitch—because she is. You were waiting for her snarky undertones or spoiled takes to show. You knew it was coming, you just didn’t know when. 

“No, ‘f couse not.” She’s almost laughing, like it could never be possible. It hits you harder than you’ll ever admit. “She’s — you’re…young,” she says, looking at you. 

Tommy gestures to you and Joel like he’s saying, well believe it, because it’s true.

Joel moves faster than you can comprehend. He’s got a tight grip on Tommy’s arm. He probably doesn’t even have to say anything, Tommy knows what’s happening. But Joel warns him anyway—again. 

“Quit,” he growls. You’d guess this might be the point where Tommy usually backs down. But this situation is far from usual. 

“Or what?” Tommy bites back. When Joel doesn’t respond he continues. “You gonna mark me up? Leave me all black and blue?” 

Tommy doesn’t stop there, you try to move past Joel but he stops you, turns his head to you slightly, a hardened look in his eye.

“Oh, I forgot you’d probably like that, huh?” 

Joel remains frozen for a couple fleeting seconds before whipping around and pushing Tommy into the back counter. You’re rooted to your place, you don’t even care that Caroline is still in the corner, holding the fucking napkin holder in the air. 

“What’d you say?” Joel barks in Tommy’s face. 

“Look at her fuckin’ stomach, dude!” Tommy throws the words in his face, pushing him back slightly and making a vague gesture in your direction, it causes your feet to move towards the brothers before you can think. 

Joel backs off then, sneaking a tiny glance at you out of the corner of his eye, like he really is thinking about the marks he left on your waist. He had seen them this morning, ran his fingers over them too, and saw how the notches matched the curves of his fingers perfectly. But you kissed him, and told him it was okay. That it was more than okay. Maybe even whispered that you liked it between muffled groans. So when a glint of guilt flashes in his eyes it makes your heart break more than it already has. 

“She said no,” Joel says, looking back at Tommy. A tense silence follows—like you’re not sure if Joel is going to continue or Tommy is going to bite back.

“Get back to your party,” Joel growls after a while. You bite your lip.

Tommy looks at Joel with unwavering eyes. His glance turns towards the window where he can see the bustling crowd—can almost hear the laughter. Then he looks down to his hand, outstretches it, undoes his gnarly fist, and when it curls back up again, you finally bite. 

“Tommy!” you say, moving closer. But it’s too late. Joel’s figure knocks to the side and his hand instinctively grabs his face, his nose, his eye. Maybe the worst part about it all is that Joel doesn’t even look remotely surprised, or that he wants to fight back—he just stays there, a little hunched over when you yelp in shock and Tommy groans, shaking out a now bruised fist. 

“Fuck,” you almost yell, your body doesn’t know what to do between bending down to see Joel’s face and looking at Tommy—at his face—because you don’t recognize him. 

Joel almost huffs out a laugh, and to shut him up, to get him to bite his tongue, you speak again. 

“Okay. We’re done here,” you say, pushing Joel towards the entrance of the house, towards your car. 

And Caroline is there, pushing Tommy towards the couches and for the first time, you’re grateful for her. 

_

The ride back to your house is silent after a short and quick bicker about who can drive. You think Joel might want to sit in the driver's seat so you can’t see the quickly forming bruises on the left side of his face but you make a decent argument, enough to settle him in the passengers—looking out the window. 

You send Janet a quick text, asking if she can watch Sarah for a few hours. Brother emergency. Janet replies back and says the girls haven’t gotten out of the pool since you left. It makes you smile a bit, despite it all. 

When you park in your driveway, you hop out quickly, Joel following closely behind. He waits there, right behind you, when you pull out your house keys, and waits when you unlock the deadbolt and waits when you push through the door. 

“Make yourself at home,” you say, nodding towards the couches and dropping your keys in the bowl. 

You disappear into the kitchen and brace your arms on the counter, your head hanging between your shoulders. You let out a deep, ragged breath and try to control your heartbeat. 

“Fuck,” you mumble, shaking out your wrists, grabbing two advil from the bottle on your counter, a glass of water, and peas from freezer.  

Joel’s sitting on the loveseat, looking down at his hands. You don’t say anything. He doesn’t either. He just takes the water and pills from your hands and swallows it silently. You extend the peas to him, he thinks about it for a while and when you shake them again, huffing, saying—just fucking take them. He finally obliges. 

You get a good look at his cheek when he turns to set the water down on the table and you have to stop yourself from gasping. 

“Joel,” you murmur, reaching for him, bending down, he stops you, grabs your wrist, then grabs your hand. But he’s gentle. Not like Tommy. Joel’s gentle. 

“‘S fine,” he says, and winces when the peas touch his face. “‘M fine.”

You settle in between his legs, looking down at him. He’s got one hand on his face, holding the peas, and the other, wrapped around the back of your thigh. He doesn’t even want to look up at you. It breaks your heart. 

“‘M sorry,” you say quietly, his hand on your thigh trails upward. He plays with the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to take a peek at the purple that lies there. 

He doesn’t say anything, just sits there, running a gentle, ghost-like touch across the bruises. 

“He — saw it. I don’t…” you look down to your stomach. You can see the shape of his fingertips so clearly. It’s no wonder Tommy reacted how he did. “It was an accident.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake his head. He tosses the peas onto the table and pushes the cotton of your shirt up further, to where he can see all of it—all the black and blue there. 

“Are you mad?” you whisper, hesitantly, as he stares at his own hands, his own branding. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Don’t be,” you say, begging, “Please.”

“He did that cause—,” you breathe out, taking his chin in your pointer finger and thumb and getting your first good look at his cheek, “—it’s-’s my fault, I should’ve—”

“C’mon. Don’t do that,” he says, cutting you off, nipping your apology in the bud, “I should be the one who’s sorry, this is — I hurt you.” 

You shake your head. 

“You know that’s not—you know that I—” you stifle a short chuckle. 

“That you what?”

You let out a couple hot breaths, looking down at him, the purple around his eye slowly taking shape. 

“That I liked it.” 

Joel bends forward then, and you gasp. The dull scratch of his beard is the only thing keeping your eyes open. He trails his hot breath across your stomach, and leaves gentle kisses on your sides, on your bruises.

“Joel,” you mumble, and you hate how your voice sounds so breathy, maybe even desperate. You tangle your hands in his hair, grasping at the nape of his neck he pulls you down, closer, so you’re slotted in his lap, straddling him. Joel pulls back and looks at your face, brushes the fallen hair from your eyes. 

“I meant what I said,” you start, he furrows his brow, “Still—mean it.”

From the look in his eyes he knows what you’re talking about. The words you slipped into his ear last night.

‘S you, Joel — it’s-’s always been you.

“But if this is—if Tommy—” you cut yourself off, correcting your words, “If I messed it up—” 

“Sweetheart,” he says. Your heart pulls, you almost put your hand on his cheek, but you see the rising skin and settle for his shoulder. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.” 

“Are you sure?” 

He pulls you down further, so you’re flush against him. He studies your eyes and rubs at your waist, your hips. It sends a little fire down between your thighs. 

“‘M here—‘M…I’m right here,” he mumbles, and shakes his head. Like he’s telling you no to any silent thoughts of doubt that might be floating around your head. 

And then he pulls your head down to kiss you. 

It’s needy, and hot and everything you want at this moment. He’s everywhere and you can feel his growing arousal between your legs. You both needed this—you think. After everything, after—fucking—Caroline and Janet Baker and Tommy Miller. You both needed each other so bad that when you grind down onto him he lets out a little desperate groan into your mouth that spurs you on. 

Joel slips his hand under your shirt and finds the hardened peak there. He pinches it and rolls it between his fingers, it sends your hips forward and suddenly he’s sitting up, and shucking your shirt off. 

He grabs your hips and moves you against him, your most vulnerable spots grinding against each other. Giving you both blown out eyes and puffy lips and panting breath. 

“Sh–it,” you gasp when your shorts catch on your clit perfectly. 

“Pretty,” he says, grasping at your tits, at anything he can find while you grind against his length. “fuckin’—pretty like this.”

You claw at his belt and before you know it, he’s lifting you up so you’re on your knees and he’s pulling his pants past his hips. You get the memo and take your shorts off, tossing them behind you. When you sink back down onto his lap, you can feel his cock slip between your wet lips down there. 

“Fuck, Joel,” you say, gliding along his cock, soaking it. You can feel all of him now—grinding along his hardness—the girth of him fitting perfectly between your swollen lips. 

“Angel,” Joel pants out, through sloppy kisses. You look at him. He’s got a desperate look on his face. Like he couldn’t wait just like you. Not even to get upstairs to your bedroom or to get all his clothes off. Like he’s been wanting this all day. Just like you. 

You move up and reach down, feeling the wet mess you’ve both made down between your legs. You find his cock, hard and wanting, and position it at your entrance. The head sinks past your walls, enveloping it somewhere deeper and you both groan at the feeling. 

You sink down on him slowly, you’re by no means physically ready to take him. But you can’t wait any longer. He kisses you, and down to your neck, making it easier to ease yourself down onto him, and when you finally reach the end, and you’re seated fully in his lap, you both gasp. 

Your walls clench around him, eliciting a quiet groan from Joel somewhere near your neck. Your eyes roll back in your head, your forehead drops onto his shoulder. You both just sit there, waiting for the other to make a move. 

It’s kind of like a game. 

See how long you can both relish in each other’s warmth — the first person who moves loses. 

Your walls tighten again and he lets out another groan, “Jesus,” he mumbles, nipping at your neck. You’re slowly adjusting to him, relaxing around him. It makes you shudder. 

You realize he’s not really touching you. He’s got his hands on your thighs, but they’re just resting there. Not squeezing or gripping your hips like you know he so desperately wants. Maybe he’s scared, you think. From everything that’s happened today. From the consequences his touch barred. 

But you didn’t care about the consequences. You liked his touch, needed his touch, just as much as he needed something to hold him back down to earth, anchor him to you—in you. And afterall, you just want him to feel good. Feel better. 

“Touch me,” you gasp out, reaching down to his hands. 

“Am touchin’ you,” he forces out, panting near your ear. His thumb absentmindedly pushes down on the skin of your thigh a fraction harder and then eases up, like he’s saying this is the best I can do. 

“No, Joel,” you moan, rock your hips a little, moving first, moving frantically and suddenly, “touch me,” you say into his neck, reaching down to usher his hands to your hips, your waist, you. 

Joel gets it then, the silent permission. The it’s okay, and grips you harder, but not as hard as you know he would like. It’s good enough for you because he moves your hips, rocking you up and down onto his length—having enough of the senseless grinding. 

“Fuckin’ good—” Joel groans, your hands fly to his shoulders, his hair. “You feel good.” 

Your legs grow tired, he can tell. You try your best, but you’re sweaty and tired and fucked out, and when he hits a spot deeper inside you that makes you moan out, louder than before, and you almost collapse onto him. He ruts into you a little. Meeting you halfway. Fucking you deeper—maybe even a bit faster. 

Your legs ache and you feel a sheen of sweat wash over both of you. And Joel’s eye is fucked up, his cheek too. Tommy is sitting back at the house—or god knows where—with a possible broken hand, Janet baker is watching Sarah instead of you or Joel, Caroline is still back at the house, and everything is a fucking mess, but it’s so right. He feels so right. He’s — he’s right. 

You’re close then, the coarse hair on him inching you toward your climax. He knows, he can feel it from the inside. You don’t even have to say it this time, your question for his permission. He can see it already braced on your lips but he shuts you up with a kiss, a sloppy one, where he sticks his tongue into your mouth and your walls tighten around him again. 

“Yes,” he says with a moan into your mouth, “yes, yes—ah.”

“Fuck,” you say tightening around him, becoming breathless and boneless, but Joel holds you up. He always does. 

He grips you tighter, like how you know he wanted to, and you relish in the feeling. His thrusts become desperate and you brace yourself on the back of the couch so he can rut up deeper, chasing after his own orgasm. You can’t really breathe. Not when he’s everywhere. 

“Shit,” he says, rocking into you. 

Joel cums hard, holding onto you, wrapping you up in his arms as he groans somewhere near your temple. You let it spread through you, the mess of it all. He keeps you locked in his arms, even when you think he might pull away. 

He finally pulls you off him, when he says it becomes too much and you sit on his lap, playing with his curls. When you both settle from your panting you can’t help but ask.

“What are we gonna do?” you say quietly to him. 

“I dunno,” he grabs your hand and gives it a quick kiss. The bruise on his face is turning an ugly shade of purple. And the peas have gone warm, creating a small puddle on the coffee table. And your phone keeps buzzing from the entryway. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, running a hand on your thigh. 

_

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[babiebom]

Sdv Age and Height Headcanons

A/N: hi! It’s officially my birthday(the 15th) and I am now 23 :((((( I didn’t know what to post because everything is in the works right now but I wanted to post something to celebrate in a way so here!! Only base game stardew characters so no ridgeside or expanded. I do count Rasmodius/Marlon/Gunther/Morris as base game even though they’re expanded upon in mods. If anyone has questions for me (personal or about my fics or whatever) feel free to request or ask!!

Tw: none other than a mention of death in Shane’s part.

Sdv Masterlist

Sebastian

We always have to start with the loml (it tries to autocorrect loml to mommy and lonely btw)

I think he’s about 23-26 I think he has a degree in IT but I’m not sure. He has to be able to have graduated or taken classes or something.

I think he’s 5’10 at the shortest and 6’2 maybe 6’2 1/2 at the tallest.

Idk just seems tall to me because he’s lowkey intimidating.

Sam

Him and Abigail are in the same age range. I think they were born in the same year.

This means he is about 22-25 and his birthday occurs right after summer break(maybe I should do birthday headcanons?)

I think he is a very tall boy(keep in mind that I am short af so what I mean by very tall depends)

So maybe he is 5’10 at the shortest like Seb and 6’3 at the tallest.

I think him and Seb can be interchangeable when it comes to height? Both of them however come behind Harvey and Elliott but not by a lot.

Shane

The shortest bachelor for sure

I think he is very short and stocky he gives me big strong dad energy like your dads not the tallest but man is strong af.

So maybe 5’5-5’8? I mean 5’8 isnt short at all really but keep in mind I’m saying this is the tallest he can be, and the height really does make some guys seem really short when in reality they arent( also my phone tried to add king every time I typed short so there’s that)

Among the older bachelors so about 31-35?

I feel like that’s enough time to go from playing football(sorry gridball) in high school, getting a scholarship to play in college, dropping out to take care of his goddaughter when his friends die and becoming depressed.

He just seems like a 30 something year old going through the trenches :(.

Harvey

I think the oldest out of the bachelors and bachelorettes. He has gone to med school and that is I think at least like 4 years then 8 years? Unless I’m wrong lmao

So I think he would be around 35-38

He’s an older man that has spent his life helping people it’s so cute

He is on the taller side. In my mind he gives gentle giant vibes.

So 6’0 at the shortest and maybe 6’5 at the tallest. I think he towers over people but his posture is so bad that no one notices.

Alex

I think he is between the ass trio and Maru so 21-24

I think he graduated high school only a couple years prior to year one because of how passionate he is about gridball and how he thinks it’ll happen I don’t think anyone older would be like “someday I’ll go pro” they’d be crushed already

I think he is 6’0 exactly. He gives off 6 feet vibes like I can see that if he had a tinder profile it would 100 percent say “I’m 6’0 btw”

Elliott

I think he’s 34 exactly.

He seems like during his 20s he worked in the family business, he did what was told of him because he didn’t really know how to be an adult.

Then when he hit 30 he decided that he didn’t want anything to do with the family business and decided to move to Pelican Town to follow his dreams of writing.

He had enough money saved up to move and cut contact with his parents after they threatened to disown him because of him choosing to chase his dreams.

I think he is up there with Harvey as I’ve already said. I think they could be the same height range and who is taller is interchangeable.

So 6’0-6’5 really. Gives off hunk on the cover of a romance novel vibes.

Penny

I think she’s around 24-26. And I do think she has a teaching license and an education degree so this would give her enough time to have graduated and come back to Pelican Town after like a year of teaching in the city.

She seems sort of mature but immature at the same time, like immature when it comes to romance and dating, and sort of life but also she has the vibes of an introvert that was forced to mature quickly so she is good at making decisions, but at the same time her emotions are out of whack.

I think she’s a petite girl she doesn’t look very tall at all.

So I think she’s 5’2-5’5 I think for women to me 5’5 that’s the cap on people seeming short to me for women.

Abigail

Luckily I didn’t have to think about this too hard because I already answered this in one of my very first posts

I think she is 5’4 to 5’8 (sorry I’m American so 162 to 172 cm?)

She’s the first one I’m doing I’m not converting everyone but it’s like 2.5 cm per inch and 30.5 per foot

Her age is around 22-25 in year 1 I think. I know I’m my original Abigail headcanon I said oldest is 24 but I think 25 is okay.

She is amongst the youngest in her grade level during school years.

Haley

I think she’s on the younger side, like the same age range as Alex. Especially because she gives the vibes if she just graduated and hasn’t grown out of her mean girl/insecure personality

So she’s about 21-24

I think she’s similar to Abigail where she gives off like petite girl energy but also tall girl energy. Like I feel like she was a cheerleader and people always said that she could model so maybe she’s on the taller side

So maybe 5’4-5’7

Idk what it is about women that are 5’7 are specifically beautiful to me, they seem super tall but not so tall that it makes me feel like they’re a giant, their arms and legs are long idkidk.

Emily

She’s the older sister of Haley, and I think she’s pretty close to Shane and Gus so I think she’s on the older side

I also think that she could be the oldest out of all the bachelorettes.

So maybe 29-35

She seems a lot more mature than Haley, as well as understanding and confident in her life and her choices

As well as she doesn’t seem insecure or as if she’s weird at all like I think younger people are.

I think her height range is very small compared to the others like

She’s 5’5-5’6

She gives off the vibes for that like not too short not too tall just average.

Maru

In my opinion Maru is the youngest out of the bachelorettes AND bachelors because I think everyone is around the same age and she’s the younger sister of Sebastian who I think is closer to everyone else’s ages so it makes her younger.

I think she’s about 19-21

Like yes she’s working as a nurse, but it’s a small town and she’s an actual genius, I don’t think they care that she’s young. Besides Harvey handles everything on his own she mostly does paperwork and assistant stuff.

Her height has to be around like 5’2-5’4 I think she is a very small girl despite Robin and Demetrius being a little on the taller side.

Leah

I think she might be the second oldest out of the bachelorettes

Like her backstory is her working in a dead end job, she was in a longtime relationship and could’ve gotten married had she not decided to leave

So she’s about 27-31 she’s not the same age as Emily, but she does hang out with Elliott so I think she’s a little older.

I think she’s about 5’6 she makes me feel as if she’s about average in heigh because of how artistic she is I feel like anyone smaller would be very disadvantaged when carving or doing anything and so would someone taller.

Pierre

I think he would be about 5’9-5’11

Like he doesn’t seem too tall but he does give me taller side energy

Would probably tell people he’s 6 feet bc he gives me the vibes of someone who would because he wants to seem like he’s perfect.

I think he’s like 45-48

He is for sure older than Caroline especially because I believe he is into the traditional gender roles which means younger wife and older husband.

Caroline

Caroline I think is a very average woman. And not by looks because I think she actually would be quite attractive like I feel like she would be vERY beautiful.

I mean in terms of her body, she isn’t too big or too small, she didn’t have too much fat or too little her body is just average.

So I think she would be 5’4-5’6

I also think all of the moms are in a similar age range so she would be 44-47

Honestly with the way they’re designed I would’ve said 30s but that would make no sense if their kids are in the marrying age/having kids range.

Jodi

I think she is on the shorter side, she gives me short thicc mom energy. Especially because Kent is a military man.

So maybe 5’2-5’5 bc I think Kent towers over her and so does Sam. The kids did not get her genes because I do think Vincent would be quite tall when he is an adult.

I also think she would be like 43-46 she has a kid that’s an adult and a kid that’s a child so I think this age range would be more plausible for her to have had one kid young and the other one at an older age.

Kent

Is large and in charge like BIG MAN

So I think he must be 6’2-6’5

Like towers over most people and intimidates them based on size alone.

Similar age as Jodi. I think they probably were in the same grade in high school so same age 43-46

Vincent

Right now like as of year 1 would probably be tiny

Like people think he’s going to turn out like Jodi but would actually turn out to be like Kent and Sam and be huge.

So maybe like 3’10?

Kinda small for his age but not like super small?

He is probably 6 or 7 years old

So CUTEEEEEE

Evelyn

Granny Evelyn is probably TINY

Like I think she is 4’9

She’s so cute and small and was probably taller when she was younger

Also old as HELL from how she looks

So maybe from 80-95

Because she as well as George have to older than everyone on the older side.

George

Was probably on the taller side before he was wheelchair bound.

Probably 5’11 exactly like not super tall but tall enough.

Him and Evelyn have such a big height gap and it’s ADORABLE.

I think maybe 2 or 3 years older than Evelyn

83-98 so super old lmao

Pam

I think the oldest out of the parents

So maybe 49-54

She hates the fact that she’s on the older side out of the parents, especially because she isn’t really close to the others as much as she would like to be. She feels out of place among them.

I think she’s about 5’6 I can see her being VERY beautiful when she was younger, and she probably still has a nice body and face, especially if she stops drinking.

Lewis

His ass is probably in his 60s but sees himself as younger

I think 60s isn’t really old at all, like it’s still enough time to do different things.

But his glory days are over

Probably 5’9 like average height.

Clint

I think he might be younger than Emily. His crush seems very immature to me. And it makes him a little less incel-y but idk.

So maybe 27-30?

He’s definitely old enough to know not to act a fool but like it makes sense at this age that he’s an asshole after being rejected for so long y’know.

I think he’s maybe 5’9? Not too short but not too tall. Definitely thinks being taller could’ve helped his situation.

Gunther

I cannot tell anything about this man at ALL

He’s very mysterious

I think he is literally 40-59

Could literally be anywhere in that

He’s probably 5’10 too since I think he’s able to see something on the shelves, and he can see over the counter.

Gus

He’s on the older side. Idk if he has kids or anything, but he gives dad vibes

So maybe 50-59 not too old but like middle aged.

Very sweet and that’s what gives me the father vibes.

Also he doesn’t seem like a gossip but knows a lot which gives me that age range.

I think he’s either 5’6 or 6’3 nothing else. I think 5’6 is more likely though.

Demetrius

I think he is a little younger than Robin. It’s lowkey what makes him and Sebastian to be so bad at getting along.

So maybe 40-42?

Old enough to be a dad but not really old enough I guess.

I think he is VERY tall. Especially since in game it looks like he has a little height over Robin.

So 6’3 at the shortest? 6’5 at the most?

Robin

43-46

I think she had Sebastian at 20? Maybe younger but I think 20 is a good age. She was young and barely out of teenagedom that her parents were probably upset.

I think she’s a little tall but not too tall like 5’7

Very beautiful and her legs are longer than her torso but not in a tall SpongeBob vibe y’know.

Marlon

I think he’s in his 50s? So 50-60

I think he is younger than Lewis and that’s also why they can’t really get along other than Marnie.

Probably 5’10

Like tall enough that when fighting monsters he has no disadvantage but not so tall that he can’t get anything done.

Linus

He is also mysterious.

He looks old but at the same time he lives in nature and his looks probably don’t match his age.

So anywhere from 50-70?

Some 70 year olds look young and can move around and I don’t doubt that he is agile due to him being a nature man.

Leo

On the taller side of kids.

So sort of like 4’5 or almost 5’0

I think Leo is older than Jas and Vincent

But not too much older that it’s weird.

So maybe 10?

Marnie

I think she is on the older side. I don’t think that she is too old, for sure younger than Lewis

I think she’s like 50-56?

Young enough that Lewis wants to sleep with her for sure

Also young enough that she still hopes by some miracle that she has a child

I think she’s like 5’2-5’4

Rasmodius

I think he is either like super old like hundreds of years or like a mortal person old

So maybe like 60-70

Quite a bit older than Caroline and old enough that he has lived and seen some things

Like an affair and a divorce and losing everything

Probably 6’0 exactly ngl

Jas

Also on the smaller side, and will end up like 5’2 at most when she’s older

So like 3’7 first year she is a very small BABY

She’s also the same age as Vincent so 6 or 7

Willy

I think he is old but doesn’t look it

So in his 60s-70s

Has time to fish and perfect it has time to gain things and lose things

Has lived through a LOT

I think he is 5’5-5’9

A bit on the smaller side but y’know short kings exist.

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Before He Cheats | Dagger Squad Imagine

Takes place after the events of TGM

TGM Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: female pilot!reader x Dagger squad (platonic), reader x ex!oc (past romance)

Content Warnings: angst, cheating, profanity, ends with sweet revenge | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 3.8k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: One thing about cheaters, they’re always gonna get caught. Whether right when it happens or years down the road the truth always comes out. And one thing they should realize is revenge is a dish best served cold.

Note: I finally finished my first year of grad school!!! Fucking finally people. Now I can relax and get to the drawing board. I already have visions and outlines for all current requests in my inbox and be sure to check out my April/May upcoming works and my pinned works in progress for what’s coming and posted! Thank you for your patience and to the anon who requested this I hope you liked it!

Also y’all….is there like some freaky shit going on with the universe and my works 💀 cause three days after I posted Lover inspired by Taylor swift she and her man of 8 years broke up and now I’m posting a cheater imagine (this request is from end of February) when there’s stuff going about Glen 👀 this is just freaky now

—————

Friday night at the Hard Deck consisted of a full house ready to kick off the weekend with beer and music. For a few years now Y/n had been working at the bar serving drinks and singing from 8pm to 9 as a way to make extra cash while her college sweetheart Ryan, who was a Lieutenant Junior Grade, was stationed at Miramar. Having not been married despite being a couple for so long, Y/n lived off base with some roommates while her boyfriend stayed in the dorms, however, he’d come to her place after work and stayed on weekends.

It was rare to see a military couple not be the stereotypically, “we got married right after I commissioned so my partner can be my dependent and travel with me when I get orders.” No, that wasn’t Y/n and Ryan. After Ryan’s commission Y/n stayed to finish up her Master’s at the University of Miami where they met while he was sent to Japan for two years. Then he was stationed in Virginia, followed by Lemoore, and now he was at Miramar. The longest base he’d been at. Y/n had been with him in Virginia, but didn’t move to Lemoore as she had a three-year contract with her job at the University of Virginia.

Toward the end of his two years at Lemoore, Y/n called Y/n to inform her he was being stationed at North Island and the contract was to be at least five years. Wanting to be close to him after being apart for so long and filled with hope they’d finally settle after Ryan hits ten years in the Navy, Y/n transferred to the University of California San Diego as the history of music professor. She also took on a part-time job as a bartender Friday and Saturday since she was only teaching two sections that occurred on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Plus Penny allowed her to sing Friday nights as an added bonus knowing she loved music.

Y/n settled rather quickly in North Island. With her two jobs she developed a friendly social circle consisting of the UCSD staff on campus and regulars at the Hard Deck. Several of the aviators took a liking to her. They knew Ryan and would often meet up every Friday after work to catch up on the week and watch her sing. Y/n always had their rounds ready the moment they walked in, “got ya seven cold ones.”

“Already?”

“The newbie over there didn’t read the sign. Round’s on him.”

They’d cheer Y/n on when she sang, literally the loudest bunch in the whole bar. “Sing it girl!”

“Ariana ain’t got nothing on you!

Phoenix sometimes sat at the bar when she needed to get away from the guys. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“Penny gave me the night off since I got papers to grade…but If I get done early I’ll be free.”

“Please, I am in need of a girls night. Hell I’ll even come help you grade if you tell me what to do.”

“Damn, Nat, were the guys too much this week?” She placed another beer in front of the pilot, removing the empty one to discard. “This one’s on me. You look like you need it.”

“You have no idea, Y/n. All week we’ve been training for an upcoming mission and they’ve been driving me nuts.”

Ryan had his own group of friends from the base who’d come toward the later hours of the night. They’d usually take up the space at the bar, Ryan greeting Y/n with a kiss and telling her how the day was. He’d nurse a couple beers before he and Y/n would retreat to her apartment when the place closed at eleven.

They’d been together for several years, coming up on their eighth anniversary when Y/n discovered his infidelity.

And it wasn’t just a one-and-done “I was drunk and stupid, she doesn’t mean anything,” type of deal. No, this was a long going affair lasting almost a year.

What was the kicker? The other woman was a married coworker of his.

Now Y/n may have had the reputation of being the sweet, down to earth, understanding person who would never hurt a fly. But as soon as her eyes landed on Ryan, her partner of eight years, shoving his throat down another woman’s throat while grabbing her ass like it would vanish from thin air…..she saw red. Kill Bill sirens blasting in her mind. Y/n wanted to ruin both of them seeing she wasn’t the only person betrayed. The woman’s husband was also being deceived.

And what was punishment for adultery and extramarital sexual conduct? Well, according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice those in the military who are married or have affairs with married personnel are dishonorably discharged, forfeited of all pay and confined for one whole year.

Was it harsh? Maybe some would see it that way. But cheaters need to be taught a lesson.

And Y/n was gonna make sure they got it.

For a whole week Y/n put on a brave face. Accumulating photographs and screenshots of text messages, emails, and bank statements to show proof of the affair and how long it had been going on. She secretly got in touch with the husband of the Lieutenant Ryan was sleeping with, presenting him with everything. Heartbroken and angry, he agreed to remain quiet until the meeting Y/n had set up on that following Friday with their partner's supervisor.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” she exhaled, tired from everything and having to act like she was fine. “But come Friday they’ll be faced with the consequences of their actions. I’m sorry you’re having to go through this as well.”

“It’s not your fault—you’re not the one who cheated on me. You’re the one who found out and had the decency to tell me. We both got screwed,” he rubbed his face with his hands, wedding ring flashing under the light. When it caught his eyes all he could do was glare at it. “The only thing making this somewhat bearable is the fact they’re gonna be hit with the ultimate blindside.”

Y/n nodded to his ring, “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m contacting a divorce lawyer once I leave here. Hopefully the papers will be drawn up quickly so I can bring them to the meeting. Make it a double whammy. You?”

Y/n threw back the rest of her gin & tonic, letting out another tired sign, “I booked a flight to Cabo. Spring break is next week so I’m gonna take a well needed week long vacation and then figure it out from there.” Sunny skies with margaritas and radio silence seemed to be the best therapy at the moment.

For the next three days Y/n maintained a strong façade. Whenever Ryan went to kiss her she’d kept it short or moved to where his lips hit her cheek. She continued to send screenshots to her phone and delete the conversations so he wouldn’t notice. When she surprised him at work for lunch the day before the meeting it really threw both the cheaters off.

“Y/n,” his eyes went wide, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d surprise you for lunch,” she held up a bag of homemade stir fry, bidding a glance at the woman who also was white a sheet. “Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Y/n.”

“Becca.”

“Becca,” she repeated, a smile tight on her lips. While doing so she gave an obvious glance to Becca’s ring finger, finding the diamond. “Beautiful ring you’ve got there. Are you engaged?” Becca became flustered, but kept calm.

“Married.”

“Ah, your husband has a great eye for jewelry. You’re so lucky.”

Ryan was quick to cut the conversation short after the mention of Becca’s husband. Visibly uncomfortable with how Y/n was throwing their aldurty in their face despite not knowing she was aware of it.

The next day Y/n marched into their superiors office, dressed like a corporate CEO ready to fire the entire team for an unforgivable mistake, with two boxes on each arm. One filled with all the evidence of Ryan and Becca’s affair, the other containing all of Ryan’s belongings he had at Y/n’s apartment. Becca’s husband, Tim arrived a minute later with a folder of divorce papers in his hands.

They met with the supervisor first. Y/n introduced who she was and who Tim was, presenting the box of evidence and explained while the Captain shuffled through the papers. Visibly disgusted, the Captain thanked Y/n for bringing it to his attention and promised the adults he would handle the rest.

“Are you calling them in right now?” She asked.

“I was planning to this afternoon, why?”

“I’d like to be present if you don’t mind,” a hand came up to the other box she had, “These are his things and frankly, I want to see the look on his face.”

“Me too,” Tim piped up and waved the folder in his hands. “These need to be served to Becca.”

The supervisor simply shrugged and said, “if that’s what you want, fine by me.” He hit a button on his phone, “Wilkins, please inform Lieutenants Stevens and Leeds they need to report to my office immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Though her heart was racing, Y/n remained poised and took a seat against the wall of the room. Tim sat beside her, both setting their gaze on the door to await their soon to be exes.

Roughly ten minutes later, a knock on the door sounded and the Captain gruffly said, “enter.” The door opened to reveal Ryan, whose eyes went straight to his superior before scanning the room ultimately resulting in him to freeze where he stood. Turning white as a sheet, Y/n could only imagine what was running through her ex boyfriend’s mind. There was great satisfaction seeing his eyes flicker from her to Tim to the Captain.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” the older gentleman's finger pointed to the seat in front of his desk. It seemed to snap Ryan from his daydream, the man stumbling into the room and unable to form words.

When he sat the first thing he tried to say was her name to which the Captain voiced, “I didn’t say you could speak, Lieutenant. Keep quiet, we’re waiting on one more before we get started.”

Becca’s reaction was pretty much the same when she arrived two minutes later. “T-tim,” she stuttered, red as a tomato and fear etched on her face.

“Rebecca,” his tone was blank, matching his expression. Just the full name combined with the parties in the room indicated to Becca she was about to have the worst day of her life.

But hey, maybe she shouldn’t have cheated then.

And Ryan? Mans was shitting bricks where he sat. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at Becca when she sat in the chair beside him. He kept trying to plead to Y/n with his eyes but she wasn’t having it.

The Captain got right to it. He laid out all the evidence on the desk for the two to see, Becca immediately breaking into tears while Ryan tried to explain. What could he explain though? How could he defend a year long affair with a married coworker in front of her husband, longtime girlfriend and superior.

When it came time for the Captain to discuss where to go from there, Y/n excused herself by dropping the box of Ryan’s things into his lap, “Here’s all your shit,” it nearly spilled onto the floor when the action surprised him. “Don’t call, text, show up at my place or at the bar tonight otherwise I’ll call the cops. I’m done with you, Ryan. Thanks for wasting eight fucking years of my life.”

“Wait, Y/n, please—,” she cut him off when he went to stand.

“You’ve not been dismissed yet,” that got him to freeze, noticing the Captain smirking in the corner of her eye. She turned to Tim, “Thanks for your help. Good luck with everything and I hope it works in your favor.” Becca gasped, realizing what the folder in Tim’s hand represented. It spurred on another wave of tears.

“Thanks,” he gave a tired smile, “And good luck to you.” With that Y/n was out the door and Ryan was out of her life. First thing she did was go home, change, and drive to the Hard Deck. Penny immediately poured a glass for her, “long day?” Y/n accepted the beer with a nod.

“Glad it's almost over.”

“What happened?”

Y/n felt the tears welling in her eyes. The emotions she had been holding the past two weeks had finally broken free. Concern formed on Penny’s face. “Ryan was cheating on me for the past year.”

“No,” the woman gasped. Never had she thought Ryan, who always came to the bar to keep Y/n company and watch her sing and her partner of almost a decade would betray her like that. “Did you just find out today?”

“Last Monday. I went to bring him his dry cleaning he left at my place and found him making out with his married coworker.” Another gasp left Penny. “I’ve been playing actor the past two weeks to make him think everything was okay while I gathered proof. Told the woman’s husband a couple days ago and we both met with their superior today. Gave him his stuff while I was at it.”

“I’m so sorry honey,” Penny reached over to pat her hand, “he’s an asshole and you’re worth so much more than him.” Y/n softly smiled at that, mumbling a thanks. Penny served her another glass, “Take the night off okay, I can call Elise to take your shift.”

If Y/n was being honest the offer sounded like a dream. She wanted to go home and cry herself into a bucket of ice cream while watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine until she passed out. But part of her also wanted to sing her pent up feelings out. “Thanks, Penny. I’d still like to sing though if you don’t mind. I could use the release.”

“Of course,” Penny waved a hand, “Whenever you feel like it I’ll have Jose set up the mic. Your guitar’s in the back where I keep the stock.”

For the next couple hours Y/n caught up on grading some papers at a booth while she waited for 8 to roll around. By 6 most of their regulars from the base arrived, signaling the end of the work day. Nat was the first to spot Y/n, strolling over and immediately noticed by the professor's body language that something was off.

“What happened?” She sat across from her.

“What makes you think something happened?”

Nat gave a look, “first, you’re not working the bar.” Y/n shrugged, trying to be nonchalant.

“Penny gave me the night off. I’m still singing though so I thought I’d hang out for the time being—catch up grading before spring break next week.”

“The tone in your voice is off.”

Y/n scoffed even though the pilot was right, “It’s not off.”

“What’s not off?” Rooster comes up, pushing Nat aside so he could slide into the booth.

“Y/n’s acting off and won’t say why.”

“I’ve been grading papers for the last two hours,” Y/n rolled her eyes, “sixty to be exact and all are six pages each. If I sound off it’s probably because I’m tired.” Again, Nat doesn’t appear convinced.

“But you’re still gonna sing even though you probably would rather be home sleeping the day away?”

“Friday nights are what I look forward to during the week,” Y/n scribbled a grade at the top of the paper in front of her, placing it on the stack, “I get to see you guys and sing whatever I want. I wouldn’t miss this.”

“Is Ryan coming?” It was an innocent question and one to expect from her friends given they had no idea of the events that’d taken place. However it didn’t stop the sharp intake of breath Y/n did.

“No, he’s not,” she quickly added before they could ask why, “he got held up at work. His supervisor needed to discuss some things with him.”

“Uh oh,” Rooster made a face, unaware of the boiling anger surfacing in Y/n. “That can’t be good.”

“Yeah,” Y/n clicked her pen, finishing up the last paper. Nat decided not to press further on what was bothering her friend. If Y/n wanted to say then that was up to her.

So to brighten her mood Nat bought her a round and challenged Y/n to a game of pool. Y/n packed up her things, placed them behind the bar and then greeted the other daggers.

“There’s our favorite singer,” Jake announced with a smile. “We were wondering where you were.” Y/n took the cue Rooster handed her.

“Just trying to get through the semester, Hangman.”

The two women played best out of three with Y/n winning the first and final game. By the time they finished it was pushing 7:50 so Y/n informed Penny she was getting her guitar. Once retrieving the instrument she returned to the floor to see Jose had set up the mic and stool for her.

Grabbing a glass of water, Y/n took the stage and set the glass beside the stool before clearing her throat, “Hey everyone.” There were a few hoots and whistles from her friends and regulars at the bar. “How’s your night going? Good?” There were some ‘yeahs’ from the crowd, people moving to get drinks and settle close to the stage. “That’s great to hear. Just sit back, relax, and feel the music.”

Y/n played several songs, all acoustic, starting with Taylor Swift’s ‘Getaway Car’ followed by ‘Back to Black’ by Amy Winehouse. She changed the tune by playing Bill Withers ‘Ain’t No Sunshine,’ but changed ‘she’ to ‘he’ that not many caught. She played ‘Norman Fucking Rockwell,’ by Lana Del Rey and ‘Somebody That I Used To Know,’ from Gotye.

Coming up to the final five minutes of the hour, Y/n gulped the remaining bit of her water and put on a brave face. “This last song,” she paused to close her eyes, “fits the theme you’ve been hearing all night, but is a little more close to the heart. It’s dedicated to someone who’s not present in the crowd which really is a good thing because he knew what was best for him,” very quickly Y/n saw the confusion appear on her friends, some whispering to each other to ask if they knew what she was talking about. “If you can relate to this song because you’ve been on the receiving end of betrayal then my heart goes out to you for I feel your pain. If you can relate because you’ve been that one to betray someone, well, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Letting her fingers drum against the strings, the beginning chords of ‘Before He Cheats’ by Carrie Underwood echoed through the bar.

“Right now, he’s probably slow dancin’,” her voice carried into the mic, raw with emotion. “With a bleached-blond tramp and she’s probably gettin’ frisky. Right now, he’s probably buyin’ her some fruity little drink. ‘Cause she can’t shoot whisky.”

Out in the crowd Nat cursed under her breath, anger rising at the realization, “That sly bastard.”

“What?” Mickey whispered, the guys leaning in.

“Right now, he’s probably up behind her with a pool stick. Showin’ her how to shoot a como. And he doesn’t know….”

“Don’t you see?” She gestured with a hand to Y/n, “Ryan cheated on her! That’s why he’s not here. That’s why his supervisor needed to see him. It’s why she’s dedicated this song, a song about a cheater, to him!”

All the sirens ring in their heads as Y/n belts the chorus.

“I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive. Carved my name into his leather seats. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, I slashed a hole in all four tires. Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats.”

“Oh,” the word left Jake’s lips, fury in his green eyes. Y/n was his friend, and nobody hurts his friends. “Oh he’s gonna regret that.”

“You guys thinking what I’m thinking?” Rooster crossed his arms over his chest. All of them shared a look. Nat took one look at Y/n and saw how she was holding back tears.

Kill Bill sirens flooded her brain.

“Yeah, I think we are.”

Come Monday Ryan was emptying out his desk while he awaited his discharge hearing, dark circles under his eyes and in dire need of sleep. As he carried the box out to his car, it fell from his hands with horror coating his face.

Parked in the same spot his beloved red Mustang Charger was not the way he left it. The windows were shattered, tires slashed, the leather of his seats torn. His license plates were missing and the word cheater spray painted in white along the sides.

Hiding behind the building, the guys were biting back their laughter at his reaction. Bob holding the spray paint can, Mickey with the Louisville slugger and Bradley and Jake with pocket knives. Reuben had the plates behind his back and Javy kept checking the phone where he had hacked into the building's security cameras to make sure they were disconnected.

Right on time, Nat came running around the corner in her PT gear, slowing her run when she approached a visibly distraught and furious Ryan. Removing her headphones the pilot whistled, “Damn. That’s gonna be a field day to fix.”

Ryan snapped his head to her, “Do you know who did this?” His tone was accusatory and Nat couldn’t blame him. He knew she was friends with Y/n and frequented the bar every week. He wouldn’t put it past Nat being involved. “Was it you and her? Huh? Y/n had to get one last final laugh—as if she hasn’t done enough!” Nat only scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t throw accusations so loosely, Ryan. I’ve had PT all morning and Y/n left for Cabo yesterday.” There was no lie in her statement. Y/n was currently sitting at the poolside of her resort with a margarita in her hand. She’d posted on her instagram stories and let Nat know when she landed. Plus the pilot did have PT and was finishing up her run before heading to the flight line.

But she was the mastermind while the boys did the dirty work.

The truth only angered Ryan more, his face turning even more red. “Then who did this?!”

“How should I know?” Nat smirked, putting her headphones in as she started to move past him. “But maybe next time you’ll think before you cheat.”

………..

TGM tag list: @avaleineandafryingpan @caitsymichelle13 @poppyalice2001 @cutelittlepotatofry @luckyladycreator2 @americaarse @elenavampire21 @back-tooo-black @wildellaa @artemissunn @pinkpantheris

[kscheibles]

congratulations (college bf! au)

content warnings: f! reader, fluff

word count: 0.8k

dedication: to my sweet, sweet friend, mads (@toomuchracket), who earned her master’s degree today 🫰🏼

You sit on a stool at the countertop of your and Matty’s tiny NYC apartment, crowded with books, plants, and shoes you couldn’t quite give up in the move. You chuckle to yourself as you recall countless conversations with Matty as you packed up your dorm room – him “just checking again, sweetheart” that you needed a second pair of black heels. Boys never understand. You touch your steaming mug of tea gingerly, sipping it and letting the sweet, herbal taste melt on your tongue. Years ago, you would have made fun of him for having tea in the morning. Now, everything in your life is colored by him, and all the better for it. He makes the colors richer.

Matty is in the kitchen, donning a pair of grey sweatshorts and a graphic t-shirt making breakfast. You feast your eyes on the sight of him being so domestic. The past year, he’s been working while you’re still studying and completing your integrated master's program. As of a few months ago, you’re officially at the mercy of your dissertation committee to see if you’ll be awarded the degree. You’ve been feeling lost – like your life is on hold until you know the result. Stuck in a limbo between being accomplished and a total failure (not to mention broke from grad school tuition costs). Matty’s noticed a change in your disposition and adjusted well given the circumstances. He makes coffee, cleans the apartment, and plans dates like it’s his job. Right now, he’s standing in your shared kitchen, flipping pancakes with surprising agility, and doing a happy dance each time they turn out okay. 

He makes a show of bringing you your pancakes, speckled with chocolate chips and stacked uniformly on your nicest plate. Butter melts off of them and the smell of chocolate fills your nose. Matty sits beside you, his plate a shockingly different sight. On his plate are amorphous pancakes, lopsided and deformed. 

“What happened to yours?” you tease, pouring some maple syrup onto your plate and offering him the carafe. 

“Wanted you to have the pretty ones,” he says softly, accepting the syrup and kissing you on the forehead. You smile into his touch. 

You’re a few bites into your delicious pancakes when you get a call from one of your schoolmates. You look at Matty silently questioning if he’ll be mad if you take it and he waves you off. You pad into the bedroom, answering the phone calmly.

“Get your laptop out, bitch,” she states, curtly.

“What?” you ask, reeling. 

“Get your laptop out. They’ve released our dissertation grades. I want to find out the same time you do.”

You grab your laptop and bring it out to the kitchen counter, putting your phone down.

“You’re on speaker, Matty’s here so be nice,” you almost shout, simultaneously logging into your student portal.

“Matty, I’m always nice about you, she’s just being a dick,” your friend clarifies. 

“I know you too well to believe that for a second, darling,” he muses, fitting more pancakes into his mouth and washing it down with his tea, “What’s this about?”

“Are you on the page?” you ask into the phone.

“Yes, ready?” comes the staticky response, “Refresh on three.”

“Okay.”

“One…two…three!”

As the page reloads, you see the familiar crest of your school with the word ‘Congratulations’ juxtaposed over it. 

“Oh my god!!” you squeal, jumping up and down. Your friend cries excitedly on the other line.

“Babe, what on earth is going on, you haven’t told me a thing,” whines Matty to your left.

“You’re officially dating a girl with a master’s, Healy,” comes the voice from the phone. Matty's face brightens in every possible way: his eyebrows raise, mouth widens, eyes light up and squint in total contentedness. He comes up to you, hugging you tight and kissing your lips softly, unflinchingly. 

You pick up the phone, turning it off speaker and pressing it to your ear. 

“Congratulations, babe,” you muse. Matty looks at you with total adoration that’s morphing into hunger by the second. You meet his eyes as his eyebrows quirk suggestively. You smile and Matty leans down, kissing your collarbone and creeping up slowly towards your exposed neck.

“I have to go,” you nearly moan into the receiver, “drinks soon?”

“Yeah yeah whatever blow me off to be with your boyfriend,” she teases, “Love you.”

“Love you,” you make a kissing noise and click the phone off.

“Hey, I love you too,” Matty whines into your skin. You touch his hair once your hands are free.

“I know baby, I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” he meets your eyes, “Well I’m about to show you exactly how much. My perfect, smart, sweet girl,” he punctuates each word with a kiss below your ear.

He whispers “congratulations” one more time before lowering himself to his knees.

[bbangtans]

searching & finding | knj | oneshot teaser

⋆☀︎｡ Summary: Wake up, go to work, go home, cook dinner, rinse, and repeat: that was your life had come to post-grad. Once a young woman with larger-than-life aspirations, you’ve been downtrodden by the world's harsh realities. Now, after taking out all your savings and having only one large suitcase in tow, you find yourself in an idyllic seaside town to figure out what’s next for you. Luckily, the bookshop owned by the town’s beloved Kim Namjoon will always be a place of solace for you no matter how sudden the seasonal showers are.

pairing: namjoon x f!reader genre: non-idol au, fluff, romance, strangers to friends to lovers, book cafe owner genius namjoon is saurrrrr dreamy bro, reader just wants to find inner peace, yoongi is just the cool cousin there for the ride lmao, and jungkook is namjoon’s cute cafe assistant hehehehe rating/warnings: PG-15 | language, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex a/n: kim namjoon is my beacon of light through a storm. this is for anyone feeling a lil lost, sending you the warmest hug ever 🫂 and inspired by summer strike – that drama will always have a place in my heart, and what you are looking for is in the library – a hopeful, meditative read i highly rec! word count: ~10k will be posted on Sunday, April 21st at 10PM PST! <3 EDIT: post date moved to Sunday, April 27th!

“So, what brings you here to Pohang?” A tall, dimpled man approached your table as he set down the iced americano you ordered in front of you. He tucked his small serving tray under his arm as he eyed the stack of manga that you had, ready to indulge in a day of catching up on Haikyuu. You were the only customer in the establishment as it was late afternoon so that meant the kids were in school while the adults were busy at work. The soft sunlight filtered through the sheer white curtains of the front window, giving the book cafe a yellowish hue. The end of another day was near. 

You thanked him as you tried to think of an answer. “Uh… I’m visiting my cousin, Yoongi, for the summer. Taking a break from Seoul after some things happened and just figuring out… life, I guess.” 

Internally, you wanted to scream because you felt like you were oversharing.

He gave a deep, thoughtful hum to your response. “Well, I think you’ve come to the right place. This place, although small compared to Seoul, has a lot to offer. And I’m Namjoon, by the way.”

You gladly gave your name as well and Namjoon repeated it to himself as though tasting how your name felt on his lips. You couldn’t help but feel your face flush slightly, Namjoon was definitely attractive. From his towering, defined build to honey-like, sun-kissed skin and topped off with dimples that punctuated a bright smile, he was a sight to behold for sure. “Thanks, I’m looking forward to seeing more of it as I figure things out.”

“Yeah,” he excitedly responded. “And I guess I’ll be seeing more of you around. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for out here.” 

“Same here.”

Your small smile matched his.

[ofstoriesandstardust]

go gentle into that good night (j.h.s.)

a/n: as always, this is for my dearly beloved @cottagecori for letting me ramble and explain and talk through ever angsty idea i have ever had.

summary: The tale of two parties

second star to the right (and straight on 'til morning)

warnings: rumored cheating, existential crisis, miscommunication, angst, swearing, alcohol mentions

word count: 1.4k

You always forget how much cooler it is out here by the ocean. 

It’ll still be a few more months before anyone outside of seasoned surfers will brave the darkened water crashing onto the shore a ways out, but for now it’s calm and quiet as the cooler temperatures keep tourists away. 

It's something your friends have taken advantage of as you sit around the firepit, hot dogs roasting and music and laughter echoing all around you. The salt in the air is strong and you lean closer into Jake as a strong breeze runs through. 

The shiver that runs down your spine has nothing to do with the bite of the wind. 

They’re all talking about their next steps, what comes after graduation, and your stomach turns at the thought of confessing that you don’t actually know. 

The conversation you’d had with Pete earlier in the day while you’d waited for Bradley to dig through his parent’s garage for beach chairs plays on a loop, drowning out the words of your friends. 

“It’s okay not to know what you’re doing!” Pete says with a laugh. 

You worry at your bottom lip before sighing. “I just… everyone I know has these cool job offers or grad school acceptances they’re flaunting on social media, and I feel like I’m… falling behind.” You admit quietly. “Is this all I’m ever gonna be?” 

Pete’s face falls at that. “Listen to me. You are incredibly intelligent. You have a very bright future ahead of you, even if that might be hard to see that right now. There are so many people in your life who are supporting you and rooting for you. You’ll figure it out, even if it takes you a little bit longer than others.” Pete pauses. “What are Jake’s plans?” 

You shrug. “I think he’s expecting me to come with him wherever he goes.” 

Pete pulls a face, full of emotion you aren’t sure you understand. “What?” 

He hesitates. “It’s probably not my place, you both are my students-” 

“What?” You insist. 

“I just don’t want to see you confine your future for somebody else. I meant it when I said when you were one of the smartest students I have ever taught. You have the whole world at your feet. And I just… don’t want to watch you give that all up for somebody who might not be with you in five years time.” 

A call of your name startles you back into the present and you blink, realizing Bob is asking if you have any plans for after graduation. You groan, covering your face. “Please don’t ask me that.” 

Jake nudges you. “Don’t you want to go to grad school?” 

“Yes, but I also want to take some time off. I guess, I don’t know. Can we please stop asking me about this and talk about something else?”

Javy lets out a little chuckle. “Hey, worst comes to worst, you can always be a wag.” 

You blink. “A what?” 

“A wag! It’s like a slang term for wives and girlfriends of football players.” 

“So like... a trophy wife?” 

“Kind of-” 

“Machado, you say this like she’d want to be stuck with Seresin for that long.” 

Jake’s eyes narrow at Bradley. “Bradshaw-” 

“Okay, I’m tired of this, we’re moving on.” Natasha cuts the boy off with a roll of her eyes. “Who wants another drink?” 

Natasha begins to pass out more cans from the cooler as you tuck yourself further into Jake. Another shiver goes down your spine as you wrap your arms around you. 

“Are you cold?” Jake asks, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Do you want to go?” 

You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine.” 

Jake nods, eyes searching yours before pulling his arm tighter around you as he rejoins the conversation. 

And I just… don’t want to watch you give that all up for somebody who might not be with you in five years time.

-

The knock at your door is quickly followed by a call from Jake. 

His beaming face in his contact photo appears as you hear him knock again. You answer the call with a click, smiling lazily as you turn down the volume of M*A*S*H* on your screen. 

“Hello?” 

“Let me in.” Jake’s words are almost a borderline whine. 

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know, I’m doing research.” 

He huffs. “You’re just watching M*A*S*H* again, aren’t you?”

“Hey, it’s relevant to my topic.” 

He huffs again. “Please.” 

You roll your eyes and hang up the call before slipping your blanket and laptop off of you and onto the couch. You pad over the front door of your apartment, pulling it open to see Jake. 

His smile blooms at the sight of you as he stumbles forward to give you a hug. You stumble a few feet back with all his weight pressed against you. “Jesus, you’re a clingy drunk.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around him as you try to find your balance. “You’re supposed to be at Bradley’s party.” 

With the conclusion of the baseball season (and his parents out of town), Bradley had thrown a party at his parents. You’d opted out of the evening to stay home and do homework, which had ultimately ended up with your scrolling through social media and doing very little work. 

Jake hums into your shoulder and you can feel the outline of his smile. “But I wanted to see my girl.” 

“You could’ve seen me tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow me will be hungover.” 

“And drunk you thought it would be a good idea to come all the way over here?” 

“Of course I did. I love you.” 

The words Jake uses makes your breath catch in your throat. 

Not that he loves seeing you or that he loves spending time with you, but that he loves you. 

“Jake, I-” You swallow, unsure of what to say to him in response. 

You’re sure that your feelings for Jake had evolved to love, but you weren’t sure if he reciprocated them and certainly had not expected for him to say them first. 

And you certainly hadn’t expected it to be while he was drunk, whiskey scent strong on him. 

Jake, however, does not seem to sense the gravity of his words as he pushes himself off of you and wanders into your apartment. You shut the door behind him, still feeling a bit dumbfounded. 

“Hey, do you have any- Found it!” you follow him into your kitchen, where Jake is triumphantly holding a jar of Nutella. 

“Jake, you don’t even like Nutella.” The blond frowns at the jar, as if he’s trying to remember if that’s true. “Why don’t you just come sit on the couch with me?”

Jake abandons the jar without a second though, plopping himself down on the furniture. You let out a sigh, feeling all kinds of off-kilter before moving your laptop to the coffee table before slipping back underneath the blanket and holding it up for Jake. 

It takes some shifting and adjusting but he ultimately ends up sprawled out on your couch, head resting against your thigh. 

“This is a good episode.” He murmurs and you glance back up at the TV. After watching for a few minutes, you realize it’s the episode where Hawkeye and Trapper are replacing Henry’s desk. 

You let out a chuckle. “It is.” 

Jake hums against your skin. “I love you.” He whispers on a breath out, so quiet you’re sure you aren't meant to catch the words. 

It makes your heart stop again as you wonder if you’re meant to say them back. 

Not like this. Not when he won’t remember come tomorrow. 

-

The volume of the TV is soft, the laugh track quiet as Jake’s breathing slows. He’s fallen asleep against your thigh, you realize, as your fingers gently card through his hair. 

Your phone buzzes from underneath your leg and you’re careful to not disturb Jake as you adjust to pull it out. You smile softly as his features soften as you begin to scratch his scalp. 

That smile fades as you squint at the text preview on the screen in front of you. 

hey, i’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this but i think it’s better if i tell you before you hear about it from someone else

You frown, feeling your fingers slow in Jake’s hair as you quickly unlock the device, opening it to your text thread with Bradley. 

The bubble pops up a few times as the TV goes to commercial before you mute it entirely. 

When you look back at your phone, your stomach drops at what awaits you. 

there’s a rumor going around jake hooked up with another girl at the party tonight

and i think it might be true

i’m really sorry

[explorationsoftheid]

Autism: A Senior Perspective

Recently there was a post on here where someone was saying how everyone automatically hates us because of our autism. How they may act nice to our face, but trash talk us once we’re out of earshot. How everyone will abuse, even kill us, because they can’t stand our autism. I replied that they were just wrong about that. That everyone doesn’t automatically hate us.

The more I thought about it though, the more I saw this was an opportunity for those of us who are older and are autistic, to share our perspectives, our experiences. I think it might help those who are young to know what we went through, how we coped, how our lives have turned out. Most importantly that it can get better.

I’ll start:

I’m 62 years old. Looking back with what I know now it’s clear that I was definitely autistic as a child. Today, my teachers would have pressed to get me tested, but in the 1970s, well autism wasn’t on anyones radar. I doubt my parents would have gone along with that anyway. They were the, “Straighten up and do what you’re supposed to”, and “Boys don’t cry” attitude so common of their generation. I had significant trouble with social interactions, I stuttered, and fought like hell to not melt down in loud and overwhelming situations. Public school was unfortunately full of those. I liked procedure and process, there was a right way and a wrong way to do things and I would get upset if someone broke ‘the rules’. I would obsess over particular subjects. Actually I drove some of my teachers nuts. They would give me a writing assignment and I would turn in a top quality report, but I would have somehow twisted what they wanted into what I wanted to write about.

High School was very confusing. People started dating and going to dances, and all that. I kept asking, only half as a joke if I had missed a class or something because it was all so strange to me. I went off to University and really did well there. My grades weren’t good, (I had to work well over full time to afford to stay in school) but I loved academia. The order, the quiet of the library, being able to study a subject that I was totally onto because I had chosen it as my major. The people I worked with, at all of my jobs, grew to understand my ‘quirks’ and were fine with them. I only wish I hadn’t had to work so much. My middling grades meant that by the time I graduated, I was mentally exhausted, and didn’t qualify for Grad School.

So, I got a job and had to move across the country. There I met someone who I have spent the succeeding 36 years with. They understand me, accept that sometimes I’m a bit odd. Sometimes I react badly to things. Sometimes I just have to say no, and they roll with that.

So I’m now approaching retirement. In the last few years I finally figured out that autism was the reason for all the trouble I’ve had over the years. I’m not lazy, or dumb, or anything like that, I’m autistic. I’m neurodivergent, and that’s the way it is. The worst time frankly was in my childhood and my teens. Since then I’ve learned how to deal with the world. I’ve found people who like me for me, people I don’t have to mask or put on an act around. I’ve found other autistic people and am not the only one anymore. I figured out what jobs suited my talents, and limitations (Retail? No! Computer Wizard or someone who makes things work in the background? Yes!) I’m approaching retirement and honestly things are going pretty well now.

So fellow Autistic Seniors, (That is to say anyone that thinks of themselves as older than most), what was your experience living your life as an autistic person? How have things turned out for you? What advice would you give to children or teens that are struggling to cope?

[noses-in-winter]

Jack of All Clits (f/f, nsfw, sneezy lesbian porn cranked up SUPER high)

idk what it is but lately I have been INCAPABLE of writing anything that didn't involve a curvy girl sneezing, receiving sapphic head, and climaxing within a few hundred words of each other. This fic just happens to have all of that! Piper's my horny and perpetually stoned bisexual dumbass and Tourm is @virarushi's hot thicc girlboss gnome OC who sneezes about everything and has not yet had her bi awakening! Tourm is 4'5 and Piper's 5'6 so that's fun. :) Here's some art of her because she's hot! Anyway, to summarize: This is a 2.5k word fic in which Piper's going down on Tourm while she sneezes. They're roommates in grad school and Piper prides herself on being able to deliver bi awakenings.

To reiterate: this is nsfw so please do not interact if you're underage!! just block me!! thanks!! okay enjoooyyyyy ty

(Also to my awesome friends who read this in Discord, I DID add a few more horny details, just sayyin...okay anyway tyyy)

Piper was pretty sure Tourm had never climaxed at the hands (or dick, or mouth, or any combo of those things) of another sentient being. Based on what Piper had learned about her new roommate so far (mostly from asking Alexander), college was the first chance Tourm had ever really had to be away from her family’s rigid expectations and watchful eye. The poor bitch hadn’t ever even had her boob squeezed before! And there was a lotta boob-squeezing real estate there!

Tourm’s lack of preconceived expectations made Piper’s job all the easier. Not that she didn’t like a challenge, of course. But, now she could put all her focus into just getting Tourm to--

“Haah--! F-Fuuuuuuucking Void, Pipes…”

--moan, even if it was not done with near the amount of volume that Piper had anticipated. She expected Tourm’s--

“Mmmhhmm--!” 

--sounds of pleasure to be just as loud and take-charge as her sounds of laughter, anger and annoyance. As Piper had quickly figured out, Tourm was not a throw her head back and cry out with every rock of her hips kind of girl. Would have been hot if she was! But Piper also liked Tourm’s brand of quivering through the arousal, letting out steady moans that evidently came right from the g-spot. That was…actually a lot hotter than the first option. Piper didn’t have to keep an ear out for anyone drawing closer to their room. She could just keep making Tourm squirm. 

“Mmmmhfhhh, fuck. Aah--!”

And, Christ, was it fun to make her squirm.

“Mmmn…MMhmm…Fuck,” Tourm exhaled audibly in a proper English accent that could rival Solara’s. Piper didn’t tease her about it the way she normally might. She simply focused on keeping this pelvis-rolling rhythm going. Piper would have commended Tourm for figuring out the desired beat of her drum, were her tongue not occupied with the shorter coed’s labia. With Tourm’s calves draped over Piper’s shoulders and her hips angled upward, Piper went down on her in a very literal sense. Coupled with two pillows beneath the small of Tourm's back to keep her sex elevated, it made quite the memorable impact. It was Piper's go-to move when someone neeeeeded a good mouthfucking the way Tourm did. Piper prided herself on being able to get hookups to forget aaaaall about sheltered upbringings and disappointed families with the use of her nuclear-powered tongue work. 

Piper’s eyes flickered over to her phone, propped up on Tourm’s bedside table. The stopwatch read: Six minutes and fifteen seconds…sixteen…seventeen…Shit! She was running out of time. Time to pull out the big guns.

Thus far, Piper had been using the tip of her tongue to tease at Tourm’s g-spot. As Tourm evidently grew closer and closer to completion, Piper opted to switch things up a bit. She eased her tongue in farther, just enough to rub the stud of her piercing against the roof of Tourm’s cunt. The warm skin of her g-spot was raised, more than already activated with sensitivity and arousal. Judging by the new way Tourm’s thighs trembled around Piper’s ears, the move felt just as good between her legs as she had hoped. 

Tourm breathed heavily, one hand gripping the blankets beneath her while the other had her fingers tangled in Piper’s hair. She continued to groove against her roommate’s tongue in whatever way she could. “ohhh--ohhhFUUuuuuck, Pi---hi-hhh--?”

Piper wasn’t exactly sure what set Tourm off. Most likely, it was just the fact that Tourm was a gnome that simply existed. No matter the cause of the evident irritation in her nose, the first snag of Tourm’s breath sounded confused, as if she hadn’t realized this was coming. Her voice went a touch high with desperation as her nostrils flared, and then rested again, and then repeated the process to the same beat that she panted in. 

Tourm was sure gearing up for one hell of a sneeze that didn’t seem like there was going to be any attempted cover in sight. Piper couldn’t blame her. She was sure that being eaten out was the only thought and feeling and need in Tourm’s head at the moment. 

Tourm’s budding sneezes had her breath seesawing on beat with Piper’s tongue work urging her into the mattress. Finally, Tourm’s whole cunt clenched around Piper’s tongue as she sneezed at last, a cute “hh’chisshiew!” that Piper was more than used to hearing, along with the seeeeveral that always followed. The release peppered her shirt, bare thighs aaaand Piper with the results. Piper made a little noise of surprise when Tourm, fingers still wound in her hair, wound up pushing her face further against her sex. Immediately, Tourm let out a congested little moan, pelvis rising without her control in an effort to receive more and more and more of Piper’s tongue as she geared up for the next sneeze.

 Piper was happy to keep up, but withdrew from Tourm’s sex for just a moment. “Bless you. Sneeze all you need, babes, okay? Just aim somewhere that’s not me,” she teased lightheartedly.

Tourm took in another fluttery sniffle with a dazed nod, unable to offer even half a joking response. She just barely managed to pull the collar of her oversized sleep shirt over her nose with clumsy fingers as she drew closer— 

“hhih!”

 — and closer--

 “h-hehh—!”

 —to sneezing again. 

“hhhh!’chzsshiew!”

After several moments spent in limbo, Tourm’s hips bucked with yet another sneeze. By the sounds of things, this one came with a deluge of mess that was contained to her shirt. She let out a congested exhale that immediately turned into another heady snag of her breath that led to Tourm sneezing twice more. “sszsschiew--adt’chzsschiew!”

Piper opted to take this opportunity to use her thumbs to ease up the delicate hood that protected Tourm’s clit. Piper dipped her head down to greet it with her lips.  “Good giiiiiirl,” she hummed, voice shifting into a little purr as she praised Tourm’s last-minute success of covering her nose as Piper had instructed. “Bless you…”

Tourm gave a close-mouthed little sound of pleasure that could certainly be described as a whimper. Piper couldn’t tell if that was simply out of the stimulation she had been experiencing for the past (one more glance at the stopwatch) seven minutes and thirty-four seconds, or if that praise had done something hot to her. That could be figured out later. Just a little over two minutes left for Piper to push Tourm over the edge of climax. She could so goddamn do this. 

Tourm sniffled heavily with a murmur that probably had some intelligent meaning behind it, but only sounded like horny gibberish to Piper. The self-proclaimed master of orgasms didn’t ruminate on it long. Through the blond curls between Tourm’s legs, Piper took her clit fully between her lips to suck at. She wasn’t surprised by Tourm’s immediate gasp in response, or the needy buck of her pelvis. Tourm moaned through the fabric of her sleep shirt that she had less and less of a hold on as Piper rocked against her rhythmically with every sneeze…

“chissch!”

 And sneeze. 

“ischhoo!”

And a few more sneezes after that.

“iht’chisshiew! F-fucki’g shi--hihh!—kisschiew! hadt’DJISHiew!”

 Each time she geared up for a new sneeze, Tourm���s back arched up from the bed in a desperate squirm before making her buckle again in what looked like the world’s most effective ab workout. Those sneezes were rapidly starting to get away from her. 

“I’m…” Tourm trailed off, dropping her hand from its place of holding her sleep shirt. She instead used both hands to grip the blankets beneath her. Her shirt remained tented, held up only by her nose. That would be changing once she got a few more sneezes out, Piper was sure. Tourm was no longer capable of giving a fuck about a single thing other than her body’s powerful and simultaneous urges to climax and sneeze, sneeze and climax. “I’m g—gonna …hohhhh, fuuuuck….”

“Gonna what, babe?” Piper hummed during a brief pause in her stimulating efforts. “Cum? Or sneeze?”

Tourm gave one shallow nod, evidently an answer to both. Even though the bottom half of her face was covered by her sleep shirt, Piper could see that next sneeze coming from a mile away. Canted eyebrows, a shuddering inhale, the brief, sudden stillness of Tourm’s legs draped over Piper’s shoulders--

Haaaht--?!”

Oh, this was gonna be messy--

“CHIZSCCHhoo!”

Tourm sneezed. Productively, if the sudden splatter of wetness from the inside of her top gave any indication. Dampness bled through the cotton, turning the plain heather gray t-shirt into more of a slate color in several spots. Tourm snuffled and got a fistful of the shirt, drawing it up to scrub at her itchy nostrils. Piper could only see the underside of Tourm’s tits shifting, quivering along to the movement of the rest of her body, as well as the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. Piper didn’t bless her this time, simply choosing to hum as she tended to Tourm’s clit. This felt nice, apparently, judging by the shivering clench of Tourm’s thighs. Piper needed no further encouragement to keep humming and teasing and sucking until Tourm’s head pressed back into her pillow. The tip of her nose was perfectly perpendicular with the ceiling, reddened nostrils flaring as she came--

“OhhHHHHFFFffuuucuuuccckkkk….”

--hard with a shuddering moan that squeezed Piper’s ears between her thighs. Fuck yeah! She was so gonna win---

Nope. Ten minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Fuck! So close! Piper had nothing to complain about, though. That was fun. And hot. Super, actually fucking hot.

 Unable to properly tend to her clit anymore with how tightly Tourm’s thighs held her, Piper instead moved back down to Tourm’s labia. She delivered a few finalizing strokes with her tongue to Tourm’s heated sex as it pulsed rhythmically with the highs of orgasm. Tourm was quiet for several moments as she collected herself, save for heavy inhales and exhales, before she let out a little noise that sounded like a cross between a moan and a laugh once Piper’s tongue piercing massaged along her…shit, what was that part called? Her fourchette? Something French, Piper remembered, but she didn’t spend long on remembering the name. She simply continued with her tongue’s easy kneading of this evidently pleasurable (and ticklish) spot.

Tourm slowly untensed, legs remaining draped over Piper’s shoulders. Her hips continued to move lazily in response to the stimulation of her fourchette, but in a more relaxed way that suggested she was simply enjoying this little pleasure, even if she was still too sensitive to achieve orgasm again. She sniffled, palming the underside of her overstimulated nose. “Okay…Fuck. I gotta give it to you, Twintails. That…wasn’t bad,” Tourm chuckled, her accent slowly shifting back to that Cockney she always aimed for. She sniffled again, reaching for the box of Kleenex on the nightstand. She drew it closer to her, setting the box on the comforter as she plucked out several tissues. “Guess you’re--sdf! Good at more than just settin’ shit on fire and annoyin’ Moseley with me.” 

Tourm buried her nose into the tissues and delivered the first few seconds of a hardy blow before she was interrupted by another sneeze. Ope--and then two more. Piper gave Tourm’s sex one last parting little lick before easing back, wiping her mouth (and cheeks…and chin...and nose…Jesus, Tourm had been soaked) on her sleeve. She stood, easing Tourm’s legs down from their resting place on her shoulders to retrieve her phone from the nightstand.

 Tourm sniffled into her now-useless tissues, looking up at Piper with cracked, teary eyes. “I win?” she asked with a smirk that promptly collapsed into a sneezy snarl--

“adt'IZSSCHSHuh!”

-- that resulted in another heavy sneeze all down her shirt. Tourm grimaced, making a little noise of disgust as she moved to a sitting position and saw just how thoroughly peppered with sneezes both the inside and outside of her shirt were. “Eugh. Gross.” 

Piper snorted with a little smirk of her own as she started for Tourm’s dresser. “Bless y--”

“’chzsshiew!”

Piper gave an impressed whistle as she opened the top drawer, rifling through Tourm’s various shirts. She didn’t look at Tourm just yet, but it was audible in that grumbled snuffling that that sneeze hadn’t been pretty. Piper couldn’t help an amused little smile to herself as she picked out a new top for Tourm. She unfolded it, giving the garment only a brief look before shaking her head and beginning to fold it again. Way too tight for comfortable sleep. Piper did like this shirt, though. If her tits were half as impressive as Tourm’s, she would have been wearing it every other day. “Bless you, infinity. Get ‘em out, babe.” 

Tourm snorted ticklishly, knuckling at one nostril through her bundle of tissues. She blew her nose and actually managed to finish without being interrupted by a sneeze. “So?” she asked with an amused smirk in her voice. “I won, right?”

Piper rolled her eyes fondly, examining another shirt. Nope. Fabric was way too thin for a chilly April night like this. “Fiiiine. Yeah. Just by, like, twenty seconds, though. I’m sure I would have made it without those several sneezy disruptions, but I’m no sore loser.”

“Hah!” came Tourm’s little snicker. “You owe me fift--sdff! Ugh…F-fihh--hihh! I--”

Tourm sneezed behind Piper’s back, another productive sound that had her groaning again in the aftermath. Once Piper turned back around, a perfect sleep shirt in hand, Tourm was already pulling her messy top off. She removed her shirt the way a guy might, Piper noticed, pulling it up from the back. She wiped her nose with it before giving it a lazy toss to the carpet. Tourm leaned back slightly in bed, supporting herself with both hands as she sniffled. Piper, the slut she was, could do absolutely nothing but stare at the way the evidence of all of those sneezes just made Tourm’s tits shimmer in the lamplight. And then how they--

“Hhh--! hadt’DJISHiew!”

--bounced with another heady, uncovered sneeze that simply provided the same glitter-esque shine to her chest. She let out a stuffy exhale in the aftermath that sent a bolt of horny lightning down Piper’s spine. That…really had sounded like another moan, hadn’t it?

Damn it. She wanted to make her moan again. 

“Double or nothing.” 

Tourm looked at her with a cocked eyebrow, tits settling after that shivery sneeze. “Huh?” Piper didn’t even hand Tourm the new top, simply tossing it to a cluttered desk. She made her way back to Tourm’s bed and took her by the bicep with one hand lightly enough that Tourm could move away if she wasn’t into it. “Lemme try again,” she said, more of a command than a request. “Double or nothing if I can do it in eight.” 

Judging by Tourm’s expression, she very much was into this. Piper took this as a cue to ease her free hand to cup Tourm’s warm, damp tit. Tourm evidently couldn’t help a quivering little exhale, lashes fluttering as Piper thumbed her nipple. Just as Piper would expect her to, though, Tourm immediately shifted her look into one of cockiness rather than the evident need that was there.  “You’re on.”

[majorblinks]

we could call it even (twice nayeon)

(smut, idol Nayeon, car sex [oral], semi-public sex, choking, fluff, angst [kind of], 12k words)

For the record, it’s been seven years since you last saw Im Nayeon in the flesh. 

You don’t really like to think about it: about being sixteen and getting the news that your best friend in the whole world - the person who’d been by your side as long as you could remember, the person who’d been there for every single significant event in your life, who you’d been with through tears and failed tests and shitty high school relationships and nights spent at the beach in your hometown, running right into the waves the moment school let out - was heading off to chase her dream, to become wildly, unimaginably famous, which meant that you probably wouldn’t see her again for a very, very long time. 

“It might not even go anywhere,” Nayeon told you, wrapped up in a towel, the two of you huddled together on the beach, stars glimmering overhead. “I might - I mean, it’s totally possible that I’m going to fail miserably.” 

“You won’t,” you said, wistful, because you were acutely aware that Im Nayeon - gorgeous and charismatic and talented beyond belief, even then - was meant for so much more than anything she could get in your town. “There’s no chance you’re going to fail.” 

Nayeon glanced over at you, bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes glassy, and you already both knew that things would never be the same. 

So - that’s where it ends, really, or at least where it should. She left, and got famous, and you stayed, and went to college. She didn’t keep in touch, because she couldn’t, and you didn’t expect her to. You stayed and you loved her and you understood. 

It’s not like you haven’t been keeping up with her, though. 

See, she’s everywhere: magazines, social media, on the radio, playing over the speakers in every store - there’s that voice, that perfect face, that body in form-fitting gowns and slinky designer dresses, caught by paparazzi in jeans and crop tops - now she’s all grown up, and a superstar, and so breathtakingly beautiful you do a double take every time you see her. Snapshots of her on red carpets, music videos; Nayeon’s present all the time, even when she’s not with you. You’ll be okay with it, you think. Not everything’s meant to last forever. Sometimes, it’s just a moment, but it’s enough. 

Your childhood best friend, taking the world by storm; you, behind the scenes, always cheering her on. Like you said, that’s where it all should end. Call it there - give it a clean break. It’s what you both deserve. 

-

It’s all over, except you’re in grad school, and it’s winter break, and by some miracle, you’re both in your hometown at the same time.

You don’t know it right away. You’re too caught up in the stunning nostalgia of your childhood bedroom, which is so deeply saturated with Nayeon’s presence that it’s almost like she’s still there - almost like she never left. It’s the pictures, it’s the candle on your nightstand that she bought for you, graphic t-shirts in your dresser that she used to steal; being here is like cracking open a time capsule, playing a supercut of the two of you, a short film cutting off right before the end. It’s more than a little bit suffocating, this kind of history spread out right in front of you, but you’ll deal. You always have. 

You’ve been here for a day, and you’re still settling in. It’s a sleepy afternoon, chilly in mid-winter, but the sun’s out, and the sky’s clear and cloudless. You step outside with your keys in your hand, about to go for a drive - there are ways to seek out nostalgia without drowning in it; you’re thinking old streets, movie theaters, coffee shops-

You stop short, confused.

You don’t actually make the connections, at first. Look, you were never close with Nayeon’s family: for all you know, they could’ve moved away years ago; you wouldn’t be surprised. And there’s no reason for her to be here - so it’s a fleeting thought, flickering out like a light.  

Plus, the girl you see right now, loitering by the car parked in the driveway of the house across the street, has long, silky blonde hair, catching in the sun like a halo. So - there’s no chance, you’re thinking, no way: it’s some new neighbor, or, like, a criminal - well, she’s tiny, she’s unassuming, so probably not that, but still-

The girl keeps leaning in, mumbling to herself, checking the back left tire. 

“Oh, shit,” she says, suddenly, and then lands a very ill-placed kick to the tire with her shoe. 

It’s a bad choice. It must hurt, because she gasps, tips to balance herself on the car - you notice her nails, which are these ridiculous acrylics, talon-sharp and with swirly white patterns - and you can’t see her expression, but her head ducks, swivels fast, glancing from her shoe to the tire, and then-

“Shit,” she says, again, and she bursts out laughing - and that's when you realize it.

Even from all the way across the street where you can’t see her face, even though this girl is blonde and there’s zero fucking chance she should be here right now, kicking her parents’ car with one of her beat-up leather boots - it’s all in that laugh, ringing brilliantly in the air like the music she makes. It's been seven years, and it’s still her. 

“Nayeon,” you call. It’s not a question. You've never been more sure of yourself. 

She turns, and - God - it’s like everything kicks into sudden slow motion, blurs, sharpens; you see her like you're seeing her for the first time, and in an instant, it's all in perfect clarity.

There’s that face: the one across billboards, album covers, the one in every photograph you have from high school, pressed close to yours - and abruptly it’s like you can’t even breathe, looking at her. Oh, none of the pictures do her justice, but you already knew that: she’s unbelievable, and right in front of you, and so, so real.

It’s something straight out of a movie, out of some fantasy, a far-off dream. Nayeon stands, straightens, stares, stares-

Then, casual to the point of comedy, she says, “Hey.” 

And it’s all so easy: like it hasn’t been years since you two have spoken, like you might be sixteen again and preparing to corral her to your side so you two can go to the beach - so natural, like nothing has changed at all. Nayeon props a hand on her hip, gestures to the car, asks, “Does this tire look flat to you?” 

You'll play along. Hey, you always did. “Um,” you say, from the sidewalk, grinning like an idiot. “I’m not an expert or anything, but - yeah, it does look kind of fucked up, huh?” 

“Kind of,” agrees Nayeon. 

“Yeah.” 

Nayeon doesn’t even look at the tire; doesn’t take her eyes off of you for even a second. She’s so insanely, impossibly beautiful - and then her full lips crack to a smile, flashing her teeth at you, radiant enough to rival the sun. 

“Hey,” she says, again, except now her voice is thick with emotion. 

“Hey,” you echo, and wait. 

It takes one beat, then two, and then Nayeon’s running at you, her laugh carrying on the wind. Her leather boots clap on the asphalt, her blonde hair streaming behind her, giving up every act, every attempt at playing it cool. It's just like her, around you again: you'll click right back into place like it's the only thing you were ever meant to do, and-

“Oh my god,” Nayeon exhales, and then she’s launching herself right into your arms. 

For those few moments - those moments when you catch her around the waist, and her hands loop around your neck, and you hug her body close to you, half-drunk on the smell of her hair - she’s not Im Nayeon, global phenomenon; she’s your Nayeon, your best friend, your girl, yours. Yours, and she’s laughing that wonderful, infectious laugh, giddy like she knows it. 

It’s been seven years - and then Nayeon pulls back, palms slipping to cup your cheeks, and it’s like it’s been no time at all. 

“Oh my god,” she whispers again, reverent. “You…” 

Her thumbs find the sides of your face, the dimples bracketing your mouth that she used to obsess over, and her words slip away into nothing. “Me?” you ask, teasing her. “You. That hair, Nayeon-” 

“It fits me, right?” Nayeon’s tongue pokes out between her teeth, eyes sparkling. There’s something about her name on your lips: it makes her shiver, and you press your fingers into her hips, needing her closer - her chin’s tilted up at you, expression open, like she needs the exact same thing. “It’s for my new comeback. No one’s seen it yet.” 

“Saving it for me?” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You laugh out loud - the vulgarity. You can’t imagine she’s been able to be so profane in her day-to-day life, not in her line of work: she’s had to be pristine, this whole time, holding back with a camera-ready smile and a script. It’s something else, seeing her instead of her image. There’s something you’ll test later - what rules she’s ready to break, after all this time. You’ll get back to it.

Nayeon’s beaming, sunlight threading through her hair. She’s still got your face in her hands, and you’ve got your hands on her waist, and there are no boundaries like you’ve never spent any time apart. “You look so…” 

She trails off, flushing prettily. 

“I look so what?” you prompt, entertained. 

“No,” says Nayeon, accusatorily. She pats your cheek with one hand, and there’s that charming glint of her front teeth in her grin - that’s a smile people’d pay just to see, and they have. “I’m not saying it.” 

“You don’t have to,” you say, and pat her hip in retaliation. It gets another laugh from her, bright and pleased. “I know what you meant.” You grin, pull her closer, add, “Right back at you.”

You could kiss her and you don’t. Instead, you draw her into your arms, hug her body tight to yours, feel all the new, firm muscle where youthful softness used to be; everything seems so different, on the surface, and you’re both older and busier and there’s her blonde hair, her nails, how every part of her seems planned and curated, a trademark of the celebrity life - she’s in a cream-colored sweater and jeans and no makeup, and still looks permanently silver-screen perfect. It’s been years, and she’s grown into herself elegantly, beautifully. It’s been years, and she’s in your arms again, and she’s become everything she wanted to be and more. 

Nayeon buries her face in your neck, and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to keep it together - and you realize that maybe some things never change.

-

See - against all fucking odds, really - you and Nayeon are never anything more than just friends.

There’s all this pretense, at first. You’ve spent basically all your lives glued to each other’s sides, right on the edge of codependence, but it’s high school, and it’s the status quo, so you both try dating other people. It’s not that it’s totally disastrous, or anything - it’s just that none of the relationships last, and none of them are as important as the two of you together. 

“They’re so boring,” Nayeon complained to you one day, both of you in your living room, watching some movie, her feet kicked up in your lap. “Well - okay, maybe that’s not totally accurate. It’s just - every date I go on, I just think of how much more fun it would be if you were there.” 

“Yeah,” you said, pinching her knee, earning a squeal from her. “You, me, and your boy toy of the week. It’d be a laugh riot.” 

“Fuck off,” said Nayeon, nose wrinkling, staving off a smile. “No, I mean - if you were there instead of him.”

So - sure, it’s really obvious, and everyone who knows you two sees it too. It’s you, and it’s her, and no one else is ever really going to be able to compete. 

The reason why you never say it out loud is because of the only thing bigger than how you feel about her: Nayeon’s ambitions, her goals, her passion and drive. She doesn’t belong in this town, with you. She’s got stars in those gorgeous eyes, dreams of glitz and glamour and fame - and if there’s one thing you know about Im Nayeon, it’s that she knows exactly what she wants and just how to get it. You sort of always know that one day she’s going to end up leaving you behind. You know that the thought of tying her down, shackling her to the streets of this town, to you - it makes you nauseous. Holding a girl like that back would be a mortal sin: the universe would never forgive you for it. 

(You know it all the way up until the night before she leaves for good, when she kisses you at your front door, her suitcases already packed - it’s not the first time you’ve kissed her, and it certainly doesn’t feel like the last, but you know it’s all you’ve got for now. 

Don’t forget about me, alright? Nayeon said, then, tears in her eyes, tears in yours. 

Never, you said. I could never. 

You didn’t tell her you loved her, because you wanted to have something to give her when she came back, no matter how long it took.)

-

You and Nayeon never actually date in high school, but somehow - as delightfully easy as breathing, as inevitable as the stars slipping right into alignment - you two end up falling in love anyway. 

-

It’s seven years later, and your heart is hers, just the same way as it always has been. 

“No one knows I’m here,” Nayeon tells you now, from the passenger seat of your car; turns out her tire actually is flat, so now you’re chauffeuring her around, basically - not like you’re complaining. “I’ve done a pretty decent job at keeping my childhood private - the general public cares a lot more about my present than my past.” 

Plus, no one knows she’s blonde yet, you point out, not even her fans. “Because you were saving that for me,” you insist. “You wanted to get my opinion first.” 

“Shut up,” says Nayeon, then softens, goes serious. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d even be here, you know.” 

The truth is you haven’t been, for the most part. Your university’s around an hour and a half away, and you don’t visit as much as you should. But now you’re here, and she’s here, and you’ve been driving in circles for the past hour - going past your old school, the church, all the rich neighborhoods. It’d be too risky to actually go anywhere, so this is what you’ve got, and neither of you seem to mind. 

“Hey,” you tell her, flick your blinker, hook a left. “I’m always going to be here.” 

You’re not talking about the town. When you glance over at Nayeon, she’s got this tilt to her mouth, a telltale sign: she understands exactly what you mean.

-

You’re falling back into old rhythms, patterns. You go through a drive-through, and Nayeon studiously stares out the window the whole time, trying to cover her face with her hair - it’s an admirable attempt at staying incognito, considering anyone who takes a single look at those eyes and that dazzling smile is going to know exactly who she is.

“Smooth,” you say when it’s over, pulling into the parking lot. You’re splitting a giant coffee and it’s like you’re back in high school. “Were you just planning on holing up in your house the whole time you’re back? You can’t exactly go anywhere without being recognized.”

You both click your seatbelts off, and now Nayeon’s got her legs tucked to her chest, her cheek resting on the tops of her knees. “Honestly?” She waves her hand at you, glittering acrylics flashing - you tip the coffee towards her, let her sip from the straw. “I didn’t really plan any of this. I had time off for once, so I took it. It’s the holidays, so it was just…” She shrugs. “The most reasonable plan of action, I guess.” 

“You could’ve gone anywhere,” you say; you’re fishing for something, and she knows it. “Like, way more fun places than this shitty town. Los Angeles. The Bahamas. Paris.” 

“Sure.”

“So?” You set the coffee in one of the cup holders. “Why didn’t you?”

You and Nayeon were best friends for so long that you basically grew to share a brain, thoughts, opinions - there were those times you’d look at her and know exactly what she was thinking, those times where just a lift of her eyebrows or a curl to her lips could communicate whole sentences, sentiments - things with her have always been so natural, so instinctual. It should be awkward, after seven years, after her rise to fame and your lack thereof. There should be oceans between you, whole worlds. There should be stumbling, time to find footing, missteps and whatever thread always tied you two together at least frayed, if not snapped entirely. 

There should be, but there isn’t. Nayeon’s always been able to read your mind just like you can read hers, and that’s not about to stop now. 

“You don’t need me to answer that,” she says, gaze stuck on your eyes, your teeth, your throat. The two of you are just as inevitable as you always were, and she’ll prove it. “I think you already know.” 

-

Like you said, you’ve kissed Nayeon before: too many times to count. 

You don’t really have a logical explanation, for all of that. It’s just that when you were younger you two spent every waking moment together, and you two were deliberately, unusually touchy: you can’t even begin to fathom the amount of times your classmates ran into you and Nayeon in the halls, or at parties, and pointedly backed off like they thought they were interrupting something. 

(Well, they kind of were - it’d be her with a grip on your forearm, her with her legs in your lap, you with an arm slung around her shoulders, her waist, caught up in some conversation that was only comprehensible to you two. It’d have killed you to be apart, back then, even though you always knew it was coming. You knew you’d be ripped apart, eventually. You took all the time you could get.) 

The kissing - you can’t even blame that on alcohol, can’t fall back on cop-outs or excuses. It wasn’t like you two ever truly planned for it to go down like it did. Just - sometimes, you’d be looking at her, so filled with unbridled, uncontained affection, something you couldn’t even begin to put into words - you’d see her eyes, and the soft way she’d look at you, and it was like everything you’d wanted had already happened.

So that’s where it starts, really: you’d kiss her just to make a point, tilt her face towards yours, slot your lips together. If it were anyone else, they’d have freaked, called you insane; Nayeon just smiled afterwards, eyes shutting, content and understanding, the kind of knowing that comes with whatever cosmic connection that was obviously keeping you two tangled up together beyond repair - intertwined at the hands, at the heart. 

You didn’t talk about it, because she was always leaving, even while she was right there with you. You could feel it, more than anything. You’ve always sort of been running out of time. 

The point is - well, you’ve kissed her plenty of times, just to tell her how you felt without saying it out loud. Careful, and gentle, and with all the clear intention in the world. 

(The point is, it’s all these years later, and you know exactly how it feels to watch Nayeon leave. The point is that you have nothing left to lose, so-)

-

You’ve driven around so long that it’s dark outside. You’ve talked for hours, recapping the past seven years as best you can, hanging on each other’s every word: going through friends and careers and drama and conflict in excruciating, meticulous detail, and you’re still not even close to being done. It’s pouring outside, raindrops coating the windshield, and Nayeon says, abruptly, “I’m leaving in a week.” 

“Okay,” you say, and pull your car into the driveway. 

It’s not a question, and it’s the opposite of tension. You park the car and step out, and she’s right there at the passenger side, rain soaking her blonde hair, dripping down her neck, staring at you. It’s pitch-black outside, but there are those eyes: luminescent, longing personified. She’s the most famous woman in the country - you’ve seen those eyes everywhere. It’s nothing compared to having her in front of you now. 

“A week,” Nayeon says, again, shutting the car door. “That’s all we’ve got.” 

It’s not a question, so you don’t answer it. 

It all gets away from you, in a split second - time, and your mind, and all your inhibitions - you’re rounding the car, and then you’ve got your hands in her drenched hair. Your mouth’s inches from hers, and her lips are already parted - you think of deja vu, you think this has already happened, or it was already meant to - you think of crazy, impossible things, and then you kiss her. 

Nayeon melts underneath you, like succumbing to a wound - no, it’s too soft to be that, too safe - like slipping between sheets, like finding rest and relief after months on your feet - it’s a thunderstorm after a drought, an oasis, a second chance - and she’s so small when you press her against the car, as her mouth opens, spine curving, hands finding the nape of your neck. 

The energy between you is electric, a shock to a system: it’ll be an overload, if you don’t fuck her right now - it’s been too long, it’ll blow all the breakers. You need her and it’ll kill you if you don’t have her. “Nayeon,” you murmur, fingers tangling in her hair, hips trapping her to the car door-

Nayeon makes this otherworldly noise into your mouth, high and keening and needy, and for a beat you actually think you’re going to die. 

“Your house,” gasps Nayeon, panting when she pulls back, the pressure from what feels like eons wanting you and being denied finally dropping to the pavement, washing away with the rain. “Is it - please tell me no one’s home.” 

It’s the two of you, and every single star aligns, for once in seven years: call it a comet, an eclipse, something to capture and study and scrutinize. “No one’s home.” 

There’s that moonlight, gleaming overhead, breaking through the clouds. It bathes Nayeon like it’s blessing her, like it sees the extraordinary life she’s led so far and deems her deserving of it - like it looks at you, and by some million-in-one chance, by some surreal string of fate, it deems you deserving of her.

(Maybe you are, then. Maybe you always were.) 

“Okay,” says Nayeon, and her hand takes yours - for a moment, you swear she’d run away with you, leave it all behind. “Then let’s go.” 

-

Somehow, in the dark, you still know her. 

You stumble up to your bedroom and you never even make it to the light switch - the moon’s coming in through slats in your blinds, the rain’s a drum line, a soundtrack - and Nayeon’s peeling off your shirt, fumbling with her ridiculous nails at the button of your jeans. 

“Don’t strain yourself,” you say, grinning, your hands finding the hem of her top. “Your company will crucify you if you fuck up that manicure.” 

“Fuck you,” says Nayeon, and suddenly she’s laughing, a harmony to the growing storm outside. She pops the button, drags the zipper, slow like she knows she’s unraveling you in the process. “Fuck you. Fuck me.” 

The rain’s got her soaked to the skin - you get her sweater off, and then her jeans, and she’s in this scarlet-red bra, matching panties - it’s an image straight out of all your wet dreams, and you can’t help but stare, mouth agape, fingers lingering at her hips. Nayeon’s too flawless to be real; she’s smirking at you like she knows it. She’s used to be ogled, stared at, lusted after: she’s used to people wanting to rip her apart, and she’ll act like it. 

“Jesus christ,” you say, unable to tear your eyes off her body - there’s her collarbone, her tits, her smooth, toned midriff - her wet hair, her creamy thighs - it’s all there, just for you. No one else gets to see her like this, no eager fan or follower - just you. 

“Right?” says Nayeon, breathless and amused, high on how you’re looking at her. “Red really is my color.” 

Somehow the arrogance only heightens the mood, the overwhelming arousal steeping the room. Something about making a god learn manners, respect; something about taking a deity and putting her in her place. “That ego,” you consider, skating your nails up her back, stopping at the clasp of her bra.

“What about it?” 

“No, nothing.” You unhook it, grin at the shaky breath it gets from her. “I just think you might need to get it fucked out of you.” 

Nayeon’s used to being mythologized, idolized, painted so perfect that everyone arounds her considers her something more than human, more than magic: she’s got hundreds of thousands of people ready to kneel at her feet, give her the world on a silver platter. She’s been spoiled, you think, tracing her body with your fingertips. She’s been treated like carved marble, behind glass and roped off, invulnerable, untouchable. 

(But here you are, anyway: the one person on the planet who truly knew her before all that - before fame took hold of a girl and made her a legend. Before fame took the love of your life and let everyone else fall in love with her, too. Well, you’re not about to blame them; you never could.) 

Nayeon’s staring at you, a challenge in her eyes, a sharp, secret violence in her smile. 

“I don’t know about all that,” she says, “but you can try.” 

-

It’s a dare, it’s a taunt - after all this time, and you’re still the only one who can match her beat for beat, touch for touch: there’s her bra, slipping to the floor, there’s your thumb over her nipples, hardening them to points, your teeth on her chest and leaving marks. She’s on your bed, her damp hair tumbling over one shoulder, the intoxicating ring of her irises like a shot in the dark. 

“You don’t even know,” pants Nayeon, voice thick with heat, as you stroke her pussy through her panties. “You don’t even fucking know how long I’ve wanted this.” 

“Oh,” you say, and pull her underwear to the side roughly - there’s that cunt, just for you, glistening and sopping wet and so, so ready - and a smirk finds your mouth, just off the brink of cruel. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

Nayeon’s so greedy, and you get it - she’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted for years and years, without question or hesitation - and she’s reaching for your hand, your fingers, needing you inside her in any way she can get you. She’s beyond wet; you already know she’s going to ruin your sheets, she’s gonna ruin something-

“Watch it,” you snap, grabbing her wrist so hard she yelps. “If you wanna get fucked, Nayeon, you need to behave.” 

“Please,” Nayeon shoots back. The words tremble - she’s so turned on, she can’t hide it - but she’ll never back down from a fight. “I could get anybody to fuck me. I could walk out of here right now and have someone else’s dick in me in ten minutes.” 

She’s rambling. You’re gonna bruise her wrist. Her tits heave as she tries to catch her breath, and when you brush against her pussy with your other hand, she lets out this gorgeous, weakened whimper - you’ve got her, you’ll make an example of a higher power, take an idol and make her human again. 

“Sure.” Your fingers find her clit, teasing; Nayeon’s eyes snap to yours, ferocious, murderous. “But you don’t want just anybody.” Your dick throbs - there’s something primal, animalistic; if you wait any longer she’s gonna jump you, take what she wants and fuck you stupid. It’d be a threat if you didn’t want the exact same thing. “You want me.” 

“Fucking asshole,” says Nayeon, hoarsely, but then you’ve got two fingers in her, her pussy clenching around you, and there’s a waning edge in the hostility: you know her too well. She’s not into being patient, ever. There’s never been a line between you two that she hasn’t been willing to toe. “You know - you know I never wanted anyone but you.” 

That’s the blow, the bomb that’ll implode the two of you - or it would, but there’s never been a single secret between you and Nayeon, and that’s not about to change now. 

“I know,” you manage, stunned, mesmerized by her, your palm falling from her wrist to her flat stomach, your fingers sliding out of her with an obscene, slick sound. “I know.” 

“Please,” she begs. “Please fuck me.” 

It’s filthy, it’s feelings, it’s years in the making. The head of your cock is at her needy, drooling cunt, and you can see it in her eyes, in the bruising marks you left scattered across her tits, her throat. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. No one’s ever going to know her how you know her - no one’s ever even going to come close. 

Your bury your dick inside of her, and it’s like there’s an ache you’ve waited lifetimes to relieve - and then, finally, ultimately, you’ve got her perfect pussy just for you, and you relieve it. 

“God,” you hiss; Nayeon’s already whining, squirming under your hand firmly at her middle, holding her down - you think of going for her neck and you will, you think of flipping her over and watching her ass bounce back on your cock, and it’ll happen - but working your dick inside her impossibly tight pussy is more than enough for the time being; you’ve got your hands full, figuratively, literally. “This fucking pussy, Nayeon-” 

You say her name, and it wrecks her - her fingers find yours where they’re balanced on her midriff, curling around you - and her jaw is slack, expletives falling from between her pretty, pouty lips like she’s never been advised to keep up a clean image. She’s with you, and she’s nothing like she is on camera. “Fuck me,” she’s babbling, “fuck me, fuck - your cock is so - fucking big, fucking me so good-” 

She’s nothing like she is on camera, wrapped around your cock and crying out, but she’s everything that Im Nayeon has always been, otherwise: beautiful, irresistible, the most incomparable thing this town’s ever seen, and ever would. There’s all that bite to her, but she’s giving it up. You’re fucking her and for once she’s not gonna fight you on that. 

“Just like I thought,” you murmur, and your thumb skates over her clit, gets a squeal, gets several. “You were fucking made to take my cock, weren’t you?” 

You’re back in your time capsule of a room, and your veins are on fire, skin up in flames - you knew you wouldn’t be able to fuck her without dragging emotions into it, dragging your heart along as you pound Nayeon’s cunt, jerk your hips and get her screaming - you know that when you say it, you’re really saying something else, too. We were always going to end up this way, weren’t we?

“Yes,” Nayeon moans, voice ripping at the seams - it’s all the pleasure, all the anticipation, consuming, devouring. “Yes, yes, yes-”

You’re captivated by every single sound out of her mouth, every minute expression of that face, every gut-wrenching squeeze of her pussy, tight around your cock - call it a vice, the way she clamps down around you, the way you indulge in her perfect body like it’s a drug you’re using. Nayeon’s features crumple, fold: you’ve seen her onstage with all that bravado, all that confidence, showing off for a crowd - you’ve seen her hips and her tits and her tiny waist in form-fitting, skimpy outfits, practically painted to every curve - but now, she’s all for you. 

(Hey, maybe her ego’s contagious; maybe you’ve got the girl everybody wants, and you get why they all treat her like a god.)

You’ll mind all your breaking points. “Cum for me, baby,” you order, and Nayeon screams. 

There’s no air in the room, anymore, none in your lungs - it’s a fire without oxygen, nowhere to stay or go or feed on - and as she’s still shaking from her orgasm, jaw slack, you’re pulling out of her just to shoot your load all over the flawless, flat plane of her stomach, covering her skin in your cum - there’s everyone’s god, now, underneath you, slutty and sloppy and so thoroughly fucked-

“Oh, god,” Nayeon chokes out, strangled, the moment your cum soaks her. “Oh my god-” 

It’s all in the air, with the two of you: the sex, the intimacy, the history. You take her stunning face in her hands and you dip to kiss her, fully aware of how responsive she is, the very second your lips meets hers. There’s a moan, there’s the arch of her back, there’s her tongue licking desperately into your mouth - “Nayeon,” you murmur, and tip your forehead to hers. Her breath’s uneven, eyelids fluttered shut. “Nayeon.” 

Her eyes are closed, but a smile finds her lips, lights up her whole face; it’s a smile you’ve seen forever, in photos, across billboards, in all your best memories. 

“You don’t even understand what you do to me,” she says, serenely, faintly. “When you say my name like that.” 

There’s all that desire, and then the quiet honesty, and you swear a moment like this could last a lifetime. “Hey,” you say, and kiss her face - her nose, her forehead, both cheeks. You’ll take her as long as she’ll have you. “I think we’ve established by now that I know all about what I do to you.” 

-

Nayeon’s a little hypnotized by how much you came across her stomach, a little stuck on it - you get up to get her some tissues, and when you turn around, she’s got cum-covered nails in her mouth, sucking on them shamelessly. The noises she’s making are fucked, and you stare. 

“Fucking hell,” you say, dropping at her side on the bed. 

“What?” asks Nayeon sweetly, licking her bottom lip. “You’re the one who came all over me. What did you want me to do?” 

She’s trying to go for your usual banter, but it’s too soft, her smile too knowing and familiar, her body too open and comfortable. You can’t call this a one-night stand, can’t call it a fluke - she’s so safe in your bed that it looks like she’d stay there forever, if she could, you and her and these four walls. 

Nayeon’s clothes are all over your floor, and you clean up all that silky skin. Her hair’s a mess, and the moon’s still coming through your window, glossing her body, her gorgeous eyes. You watch her face, and you can read her as well as you always have: every thought, every single intent. 

(She’ll have to let this go, but she’s got a week to feel it first. It’s torture, the ticking clock, but it’s nothing the two of you haven’t had to feel already.)

“I can’t believe we haven’t done that before,” muses Nayeon, as you brush her hair off her forehead - she’ll have to take a shower, and you’ll have to join her, naturally. “Well, what’s the verdict?” 

You eye her, sensing the jab like she’s already said it. “Sorry?” 

“Fucking someone famous.” Nayeon tilts her head, smile sparkling like the stage lights she spends all her time under. “Was it everything you thought it would be?” 

“Shut up.” You grab her at the hips, and she laughs, a mess of giggles, filling the space - she’s a celebrity, she’s larger than life - you’re the only one who can ground her like this. “You’re such a fucking idiot.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah,” you say, touching your lips to the top of her head. “That’s the only reason I wanted to fuck you, Nayeon. Because you’re famous. That’s all this is, obviously. Thanks for the bragging rights.” 

The sarcasm drenches each syllable, and Nayeon laughs louder - she can read your every thought, but this one’s a lie that’s too clear to call out: you loved her long before all the superstardom, all the money, all the recognition. She knows exactly how you feel about her, and she won’t pretend otherwise. You know just how she feels about you, and it’s the most certain you’ve ever been about anything. 

“Oh,” she says coyly, and leans in to kiss you. “You’re so welcome.” 

-

The next morning, you’re taking inventory, staring at the girl in your bed and wondering how you’re going to explain this to your parents. She’s dressed by now, in one of your t-shirts and a pair of your pajama pants, drawstring pulled tight around her small waist and so oversized they cover her feet - that’s already bad enough, but then there’s her neck, pale skin marred with hickeys - okay, it’s worse. 

“How do you feel about sneaking out the window?” you ask. 

Nayeon tries to kick you and almost slides off the bed. “You think your parents will care that we had sex?” Her hair’s freshly washed, tied up and out of her face. “They’ve wanted you to marry me since the first time I came over.” 

You gape at her, but her nose crinkles up with her grin, and, well - it’s not like she’s wrong. 

True to her word, your parents are thrilled that she’s here - they’ve never really grasped the scope of exactly what a big deal Nayeon is, now, so they treat her just like they did when she was younger, spending breakfasts and family dinners with you, fitting in so smoothly it was like she’d always been there. To your parents, you think they’ll kind of always see Nayeon as that bright-eyed, eternally charming girl that stuck by your side like you’d both collapse if you had to be apart. There’s that same smile, that effervescent laugh - you can’t really fault them for it. 

“How long are you here?” your mom asks her, as she’s making breakfast, and Nayeon’s at the kitchen table, nonchalantly recounting stories of all her famous friends. “Just for the holidays?” 

“A week,” says Nayeon, glancing at you, mouth twisting ruefully. 

Your mom makes a sympathetic noise. “Oh, that’s not very long, huh.” 

Compare it to the seven years you spent apart - and no, it’s not. It’s a blip, a snag in time. In the grand scheme of things, it’d probably be nothing. 

“No,” agrees Nayeon; it’s never nothing, when it’s the two of you. Her hand finds yours under the table, and it’s everything that matters, wrapped up in an hourglass, sand slipping through your fingers. “But we’ll make it count.” 

-

“We’ll make it count?” you berate her, later, in the car as you’re driving up to the mansions on the hill, testing codes for gated communities, pointing out gaudy architecture like you’re real estate snobs - it’s an old game, a remnant from high school shenanigans. Nayeon could buy this whole neighborhood, and it’s somehow become hilarious, all these years later. “Way to tell my mom that you and I are going to be fucking nonstop the whole time you’re here-” 

“Like she didn’t already know,” says Nayeon, unapologetic, and points to her neck. She’s still in your clothes: no point in getting dressed when she can’t exactly leave the car without getting recognized, but you think she’d stay in your t-shirts all week, regardless. 

It’s an old story, between the two of you. “You’re such a slut.” 

“Yeah, and you’re directly benefiting from it, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

She says it like a proposition, and - hey, that’s an opportunity you’re never going to pass up. You’ll cash your checks, reap your benefits. You’ll pull off to the side of the road and throw the car in park, bury your hand in her hair as she leans over the console, tugs down your pants, gets her pouty lips wrapped around your dick in record time-

“What would your fans say?” you tell her, lowly, hypnotized by how she gags around you. “Seeing their angelic little idol with a cock shoved down her throat.” 

Nayeon pulls back just to laugh, raspy and shot, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth. “They’d fucking love it and you know it.”

You’re up in the hills, in the midst of construction sites, all danger and risk and safety hazards waiting to happen; you can’t get enough of how Nayeon slobbers around your cock, how she’s everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped up in one - the slickness of her tongue, the tightness of her throat, her blonde ponytail in your fist as her head bobs, fast, faster-

When you cum in Nayeon’s mouth, she chokes on it, can’t even swallow it all down. “Jesus fucking christ,” she gets out, and she’s giggling, so pleased with herself, wiping the cum dribbling from her lips, down her chin. “You - wow.” She taps the head of your cock with the ridged back of one of her nails, works her jaw like she’s trying to memorize the feeling of your dick filling her mouth. “Your cock is so sensitive.” 

“Gloating?” you ask, struggling to catch your breath. “That’s - like - that’s such a turn-off, Nayeon.”

It’d be slightly more convincing if she didn’t still have your cum staining her lips. “Liar.”

You hook your fingers in the collar of the shirt she’s wearing, tug her closer to nip at her neck - she gives this noise that’s somewhere between an affronted squeal and an aroused, needy exhale. She’s so easy, but so are you. She’s so transparent, but with this little time there’s nothing else to be. 

You’ll make it work; you’ll catch up. “Fine,” you admit, pressing down on hickeys you’ll only darken, aggravate - she’s got you wrapped around her finger, but at least it’s mutual. “I guess your narcissism is kind of sexy, or whatever.” 

“I hate your fucking guts,” says Nayeon, but she’s smiling. 

-

There’s all this ease to it, something you’ve never found with anyone else; something you don’t think you’ll ever find again. You two have always been a little obsessed with each other. 

“More than a little,” Nayeon revises, considering it; you’re three days in, walking back all your history. You can’t keep your hands off of each other, can’t keep your mouths closed, can’t keep from falling for the millionth time. “I just remember thinking that I could tell you about every embarrassing shitty thing I’d ever done, and you’d just listen, and not make fun of me for it. You knew what I could handle, you know?” 

You get what she means: teenage boys like to tease, to insult - you weren’t exempt from that, but you looked at Nayeon and you always seemed to know what lines never to cross. How to be gentle with her, when you knew she needed it. 

“You too,” you point out; Nayeon was perceptive when it counted, reading rooms, boundaries. She’d defend you to the death without hesitation. “Whenever I was with you, I knew I could trust you. Like I felt safe with you.” 

You can think of situations where you’d feel emasculated, admitting it - but there’s Nayeon with her eyes, her genuine, generous smile, sitting at your desk chair, jeans and a gauzy white top. She gets you, and you never have to explain, never have to bother with defenses. You’re with her and vulnerability spills like it’s never had a reason not to. 

“All this past tense,” pegs Nayeon, charmed more than concerned. 

“Right,” you say, realizing. “Hey, it all still applies. I feel safe with you.” 

There’s your past: teachers knowing you two were a matching set, classmates calling her your other half, texting any second you were apart, touching the moment you were together again. Shifting from jokes to sincerity so easily, ride-or-die in all senses of the phrase. Well, here’s your present: there’s the sex, now, and that’s another angle to it. You’d think it’d ruin a friendship this intense; you’d assume it’d only complicate things - you’d be wrong. There’s never been anything simpler, between you and Nayeon. 

Nayeon softens, and rises from your chair just to fit herself into your arms. There’s that smile: no one gets me like you get me, she’s saying. You’ve got only days left; you’re picking your battles. You’ll remember everything that made you two exactly who you are now. 

(Oh - it’s not like you ever really forgot. Nayeon’s got all the love and attention she could ever need, and she’s still here, with you.) 

“Flattery,” Nayeon says, finally, arching an eyebrow at you, her face too adorable for the suggestive tilt to her voice, “will get you everywhere.” 

Her palm slips to your chest, finds your heart. “I’m not even trying to flatter you,” you say, amused. “And if I was, I can do better than that.” 

“Then do better,” replies Nayeon, rapid-fire. “What, you need some incentive?” 

It’s just like the two of you: teasing, to truth, to seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off, taking sexual tension and bending it entirely to your will. There’s so many routes to intimacy - you loop your fingers in the waistband of her jeans, and this is the one you’re choosing tonight. She’s leaving, either way. You’ll fuck her like you’ve got all the time you could ever need.

-

You’re all about old habits, the two of you: your jaw drops when you get her out of her clothes, and then you laugh so hard you almost topple over. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, enamored, fascinated, “you packed lingerie for a holiday break in your hometown? So - you aren’t even pretending that your plan wasn’t to get fucked, now.” 

Nayeon sticks out her bottom lip, furrows her brows. She’s playing at irritated, but she’s too proud of herself, how your eyes are glued to her body even though the laughter - she plants her hands on her waist, and that’s only one place to look. Her lingerie’s all lacy and black and ribboned, panties so tiny you could snap them between your fingers, the cups of her bra with scalloped edges, fit to every curve like it was custom-made for her. It’s Im Nayeon, anyway: you wouldn’t be surprised if it was. 

“What can I say?” She shifts, tosses her pale curtain of hair over a slender shoulder. All those cracks about her ego - well, you won’t lie here: it’s so fucking hot. “I like to be prepared.” 

You hook your fingers in the sides of her panties, tangling your grip in what virtually amounts to nothing but flimsy strings, biting into the creamy skin of her hips. “Was this expensive?” 

“Very.” Nayeon’s dark eyes flash at you, already following where you’re going. Perks of fucking someone who basically shares half your brain. “Which means if you rip any of it in any way, you’re paying for the damage.” 

“You’d foot the bill for me,” you say, one hand already going to cup her pussy.

Nayeon’s knees tremble, glare slipping down a few watts - she attempts to recover, to double back with twice the venom. It’s a valiant effort, or it would be, if she weren’t so visibly, undeniably desperate. “Uh, the fuck I would.” 

“Hm.” She’s already soaked, and the whine you get from her when you slip a finger inside her cunt is music all her fans would bankrupt themselves just to hear. “I think I could probably find a way to convince you.” 

-

You rip the panties, because you know what lines to never cross, and which ones Nayeon’s just begging you to run right through. “See?” you say, gratified, as you make her cum, and cum, and cum. “Told you: I can be very convincing."

You think she’d probably try to put up a fight, on this one, but she’s too busy clamping down tight around your cock, her gorgeous eyes rolling back into her head, lips dropping moan after moan. She shudders when you slide out of her, your cum dripping from her pussy, and curls up right to your side - okay, so maybe there’s no fighting anything. Nayeon presses her lips to your jaw, and smiles like her own satisfaction is a secret she’s hiding. 

“I’ll let it slide,” she whispers, soft against your neck. “Only just this once. Only for you.”

-

Here’s the thing: you’re running out of time, but you always were. You could ask her to stay with you, give it all up, but you won’t; you’d never. She fills you in on every minute detail of her life, and she’s so happy - you’ve never seen her so happy. 

“Fame suits me,” says Nayeon, unashamed. “It’s exhausting and fucked and anxiety-inducing - and it’s so much fun. It’s exhilarating. It’s like - it’s a non-stop adrenaline rush.” She laughs, free, talking the dream she’s living into reality - like you’d ever be able to wrap your head around it. “I think I’m kind of good at it, too.” 

Her lips quirk at a corner, a deliberate understatement; she never needs to act humble with you. 

Nayeon doesn’t even have an agenda, with this. She loves talking about her life, all the opportunity: the events, the fans, the attention, the way she can sing anything and people will listen. You talk about your own life, your major and your mentors and the friends you’ve made, and it’s then that you realize it-

“We really did make it,” you tell her, a little wondrously. “Without each other.” 

Nayeon’s curled up to your side, on your couch. Something’s playing on the TV that she keeps laughing at, her whole face scrunching with delight. She looks at you sideways, says, “You didn’t think we would.” 

It’s not a question, and you know because now she’s playing with the cuff of your shirt, bottom lip tucked into her mouth thoughtfully. Codependent - everyone said you were. You had a lot of skeptics, looking at the two of you, people disbelieving that either of you would even survive after Nayeon left. 

“I wasn’t sure if we would, either,” she says, quietly. 

Her life’s all in lights, in every magazine, spread across all the websites; yours is the opposite, but she listens to all your stories anyway - she gets the gist. You’re happy, too. You’ve worked hard to get where you are and it’s all you could’ve ever asked for. You and Nayeon have got success in completely different places, but you’ve got it anyway: you’ve found it all on your own. 

“But we did,” says Nayeon, after a beat. There’s a joke on the television that she grins at, wrapped up in your arms. She’s leaving in a few days, a bomb waiting to go off. There’s an implication in this, something she’s not telling you but you understand anyway. “We did make it.” 

We did make it, she’s saying. We can make it again, you and me. You with me, even if we’re worlds apart. 

Your thumb skims her cheek, slips into her hair. Nayeon looks over at you, then says, “Give me your phone.” 

You twist so she can slip it out of your back pocket - she knows your passcode, knows every facet of your life down to the letter. “Nayeon?” you ask, a little puzzled, as her nails click across your screen, the top of her head bumping your chin. “Are you…” 

“Shh,” she says, mildly, then without warning, she’s on the camera, flipping the phone to take a picture of the two of you. You raise your eyebrows, intrigued; she’s falling back on her idol training, a peace sign and her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. “There,” she says, after, tapping once and then handing the phone back, a new, decisive set to her lips. “That’s my number. My real number.” 

Your gaze drops to the phone screen - there it is, her number and her name and the picture she’d taken sitting as the contact photo - and when you glance back, Nayeon’s observing your face, checking for your reaction: if you’re in this just as much as she is. If you’re serious - if you’re really going to do this. If you get what’s going to come next and if you’re ready for it. 

“I can call you on this?” you ask, slightly struck. 

Nayeon scoffs, eyes sparkling, shoulder pressed to yours. “Uh - yeah, genius, that’s kind of the point.” 

You’re smiling too wide. “So…” 

“So if you leak my phone number, my company’s gonna sue you for everything you’re worth,” Nayeon says, haughtily, rapping her knuckles against your thigh. She’s severing the sentimentality of the moment, covering it up with humor. You get it - it’s a way out, an exit route. You know what she means by this even if she’s not saying it out loud. 

“Okay,” you murmur, and kiss her temple. Nayeon’s nose scrunches up, pleased. There’s another one-liner on the show you’re watching, and this time it makes you both laugh, Nayeon hiding her giggles in the back of her hand. You’d think it’d be the point where the moment snaps shut, but instead it’s spreading, encompassing - like in a few days, she’ll be on the next flight back to the place she calls home, and you’ll still be able to feel her next to you, music in her laugh, forever wound in the curve of her smile. 

She’s leaving, already. Her number’s in your phone, her heart’s in your hands. She’s leaving, but for once, maybe it doesn’t mean that anything has to end. 

-

There are two days left, so you’re taking all the chances you can get. Sure, there’s catching up on shows, gossip; there’s her in your room, telling you things that probably break NDAs - from the outside looking in, you’d never guess that she’s at this ungodly level of fame and that you two haven’t talked in seven years. It’s all so normal, so relaxed, so cute. 

Well - okay, most of it is cute. As long as you’re overlooking all the-

“You know, if you get any louder, we’re gonna get caught.” 

Your week’s almost up, and you’ve got all your extended family filling your house, so you’ve found your escape the only way you can: in the backyard, your cock tapping against Nayeon’s pouty lips, the both of you drenched in shadow. And - true to form - she’s being a fucking menace about the blowjob that she’s barely giving you. 

Everything’s pared down to the tactile, the physical; her hair’s back in two braids that you’ll tug, she’s testing your patience. You glare down at her - her fingers wrap around your cock just to release it. “And who’s fault would that be?” 

Nayeon’s tongue darts out to lap at the head of your cock, flicking fast, eyes trained on you, watching as you struggle to keep it together, struggle not to wrap your hand in her hair and bury your dick inside her throat. She’s a tease like it’s her job - because if you think about it, it kind of is. There’s that intoxicating, cunning glint in her eye: she could do this all day.

“You’re fucking evil,” you manage, voice strained. 

Like you said, Nayeon’s always had that ego - all the fame’s only stoked the fire. “Sorry?” she murmurs, blinking pointedly up at you, breath hot on your cock, torturous. “I can leave right now, if you wanted to take care of this all by yourself.”

“Fuck you.” 

“You’re not gonna get to if you keep talking to me like that.”

Oh, that’s a threat with absolutely zero weight behind it, but you already know it. A split second after you cum in her mouth - she’s still wiping semen off her chin, cheeks puffing out trying to swallow it all - you’ve got her up against you, your hand down the front of her sweatpants, her pussy already dripping wet, getting her right to the edge of her orgasm like it’s nothing. 

“Look at you,” you say, vicious like a risk just begging to be taken; you know exactly what she wants and how to give it to her. “Now who’s being loud?” 

Nayeon tries to roll her eyes only to get caught on a climax, instead. Ah, well: it’s one way for you to call it even. 

-

“I’d kiss you,” she tells you, after, “but some guy just came in my mouth five minutes ago.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, unnecessarily - you’ll make her, instead. 

-

Your time’s almost up. She wakes up in your bed on the very last day, hickeys spanning her neck, her tits, her thighs. You run your fingers along them and wonder how the two of you are ever going to get away with this. “What’s your company going to say about this?” 

Nayeon laughs, soft in the morning, sun-soaked and ethereal. “Contrary to popular belief,” she says - she’s built her living around playing coy, showing just enough to tantalize, baring what’ll draw allure and nothing more - “it’s not my company’s job to keep me out of trouble.” 

“No?” 

“Nope.” There’s that gorgeous face, those eyes trapping stars, captivating anyone who even comes close. “It’s to keep everyone from finding out about it.” 

“Oh," you say, grinning. "Is that right?” 

“Yep.” When Nayeon kisses you, it’s like a promise she’s making, an oath she’ll make and swear on. “Believe me,” she says, and smiles just to sign on the dotted line. “I can get into all the trouble that I want.” 

-

You stay in for old times’ sake, enjoy no one’s company but each other’s - wrapped in your duvet, Nayeon half in your lap - except instead of talking about shitty classes and dramas and movies you’re planning on watching together, Nayeon’s tilting her phone towards you, letting you flick through unreleased photos for her new comeback. “Perks of fucking me,” she tells you crassly, conversationally, like that’s all it is - the fond curl of her mouth betrays her. “You get all the sneak peeks.” 

“I’m getting more than a peek,” you say, struck dumb by a series of photos of Nayeon in this sinfully tight, abominably short pink bodysuit, monogrammed with red. It’s fucked up, so you’ll say it out loud. “Jesus, this outfit.” 

Nayeon taps the screen excitedly, nails clicking; it’s beyond adorable how excited she gets about it all, about the music and the aesthetics and the clothes and the choreography - it’s one thing to see her on-screen, and it’s another entirely to see all the passion in person, all the effort. It’s times like this where you understand it all perfectly: if there’s anything in the world she was made for, it’s this. “Right? It was made from this Louis Vuitton towel just for me to wear it - insane, no?” 

“Yeah,” you say, gawking at the photos of her with those mouthwatering thighs all on display, the buttons popped at the collar. She’d said red was her color - and it is, but it’s Nayeon, and every color looks like it was created for her. “It’s fucked up.” 

“That it’s made out of a towel? I actually thought it was ingenious.” 

You take a look at her expression - there’s that mischief in her eyes, a dead giveaway. “Obviously not that,” you say, then amend, humoring her, “well, that’s cool, too. You’re right. A towel - ingenious.” 

“Totally.” 

You clip her on the hip, making Nayeon gasp, go to pinch you on the shoulder. “No,” you correct, dodging, “the fucked up thing is how hot you are.” 

Nayeon’s in one of your t-shirts and her own underwear and nothing else, her neck so marked up that anyone would think she’d gotten mauled, her blonde hair disheveled from sleep and tumbling over her shoulders. You’ve never once had a filter around each other - never had any room for embarrassment or shame, between the two of you.

“You and that flattery,” says Nayeon, her teeth gleaming in her grin. 

“Uh-huh.” You press the phone back in her hand, lift your eyebrows in a provocation. “Where’s it getting me?” 

Nayeon clicks it off, tilts her head like she’s studying you. You’ll take all your last risks before you wrap it up. “Where do you wanna go?”

-

You bring it back to the start. You end up on the beach, the two of you curled up on a towel, another one around both your shoulders, staring out at the waves: there's the moonlight overhead, everything hazy like you’re living in a dream. 

It’s freezing, so you won’t touch the water. Nayeon’s head is on your shoulder, and neither of you want to snap the silence, but you will, anyway. It’s a night for confessions - there’s the moon, listening; the waves, all salt and seafoam, thinning out to reach the sand. Nayeon whispers, like she’s afraid someone will hear her, “I’m gonna miss this.” 

Your hand is slipped under her cardigan, thumb notched under the strap of her tank top - sometimes it’s like you’d just die if you weren’t touching her. Her fist’s at the hem of your shirt, nails brushing your abdomen; you know she’s always felt the same way. 

“I know,” you say, and there’s no one else to hear it, but for once Nayeon’s right here, and it’s enough, and she doesn’t need an audience to prove it. “Me too.” 

-

There’s a presence to this kind of intimacy, how it blooms, how it settles. It’s freezing, so you’ll pull her body into yours - there’s the wind, there’s the risk of being caught, nipping at all her smooth skin - and there’s never been any sex like this, for either of you. It’s more than just feral, more than just fucking: Nayeon moans your name, lets her back arch like she has no control over her body, lets her cunt clench tight around your cock like the only thing she has control over is you. 

“Please,” she whimpers, the swirling winter air stealing the words right out from her lungs. “Please - please fuck me, please cum in me, I need to feel your cum - filling me up, wanna feel it leaking out of me - please.” 

The beach is empty, but you’d fuck her the same way in front of rooms full of people, of watchful, prying eyes. It's all meant to be secret, something between the two of you and no one else - you'll keep it as long as you have her, safe somewhere in your chest, spread between your fingers. When she falls back to flashing cameras and adoring fans, she’ll play like she’s up for grabs, but she isn’t: she’s yours, in every way. She’s yours, always.

“I’m yours,” Nayeon breathes into your neck, pliable and needy underneath you, every part of her body reaching for you as if you’re her first and only instinct. “Yours, yours.”

Please don’t forget, her eyes beg you. Please love me like this forever. 

Your fingers wrap around the pale column of her throat - you’ll steal her words this time around, make her eyelids shutter and her eyebrows draw together, panting; she’s slicker than the ocean around you, thighs salty with sweat, cum - and when you squeeze, Nayeon falls apart. 

She’ll be gone tomorrow. She’ll be gone, and there’s no telling when she’s coming back. 

“Baby,” you exhale, dipping to kiss her, shuddering as your orgasm builds like it’s something to break. You can’t even fuck her without throwing your feelings right at her feet; can’t have her neck in your hand without having her heart, too. There’s no separating the sex and the sentiment. She’s your best friend, she’s the love of your life; you’ll never have one without the other. “Always.”

Forever, you tell her, in your lips on hers, in her nails scoring welts down your back. Years in the making, and it all culminates here. I’ll love you forever. 

Nayeon’s whining and writhing and gasping for air by the time you cum inside her, and the moment you let up on her throat she’s rising to kiss you again. There’s so much, between the two of you - there’s the ocean, threatening to drown, consume; there’s fame, alive in every shimmering skyline - and then there’s her number sitting in your phone, a years-long yearning waiting to become something more. The stars are overhead, aligning. The moon’s winking at you, turning all the tides. 

You kiss her one more time, and say, “Let’s go home.” 

-

It’s the middle of the night, and you’re back in your bed together, thumbing her ribs like you’re counting lifelines, following the curve of her waist like you’re cartographing all the places you’ve already been. You’ll be back, someday. You’ll trace her bare wrist, follow the pathways of her veins right on home. 

“You know I always loved you, right?” Nayeon asks, voice soft, close. 

It’s not the time for insecurity, for mincing words, for purposeful ignorance. “Yeah.” 

“You know I still do, then.” Nayeon lifts her head, irises glinting with unshed tears, her blonde hair a mess over her forehead. Fame turned a girl into a god, and she came back to you anyway. She’ll do it again, in time. “Don’t you?” 

“Nayeon.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, heart high in your throat. “I know. I always knew. I love you, too.” 

There’s too much emotion in the room for words, and Nayeon finds your mouth in the dark like she’s been doing it her whole life. You’ve said so much already. You’ll crack open every window, let the air in; you’ll crack your chest apart, and let your love breathe. 

-

The morning comes, and it’s time for a return to form - you’ve got lives to live, both of you. Responsibilities, obligations. There’s something in the sunrise, like it’s calling her back; the limelight won’t know how to survive without Im Nayeon sparkling under it. She can’t stay. She never could. 

“It’s been fun, I guess,” says Nayeon flippantly, defaulting to stupid humor; if she doesn’t make you both laugh, then you’ll both crumble. 

“Shut up,” you say, thickly, as she takes your hand, drags you out of bed. Her eyes are glassy, her fingers laced with yours like she’s scared to let go. “You’re such a dumbass.” 

You lean in to kiss the crown of her head. There’s a twist to Nayeon’s mouth, tender - and you know that even when she does let your hand go, you’re still going to be hers and hers alone.

-

Well, you know what they say about distance, absence: it’ll all make the heart grow fonder. It’d been true, before. Maybe it can be true again. 

“What an optimistic take,” says Nayeon, dryly, and her bottom lip’s already trembling, breathing already uneven as she tries to choke back tears. You’re out on the sidewalk again, and it’s all circling back, cyclical; she’s in your arms, and you’re both right where you started. “I agree completely. Seven years wasn’t enough. I need to get away from you, stat.” 

It’s so her, making dumb jokes just so she doesn’t sob herself to pieces. Her hair’s spilling over her shoulders, golden; her stunning eyes are locked on yours, one hand pressed to the side of your neck, thumb finding your jaw. There’s a car waiting, her luggage packed up and put away; it’s gonna hurt, and you already know it. Nayeon’s shoulders are high like she’s preparing herself for some physical ache, the moment she steps away - she’s putting up her fronts, but they’re all slipping. She’s putting up a good fight and it’s already lost. 

“I love you,” you say, emotion twining up your throat, and it’s enough to cleave her façade in two. 

“Fuck,” Nayeon manages, and lifts her wrist over her mouth, expression collapsing in on itself. “I know. I love you. I’m - I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, hey-” 

You go to everything you’ve ever learned, all the ways to ground Nayeon again before she floats away: there’s her face in your hands, and you’re looking right at her, firm so she can see how serious you are. “Hey,” you say, trying to soothe her even as your own heart threatens to constrict, shut off; she’s more important. She always has been. “You don’t need to be sorry, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong. This is just - it’s just how it is. We both know that.” 

It’s been seven years: you and Nayeon, and it’s the oldest story ever told. It’s no one’s fault - not hers, for everything she’s accomplished; not yours, for not begging her to stay. 

(See, she’s got the whole world waiting with bated breath, clamoring to get a glimpse of her. She’s got her whole life at her fingertips, ready for her to reclaim her titles. You’d never, ever hold her back.)

“Yeah,” chokes out Nayeon, visibly distraught, eyes wide and watery, “but, like - it still fucking sucks.” 

It’s not the place, or the time - you’re both fracturing at every place that’s already been broken, over and over - but she says this, and it’s such a crass, blunt, stupid way to sum it all up. You can’t help it. She says it, and before you know it, you’re both dying laughing. 

Nayeon’s leaning into you, breaths caught on giggles, on sobs - laughing like it’s all okay, laughing like she’s not leaving - and her fingers are gripping your elbows, her face crinkling up, that brilliant grin even through her tears. “Nayeon,” you get out, and your adoration strikes a match through your bloodstream, forest-fire flames licking, demolishing. That’s your girl: so gorgeous no one else exists. “Nayeon.” 

She’s laughing, and free, and wonderful, and in that one stunning moment, you feel it: you know you're both going to be okay.

“Like, this is stupid.” Nayeon’s still on her tirade, her palm slapping your forearm vigorously, pitch picking up. You can’t stop smiling, can’t stop the tears building; you’ve never loved anyone more, and never will. “We’re in love and all that shit. We’ve always been in love. Why - I just - I feel like we never have enough time.” 

“Nayeon,” you say, for the third time, and finally her focus tunnels completely and only on you. 

“What?” 

“We’ll be alright,” you say, and press your lips to her forehead so she knows you mean it. “We have all the time in the world.” 

-

She kisses you, one last time. It’s a prospect, or that oath she’ll swear to keep, coming back around. She’s in your arms, chin tipped up at you, and there are doors you’ll throw wide open, hurdles to get over. It’s not going to be easy, this kind of love, this kind of distance, but you’ll make it work. You’ll love each other, and it’ll work. 

Nayeon’s smiling up at you, heavy-hearted, hopeful, eyes glittering like constellations. “Promise me something.” 

Anything, you think of saying. Anything you want and I’ll do it. “Okay.” 

“Call me.” Her hands are in yours - there’s the sun, overhead, and it can’t even hope to compete with her. “If I can’t answer, leave me voicemails. Text me. Tell me everything, even the dumb shit.” There’s that pain building in her voice, half-strangling her - you tap the inside of her wrist, mind her pulse points. You’ll listen like everyone does. “I’m going to miss so much of your life, but - make me feel like I won’t, okay? Make me feel like I’m there.” 

“I promise,” you say, softly. 

Nayeon sinks into your arms, breath catching, stumbling. You bury your face in her hair and wonder if you can memorialize a second in time like this one, weave it into your soul, lock it up in your ribcage; if there’s a way to take this feeling and make it physical - if there's a way to cup it between your palms and make it forever.

“One more,” whispers Nayeon, into your neck. “Make me one more promise.”

“Anything,” you tell her, out loud - there’s not a thing you’d ever hide from her. 

“Promise you’ll remember that I’ll come back to you.” 

It's an exhale, a pause to take a breath. It’s not even a question. Your pinky finds hers, coils them together. “I promise,” you say, and you feel her smile against your skin. 

Whatever thread’s always been between you two knots, and tightens, encased in steel - you’ll feel it even miles away, whatever’s tying her to you, tugging at your heart, linking your fingers. You’ll feel her, even if it takes years; oh, it’s Nayeon, and there’s nothing you won’t do. You’ll have faith. You’ll keep your arms open, ready for her to come running home. She’ll love you from worlds away, and you know she always will. 

(I promise, you say, and you know you’re gonna make it.)

-

Her car leaves, peeling off the asphalt, taking her back to a universe that adores her, worships her, would do anything to possess her and make her theirs. You could stand on the sidewalk forever, unmoving. You could let your own life disintegrate into nothing. You could cry, and scream, and curse out every deity you can think of, damn everything pulling you two apart down to hell.

Instead, you call her.

"Oh, shit," Nayeon says, on the other line, forgoing any greeting. "I just left three seconds ago. If you can't even handle that, this relationship is totally fucked."

You can still hear the remnants of tears in her voice, the ghost of watery laughter. A phone call can't hide a thing - not from you. "I love you."

A sigh, a huff, a put-upon irritation that's seconds from cracking wide open. "You're so clingy. How are you gonna survive on just phone sex until you see me again?"

"Nayeon," you say, grinning.

"I love you," she says, with all the unabashed endearment in the world, and just like all her songs, you swear it's a melody sweet enough to break records. "I'll see you soon."

You smile up at the open sky, and you know that you will.

-

stream IM NAYEON <3

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 5

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 2,478

A/N: I'm back!! It's been a doozy of a few weeks; lots of grad school homework, illnesses, my brother's wedding. And to top it off had a nice little health scare.

But I've been craving getting back to this story. This chapter is a little shorter but keeps the story moving! Hope you enjoy

“So what exactly did you do before you quit?” Dean asks casually as you head back to the house. 

“Data marketing.” Dean turns towards you with a raised brow. “I look at how and what people spend their money on and make recommendations for how to sell products.” It was the easiest way to explain your job. You’ve tried a few times over the years, and you almost always left people confused, including your mother, who even after seven years still didn’t understand what you did on a daily basis. 

“I’ll take your word for it.” He smirks. “Do you enjoy what you do?” You smile as the town passes outside the windshield.

“I do.” You hum. “For me it’s like a puzzle.” Your hands get animated. “You have all these pieces of information and you have to put them together to figure out how to best market a product. It’s fun. It’s like being a detective except no one dies.” This gets a hearty laugh out of Dean as you come to a stop light.

“A detective?” Dean chuckles with a wide grin as the light turns green. 

“What can I say, I love a good mystery and I have a weak stomach.” You shrug. It was true. You loved a good murder mystery but if you were watching a movie, it was usually through your fingers. Even clearly fake blood churns your stomach. 

Dean pouts out his lower lip as he rolls his head side to side, considering your response.

“Fair enough.” He concedes. 

“What about you?” You ask in return. “You’ve been a mechanic since you were sixteen?” You recall him mentioning it earlier. He nods. 

“I started part-time in high school to make some extra cash. I was saving up for an old car that I wanted to buy and figured taking a mechanic job would be a good place to learn how to fix it up once I got it.”

You look around the cab of the pickup; it doesn’t look like what you would consider a “classic” car, just a regular truck, probably a decade or so old if you had you guess. Dean catches your wandering eye. 

“This is not the car.” He scoffs, almost offended you would think that. “This is my work car. My baby is at a special garage where she’s protected from sun damage, dust, anything else that could damage her.” He begins listing off concerns on each finger on his hand that’s not currently on the steering wheel. 

“Your baby?” You gape at the mention of the presumed pet name. “I’m confused, are we still talking about a car?” His carefree laughter fills the truck.

“Yes, she’s a car, but I built her from the ground up. She’s the most important thing to me.” He speaks with admiration, and your brows fold in at the center, listening to disbelief as the man next to you speaks about a car like a normal person would a child, or a spouse. Definitely not a car.  

“Has Lisa tried renting her on Hertz yet?” You laugh along with him, but you only hear the sound of your voice echoing through the cab. You glance towards him, his smile gone.

“Shit, Dean, I’m sorry.” You sputter, throwing your hands out towards him. “I shouldn’t have said that.” You quickly backpedal, your words almost tripping over each other as you realize what you’ve said.

What a dumb thing to say. You’re literally making fun of his divorce. Smooth, Y/N. If Dean weren’t sitting next to you, you would give yourself a rightful smack to the forehead. 

“No, no, it’s okay.” He tries to assure you, but the lightness in his voice is gone. A silence settles over the truck as you squeeze your eyes shut and turn towards your window. AKA away from Dean. 

Shit. Why the hell did I say that? You mentally berate yourself again. Just as the two of you were finally getting to a good spot. 

“It was a good joke.” Dean chimes in. “Seriously, relax.” You open your eyes and peek over your shoulder to find Dean glancing between you and the road, his lips slightly turned upwards.

“Truly, it’s fine.” You huff out a deep breath. You don’t totally believe him, but at least he wasn’t holding it against you. 

“I swear I didn’t mean it like that.” Your voice drips with sincerity, your body flashing hot with embarrassment. Dean just purses his lips.

“Can I ask you something?” His tone is serious. Oh god. You just look at him and he glances from the road to you. “Are you going to be super awkward now?” 

You huff out a laugh, your heart still pounding hard in your chest as the tightness starts to dissipate. Dean chuckles next to you as the tension is left behind you like the town in the rearview mirror.

Ten minutes later, you’re back at the house, the hood of your car propped open as Dean leans inside, working on removing the corroded battery as you watch a few steps behind him, keeping your distance so as to not hover. 

“You seem to be up early today?” He shoots you a glace over his shoulder as he pops the battery out of its place. He straightens up, giving his lower back a stretch before leaning his prominent figure down and placing the ruined battery on the ground and grabbing the fresh one next to it. 

That was true. The last week or so you had been sleeping in. Especially since you weren’t getting rudely awakened by Dean anymore. But, of course the morning you had plans, this morning, your car decided to crap out. 

“I was actually planning to hike Mount Carmel.” You had been researching some of the local hiking trails around, wanting to get out into nature and get in a workout, and Mount Carmel seemed easy enough that you didn’t have to worry about an injury since you’d be going alone. And a lot of the trail reviews mentioned that the area was safe for solo hiking. You weren’t trying to become a cold case on your vacation. 

“Figured it could be a nice way to start the morning.” You shrug as Dean’s gaze catches yours as he reaches into his toolbox for something.

“Maybe do some meditating once I got to the top. But like everything else with this trip, nothing has gone according to plan.” You take a deep breath and your hands slap against your thighs. 

“Meditating?” His whole face scrunches as he rests the new car battery on the edge of the car as he turns to face you. 

“Yes, meditating.” You challenge back. “It’s good for you.” He raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Isn’t meditating just breathing?” He asks with a slight shake of his head, like he’s trying to work it out for himself.

“Technically yes, but it’s about focusing on your body. Quieting your mind and honing in on the world around you.” Dean rolls his eyes with a scoff and he turns back towards the car.

“You sound like Lisa. She was into yoga and all the crap.” His voice is partially obscured as he leans in towards the engine. 

You fold your lips in, wondering if you should say what just popped into your mind. 

Fuck it. You seemed to be getting along. And it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve a few jabs after the nonsense he had pulled with you the first half of your vacation. 

“It’s really good for anger, you know.” Dean shoots you a look over his shoulder, and you bite down a smirk at his gaze. 

Well god damn if the sun wasn’t hitting him just right as he stared you down. Not to mention the view you were getting as he leaned over the car. 

You had to wonder exactly what went wrong in their marriage for Lisa to leave a man this good-looking. It’s not like people didn’t marry just for looks alone sometimes. But obviously there were some deep-seeded issues considering how bitter their divorce seemed to be, 

“I’m not angry,” He huffs, his bottom lip pouting out. 

“Suurrreee,” You breathe out under your breath as you cross your arms and lean against a nearby tree as he continues to work.

A few minutes later, Dean wipes his hands on his jeans and shuts the hood of your car.

“All set.” He turns towards you with a grin, and you can’t help but match it as you push off the tree and straighten up.

“So how much do I owe you?” You rock back on your heels, your hands resting on your lower back. You were hoping it wasn’t going to be crazy expensive. You really knew nothing when it came to cars, just that you were always left with a nice dent in your credit card bill whenever you had to take it into a shop.

“It’s on the house.” He smiles at you easily. 

“Dean.” Your shoulders drop at his offer. “C’mon, you don’t need to do that.” You start to argue, then a sour thought hits you and you frown. 

“Are you just doing this because you feel bad that I don’t have a job?” Pity. That’s why he was helping you. And that's why you didn't want to tell him about your situation in the first place.

Dean’s smile doesn’t falter as he shakes his head.

“No this is not because I feel bad for you. Consider this my gesture of a fresh start.” He holds his hand out to you, and you can’t stop as your cheeks dimple with your smile as you take it. 

His cool fingers wrap around yours and you tighten your grip on him, not wanting to think you were some fragile little girl who didn’t know how to shake a hand. He just raises his eyebrows before you drop your hold. 

“Pleasure doing business with ya.” You want to wink at him like he did you at the shop, but like you said, no one in real life besides Dean apparently, can actually pull off a wink, so instead you just continue to smile bright.

Dean wants to laugh when you grip his hand extra tight, like you’re trying to prove something, but he just returns your smile instead. 

“By the way,” he starts as he drops your hand, leaning against your bumper as he crosses his arms and ankles. His brows furrow as your tongue briefly peeks out onto your lips, and his own mouth pops open, before he realizes he was in the middle of a sentence. “This time of year Mount Carmel is probably pretty icy. Temps have been below freezing since the month started. If you’re going to hike, you should probably go with someone.”

You roll your eyes with a huff and cross your arms.

“Yeah me and all my friends can go.” You scoff with raised eyebrows. Dean just returns the gesture as he rolls his own eyes. 

“Are you sure you didn’t get fired for being a smart ass?” He shoots back, and your mouth drops open. 

“Huh.” You nod, your tongue pressed against your inner cheek giving you a weird lump that Dean grimaces at.

“Guess I deserve that for the Lisa joke earlier.” You conceded. Dean just gives you a nod to the side, but peppered with a smile, so you know, no hard feelings.

“Guess you did.” Dean smirks as he pushes off the car. 

“By the way, there’s some local hiking groups, maybe you can give them a look to see if they’re doing anything. But if you’re still hellbent on taking a hike, I’m off Thursday, and I’ve hiked it a few times if you still can’t find anyone.” 

The words fall out of his mouth before he even realizes what he was saying. 

What the fuck. 

He had not intended to offer to be your hiking buddy. Hell, he hadn’t hiked those trails since the early years of his marriage, back when he would do anything to make Lisa happy, even if he thought it was stupid. Who wanted to waste their day going for an hours-long walk? Apparently you and his soon-to-be ex wife. 

Your eyebrows raise.

“Seriously?” You ask with skepticism. He doesn’t blame you. 

No going back now.

“Uh, yeah if you want. I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything.” He gives a laugh, but cringes internally. 

Who the fuck says that? Really, what the fuck was he doing. 

You narrow your eyes.

“Sounds like something a serial killer would say.” Your face is serious, but your eyes give you away. A laugh escapes before he can stop it. He definitely wasn’t wrong about you being a smartass. And he likes that he can seemingly read you, whether you mean to show your emotions or not. He wasn’t sure. Yet. 

“Fair enough.” He claps his hands together. “But I gotta be gettin’ back to the shop.” He points his thumb over his shoulder, like his motley crew were waiting behind him. “Someone’s gotta keep those boys in line.

You laugh with raised eyebrows. For some reason, it feels more like you’re laughing at him, and not with him. He feels heat rush up his neck. 

Truly. What the fuck is wrong with me right now. 

“Uhh, but if you have any more car issues, feel free to give me a call. Like you know, I’m right down the street.” He starts to turn, but your voice stops him.

“And how am I supposed to call you if I don’t have your number?” He turns back to you, happy to see you still smiling. Something about it warms the cool morning.

“Right.” He reaches into his back pocket and whips out his phone. “What’s your number?” He pops open a blank text message. When you don’t respond, he looks up. Your smile has turned cheeky, and you look like you have something smart on the tip of your tongue. He decides to beat you to it.

“If you give me a fake number, I kinda know where you live.” He gives you a pointed look before your whole body shakes with the most carefree laugh he’s heard so far. 

“Once more, sounds like something a serial killer would say.” You continue through your giggles. 

“Just give me the damn number.” He huffs and you relent, giving him your number as he types it into the phone.

Dean Winchester. Is all the message says when he sends it, and a moment later you pull your own phone from your pocket, holding up the notification to him triumphantly. 

“I’ll see ya later.” He gives you a low wave before he hops into his truck and heads back to the auto shop for the day.

Keep Reading

NEXT TIME:

“I can’t believe you consider this fun,” he huffs behind you, watching every step he takes. 

“No one forced you to come.” You remind him with an easy breath. Not that you’re trying to taunt him while he seemed to be struggling as he staggered behind you, but it was just another reminder that he truly seemed to hate hiking. 

“You know you could walk on a flat road. I mean, really, what the hells the difference? There’s plenty of trees on the road by my place.”

[Grumpy Dean is back ^-^]

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[dailyreverie]

I’m so weak for hugs from behind and Steve 🥺

Thank you so much for your request, Nova! Here are some Steve hugs for you 💖

Prompt list: Small but comforting gestures #2. hugs from behind

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

Word count: 680 words

Steve had disappeared from your side soon after the ceremony ended, going after a few teachers that he wanted to greet for old times' sake. The sun was shining over Hawkins and the school seemed brighter than ever, the happiness of the just-graduated class rubbing over to you too. The group of once prepubescent kids were all laughter and smiles with their gowns and caps, snapping pictures together and their families; you were just watching them, an easy smile on your lips from the sight before you.

It was then that a couple of sneaky arms almost caught you by surprise; almost, because there was only one person whose arms were made to mold so perfectly around your shoulders. “Hey, gorgeous” A comfortable hug and a soft kiss against your temple greeted you, even though it was definitely not the first time he had saw you that day.

“Hi, handsome.” You welcomed him holding unto his arms. Steve lingered there for a second, with his weight against your back as he joined you, creating a private moment for you two in the middle of the crowded place.

You silently observed the gang of graduates laughing together, but Steve had been weirdly quiet all morning, not to mention touchy, too, always looking for your hand or your waist to hold. You knew him too well, much to his own dismay. “You good?” You had to ask even though you knew he would say yes, lying to your face after you had seen him holding back tears more than once during the ceremony.

Steve leaned further into you with a big sigh, his head almost resting against yours. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just…” With another sigh that held way too much emotion, he finally confessed: “They’re all grown up.”

Words couldn’t do anything right then for him, so you just held his arms tighter, turning your head to kiss his forearm with soft lips. “I know,” was the only thing you could say, because you had also seen them grow up right before your eyes and you would lie if you said you weren’t feeling emotional too.

“Remember when that was us?” He asked out of the blue, after a few seconds of silence, kissing right below your earlobe after he did.

“Oh, I do.” You both giggled at the memory, at the innocence that you still carried, with the world ready to be discovered and devoured; back then, just the thought of moving out of Hawkins with your boyfriend felt like a fever dream. 

“Would you ever come back? To high school, I mean?” It’s been a few years now, years in which you have been building your little apartment in Indianapolis together, years in which the same arms that are hugging you in the middle of your old high school field are the ones that you wake up to every single day - you wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Tangling your fingers with his you held him tighter around you, stretching your neck to kiss his jaw. “I’m pretty happy with the life I got now.” You felt his smile against the top of your head where he kissed you, content smiles on both your faces traveling all the way up to your eyes.

A chorus of people calling for Steve interrupted your little moment as the crew of grads urged him to join the group picture. “Hurry up, Harrington!” Dustin hurried him, and with a tiny squeeze on your arms and one last kiss on your cheek, he left your side.

“Gosh, they look like our proud parents,” Max added with visible disgust on her face.

“That’s exactly what we are.” Steve teased as he approached them all, their actual parents laughing at their kids’ eye-rolls, but Steve couldn’t care less, he heard you laughing at the same time too and his face filled with joy just as you pointed your camera at them.

“Alright guys, say class of 89!” You prompted, to which everyone squeezed around your boyfriend’s tall figure as they cheered, a squished Steve in the middle of it all looking as proud as ever.

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Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

[agendabymooner]

goodnight n go ! max v. x ofc (hearth sister!ofc)

“it’s bad enough we get along so well.”

summary: there’s a way to make a graduation celebration better than to have her photos taken by the paparazzi, and max verstappen makes sure she remembers that. OR the dutch driver is making it hard for sylvie to dislike him. (1) (2)

content warning: use of explicit language

note: i wrote too much blurbs yesterday of max verstappen.

masterlist

liked by max33verstappen, lewishamilton, tillymarie

comments have been limited

lando.norris proud of you best friend!!!

charles_leclerc congrats sylvie!! (the master debater part isn’t that necessary)

tillymarie so so so proud of you lovie ! keep it up !

Photos were taken left and right by the time her family stepped out of the Sheldonian Theatre. Her black grad gown, she couldn’t wait to take it off. There’s three or five paparazzi that were by the gates, asking to get her photos taken— but she didn’t want to look in their direction, wanting to celebrate her accomplishments with her sisters and her mother after the grueling four years of school. Was she ever thankful that her private school had offered the advancement program. 

She was a graduate at 18– all thanks to the program and the money that her mother had invested into her education. Sylvie was so much like her sisters, but she had gotten into her post secondary education earlier because of her intelligence. Tilly had moved a year up after having herself assessed, but Sylvie… She's the only one who’s managed to get to college early due to the practically perfect marks that she had gotten throughout the years.

“Sylvie, can you just pose with your sisters for a moment?” Her mother begged as she held the digital camera, lens pointing at Sylvie, Stevie and Aimee. “We need a photo to put up in my study.”

“Maman, there’s a lot of paparazzi,” Sylvie whined, stomping her feet lightly. “I’m sure they got something for us.”

“They’ve been told to stay within a certain distance,” Stevie nudged Sylvie. She smiled and murmured, “Now smile. I need some photos to post.”

“I don’t like you,” Sylvie grumbled before her mouth quirked, hearing her mother’s camera clicking. That… and the many clicks of the cameras from the gate did too. It was meant to be a celebration for her family and friends only. It turns out, her life was everyone else’s too. 

Posing for a few more pictures, Blanche Ford finally put the camera down and grinned. “Well, do you want to get your photos taken with your friends?” 

“Already had enough taken earlier, Maman,” Sylvie sighed, “I want to go home and see Soren now.”

She didn’t want to celebrate. The past few weeks were rough. The Spanish GP had taken a toll on her energy and mental wellbeing; the last thing she had wanted to do was host parties or call for celebration. Whatever they had planned for today, that wasn’t her doing.

All she wanted was to see her two week old nephew and retire to bed after. 

But her family had a different plan. She only found out when they made the drive back to Brackley. 

Their home there had been built long before anyone was even born. It was only purchased by Blanche by the time her divorce papers were filed and signed, making it a home for her three daughters. They grew up there, and they didn’t even know that a few minutes from their place was the Mercedes AMG Petronas headquarters. It was funny how that worked because Tilly never really met Toto despite visiting the town. Sylvie still laughed about that. 

The estate was something of a peaceful place. Sylvie loved it there. She made it a goal to spend her Christmas breaks at home seeing as university was only 27 minutes away. Now, not only was she staying there again, but Tilly and Toto moved to another neighborhood that’s only 10 minutes away from their estate. It was an easier commute for Sylvie if she wanted to visit Soren. 

But her thoughts washed away when she opened the front door and heard the screams of, “SURPRISE!”

Sylvie caught the graduation cap that she nearly dropped. What the hell is going on, she asked herself. 

The foyer wasn’t fully decorated but anyone who had never seen the full estate would say otherwise. Balloons that spelled out ‘Congratulations’ were hung up and reflecting due to their metallic appearance. The marble columns by the two spiral staircases were fully wrapped in artificially made hydrangeas and other perennials that made the muted foyer colourful. As if those weren’t enough, the arch leading to the halls were decorated with garlands and flowers, string lights putting a wedding reception to shame because of how warm it made the house’s appearance. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” she finally found her words as she pointed at Toto, who was merely laughing at her bluntness as he approached her with a smile, hugging her as she wrapped her arms as much as she could around him. 

“Congratulations, maus,” Toto grinned, “I’m so proud of you.” 

That party that Tilly and Blanche held for her started there, but the discomfort that she was feeling while she wore her university uniform was unbecoming. So while she was having a conversation with Lando and George, she excused herself for a second to head upstairs and change her clothes. 

Life really was full of surprises, Sylvie told herself hours after she opened the door to her bedroom and found her vanity area cluttered with shopping bags and piles of books. She could have sworn that she hadn’t purchased any books lately, too stressed out to even look at a back synopsis. She also knew that there were some things sent to her by designer houses and brands that were trying to hire her — graduation gifts, her agent told her a day ago. But those gifts were downstairs according to Tilly. So she wasn’t exactly sure where this came from. 

Looking at the corner of her bedroom, however, she moved quickly as she grabbed the blue envelope from the foot tall teddy bear that she swore she never had either. The envelope was addressed to her. Well… it’s addressed to a “B. Mustang” making it easily known to her who had written the content inside. Regardless, she opened the envelope and read the message. 

“Mustang, 

Congratulations on surviving university. I heard it sucks there. I hope you like this bear— I called him McLaren. At least we have something to not argue about, no?

Also I hope you like the gifts I got you. It’s the least I can do. Enjoy your celebration! Wish me luck for the next race.

Love,

O. Cadillac.”

She had never been so frustrated over a man before. She swore. She hated having to see his face at the paddock or the garage but she had never been so angry about appreciating him or liking him. He made it difficult for her to dislike him, she hated that. 

She wanted to toss out the Dior, Cartier and whatever the fuck were dropped off at her bedroom. Everything that came from him, she wanted to throw out. Even McLaren the Teddy Bear. She wanted to despise him so much because of how shitty their history had turned out to become. But it’s not going to work like that anytime soon, she told herself. She was going to work with him one way or another and she’d have to work with him professionally. Clearly hatred didn’t work out for her— she was so grateful for the gifts he had gotten her and she was slowly returning the same feeling that he had.

She told herself that she could stay in her room for another fifteen minutes and looked down at the letter in her hand. With a sigh, she pulled out her phone and began typing. Her right hand typed and searched for his name and the other began to open the little bags first.