#just a part time weekend gig

[stockholmgf]

reminder that i’m not only hot and funny but also very smart!!!!

[koishua]

three families came over for the first iftar today and they just left and i have to come here and let y'all know that i just about died from how cute all of the children were. literally none of them were my age they were all between two and seven and i was THRIVING we played in my room and they gushed over my guitar and i let them play some with their itty bitty fingers and they spoke russian to me which i understood with some difficulty but couldn't reply back to so i just spoke german to them and they had the cutest looks on their faces and one of the boys said to me that everyone in his class played the piano or the guitar during music class and he could only sit there and watch everyone in the corner and my something in my heart broke into tiny pieces so now im thinking wether or not i should get the little guy a guitar of his own bc he's just so so sweet and adorable :(( and there was the Mose sweetest most adorable little three year old girl who made so many hand hearts at me and she'd run up to me, look at me for a second, and then run off and then come back again two minutes later to do the exact same thing and she did that an honest six times before they had to go and she came to me, looked up and said paka which is basically goodbye and i just about CRIED

[deen-djarin]

Suds n’ Trunks

Summary: Joel ordered a car washing service…bikini car washing service.

Tags: 18+, No Outbreak!Joel, Cheeky Flirty!Reader, Porn with a sprinkle of plot, Daddy kink, Choking, Joel is a menace and so is reader, Oral (m & f receiving), Unprotected P-in-V, Consensual Creampie

—

The sun shone on the perfect suburban streets of Austin, Texas. So hot you could fry an egg if you wanted to. You rolled your windows down, driving down a neighborhood you’re not familiar with, and pulled up at the house that sits in the cul de sac, a dirty- no filthy ford pickup truck parked on its driveway.

This must be the place.

A sigh fell from your lips as you hopped off your car with your supplies in hand; a bucket, sponge, microfiber rag, and various soaps for different parts of the car. The heat was even worse after you’ve left the comfort of your air conditioned car, but the thought of being out of your clothes and soaked in suds and the cool water excites you.

Once you’ve discovered this lucrative market of bored, horny, lonely middle aged suburban guys— eager to see a show, and maybe get their car cleaned as well, you start to do this gig every summer. The money is good plus these guys tip generously.

Your service by its core is nothing but a mobile car wash, but the carwash is being done by you, clad in a skimpy bikini. c’mon, who wouldn’t want that right?

When you scored your first customer, you became a spectacle for the neighborhood. Your client shamelessly pulls out a lawn chair, having a grand ol’ time “enjoying the sun” as you wash their car. Neighbors walking out their houses mowing their already perfectly trimmed lawn, walking their dogs, cats, and some approached your client for a neighborly talk they probably haven’t had in months.

You’ve gotten the whole neighborhood out of their house basically, then your client list doubles with those people coming over to you and asking to do theirs next. Some cars don't even need washing, but you do them anyway with a smile knowing you’re gonna eat good that night.

Ever since then you decided to do this gig every summer, cheekily naming your little business “Suds ‘n Trunks”.

—

You ring the doorbell of the Miller’s residence and step back. You could hear a soft grumble from behind the door before it opened and reveal a scruffy, middle aged, handsome man. your eyes scans him quickly, his hair tousled, his shoulders broad, big arms, big hands, Jesus Christ you want to just-

“Can I help you?”

His gruff, deep, Texan drawl snaps you out of your trance and brings you back to reality.

“Uhm yes, Mr. Miller? you called for a car wash?” You asked him with a sweet voice you come to learn that older men love, it always works like a charm, making them tip you a fat wad of cash— these men just craved attention from a pretty girl, and you’re happy to give that to them.

“Oh..yeah you could uh, it's that one right there,” he motioned to the dirty pickup truck. You give him a smile and nodded, “okay, i’ll go on and get started then.” Joel nodded and shut the door immediately.

—

A red Ford bronco sat on his driveway, absolutely covered in filth. You usually don't deal with this much grime, dust, and mud. Granted, most cars you’ve washed barely need a wash, the clients just wanted to see you wet and covered in suds, which you couldn’t really blame them.

You took a breath and started to step out of your tanktop and shorts, revealing the red matching bikini you’re wearing underneath and started to go to work.

—

Joel was exhausted after doing several construction projects back to back yesterday, from dawn to the ungodly hours of the night resulting in his beloved truck — Shirley— looking like it had been dragged in the mud…literally.

Joel likes to take care of his things, Shirley is no exception. His free time on the weekends is often spent on his truck in the garage, polishing her to perfection. But after all the hard work he did, just the thought of washing her made his back groan in protest.

So he got the number of your services from his coworkers after they commented on the state of Shirley, a smirk planted on their faces and they kept snickering which Joel found odd, but he was too fed up and exhausted to think twice on booking your services.

Joel grunts as he settles on his couch, his cold bottle of beer in one hand, the tv remote on the other. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and turned on the TV.

It's finally his time for him to take his hard-earned relaxation time. which should be easy, but he could hear the annoying sputtering sound of his neighbor’s lawnmower.

That thing needs more oil. He thought to himself as he took a sip of his beer.

Then another sound of a lawnmower sounded from the other side of the house, even more annoying than the first.

What the fuck? Why are they all mowin’ the lawn at the same time? at this hour? he thought.

Then comes the obnoxious yapping of Mr. Thompson's french bulldog and chihuahua.

What the hell is goin’ on? it's a whole ruckus out there.

He groaned, frustrated that the whole neighborhood seems to be against his well deserved relaxing time. He grumbled as he strides towards his window, drawing up the blinds to see what the fuck is going on out there.

His eyes nearly bulged out, blush quickly crept up his neck to his cheeks, and his cock twitching in his pants instantly at the sight.

You, bend over in the hood of his car, wet, covered in suds, in a fucking bikini. He tried to look away, he really did, but the way your hips sways, your ass jiggled, as you scrubbed hard with the caked on mud on his truck— it was hypnotizing.

—

“What the hell are ya doin’?”

The sight of Joel's furrowed brow as he stared at you in your revealing outfit was a mix of disapproval and desire. Your sweet smile remained as you answered his question, "Mr. Miller! I'm just washing your car."

His gaze roamed over you, making you shiver with anticipation. "In that?" He grunted, clearly torn between his disgust and arousal. "Well, yes… It's part of my service."

The man stood silent for a moment, his confusion palpable. "Part of your service?"

"Uhm, yeah... It's a bikini car wash service… You didn't know?" you tilted your head, confused.

Joel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"The name is Suds 'n' Trunks," you reminded him softly.

"I know what it's called!" he huffed, clearly frustrated.

Unsure of how to proceed, you hesitated. "So, uhm, you want me to just dress up and go or—"

"No, finish your job," he grumbled, still irritated. Your eyes trailed down to the growing tent in his jeans, confirming the source of his conflicting emotions.

You hid your smirk and purred, "Yes, sir," before returning to your task. The knowledge that you had such a potent effect on him only fueled your desire to please him.

—

Your back is even more curved now, ass sticking up more than they should as you washed the side of his truck, knowing Joel is looking– watching you like a hawk while he sits on the porch, a beer in his hand and a cigarette on the other. you turned your head over your shoulder just to give him a small smile, which he returned with his jaw clenching.

You bask under his gaze, your body tingling, giving him the best show you’ve ever given. you squatted as you started to clean the lower part of the truck, your ass jiggle with every hard scrub you give.

The tension between the two of you is palpable, leaving Joel frustrated, he knows damn well you’re taunting him. He’s torn between wanting to yell at you for acting so unprofessional and embarrassing him in front of the watchful eyes of his nosy neighbors— or fucking you against the truck for payback.

He sits there watching you, contemplating on what to do. You gave him another cheeky look over your shoulder and that was it, his last resolve snapped, fuck it.

—

“Careful with her,” he said lowly as he approached you.

You turned your head, batting your eyelashes, “Hm?”

“You’re goin’ too hard on her, just painted that part,” he murmured as he got closer, just right behind you.

“But the mud is really caked on this part,” you told him and went back to scrubbing.

“A-ah, hey,” he tutted and leaned down behind you, his large palms sitting atop of yours “Gentle…easy does it,” he murmured, his hot breath fanned against your ear.

You had to bite your lip to suppress a moan as you felt his hardness pressed against your thigh. Your hand following his movements, “There we go…there we go, good girl,” he murmured and you swore every part of your body shivered.

“This is gonna take longer to finish, sir,” you murmured, your voice a mere whisper as you turned your head to him.

“I know…but you’re gonna get a bigger reward out of it, how’s that sound hm?” he muttered to your ear before abruptly pulling away from you and sitting back on the porch.

your breath hitched, heartbeat skipping, and the heat between your legs grew hotter. You turned your head towards him to see him sitting back at his porch, his head nodded at you to continue your work, a small smirk curved his lips.

—

You’re halfway done with the truck when his neighbor starts to approach you, a middle aged guy you came to learn named Michael. He’s been clearly hitting on you, and trying to get a closer look on what you’re doing. which usually doesn’t bother you but you could practically feel Joel's watchful eyes boring into your back.

“So you do this for a living?” he asked as he stood a few feet away from you, “It's just a summer gig i do,” you replied with a small smile, keeping the response light.

"Sweet, it's nice seeing a young, beautiful, hard-working woman," he chuckled. Your jaw tensed for a moment before you forced a tight-lipped smile.

"Can you do my car next? It's pretty dirty too," he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows. You felt a flush of annoyance, but your eyes met Joel's, who glared disapprovingly from his porch.

"Well, uh..." you hesitated, glancing back at Joel. He shook his head, a clear indication that he didn't want you to entertain Michael's advances. "Sorry, Michael. I'm booked for today... I gotta go somewhere after this."

Michael sighed, "Aw, just my luck," he lamented. "I'll ask Joel for your number, huh? I'll book you as soon as you're free." You chuckled, "Yeah, you go do that."

Michael made his way over to Joel, asking for your number. Joel nodded, but with a grunt, he gave Michael the wrong number. A smirk played on your lips as you returned to your work.

—

After what feels like forever you finally finished with the last drag of your microfiber rag. You let out a sigh and turned around to Joel sauntering his way. “All done Mr. Miller,” you purred.

He looked at his truck, all clean and shiny. A satisfied smirk graced his face, “you did a good job” he praised. “Good enough to get that reward?” you murmured with your head tilted innocently. Joel let out a small chuckle “Mmhm... come on inside and i’ll get it sorted for you, pretty girl.”

Your eyes gleamed with lust and you bit your lip in anticipation as he led you inside his house. The wind hits your wet body, the coolness leaves your nipples even harder, your body tingling with need.

By the time the two of you were inside, Joel’s body was taut, like a spring ready to burst. He couldn’t hold it in anymore, his large palms grab a hold of your wet body and pinned you against his door, you let out a surprised whimper at his sudden actions.

“Been a good girl for me huh? Takin’ care of my truck,” he murmured as he leaned down and his lips grazed your jaw to the skin under your ear. “Been naughty too haven’t you? Tauntin’ me with this sweet ass of yours,” he grabbed your ass and gave it a hard squeeze making you let out a small moan, he pulled you closer, his hard cock pressing against your wet bikini bottoms.

You couldn’t help but grind your hips against him, needy and desperate for friction, eliciting a small moan from you and a groan from him. “What do you have to say about that huh? Pretty girl?,” he muttered and nibbled on your earlobe, “I’m sorry sir” you panted softly.

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem to be that sorry,” he chuckled lowly, his voice gravely and his accent was thicker than before “Think I would have to punish you… you thought it was funny huh? Makin’ me hard as a rock with those fucking neighbors watchin’?” he growled to your ear and slapped your ass, you whimpered and jolted forwards.

“I’m sorry sir..please don't punish me,” you whined and bit your lip. “You’re sorry huh? Go on, pretty thing, show me how sorry you are,” he murmured. You didn't need to be told twice, you fell to your knees, eyes wide as you looked up to his face, hands deftly undoing his belt and jeans and pulling it down along with his boxers.

Your mouth salivated just from the sight of his cock springing free, thick, veiny, and throbbing, just how you thought it would be. He gave you a nod to tell you ‘go on’, you leaned down and darted your tongue out, tasting the heady taste of his precum. He groaned and tossed his head back, hand tangling in your hair and pulled you in, you hummed and finally wrapped your mouth around his girth with a small whimper. Your jaw straining to accommodate him, tongue moving with practiced ease as you sink down deeper, taking in more of him.

“Fuck yeah..good fuckin’ girl…thats it,” he muttered and started to guide your head the way he wanted, you thrive with his praises, taking in him as deep as you could. Gagging and sputtering here and there but you didn't stop at all in search of his approval and satisfaction, you didn’t want to stop. The room was filled with the sound of his grunts and heavy breaths, along with the obscene sounds from you and your muffled whimpers.

Joel nearly came when he saw you starting to snake your hand between your legs, “Naughty fuckin’ slut, touchin’ yourself huh?” he groaned and started to thrust into your mouth, holding your head in place. “You want me to take care of that? Hm?” he growled and you whined as an answer. Suddenly he abruptly pulled you away from his cock, “get on the fuckin’ couch,” he muttered, you scrambled off the floor and quickly gotten on the nearby couch, “on your hands and knees, sweetheart,” he commanded and you did as he said, bending over, facing the backrest of the couch.

He stood behind you and pushed you legs wider, your head craned over your shoulder to look at him with your needy expression, bottom lip between your teeth. He gripped your chin and he leaned down, finally crashing his lips to yours. He was rough, didn’t even hesitate on pushing his tongue into your mouth, tongue dominating yours, making you whine and push your hips back, desperate, begging for him.

His kiss left you panting as he pulled away, he trailed kisses down your back, biting on the knot that holds your bikini top together and pulling on it and letting it unravel, his hand started to grope your tits, playing, pinching, pulling on your sensitive nipples. “Mr. Miller,” you panted “please..”

“Use your word, Baby, what do you need?” he murmured to the crook of your neck. You whimpered and kept moving your hips, “anything- please- your finger, mouth- anything, i need you,” you rambled desperately. Joel chuckled darkly, his large fingers playing with the knots of your bikini bottoms, “needy little thing,” he murmured before pulling on the knots and unraveling the red wet fabric, making it fall to the couch.

Joel practically growled at the sight before him, you, bent over with your ass high in the air, naked, your pussy dripping and ready for him. “Look at you..” he murmured and leaned down, groping your ass and pushing it apart to reveal more of you. “Mmh..” he grumbles before leaning down and placing a broad lick on your cunt. “Oh- god- Mr- mmhngh! Mr. Miller” you whined and pushed your hips more to his face. Joel groaned and started to really eat you out, his large palms splayed on your ass, face completely buried in your drooling pussy. “It's Joel, sweetheart,” he chuckled as he pulled away from your cunt for a second, “I wanna hear ya moan my name.”

“Joel..” you breathed, getting used to the feel of his name on your lips. Joel started to flick his tongue rapidly on your clit, making your eyes roll back and moan out his name, “fuck- ahh! Joel!” He grunted in response, “yeah that’s it, moan my name…mmhhh good fuckin’ girl.”

You were falling apart already at the hands of his tongue, moving on your pussy with practiced ease. Joel relished the sounds of your moans, and the sweet and tangy taste of your cunt. He groaned and started to push his thick fingers to your entrance, “Joel! Ahnghh! F-fuck! mmhngh!!” you cried out, he grunted and pulled away from your pussy for a second, “That’s it baby, you’re gonna cum hm? Gonna be a good girl an cum on my face?” he muttered and curled his digits to hit that heavenly spot within you, you whined in response, barely able to come up with words but nodded with your eyes closed in pleasure. “Good girl, c’mon, come on my face” he panted and started double his efforts, his tongue flicking on your sensitive clit, slurping all your juices, whilst his fingers kept hitting that sweet spot over and over again.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, you back arched and your eyes rolled back, you swore you saw stars. His name kept falling from your lips in between moans and whimpers which he responded with praises.

“good girl, that’s it”

“you’re so pretty when you cum for me”

“tastes so good baby, there you go..”

He peppered kisses across your shoulders and back as he waited for you to come down from your high. “joel..” you panted and kept pushing your hips back to grind against his throbbing cock, eliciting a groan from his lips, “yeah? you want my cock, pretty girl?” he muttered and rutted his hips against you, his cock sliding against your cunt. “yes- please joel- please-“ you let out a loud moan when he suddenly pushed his cock into your core.

“fuuuck” he groaned as he pushed himself in “fuck- shit, baby you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he panted and gripped your hips tight. “joel! oh- f-fuck hhngh!” you whimpered and gripped the back of the couch. Joel pulled back until his cock is almost fully slipped back, you whined at the loss of his stretch, then he slammed back in. “Fuck! Oh- f-fuuckk! Joeel!!” you cried out, “Yeah baby that’s it- shit- yeah take it baby, take it” he growled to your ear and wrapped your hair on his hand and yanked it back. Your head tilted back at the force and he crashed his lips to yours again, swalowing all your moans and whimpers as he fucked you with a relentless pace.

“J-joel” you warned between pants, “Yeah i know baby- fuck- yeah i can feel it,” he groaned and panted “c’mon baby give it to me, cum on my cock, c’mon” he murmured and went faster. The sound of his skin smacking against yours gets louder and louder, the couch groaned and creaked in protest. You could barely utter any coherent words at this point, just slurring his name and how good it feels between moans and pants.

Your back arched and trembles as you cry out his name like a prayer. Joel slowed down for a second, letting you ride out the orgasm, “there you go…hmm there you go” he muttered soothingly, his hips rocking deliberately, slowly. “You can take more, sweetheart?” he murmured to your ear, you couldn’t help but nod. ”Good girl,” he praised to your ear and kissed your jaw before his arm wrapped around your waist, the other around your chest and pulled you up until his chest pressed against your back. He resumed his hard relentless thrusts, his hand on your chest groping and playing with your hard nipples. you felt like floating at this point, just taking everything he gave you like a good girl.

“Who’s pussy is this?” He growled to your ear, you could barely talk just letting out sounds of pleasure, he spanked your ass hard and you gasped out a moan, “Yours! Hahngh! All yours!” you whined, Joel gripped your neck and pulled you closer to him “Who?” he demanded, you panted and choked out, “Yours daddy!” bingo.

He growled and bent you over again, his hand still tight on your neck, choking you just right. “Yeah that’s right, such a good girl for daddy,” he muttered and pounded into you. You kept choking out moans, calling him daddy over and over. He shifted his position, propping one leg on the couch to get a different angle, deeper, and it allowed him to reach that spot within you. “Oh my g- aahhngh!! daddy!! right there, oh fuck- fuck me right there!!” you cried out. He grunted and let out a dark chuckle, “there sweetheart?” he taunted as he thrusted extra hard aiming at that spot again. “yes!! yes- yes please- please i- daddy please” you rambled, begging for him, his cock has reduced you to nothing but desperate and needy. “well since you asked so nicely,” he said coyly before hitting that spot over and over again.

You felt you’re gonna shatter yet again in any second, a ticking time bomb set on your lower belly. “D-daddy i’m- hah- i’m-” you could barely finish your choked out sentence. “Yeah? Gonna cum again for daddy?” he panted to your ear, all you could do was nodded and give a whimper of confirmation. He chuckled darkly and his hand snaked down to rub your clit with fervor while his hips kept pounding to your ass, “Go on then, come for me, come for daddy,” he muttered to your ear.

Your vision blurred and you saw white. It feels like you’re barely conscious, your third orgasm hits you even harder than the last. You didn’t noticed whats happening until joel groaned, “Fuck yeah you’re squirtin’ on me baby- good girl- hhnngh good fuckin’ girl.” Your thighs trembled, wet with your release, red from his thrusts.

He finally let go of your neck and you gasped out for much needed air, his thrusts started to stutter. “Where do you want it?” he panted to your ear, “Inside, inside daddy, please,” you begged and started to move your hips to meet his. Joel couldn’t hold back any longer, 1, 2, 3 hard thrusts later and he came completely undone inside you. “Fuuuckk!! Fuck yeah- oh shit baby” he moaned, “fuck! makin’ me cum so much, pretty girl…oh yeah good fuckin’ girl,” he panted to your ear.

After his hips stilled, he pulled out of you, making you whine and clench around nothing, pushing his hot sticky seed out of you.

He chuckled and whispered to your ear, “look at you…all messy n’ dirty,” he cooed. “You cleaned my truck now it's time for me to clean you,” he murmured before peppering kisses down your spine yet again.

—

author’s note: THIS WAS MY FIRST FIC EVER AHSHSHEH so forgive me if its shitty or the grammar is horrible bc english is my 2nd language:3 ALSO i have never written smut before heheheh, your feedback is greatly appreciated!! thank you for reading this horny piece of literature!!

[gor3sigil]

Trans drag performers deserve better.

Okay so since y'all seem interested, here we go.

[This is about MY experience as a “former” transmasc drag king, in my local scene. This isn't representative of the drag scene as a whole because drag is a wide, huge scene with pretty much any type of people in it. I have never done paid gig. I only performed a couple of times before deciding to stop.]

I discovered drag with RuPaul like a lot of people, and for a long time, I only knew about drag queens. It’s when I learned about an initiation to drag king happening in my town that I decided to try it. I did a bit of research before the event took place and that's how I learned that drag king is widely undocumented, compared to drag queen. A bit disheartening but I was excited to do something new and especially to get back in my local queer community after 2 years or so of “no contact” with it because trauma (see my post about my first T4T relationship to understand why).

First surprise when I got there, I was the only transmasc present as an attendee. The organiser and person who teached us is agender and go by he/him, and his at the time SO is a transmasc enby but appart from them, I was the only trans person. Most of the others were cis lesbian women. Makes sense. The initiation weekend went really well and we ended up performing in an open scene at the end. I can't count the amount of times I got misgendered by other kings during this weekend and I have to say, it pissed me off so fucking bad because I was the only one getting consistantly misgendered. But I brushed it off and had a blast.

My drag persona is more of a dragula king, really goth, and I did a lipsync performance on a Black Dresses song. I loved it and had a blast. A year or so later, we decided with other drag kings to do a little group to perform together.

Once again, I'm the only trans person.

And that's when the shitshow kinda happened. From all the drag kings present, I was also the only one who wasn't already part of a collective. So the group we had was composed of people from 2 collectives who would basically cheer each other out at every show, and it's great !! But I wasn't being integrated into the group, and I felt defeated. One of the main reasons why I didn't go to drag shows was because I was FLAT BROKE. I couldn't attend these events as they were always or in a bar so you have to at least buy a drink, or had a fee, and I couldn't afford that.

We started doing rehearsals and I set up a discord server for us all to use and organize the said rehearsals. It soon became apparent that they weren't really serious about this group, that they were more involved in their own collectives and it was HELL to have at least one rehearsal a month. But we had a show scheduled for september, and half of the kings weren't ready, didn't know their texts nor songs. I knew it was going to be bad. Also we were confirmed that the gig was going to actually happen 3 days only before, because the people who said they were going to do the visuals NEVER DID and we had to fumble something quick so the event was promoted very fucking late and we weren't sure we could even afford to do it, because not many tickets were sold.

During the rehearsals I got singled out for everything. My voice was dropping because of the T (I had started 8 months prior) and I tried to do my best with the singing parts but got told a few times that my low voice would sound “weird” amongst the sopranos. Also, one of the solo part a king was going to perform was on a very upbeat music and he said we could join IF WE WANTED.

I said I'd pass since it wasn't my style at all.

And when we got to the venue, the venue didn't have any backstage and I had my solo part just after that, so I couldn't just stand there on stage and do nothing. The others in my group KNEW IT as they had performed in this venue BEFORE but just told me “oh, too bad, improvise something” when they were the same ones who told me that taking part in the number was not mandatory.

Regarding the other artists, man, I hated everything. I got misgendered constantly IN KING LIKE - I'M A DRAG KING FFS. Even by others in my group.

When I corrected another performer, a cis gay dude, he laughed at my FACE and told me “but you're trans aren't you like, against gender or something ?”. As I was pre op and still early in my transition I was basically outing myself everytime I told my pronouns and I got so many cis performers ask me invasive questions about my sex life, or being like “yeah I have a trans friend who goes by X but I knew them as Y so it's Y to me but it's not in a disrespectful way you see”.

So yeah, I didn't have a great night. :)

The cis kings called me “girl” or “sis” because “I'm one of them” even after telling them time and time again that I wasn't comfortable with that.

And after this quite disastrous experience, the same ones who called me “girl” and me got into an argument because they wanted to change a song about forced toxic masculinity which is an INCREDIBLY POWERFUL AND BEAUTIFUL SONG into lyrics to talk about femininity. I said that we could use another song then, because there's so few cis men singers who sing about being forced into toxic masculinity and virility that I found that a bit disrespectful to take this important message and make it about women and femininity. There's plenty of songs about that that we could use.

And now guess what ? I was a MEAN MAN who wanted women to NOT TALK ABOUT THEIR ISSUES because I was a very MANLY DUDE DISGUSTING MALE.

The same people who couldn't gender me correctly and called me “sis” a WEEK BEFORE.

So yeah, I got the fuck out and gave up.

I really wish I can perform again one day, but it'll be in another scene.

So PSA: book drag kings, because they are so underrepresented it's disheartening, RESPECT trans drag performers, don't but bioessentialism in drag for the LOVE OF GOD IT'S DRAG. Like imagine being transphobic as a DRAG PERFORMER. Learn the history. And fucking do better.

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | teaser

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 465 for the teaser, overall wordcount tbd ➥ overall warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap (i hc reader to be late 20s but i tried to leave it vague enough), cowgirl position, biting, hair pulling, choking, squirting, teasing, pining, lipstick kink, breast/nipple play, masturbation (m), porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, coop's pov to start - rest of the fic will be in reader's, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | "We really s-shouldn't - oh fuck - be doing this." ➥ notes | here's a teaser for the fic i took a poll on, some people wanted more info 😊 coop is a big dick dilf fite me. feedback is always appreciated ❤️ lmk if you want to be tagged feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

Ugliest thing in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say.

It's not like being a Marine with a gun in hand, being told where to point and shoot, or an actor reading off a script. There's no guidebook, no crash course. These people aren't nameless threats coasts away or co-workers following a cue.

In fact, his 'enemies' aren't enemies at all.

They have names: Barb, so smart it hurts, and sweet little Janey, his very own North star. Sometimes looking at them rips open a hole in his chest that'll never close, edges jagged and sore. The phantoms of family, of happier times, found in the glint of a smile or a peal of laughter.

See, war's something he understands. Something he's good at.

But these domestic battlefields where he's gotta look his ex-wife in the face, and struggle to meet his daughter's eye? Barter this weekend and that holiday? To pay for the privilege of his child's presence (he does, he will, she's worth every goddamn cent he's ever made)?

To look down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman he loves staring back; he doesn't, can't, comprehend that. Because once upon a time, he was happy (with her) and life was sweeter than pie.

Now he's nothing but a washed up actor who struggles to land a call back let alone make his monthly alimonies. His marriage has failed, his reputation is in shambles, and his bank account is dryer than the Mojave.

Barb gets the house. He gets the dog.

And caught in the middle of it all is his little girl; the only thing he’s got left worth while. He wants to protect her, provide for her the way she deserves — only he seems to fall short every goddamn time.

The mistakes and missteps keep stacking up against him; such is his new life in all its raw, unglamorous glory.

Look how far the mighty fall.

Lucky for him — the first bright thing that's come his way in a long, long while — a sweet, young woman moves into the apartment next door. Of course, it isn't long before Janey takes a shine, always so friendly.

Thankfully, you're just as good with her.

It only makes sense you'd watch her when a gig runs late. Rustle up some grub and put her to bed whenever he slinks in through the door, stripped to the bone.

And if he takes himself in hand late at night, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress? Imagines the wide stretch of your lush mouth as you peer up at him from between his thighs when he cums hard?

Well, what you don't know won't hurt you.

After all, he promises to keep his hands to himself.

part 01 of full fic

[satorusugurugurl]

Models

Pairing: Nude Model!Geto Suguru x Model!FAB!Reader

Word Count: 1,977

Warnings: Nudity, flirting, suggestiveness, fluffy goodness

A/N: This fluffy Friday idea had me giggling and kicking my legs. So intimate and sweet!! Nemsmkekdkdk!!

Nude life modeling.

It was easy, paid pretty well, and it helped you get money for essentials when your shitty part-time job didn't schedule you. All you were required to do was strip down to your birthday suit and pose for a bunch of art students to draw you. The sessions lasted between two to five hours, with breaks. Sitting around naked while posing was an easy way to make twenty dollars an hour.

After a rough week of hardly any tips at the coffee shop, you desperately needed to pick up a modeling gig for the weekend. You needed groceries, and you had been dying to buy the newest book of your favorite series that just came out. Luckily, an evening art class needed a female model. You jumped at the opportunity, not wanting to eat instant Ramen for the third time this week.

Trotting into the art studio, you found it empty, allowing you to change into a plain white robe before the students arrived. Just as you tied the sash around your waist, the door to the classroom opened. You turned around expecting to find the teacher, only to find the sexiest man you’ve ever seen in your life.

He had dark eyes and raven hair tied up into a bun. You could hear the music blaring through his headphones as he tossed his backpack onto the ground before pulling his shirt over his head. With a squeak, you covered your eyes as if you weren’t already in the nude yourself.

“E-excuse me!!” you screamed at the top of your lungs, “Excuse me!! I-I’m in here!!” when you heard the familiar sound of a belt unbuckling, you grabbed a sketchbook off one of the desks, chucking it to the ground in front of his feet.

The man before you jolted, quickly pulling his headphones out. His dark eyes met you for the first time since he entered. “Oh shit!” He hid behind one of the canvases in the classroom. “Fuck! Sorry! Sorry!” You felt like your whole face was on fire.

“N-No, it’s okay! Maybe I have the wrong classroom!”

“Are you here to model for Yaga’s class?” the stranger asked tentatively.

“Uhm, yeah.”

“You're in the right place.”

Slowly blinking, you watched as the stranger peeked his head out from behind the canvas. “I am?” Your eyes wander toward the shirt and belt on the ground before him. “Then why are you—?”

The stranger stepped out in all his shirtless glory. Fuck he was hot, he had muscles for days. While you undressed the rest of him with your eyes, he stepped towards you. His fingers nervously played with his gauges as he stood in front of you, giving you a better view of his body. His muscles and the curves of his body would be perfect for any art student to sketch. If you were good with a pencil, you would have sketched a picture of him because it would be rude to pull your phone out and snap a photo of the insanely hot man in front of you.

“Yaga is going over body movement between two individuals. Like couples and stuff.” He gestured between the two of you. “That’s why I'm here. I guess Yaga failed to mention that in his ad today.” The strange brushed strands of his black hair out of his face. “The other model who was supposed to be doing this with me got food poisoning, so he was on a bit of a time crunch trying to find somebody to take her place.”

“Oh—” your fingers scratch your cheek, “right, okay, so I've always done solo work.”

The dark-haired man hummed in understanding. “Right, sorry he didn’t specify that in the ad. If you’re uncomfortable with it, I can let him know. If we have to cancel the class, that’s fine..” that was probably the best thing to do. But your stomach growled, hungry for something other than instant noodles.

“Ugh, no, it's fine, I’ll do it.” Why you agreed to do it was beyond you. Posing with a stranger, a hot one at that, was one of the craziest things you'd done. “Is it like back-to-back poses? Or are we talking cringe-worthy 90s family picture poses?”

The man before you chuckled as he shook his head, a dusty shade of rose spread over his cheeks. “That has to be one of the funniest things I've ever heard while modeling.” he glanced at the small wooden stage in the vented room. “It shouldn't be too crazy. Probably just us laying down or something.”

“Ah, very cool mystery man.”

“Oh right, sorry.” He held his hand out to you. “I’m Geto Suguru.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you.” You introduced yourself before leaving the room to allow him to change. “Just come get me when you’re done.”

Once standing in the hall, you run your finger through your hair, tugging it gently. How did your simple modeling evening turn into an evening of modeling with the super hot guy? The more important question was how you were going to get through this entire evening being next to said hot stranger in the nude?!

Keep it together. You got this! You told yourself and attempted to ease your nerves. The following 3 to 4 hours would fly by fast, and then you would never see each other again. If you were lying on the floor next to each other? Naked. It wasn’t a super big deal. Just you and a stranger lying on the ground!

Two hours into the session, you stared directly into Geto’s eyes. “Geto,” you spoke softly, attempting not to distract the students around you.

“What’s up? Do you need a break?”

“No, I was just going to say I wish we were doing a 90s family photo pose. You know those kinds where you would sit on a stool, and I would awkwardly place my hands on one of your shoulders while we stare off into the distance?” Geto’s shoulders shook as he tried to contain his laughter.

You had to make fun of a situation like this. Where you were naked, straddling the hips of a nude man you didn't know, only having a thin cloth separating you from each other. It wasn't as awkward as you thought it would be. Thanks to Geto; he made it extremely comfortable for you. Asking for your consent before touching you, he often checked in to see how you were feeling. He was the perfect gentleman.

Geto also happens to be just your type. He was handsome, sweet, and had a killer body; you felt drunk off of his smell and touch. But would it be wrong to ask him out after doing a job together? You wanted to keep things strictly professional. Your stomach, unfortunately, didn’t get the same memo.

It grumbled helplessly, begging you to feed it something with value instead of instant noodles, protein bars, or candy. God, it was so loud you prayed Geto didn't hear it, that he was too focused on posing to notice your stomach’s begging pleas. You thought you might have been in the clear until Geto gently squeezed your hips, drawing your eyes towards him.

“Hungry?” he asked with a slight smirk.

“N-No.”

“Huh, because it sounds to me like you are.” You shift slightly as if moving would cause your stomach to growl at a softer volume. “W-Wait don—nngh.” Something thick and hard pressed firmly against your ass, making you squeak.

Geto groans, his fingers digging deeper into your hips, stopping you from moving any further. All you can do is stare at him. His eyes remain shut tight. Was he hard? Was he, this god-built man, popping a boner with you on top?

“Geto.” You whisper, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, so you can bring up my stomach growling, but I can’t bring up you hard co-“

Eyes snap open as he shushes you. “I’m sorry, I just think you’re cute and funny. I tried thinking about my grandma naked, but my brain would rather think of how good you feel in my lap.” He breathes out a minty sigh.

His candor had you blushing as you gripped his shoulder. You remain still like that until your stomach grows louder this time. Geto sputters out a laugh as you push yourself back an inch, rolling against his cock, causing a moan to break in through his laughter.

“Fuck, please stop doing that, or I’m gonna cum.”

“Already? Didn’t see you as a pre-mature ejaculator.”

“I’m not—-normally.”

“Says the guy who just said he was gonna cum.”

Geto cocks a pierced brow at you. “I’m like the energizer bunny; I can go all night.” The room feels hot, and it’s not from the lights on you, and it’s not from constricting clothing. The classroom is unbearably hot because of the building tension between you two.

“I doubt that.” You confess in a whisper, rolling your eyes. “How long do you last? Two minutes tops?”

He scoffed gently, kneading your hips. “Is that a challenge?” The urge to kiss and take him up on his challenge eats at you like acid. You inch closer, lips nearly touching, when someone clears their throat behind you.

The sound of them clearing their throat reminds you that you are not alone. The both of you are in the middle of a classroom modeling for a bunch of students. Students that can clearly see and possibly hear the conversation you two are having.

“Later.”

That single word puts a pin in your whole conversation. Geto’s erection goes down while your stomach continues to growl, winning the softest of chuckles from the man you're still straddling. Somehow, by the grace of the gods, you manage to make it through the entire class without your stomach eating itself or grinding down on Geto, much to your amazement.

With the class over, Geto lets you change in the main room while he uses the supply closet. You finish before him, grabbing your things, eyes darting towards the closet. How does one ask out a fellow nude model? Was it just the heat of the moment that had you hungry for his touch? Or was there something truly there between you?

The never-ending questions stopped as Geto stepped out, pushing his hair back, eyes scanning the room. The instant they find you, he’s crossing the floor faster, his backpack slung over his shoulder. There was something in his smile that made you weak in the knees.

“Do you like soba noodles?”

“Yeah, I do.” Your stomach growls in agreement.

A smile so smooth it gives the butter a run for its money graces Suguru’s face. “Let me take you out for dinner and a drink,” he starts heading for the door, “before that stomach gremlin decides to eat me instead of food.” Heart racing, you grab your things, joining his side, hands clasped behind your back.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Geto, but the chances of me eating you after dinner are high.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes, I'd say there is a ninety-five percent chance you’re on the menu for dessert if you want to come back to my apartment.”

“Funny, I was going to say there’s a ninety-eight percent chance I was going to eat you for dessert~”

Glancing up, you nearly stumble as Geto sticks his pierced tongue out. “Then maybe I’ll accept your challenge and prove I can last longer than two minutes.”

You smirk, licking your lips with a starved expression. “Show me what you got from the energizer bunny.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks

[bearieio]

hockey!abby x f!reader note: i'm a simple person, i like abby, i like hockey..... drools sfw, 721 words

abby is the star hockey player, and newly appointed captain on the ice hockey team associated with your guys’ university

it was truly amazing how well she ended up playing in the semi-finals when you were in the lower bowl of the arena, wearing her teams’ jerseys.

during the break, after 2nd period ended, you caught her staring in your direction from the bench when you looked up from your phone.

she sat with her elbows propped up on her thighs. her cheeks were painted a rosy color and she was huffing up a storm from the previous altercation on the rink.

she sported her signature French braid and her baby hairs stuck to her glistening forehead.

when you looked back up from your phone, it seemed as though her eyes widened and the next thing you saw was her braid whip around as she seemed to turn her head the opposite way quickly.

you’d never talked to her in person before, but apparently, everyone else who attended your guys’ college was familiar with her.

from what everyone in your dorm was saying, she’s somewhat of the “playboy” type 🤨

abby was dazzled by you, to say the least.

she’d first seen you at what you guys later figured out was a mutual friend’s band gig.

the set was amazing btw.

she’d seen you from across the room dancing with your friend in the back of the basement-like location nonstop since the band had started playing.

she studied your facial expressions from the doorway she was leaning against. the way your hips swayed to the rhythm of the song. how your smile didn’t fade for the entire night and your eyebrows scrunched a little when you were really into one of the band’s songs.

before abby could make her way over to you after the set, you and the person you came with were already gone.

abby had tried asking around if anyone at the event knew you but unfortunately, no one said they did.

she was lowkey a #stalker..

the weekend after the semi-finals, the first time you’d both crossed paths, you had a psych exam at 07:30 in the morning.

abby had just been transferred to your dorm hall and was moving her things into the room diagonal to yours.

she’d grown tired of the roommates she had and decided to move into a single dorm to finish out the rest of her junior year in uni.

you were outside your door, rummaging through your bag for your keys that you could’ve sworn you through in there last night.

as soon as abby came out of her dorm, she froze. she couldn’t believe who was in front of her.

her eyes went wide as she gazed at you from her side of the hall.

be cool, abby, she thought to herself.

she couldn’t help but chuckle when she heard you curse under your breath.

“are you lookin’ for those?”

you jumped at the sudden sound of someone talking behind you.

you look back, surprised to see the hockey player leaning against her door, arms crossed, and with a sly-looking smile on her face.

she motioned toward to floor.

when your tilt her head towards where she was pointing, you saw your keys. they’d fallen by your feet while you were rushing to get to your class.

“oh! thank you!” you smiled, picking up your keys and locking your door.

“so uh.. where’re you headed? it’s pretty early,” abby asked, now stepping toward you.

“oh i have a psych exam- I HAVE A PSYCH EXAM!” you realized what you were originally rushing out of your dorm for in the first place.

looking down at your phone- 07:14 AM- it took you around 10 minutes to walk to the building in which your professor said to meet for the test.

“i’m sooo sorry, i have to go!” you quickly announced to the woman.

you were practically sprinting out the door before abby had any time to say another word!

but fret not! abby totally took a long glance at your ass before you were out the door ;)

perhaps if i feel like it, i'll make multiple parts to this cuz i really like the trope, but this piece didn't have that much to do with hockey itself :( BUT IDK YET!! lemme know guys.... 😰

[carmenized-onions]

Doing Too Much. | House Call

logline; Appliances can reach their breaking point, when you push them too far. Same goes for people.

[!!!] series history, this is the sixth; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth

[New Thing!!] Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin' added to.

portion; 4.8k

possible allergies; eatin' meat, besides that, we're pretty good actually. did somebody say calm before the storm....?

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (no pronouns, but girl is said a couple times, i believe.)

After this chapter, I'm entering my era of couch hopping as I move to a new city n start a new job. I'm really excited for the chapter after this one, so hopefully I actually get time to write it-- But that's just my lil warning if you're left rereading for like two weeks </3 But I'll def be stalking my activity/inbox so please do yap to me

Monday morning. The next morning after everything. Well, closer to noon than morning, at this point. You’re supposed to have, what, a work ethic this week? After the most insane weekend of your life? No. You’re lazing around and doing fuck all. No matter who calls. Well… Not completely no matter, but like, most people.

When you check your phone, you’ve gotten a text at 6:43 A.M. Unknown number. Ah. Carmen. You put him in as Carmy, and put his nickname as ‘Mister New York’. Listen, old nicknames Mikey ingrained in your brain die hard.

It’s a simple text, deeply un-romantic.

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

Then, four lines of four perfect categories. Flawless. Purple first, even. The hardest category. And then,

‘Morning’

Stupid. Incredibly stupid, to be enamoured, by this. You reply,

‘Good morning!’

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

And then a failed jumble of coloured squares, you get one out of four categories. What the fuck is 'dogleg' and since when has it meant taking a sharp turn? You follow that up with,

‘Fuck you.’

Aside from Carmen, you’ve actually gotten texts from a couple people. Your boss at Eden’s asking if you’re alright. What the fuck did Cicero say? Oh well. You tell him you’ve ‘been better, been worse. Will be okay by next week.’ Perfectly vague, and you still get wired your cheque and tip out. Alright, maybe Uncle J does deserve your free labour.

Speaking of, the next text on your itinerary is from Uncle J, just info for the winter nuptials of Vinnie and Mira. Oh yeah. Three-hundred guests, you remember that part. You also remember him saying it’d be an ‘easy gig’… He did not mention you’d be the only bartender. This is going to be a nightmare. Oh well. You text back that despite it being an open bar you get to put out a tip jar. He just reacts to it, ‘haha’. That sounds like a yes to you.

And then, adorably, a selfie from Syd, wearing the collar and pins you’ve gifted her, under a green sweater. Cutie. You hype her up accordingly.

Besides some texting though, Monday is relatively unbusy. No calls. No emergencies. No businesses knocking down your door for your services. You’re thankful for a break, letting the inertia set in, finally being able to relax after fix after fix after—

Tuesday comes, you get sent another perfect round of New York Time’s Connections around half past six in the morning, along with a good morning text. And again, you fuck it up. You send him your Wordle results this time, as an act of rebellion. You then ask,

‘How’s reworking the menu going?’

‘Hard to say’

‘Ask me tomorrow’

God he’s an awful texter. Horrifically dry. You know you’re down bad beyond a belief when you find that endearing. You spend Tuesday drowning and pruning your plants after depriving them for so long.

Plus working on your art piece for Carmy. You’re pulling out old film photos, a canvas, and a load of bleach—It’s like high school art class all over again— Surprise surprise, the handyman who loves to up-cycle is a mixed media artist. Who could’ve guessed?

While trimming a photo, an exterior of The Beef, a picture frame on your wall falls down behind you, you tut, turning your head to it, chastising the air. “Mikey! It’s a copy, relax! I’ve still got the original print…”

There’s every chance you’re insane— No, you’re definitely insane. But you’re allowed to be, your best friend died, you’re allowed to talk to the air as if he’s still around. Sometimes the timing of doors swinging open for you and things falling down are just too uncanny to not be a ghost.

Wednesday arrives, and again, just after 6:40, Connections results. And the Wordle, this time; plus a ‘Good Morning’. It looks like this is simply just your thing, now. Every morning, the second both of you get up, you send each other puzzles and wish a good morning. You don’t mind that. It’s nice to have a ‘thing’, with someone. With Carmen.

Part way through the day, around two o’clock, you get another text. Two, actually. From Carmen, in quick succession.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Don’t worry if you’re busy. Can call Fak’

You’re quick to reply, frankly deeply offended.

‘Are you fucking firing me????’

‘I’m gonna get ready. Text me details’

While getting dressed, you watch three dots bubble, bubble, bubble… He’s taking forever, just don’t look at it, you’ll get anxious for no reason. No jumpsuit today, you’ve got to switch it up every now and again. Navy cargo pants with the perfect number of pockets and zippers, and an orange Chicago’s Kindest shirt, tucked in. Hm. Looking in the mirror, hickey is still there. Lighter, but there. Foundation? No. You’ll sweat it off and that’ll just bring up more questions. If Syd asks you’ll just tell her you fell down the stairs… On your neck. She's not the type to confront anything remotely sexual anyways.

Speaking of Syd, before Carmen can text you back, she calls you, which is fair— Don’t leave a Carmen to communicate. You stick your phone in the crux of your neck and answer while you pack your utility belt. This feels nearly nostalgic. “What’s fucked?”

Carmen is in the background; you can hear the tail end of a sentence, grumbling. “—Don’t call—”

“My life.” She responds without missing a beat. “And also, Carmy’s stove and oven.”

“Oh.” You squint. “What the fuck happened?”

“Overuse? I actually don’t fucking know, it just stopped working. We plugged it in and out— He even reset his apartment’s breakers. I dunno what’s wrong with it. It’s probably got something to do with him putting his fuckin’ jeans in there.”

“…He what?”

You can hear him in the background, again, clearer this time, grimacing, “What are you doing to me?”

Syd does not mind him at all, continuing, “I know! He’s fucking weird!”

“He’s extremely weird.” You like him a lot. “I’ll be over soon, were you guys like, mid-cooking?”

“Yessir.”

“Christ, alright… I think I have a dual burner hot plate laying around somewhere, you want me to bring it—”

They both speak clearly this time, together, “Please.”

You’ve got a pile of things to give to them anyways, and maybe you miss Carmy’s face. Just a little.

Instead of just buzzing you in, Carmy comes down for you. When he sees you through the door window, carrying a cardboard box, he almost breaks into a full run. He’s somehow opening the door, grabbing the box from your hands, and chastising you all at the same time. “You should’ve left it in the car, I would’ve—”

You step in through the entryway and kiss his cheek, cutting him short. You can’t help yourself, it’s the first time you’ve seen him since and you feel like a giddy teen. The teenage girl in your head is no longer just in your head, she’s fully manning the station. “You’re very sweet. But it’s also not heavy.”

When he continues to be frozen, the regret starts to mount, “Is—Sorry, is that okay to do—?”

“It’s very okay to do.” He manages to reply, with haste. Nodding to himself. “It’s good.” He nods again, then marches off, expecting you to follow to the elevator. You do.

“What floor?”

“Eighth.” He sniffs; you press the button. He stands next to you, looking you up and down. He astutely observes. “Orange.”

“Yeah.” You smirk, looking back at him, “Turns out, businesses can have two colours in their designs.”

What’s a little roasting of fellow small businesses between two not just friends?

“Oh yeah?” Coy, smirking. Oh no. You’ve gotta get the teen off the controls. He tilts his vision to stare at your jacket. Ah. You opted to wear your Carhartt instead of his jean jacket.

“Didn’t wanna give Syd more questions.” She already guessed you’re a sugar baby, you don’t want to wrap Carmen in on that too. Especially since ideally in a month or two he’ll be your boss. Hm. The Bear is going to need an HR.

He hums, nodding. “We’re not telling Syd?”

“What’s there to tell?” You grin, crossing your arms. “You suddenly have free time, Bear?”

He takes a beat, thinking, then just takes a deep frustrated yet amused exhale. “I’m gonna fuckin’…” He can’t think of a threat. “…Get you.”

You snort, “You’re gonna get me?”

“Fuck you—!” “You’re gonna fuckin’ get me, Bear?”

“I—” He tries to hold a straight face, it doesn’t work. “Yeah, I am.”

“Can’t wait.” You nod, grinning, turning back to the doors. “You told me to ask how menu’s going tomorrow.”

“I did.”

“It’s tomorrow.” The door dings, opening on the eighth floor; you step out together. He switches his grip to hold the box in one arm. Alright Biceps, we don’t need to brag here...

“It’s… We’re getting there.” He grimaces. “Syd’s recipes are always… Almost perfect.”

“Ah.” You nod, you know your friend well enough to know where this is going. “And she fucks up one thing hard?”

“Mhm.”

“And when you tell her it’s okay and give her a hand she just feels worse?”

He nods. A touch surprised you’re right on the dot so quickly. “Everything ends up perfect, but I think she’s finding the edits…”

“Demoralizing.” You walk down the hall together, he nods. “I know what she needs, I’ll find an in.”

“You always do.” He hums, you walk just a touch ahead of him, unknowingly walking past his door. He pulls you back by the back of your jacket, making you stumble back into him. This seems to be this villain’s intention; as when you turn around, he’s quick to grab your chin and kiss you.

“It’s very good.” He emphasizes, again, before opening his door and acting like everything’s totally normal and fine. Since when did he turn the tables and make you the desperate one? Son of a bitch.

Ah. Actually, subtract any attraction you had in this moment— He lives like this? Books on the floor, by the window. Jeans on the dinner table, because they were in the oven. The kitchen actually looks alright— You’re almost certain that’s purely for utilitarian purposes while they’re working on the menu. This motherfucker better have a bed frame or him asking you to sleep over would be downright offensive. God, he’s wonderful. God, you’re an idiot.

You find Syd at the table, moping, head in hands. Carmen sets the box down, sitting beside her. You pat the top of her head. She silently moves one of her hands to go over yours. You nod. The silent exchange of girls who know.

“Yeah?”

She nods, grumbling. “Yeah.”

Carmen has no fucking idea what’s happening and he’s never been more intrigued by a near wordless social interaction in his entire life. What? You’re not even making eye-contact. What the fuck is happening?

You fish through the box with your free hand, grabbing a pot. You place it in front of Syd. “Look.”

She peeks through her fingers. A tiny but flourishing nursery pot of basil sits before her. You speak. “You’re gonna hyper-fixate on this basil I’m gifting you, and then you’re gonna crack back into it with the dual burner until I’m done fixing the oven.”

She nods, putting her hands in her lap, “Yes, Chef.”

You pull out a second nursery pot, setting it down for Carmen. “For you.”

“What for?”

“Basil grows like a motherfucker and it’s getting unhinged. I need to start pawning off to people that’ll make good use of it. A-K-A, chefs.” You look at Syd, pointedly, “Talented chefs.”

You hand off the heating pad— Wrapped in brown paper with a card tied to it, to Carmen. “For Nat.” You add, when he looks confused, “Can’t imagine I’ll see her sooner than you will.”

He looks even more confused, when you hand him a spray bottle full of reddish water. It’s one of the good spray bottles, too. Continuous. Carmen wouldn’t know the difference, but you do. “Rosemary. —Water, that is.”

He squints; you clarify, gesturing to your own hair. “You mentioned, losing hair, so— Thought I’d make some, with the trimmings of rosemary I had. Got ginger and cloves in it, too.”

Why have you trapped him in hell? You’ve remembered such a specific off hand from days ago and acted on it? And he can’t express the grandiose level of affection he feels right now? Are you serious? You’re the devil. You’re absolutely the devil. He just coughs out a ‘thanks’.  

“And, the pièce de résistance,” You pull out the old ass, boxed up double burner countertop stove. “A stovetop that ideally fuckin’ works. It was my single claim to fame in my college dormitory.”

Carmen’s already opening the box. Sydney smirks, curiosity peaked. “Was that legal?”

“You a fuckin’ RA?” You grin, poking her forehead. “It was not. And that’s exactly why everyone loved me— Didn’t serve them fuckin’ hot pockets.”

The configurations of Carmen’s apartment would be great for literally any occasion besides the current one. The kitchen is narrow, and so, when you pull out the stove to check the back, there’s an estimated no fucking room left for Carm and Syd, so they sit at the dinner table with your stove top. You’d think they’d look like they’re doing a cute hot pot. No. They look like two conflicted and confused twelve-year-olds working on a science project.

So do you, honestly. Wiring is definitely more your speed than plumbing, but if you’re being honest, this is the first oven you’ve worked on without your dad, and you’re having a hard time remembering everything. There’s a lot of embarrassed Googling on your phone, when you're sure they’re not looking. They can’t know you’re even slightly incompetent!

You’re pretty sure it’s just a couple damaged wires, fried from overwork— Easy fix, if you had wire. You don’t. Slightly harder fix. But soldering is your bitch really, you’re in your bag. You look stupid, wearing chunky goggles and a respirator, but you’re in your bag, baby! What’s that one saying? Skills make you hot? That’s not a saying.

But it is true. When Carmen’s able to peer into the kitchen, quickly looking over his shoulder when Syd takes a moment to write a measurement or direction down, you look stunning.  Respirator and all. You just look correct there, in the kitchen. His kitchen. So stunning he feels guilty. Do you find it annoying? Constantly fixing errors behind him? Probably. You say it’s not a lot of work, but that can’t be true.

“How’s The Bear, ‘sides menu rework?” You ask, raising your voice in the kitchen.

“S’good.” Carmen. “I’m in hell.” Syd. Not hard to tell which statue is lying, here.

Syd stutters on, “Nat’s takin’ care of baby Michaela— Which is very good and—and cool, actually.”

“But?”

“But we’re back to handling the business side entirely ourselves, for like— The next month. Maybe two? Fuck, are we doing the wedding without her?” Sydney almost burns her sauce, Carmen’s quick to move it off the burner.

He mutters, “Don’t even start to think about it. It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“Oh yeah, wedding— Have you gotten your menu yet?” You call from the kitchen, muffled by your respirator.

“Oh my god!” Sydney exclaims, and Carmen is wincing. She can’t tell you things are going wrong; doesn’t she know that? You’ll fix it, if things are wrong. You always fix it. Fix him. You’re gonna put him in your phone as Carmy Bad News. If you haven’t already. Start a support group with Tif.

Syd continues, “They’re so fucking particular and somehow also vague—Like, ‘we want salmon and chicken’ for main course— What kind of preparation? ‘Surprise us!’ Okay, how about roasted chicken—? ‘Mmmm, no, not that’. I’ve been told ‘non quello’ at least ten times in the last four days.”

No, you’re witty. Bad News Bear. Fuck, that’s definitely his name in your phone, isn’t it?

“Fuckin’ nightmare. Y’know, I’m the only fucking bartender? For like three hundred guests? Thank God they’re not asking for a custom cocktail or anything, I’d lose my shit.”

Sydney laughs, and she steps back into her flow easily, reducing the sauce without burning it, now. She looks more serene than she has in days. What? How are you doing that? What are you doing? Are you casting a spell?

“Can you even fucking imagine what their couples’ cocktail would be?”

You groan from the kitchen, laughing in return, “Not you too, Syd! Must you make me work!?”

“C’mon maestro, make a cocktail!”

“Bleh. Uh… They give long island iced tea energy, but it’s a wedding so— Like a boozier negroni?”

“That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“I didn’t say it’d be good, I said it’d be their couples’ cocktail.” You’re both giggling, like school girls. It’s like you said— You become teens, together.

Despite the fact that Syd is making an incredibly complex dish, and you’re fixing an oven—His oven— Ridiculing the other impossible tasks set out for the both of you… Despite all of that, you’re laughing.

Carmen is, what, nearly thirty? A restaurant owner, with a full crew, who attends Al-Anon, and is only now truly registering the power of an unsolvable burden being shared. Not fixed, shared. Talking. Laughing. God, this all comes so easy to you, doesn’t it?

You finish soldering, test each burner, and the oven— All working, thank God. You quietly cheer in the kitchen, removing your respirator and goggles. “We’re good here! Fixed!”

“C’mere!” Syd calls out to you, and so you do. Eagerly. She hands you a fork. Unprompted, she does the thing. You’d missed the OG, really.

“Beef Oxtail, pressed in a Foie Gras casing, seared. Basted in a King Oyster mushroom sauce. Pureed greens on the side.”

“I never know what the fuck you’re saying.”

She pushes the side of your face with the palm of her hand. “Put it in your mouth and chew.”

You want to make some sort of kink joke, but you respect the already struggling man in the room and take a bite. Hm. Hm. You put a finger over your mouth, swallowing. “...Now it might just be my unrefined palate.”

“That’s why we have you try it.” Carmen pipes in. Syd nods, following. “It’s important to know the baseline.”

“…It’s got like,” You hand the fork to Syd so she can try it, while you think. “A bit of a bitter aftertaste? Which might be the… goal?”

Syd spits it out the second it touches her mouth, she shouts your name, your actual name— A rarity. She’s so terrified that she forgets the Walk-In bit she’s been in on all week. “I just fuckin’ poisoned you— Oh my god?! Are you good? That was— Fuck! You swallowed that?!”

She grabs your face like a concerned mother, also maybe to check if you have superpowers, you’re not sure. All you know is there’s a golden opportunity to make another sex joke and you have to hold back. Life is so unfair.

Carmen takes a quick taste, also spitting it out. “I’ve got it, Chef, don’t sweat.” Immediately looking to the drafted recipe card to see where they went wrong.

Syd almost squeezes your cheeks like a stress ball but thinks better of it, letting go, groaning, beyond frustrated at this point. “You shouldn’t have to fix it— I should fuckin’ have it, at this point.”

Carmen's trying to ignore how much he relates to the sentiment. He's not the focus, right now.

“We make mistakes, Chef—” “Syd.” You snap your fingers, pointing to her, interrupting Carmen. “Can you help me grab something, from my car? It’s kinda big.”

Carmen’s quick to chime in, already going to untie his apron, “I can—”

“No!” You look at him pointedly, trying to communicate through look alone. He kind of gets it? “It’s… Girl stuff.”

Syd squints. “You need me to help you carry a big girl thing?”

“…Are you fuckin’ helping or are you gonna poke holes?”

“What are you actually dragging me out for?”

“Technically I do actually need your help grabbing something, it’s just not a girl thing. And it's also not from my car.”

“Oh?”

You walk out of Carmen’s building with his keys, and gesture out to every apartment buildings treasure trove— The spot everyone throws their furniture when they move out and don’t know what else to do with it.

“Bookshelf!” There is actually one pristine looking bookshelf, a cheap one, definitely just something from IKEA. But it’s better than the fucking floor. “I spotted it on my way in, we’re gonna bring it up for Carm.”

She groans, hating the concept of manual labour, but still walks with you and grabs one end anyways. “Why didn’t you make Carmen carry his own bookshelf?”

“Because you need a fuckin’ pep-talk.” You pick the other end of the bookshelf up. It’s thankfully not that heavy. You walk backwards so you can keep facing Syd.

“…I don’t—” “Yes the fuck you do.”

She kisses her teeth, you frown. “What’s up, Adamu?”

“It’s just fucking annoying— I keep, I keep fucking it up. I keep—Keep—”

“Doing too much.”

She gives you a look, ‘are you serious?’, type look. You continue. “You’re doing too much. You’re not cooking like you.”

“I can cook like Michelin—”

“I never said you couldn’t. Watch your step.” You interrupt, walking over a bump in the sidewalk. “You can do star level shit, Syd. But that’s a grade, not a type.”

She kind of reels, at that. You continue, “You cook great complex dishes, you always have, I’ve tried them. But now, you’re all caught up trying to prove some shit, to Carmen, to—to— Who gives stars? The tires guy?”

She laughs, almost dropping the bookshelf. “Yeah, I’m trying to impress the tires guy.”

“Fuck you.” You snort, stepping up the stairs. “What I’m trying to say is, you should make what you want to eat, not what you think you should eat.”

She nods, you stop on top of the stairs, both taking a second to breathe. “…Thanks.”

You nod back, hands on your knees for a second before standing back up, opening the lobby door. “I’ll always be your cheerleader, Syd.”

“More like coach.”

“Can you let me have one hot girl career, please?”

When you get back up to Carmen’s, he’s already grimacing. You and Syd are split apart by the bookshelf standing between you in the hall. “Fuck is this?”

“It was free and I’ll clean it!” You press your hands together pleading. “C’mon, you can even put your jeans in it!”

“Jeans on a bookshelf?”

You turn to Syd. “Better than the oven.”

“I think he’s doing that to dry them.”

“I think it’s ‘cause he doesn’t own a dresser.”

“It’s both.” Carmen clicks his tongue, single-handedly picking up the bookshelf and carrying inside. Alright, does he need to show off this much? Whatever. It’s definitely not making you feel any type of way at all.

You squint, watching him walk further in his apartment, and then to Syd. You speak at the same time. “He stays doing too much.”

As promised, you wipe down the bookshelf, making sure it’s free of grime and roadside pests. Syd and Carmy work together in the kitchen, with a now functioning oven. You load the shelf up with the books on the floor— Thankfully they’re piled into categories already, so you don’t have to bother him about that.

You’re tempted to clean his living room, but that would probably be rude, right? Don’t want him to take it as you saying he’s a slob. But they are taking a while… Alright, you’ll just throw out trash. You won’t fold blankets or pick up dishes or anything. Just trash! No big! He can’t be mad at you for that.

You pile together the garbage, then sneakily throw it out in the kitchen trash can as fast as you can, before he looks. He’ll think he’s just sleep cleaning, or something. “How’s it goin’ in here?’

Carmen pipes up, eyes focused on the dish as Syd plates it. “Good.” Syd holds the plate in one hand, and silently corrals you with the other to sit at the table. You do. She sets it down the plate before you, handing you a fork and knife.

You look up at her expectantly. She shakes her head. “Eat first, this time.”

She looks serious, so you nod, cutting into the dish. It’s different from the last one. Instead of oxtail, it’s pastry. Or at least, a puff pastry exterior. You’re pretty sure it’s Pillsbury, you remember Carmen buying that, the other day, on your excursion.

Inside it, you believe is the beef oxtail, there’s other things, too. Some sort of sauce, some greens— Oh well, no time to bask in the cross section because Syd looks like she’s about to explode. You take a bite. You nod, chewing.

Syd starts, “Searing the duck caused the bitter taste— So instead of- Of searing the outside, I coated it in the mushroom sauce, the greens— Not pureed, this time, for texture. Your basil, too. There’s a crumble of feta, for a subtle tang. And then wrapped it all together in puff pastry, and baked. It’s sort of like, a varied take on a beef welling—”

“You made a fucking gourmet hot pocket?” You swallow, wheezing. The second you say this, Sydney’s focused face beams, laughing, like she’s just pulled off the most perfect prank of all time.

Carmen was so intrigued and focused on Sydney’s explanation, that you watering it down to hot pocket and being right makes his entire system reboot. He cannot stop smiling, aghast. He's been helping Syd make a hot pocket for the past hour?

“I told you to make what you want and—” wheeze “—you make a fucking hot pocket?!” You double down, laughing with her, she’s trying to defend herself but she can’t stop wheezing in tandem.

“I— I can’t fuckin’ stand you!” You snort, covering your face with your arm. “I hate your ass, oh my God, Syd.”

“Did—” snort “What did you think?” She recovers, slowly but surely.

You shake your head, handing her the fork. “It’s sick, Syd, obviously, it’s fucking perfect… Chef.” You tack on at the end, almost forgetting. “I’m not gonna be able to have an actual hot pocket, ever again. You’ve ruined my life.”

She takes a bite for herself, nodding. She does a small cheer, pumping her fist. “Let’s fucking go.” She points her fork at you— Purely on muscle memory, and you both instantly remember the days of her testing out recipes and you pairing them on first taste. She’d point her fork to you like a microphone. It was a fun game between two nerds.

It’s a reflex response for you, even now. “Barolo. Savory, dry, red. A young one, though. Light body. Could also do an Amarone, if you’re not buried in money.”

She hands the fork off to Carmy to try it, then writes the pairings down, mumbling, amusement still in her voice. “How the fuck do you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think I have some wires crossed.”

“Fire, Chef.” Carmen swallows his bite. “We cannot call it a hot pocket on the menu.”

“Then what’s the point!?”

Leaving Carmen’s place is objectively the most awkward experience— But also the funniest. You offer to wait for Syd and drive her home— You’ll need a second to pack anyways while they make their business plans.

When you do offer, of course, Carmen stutters short, almost asking you again to sleep over or at the very least stay late, but saves it, realizing himself.

Syd accepts the ride offer. You pack up and wait for her to be done. When she is, Carmen offers to carry your things down with you both, in which Syd accuses him of thinking you’re both weaklings— He does not have a defense case for this, he has to let you go. You can tell he wants to kiss you at the door, and you do too. Sadly, you’re equally down bad, but he can’t know that…

You say your goodbyes, Syd helps you load your tools and hotplate in the trunk of your car. Your phone vibrates. Text from Mister New York.

‘Look up I’m on the balcony. 8 floors.’

You look up, sure as shit, he’s out there, cigarette in mouth. Unlit. He waves, you wave back. He texts again, in rapid succession.

‘Thank you’

‘For helping Syd’

‘And the oven and the hot plate and the bookshelf (not necessary)’

‘nbd + I think it’s v necessary’ Does Carmen understand acronyms? You’re risking it, here.

‘and cleaning my trash’ Sonofabitch.

‘ah fuck. I don’t think you’re messy!!! I just wanted to help!!!’

‘I know. You’re you. Be safe.’

Oh goddammit, stupid dry texter, saying something so gah. You jump as Syd taps the roof of your car behind you, getting your attention. Watching from a far distance, Carmen laughs, though you don’t notice it.

“Are we going?”

“Yes! Sorry!” You hurriedly pocket your phone, waving one last time as you get in your car. Syd sits beside you in shotgun, her pot of basil sat safely in her lap. You drive off.

You’re half way down the road, when Syd pipes up again. “So y’all are fucking, correct?”

You almost brake check the guy behind you.

 “How do you fuckin’ do that!?”

the opening is dedicated to my dear friend and i who have sent our wordle results to each other everyday for the past like year and a half.

Things of note, one - people usually skip the shit up top-- I made a spotify playlist! Listen if you like, I'm not your dad.

Two, I know this is a self insert right, i know what I set myself up for-- Do you know the hell i am in as a syd x carmy girl writing scenes with both of them and it NOT being them? What have I done, to myself? The only coping mechanism I have is imagining in this universe Syd is a lesbian. And that is helping.

The hot pocket recipe-- Who fucking knows, if that would taste good? I think it would? In theory? I fucked with a dish from Daniel NYC, to make it into a bit. Would it work? ....Beef wellingtons do, I can't see why this can't???? Idk man.

Rosemary water w cloves and ginger does fucking work btw. I am part of the so stressed out i lost my hair brigade. Also basil does grow like a motherfucker.

We're seein' a little bit of that tenseness that comes with being in an 'almost relationship' both of them feel like they've got something they can fuck up now. Poor birds. They'll be okay. Probably.

I'm really excited for the next chapter, I don't wanna give shit away, but it's gonna be,,,,,, different. I haven't seen anyone try this kinda formatting on tumblr before, and I'm excited to see what you think. Between my moving and how complex the choreography of it is gonna be, it's gonna be a much longer minute between this chapter and the next, I fear. But listen, you already knew your ass was gettin' spoiled with a chapter every two days. Hehe.

As always, please come yap to me in the replies/inbox/dms/reblogs. I love to hear thoughts!! It sustains me, baby!!

Next Part

[bandgie]

Poor Baby

Idol!Bangchan x sexworker!reader

a/n: a lot of you guys asked for a part two of this post and I will provide!

synopsis: You need to make end meet with your bills. When your boss gives you a huge opportunity to make big money, you hop at it (even if it impacts your dignity). Lucky for you, your favorite customer happens to be coming in that day.

cw: 18+ MDNI, glory holes, PIV, no protection (use it!), fingering, oral (f!receiving), pussy slapping, cursing, cock drunk reader, reader is called Nyx/Chris is called Koala, mentions of Lee Know, cum eating, Chris is more confident this time, Chris is called 'daddy' and he plays into it, brief mentions of sub-space, idk that's it

3.9k words

"I dunno, sounds too risky," you bite your fingernails as you speak. The offer is a good one, triple your hourly and bonus tips. You were on the verge of not being able to make rent, but your boss literally put this opportunity in your lap. Had you been a higher rating girl, you wouldn't have to resort to being a gloryhole.

"Okay I see what you mean," he starts, "but it's only for the weekend. Five hours tops! I'll give you a 20 minute break in the middle of it." Your boss looks at you with expecting eyes. You would take the deal in a heartbeat, but it goes against the only rule you have. "I don't feel safe letting my clients raw dog me. What if they get me sick?"

Your boss shakes his head profusely, "No! Come on Nyx, you know I wouldn't let that happen to any of my girls. They'll take the test to see if they're clean in advance. I get it, it goes against your morals or whatever, but it's big money. Huge! People with names are going to come, literally, and I know you need this more than ever. It's why I came to you first."

You sigh, looking down at the hands in your lap. He's right, and he's a good boss. You have a good job, nice coworkers, and a boss who genuinely looks after you. That's hard to find in this business. After all, you do need the money. Doing this gig for the weekend will help tremendously, and you might even afford to take a few days off.

Finally, you nod. "Yeah I guess you're right. When should I show up?"

It was a lot sooner than you had anticipated. You and the other girls weren't allowed to know who was coming. Like your boss said, they were well-known, so they preferred to keep their identity a secret. That part did make you a little nervous if you're being honest, but you found comfort in knowing that they wouldn't be able to see you.

It would be better this way. Have half your body in a wall, legs open, let the dude use you until he cuts in mere minutes, and get on with the next. Men cum easily, especially when they used women like a fleshlight. Perhaps time will go fast like that, and you could start planning on what you can do on your mini vacation.

So here you were, upper body laid on a small bed chest down with a bar in front for support. Your lower body was out through the hole, legs standing for support. It was slightly uncomfortable, but you could manage. Other women were in different positions all around you, some higher and some lower. Your boss and a few of other workers helped lube you up. You're thankful for that because you know damn well the men coming in would just rail into you.

A few minutes passed before you could hear shuffling, murmurs, the unbuckling of pants. You tensed in anticipation. You were grateful they couldn't see you, but not being able to see them was an entirely different story. You gasped when you felt fingers explore your folds. They were impatient, violating, and too harsh. You bit your lower lip from barking at the man, trying to think of all the cash you'd be swimming in soon.

It's just for the weekend.

-

Chris found himself, once again, in front of your establishment. He had already gone though the club, the secret sunflower door, the code. The only difference was that he was accompanied by none other than the person who told him about this sex club, Lee Know. They both wore disguises, face masks and hats to conceal their face.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this again," Chris groans. Lee Know only smiles and laughs. Minho pats him on the back, "You're the one that agreed. Plus they have something special going on. You'll like it." Chris follows Minho from the main floor of the sex club and into the back. It's the familiar path to where he met you, but way further back.

Christopher would be lying if he wasn't anticipating on meeting you again. It's embarrassing, but he jerks himself off at the thought of you. The way you feel, the way you taste, how patient you were with him. He would rather die than tell Minho about you, he would get teased until the end of days. It's silly to think he'd see you here, but he can't help but hope.

"Something special? Is that why I had to get tested for STD's?" Chris questions. Rather than giving a verbal answer, Minho hums. He didn't have to do that before the session with you, and you let him go raw. Maybe it's only for special event, he thinks.

Chris and Minho approach a booth with a person inside. She wears a plastic smile on her face, hair done perfectly and acrylic nails. "Names please?" Her voice is almost drained out by the moans and slapping sounds coming from the other side. It's just a curtain that covers it, so all sounds can be heard.

A blush quickly finds its way to Chris's face and ears. He's so flustered that Minho has to answer, "Koala and Rino." The lady in the booth seems completely dismissive about what's going on behind the curtain. She looks through a few pages before nodding, "Ah I see you right here. Please enjoy your time, the session ends in about 2 hours."

Lee Know nods in response and grabs Chris by the sleeve the drag him behind the curtain. To say he was surprised was an understatement. He couldn't even comprehend the sight at first. Men were covered in sweat, pants completely down. Cum was stained below where the women were placed. The smell was strong, and it made Chris grimace.

He turned to Minho, expecting the same reaction. Instead, Minho was looking as if he was at heaven's gates. "Isn't it beautiful?" Chris stays quiet rather than answering. Minho walks further in and Christopher trails behind. The women have only their lower body sticking out, some in doggy others in missionary position.

Chan has only seen glory holes in porn, never even considering seeing one in person.

"So here," Minho points at the wall above one of the women, "is the name of the hole. They don't provide pictures, which sucks. If you see a name you like or know, you just basically fuck it. Cum in it, don't come it. Touch it, don't. The main rule is to not reach in the cut out. Keep your hands to what's exposed, or you'll get kicked out. They're pretty strict when it comes to shit like this."

Chris doesn't bother asking how Lee Know knows so much, it's in his name afterall. "I dunno," Chris tentatively looks around the room. Other men seem to have face masks on, but some don't. He can recognize people form TV, the news, even some older politicians. Lee Know sighs, "Bro, they don't care about you. No offense. They're just here to get their dick wet and leave. It's only gay if you make eye contact."

Lee Know's joke lightens the mood, and Chris finds himself laughing alongside him. They did pay a pretty dime to be here for the special event, he might as well enjoy it. The two men go off in their separate ways not long after. It feel weird for Chris to window-shop like this, almost uncomfortable. It's not until he comes across a familiar name that makes his heart skip.

Nyx, he almost sings. You have your ass out at the height of his hips. He takes a few steps closer as if he couldn't believe it's actually you. Chris takes note of your of your swollen clit, the gaping hole, the cum that drips down your thighs. Without thinking, he reaches out his ands to rub your ass. Not sexually, but more in a comforting way. He can tell this takes you by surprise because you jolt.

"Poor baby," he says sympathetically. It's not loud enough for you to hear, but he can't help but want to console you. From the description he read of you before, he thought this was the last place you'd be. His hands stay soft, and he finds himself kneeling. He can feel the wet floor staining his pants, but he doesn't care.

To put on a show, you wiggle your ass for him. You think the man behind you is going to shove himself in, but you feel a hot tongue. You gasp as the sensation. Since you first clock in, no one had eaten you out. You honestly didn't expect anyone to. You're covered in other men's cum, who in their right mind would consider such a thing?

Chris would, in a heartbeat. If it's to soothe you, he would do anything. He feels like he owes you something. Sure he paid you after the last interaction, but it still felt like it wasn't enough. Tasting men's cum isn't pleasant, but hearing your muffled moans though the walls was worth it.

It reminds him of last time, how desperate you sounded with his mouth on you. He wished you could see his face, watching as your mouth twisted in pleasure. Even now, he's still wishing for the same. His mask is pulled down under his chin while he devours you. Your legs struggle to keep you up right, but you stay on your tiptoes.

You can hear him slurping behind you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs to keep you spread. His tongue flicks over your bud and goes back to teasing your entrance. You could feel your arousal seeping out, and that seems to spur him on more. Your hands grip the bar above the bed, and you so desperately want to grip his hair instead.

Despite being here for three hours, you haven't came. You've gotten close to finishing, but men always finished before you did. It left you frustrated, yearning. You pray that the man eating you keeps going until you cum, but you know better than to hope for that. Instead, you try to grind against his face with what little movement you have.

"Shit. You like that baby?" You hear him ask. His voice is vaguely familiar, a twist of a distinct accent you swear you've heard before. You nod though he can't see. "Fuck yes. Don't stop," you moan. Perhaps it wasn't smart to command the client to please you, it's the other way around after all. To your surprise, he keeps going. He has his tongue dip inside your pussy, feeling your smooth walls.

It's so unbelievably sexy of him to eat you out. He must look humiliating; on his knees, sucking out the cum of other men into his mouth, the filthy sounds that leave his throat. He's eating you like he's never had a good meal in his life, like he missed your pussy. His tongue is experienced too, and you can't help but think this is also familiar.

That recognizable knot in your stomach gathers, and you begin shaking. If he pulls away now, you think, I'll quit. You don't even have to tell him you're close, he can feel how you tighten around his tongue. He quickly pulls away and shoves a finger inside before you could complain. It's difficult to eat you out now that his finger is in the way, but he can use his other hand to replace his mouth.

Chris rubs your clit in circles while he pumps you with his other finger. You squeal at the impact, feeling how his hand meets your ass when he goes deep. Your toes curl, eyes roll back to your head, and loudly moan when you cum on his fingers. It's been so long, so long since you've cum from a client. The last time was with that Koala guy, the one with the...accent.

Realization hits you quickly. You don't even have the chance to say anything with how he finger fucks you through your orgasm. "Wait! wait wait wait..." Chris immediately stops when he hears you. He gently removed his hand from you and you almost fall limp. His hands catch your waist and he keeps you up.

"Are you okay?" His voice is full of concern, full of care. Yeah, that can only be one person. You laugh breathlessly, body still quivering from your recent orgasm. "Shit Koala. How long has it been? Like three months?" You imagine he's choked up, unable to answer you. You've had a lot of customers, and it's impossible to remember them all. Koala, however, has left quite the impression on you.

He laughs awkwardly, "Something like that yeah. Uh...how ya been?"

You blow a raspberry and chuckle, "I don't think I'm in a position for a little reunion. You came here to fuck no?" Chris is a little stunned with your words, but agrees. "Yes. Well no. I mean yes, but not like-" he keeps rambling. You take pity on him and decide to take the lead, "No no I get it. You came here to fuck my pussy right?"

Chris feels like his face is on fire. He wish he could deny it, but he can't. He did come here with hopes of seeing you, to feel you again. Sure he could have fucked any girl here, but how could he when he knew you were here. All pretty and prepped for him. "What if I said yes?" he teases. "Would that make you happy?"

It's surprising to hear Koala tease you back, but you're more than happy to oblige. "Hmm...maybe. It's been a while since you've fucked me, might not be as good as before." Chris laughs, hands squeezing your ass, "I think you know you're lying to yourself. Got you cummin' on my tongue in minutes. Imagine what I could do with my cock."

His confidence has you horny. Before, he was pliant and submissive. He's a totally different man now, who knows what happened in three months. It could also be the fact that he can't see you properly, so it gives him some courage to be bold. No matter, you find it beyond attractive.

"All this talking and no fucking," you complain. "Maybe you are rusty."

In all honesty, Chris hasn't really fucked after you. He rarely did in the first place, but he genuinely thinks no one can compete with your cunt. He knows you're joking with him, but it still makes him nervous. Three months is a long time, he might have lack in some aspects now that he's the one taking control.

Still, he's given such a golden opportunity to show you that he can please you. Chris's grip on your ass tightens for a brief second before he grabs ahold of the base of his cock. It's already hard, red from screaming at Chris to put it in. He uses one hand to guide his cock into your abused hole and the other to rub soothing circles on your waist.

You can't help but smile. It doesn't how dirty he can talk or act, he's still a gentleman at heart. The nearly forgotten stretch makes you whimper when he puts his tip in. His cock is hot and can easily slide in with no problem. Despite that, he still take his time. Chris really wants you to feel how you pussy stretches around him, how he can glide against your warm walls.

Your knuckles turn while from gripping the bar so hard. You almost want to scream at him to hurry up and fuck you. Instead, you find yourself whimpering the contact. Your hips move against him to try and slip his dick in. It works a little, feeling his cock roughly an inch deeper. You can hear him moan behind the wall, a breathy higher pitched whine that makes your cunt wetter by the second

"You still sound so pretty," you whisper. You doubt he can hear you from the other men and women fucking, but he does. Little did you know, that he has his ear against the wall. Chris just needs to hear how you sound, what noises you make. He knows he must look so pathetic, and he's grateful that Lee Know is no where in sight.

Finally, he fills you up completely with his girth. Your legs twitch and squeeze together at the intrusion. You can feel the tingles that travel up and down your body from pleasure. Whimpers and moans leave you lips when he starts thrusting. You're thankful for the wall that separates you two. Before, you had tried to remain professional. Now you can be as loud as you please without worrying. Well...that's what you think at least.

The combined feeling of your soft pussy and beautiful moans break Chris's sanity. Both of his hands grip your sides so he could bring you to meet his thrusts. It's so loud and wet, he thinks you two must be the loudest in the room. Chris loves watching as your cunt drools on his cock, leaving strings of arousal on your ass and his thighs.

You're on the verge on tears letting this man fuck you relentlessly. It feels so indescribably amazing, you let your mouth hang open. "Oh fuucckk," Chris hears you groan. Heat and pleasure remain in your lower stomach, slowly building. It's torture with how it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

You find yourself wishing you could use your hand to rub your clit, but the wall prevents that. instead, you try grinding your thighs together tightly for stimulation. It works, but at the cost of choking Koala's dick. He whimpers, almost pained from the sudden tightness. He moves his hands to the inner parts of your thighs and spreads them open in response.

"Gonna break my fuckin' cock," he mumbles, lightly laughing. Chris resumes his thrusts, but he notices the constant moving of your hips. So much so that he even slips out momentarily. He thinks that it's getting too much for you, but the way you're begging for him to shove it back in says otherwise.

"What's the matter baby?" His voice is light. His strokes are softer now, giving you the ability to speak properly. You take a few heavy breaths before answer, "Touch me." You sounds so desperate, so out of your character that Chris almost wants to tease you further.

Almost.

He concludes that you must be getting close, just wanting to extra rubbing to really get off. Chris grants your wish and uses his fingers to rub circles on your clit. Your reaction is immediate, bucking and crying out in gratitude. Chris smiles fondly at how your body replies to his touch. Now he can tease you without feeling guilty.

"What do you saaayy?" He speaks in a sing-songy voice. Had you been fully cognitive, you would've cursed him. You headspace isn't working though, and you find yourself expressing your appreciation quickly. "Thank you daddy. Thank you thank you. I needed it sooo bad."

The pet name throws him off, making him stutter his hips for a split second. Chris deeply blushes at the term, unsure if he hates it or loves it quite yet. "Yeah? You like daddy's big cock in you?" He decides to test it out. Maybe it's because you're beginning to enter the sub-space zone, but you cum unexpectedly on his dick.

Chris feels you twitch around him and convulse. There was no warning, save for how creamy his length had gotten from your excitement. He almost praised you for how beautifully you painted his cock. Chris pulled himself in and out of you slowly to watch the white substance spread.

You couldn't stop moaning, fully crying from the orgasm. You normally had a good gauge on when you could cum and how to prolong it, but Koala had proven to fuck you up in more ways than one. You body shook and hugged his cock practically lovingly. Feeling him slide his dick slowly inside of you only make you wail louder.

Once Chris felt like you had come down enough, he fucked you with intent. He doesn't know how he was able to last this long, but he's chasing his own orgasm now. You can do nothing else but to take it. You groan everything he hits your deep, tip touching your womb. You can feel your cream dripping down your thighs.

This only encourages Chris more to finish. He wants nothing more than to mix your arousals together. Chris throws his head back and groans, letting his dick settle fully inside you when he cums. Hot spurt bursts in your tummy and you moan at the warmth. You usually detest having clients cum in you, the clean up was irritating. Koala, however, is an exception. He's invited to cum where he pleased when it comes to you.

Hearing him though the walls is bliss, and you wish you could see his face. He's probably still wearing that stupid mask, you think.

Chris lets himself give a few more good thrusts before pulling out, leaving you empty. He uses his thumb to spread your pussy lips to look at how your cunt pools his cum out. He hums at the sight, and gives your pussy a slap. You jolt and yelp at the contact, still sensitive.

"Guess I'll take you answer as a yes," he suddenly says.

Rather than leaving, Chris keeps massaging his cum and your own around your lower lips. You sigh contently as you feel him explore your folds. He's not doing it hard enough to give intense pleasure, but enough to feel soothing. It must be a mess down there, but Chris is entranced by the sight.

He so distracted that he didn't hear Lee Know's footsteps coming at the side of him. It's not until Chris feels his presence that he turns. They make eye contact for a moment before Chris straightens up, wiping his wet hands on the wall. The men have a silent exchange of words before Chris withdrawals his hands from you.

Before you can protest, Koala gives you brief reassurance. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You hear his footsteps leave along with another pair of feet. His sudden departure leaves you feeling somewhat cold, but you quickly dismiss the feeling. It's business, nothing personal. It's something you've had to remind yourself for years working this job. This particular instance, though, leaves you more than just your pussy empty.

-

"See you tomorrow," Lee Know mocks Chris's earlier words on the way home. Chris has no choice but to put up with Lee know antics. He keeps rubbing in his face how he got to fuck five different girls while Chris only did one. Not that it really matters to Chris, but he knows that Lee Know is much more aware of his little crush now.

After finishing up his laughter, Lee Know throws an arm over Chris's shoulder. "I'm just teasing you man. But I was right you know. That you would like it." Chris can't help but smile upon seeing his friend's cheesy expression. "Yeah yeah, whatever," he playfully rolls his eyes.

"But really," Lee Know questions, "You'd be down to go again? Just for her?" Chris stops walking for a second to think, eyes up to the sky. The night is clear, stars and moon shining down on them. He doesn't know you well, only that your pussy and his cock belong together. Going to that club often would hurt his wallet over time, but he's starting to think that it may be worth it.

"Yeah, just for her."

a/n: really hope you liked it! feedback is appreciated. I am not planning on making a third part to this imma be honest, but I might write an epilogue if it's highly requested.

update!: third part here

[tippenstoepens]

Prettiest Girl in the Room

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

Wordcount: 1.2k

You couldn’t hold it against Joe. As an adult woman, you knew better by now. Kisses don’t come with strings attached and just because a person kisses you, doesn’t mean they want to spend the rest of their life with you - especially if that kiss happened while both parties were drunk.

Which Joe made pretty apparent when he didn’t call you the morning after your kiss. Or the three mornings after that. Or the three months after that. All you had heard from Joe was his reaction notifications from the cast group chat when someone would send a Twitter meme made of the show. Everyone fancied one of Jackson’s character screaming “Well, you can shove your ham up your ass!” 

“Joekeery loved an image”

That’s all you got. 

You went about your life the way you always did between gigs: waitressing during the week, babysitting your friends’ kids on weekends, and sending out the odd self-tape in hopes your career wasn’t over before it had even begun. It was a nice, simple life. Not every actor was fortunate enough to afford a roof over their head in New York City, no matter how many doubles they worked. You consider yourself spoiled rotten every day. What could possibly be missing?

You didn’t date. That was probably part of the problem. That’s what made Joe’s silence ache so deeply. You wondered if it would change anything if he knew that the most action you had gotten in months before the kiss was getting catcalled in the streets. A simple kiss meant the world to celibate, touch starved women like you.

Maybe you should be the one to call him… And maybe you should crawl on your knees begging him to pay you a modicum of attention with “DESPERATE” written on your forehead in red Sharpie just to put the icing on the idiot cake. 

He popped into your mind way more often than he was welcome. At the grocery store when one of the songs he always played in the makeup trailer started harassing you over the intercom. In your kitchen when you removed fish bones from your salmon. In bed when you were trying to… Well, that’s no one’s business. 

“Guess who has two thumbs and just got renewed for a second season,” the director bubbled in the group chat.

“Oh, I love this game,” David texted. “This show. Our show got greenlit.”

It was time to shake it off. Not just for the sake of the show, but for your own sake. It wasn’t healthy to dwell so much on the past. 

On the first day back from hiatus, the producers and director had the cast sit for a table read of the first few scripts they had written. As Joe’s TV wife, you’d expect to be sitting next to him considering most of your scenes were together. Maybe you should talk to Joe and clear the air before the table read started. Yes. That’s the mature thing to do.

You arrived twenty-five minutes early - which is on-the-dot on time in the acting world. Joe wasn’t there when you arrived. Or ten minutes after you did. Or five minutes after that.The anticipation of Joe’s arrival was turning your stomach into knots. He was usually punctual. Surely, he wasn’t tardy because of you.

“Any word from Joe?” The director mumbled to his assistant. 

“Haven’t heard from him,” they replied.

You began to worry. Was he skipping out on the table read because he didn’t want to see you? Had his avoidance of you gone that far? He’d have to get over it eventually. He had a contract to fulfill. Just as you began your descent into a catastrophizing spiral, the clock struck eleven and Joe jogged into the room - beads of sweat forming at his hairline. “So sorry,” he panted. “Traffic was terrible.”

“It’s okay, we wouldn’t get started without our golden boy,” David teased. “I hear he’s up for sexiest man alive this year.”

Joe blew a short raspberry in response.

“Alright, alright, let’s get right into it, shall we? From the top of episode one.” The director chirped, no doubt relieved that he didn’t have to read Joe’s lines for him. “Interior. The Henderson bedroom. John and Jane Henderson lie in bed, covered only by their silk bed sheets. They’re snuggled up together. Post-coitus is implied.”

Say sike right now. You had never done a scene like this with Joe before. Never! The Henderson’s didn’t even have a scene like this in their honeymoon episode.

Of course this would be the first scene on the first day back after your first time seeing Joe after your first kiss. It was fan service. Every girl, guy, and person wanted to see more of Joe’s skin these days. But why did you have to be dragged into it?

You turned to look Joe in the eyes as you would have at any other table reading. Normal. This is normal. Business as usual. But it didn’t feel as easy as it was before. At first, you struggled to make eye contact and when you finally did, the intensity of his gaze made you blush a bit. Only a bit. The show must go on.

“That was amazing, sweetheart,” he scooped the line off the page and met your gaze again. 

God, the script writing was really going downhill this season, huh?

You sighed contently as the script dictated. “You’re tellin’ me!”

The whole cast chuckled.

The rest of the table read went on without a single hitch. After the ice was broken, things weren’t nearly as awkward as you dreaded they would be. The cast went through the entire table read five times before the lunch break. The first thing you did with your free time was approach Joe.

“You didn’t call.”

“Neither did you."

Fair, but not really because Joe was the one with a booming career and Joe was the one everyone tuned in to the show for and Joe was the one with most of the power in this dynamic and Joe was the one who initiated the kiss and infinitely many other reasons that he was to blame came to mind before you finally came to the conclusion that you didn’t call Joe because you were afraid of the possibility of rejection. What if you followed up only to find out that he wasn’t interested in you? Your low-self esteem convinced you that reaching out to a person like Joe was asking for embarrassment.

“So what now?” The rough exterior melted, revealing the vulnerable little girl inside that just wanted a boy to like her back.

“Well, that’s up to you,” he shrugged.

Not necessarily the answer you wanted. You just stared him down until he said more things.

“If it was just a drunken kiss, I understand. We’ll never speak of it again. We’ll keep things professional.”

“And if it wasn’t?” You murmured while making sure to avoid eye contact lest you be made a fool of for saying that.

“If it wasn’t… I’d like you to have dinner with me," he blushed. "Some time. If you… I dunno if you have free time- Well, of course you have free time, but I meant- If you want to have dinner,” he stammered and stuttered.

“I’d love to.”

Joe sighed in relief. “Great. Do you like Italian?” He smiled a bashful, closed lipped smile and it made the corners of his big, brown eyes crinkle.

“I love Italian.”

“I know a spot in the lower east side near Ludlow. Friday at eight? I’ll pick you up if you like.” God, his eyes.

The submissive in you wished he would stop worrying about what you like and make you do what he liked. The romantic in you found his sheepishness so charming.

“I’d like that,” you beamed.

Taglist: @thefrontofmymind, @bejeweled13swiftie

[holy-puckslibrary]

— 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬.

pairing(s) — dilf!ERIK JOHNSON x ex-nanny!wife!reader (established); REESE JOHNSON (oc) x ex-nanny!stepmom!reader (platonic / familial)

wc — 4.7k synopsis — family weekend forces reese’s worlds to collide. results are… mixed note — i just really love reese. that's it :) and how dilfy does mr johnson look in that gif good lord

the nanny (series masterlist) | main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — age gap relationship (erik and the reader, established), vulgar college boys with no respect, busy-bodies who cannot mind their own beeswax, possessive!erik, pregnant!reader (not discussed in detail), sweet bby reese in peril :(

REESE JOHNSON has a problem.

It’s the sort of anxiety-trodden predicament that could’ve been soothed into nothingness had he spoken up sooner. He didn’t because he couldn’t. That was part of the problem. 

And now it’s too late—for solutions or comfort.

The teen, now a second-semester freshman at the University of Denver, had long since adjusted to the heightened scrutiny of his family in the early days of your relationship with his father. Everyone online had to throw in their two cents on the “illicit affair.” Even people who didn’t give a shit about hockey (evidenced by their inability to name a single team) felt they had a right to weasel their way in. While irritating and uncomfortable, the harsh reads didn’t bother him for too long because Reese knew the truth.

He also knew how unnecessarily ruthless people could be when they had a screen to hide behind. The son of a prominent figure in professional sports, Reese knew people stared at him through a very particular lens. It veered toward a rosy sheen every so often, but mostly it was smudged glass. Like a fish tank whose walls were muddy with the greasy impressions spectators left behind. Strangers offering commentary on his father’s life, and by extension his too, was part of the gig.

Frankly, the aftermath wasn’t much different than before. Only the subject matter changed. If it wasn’t thinly veiled insults about Erik’s waning career or his prior inability to keep a girlfriend, it was overly critical evaluations of Reese’s prowess or lack thereof and, unsurprisingly, comparisons between father and son. Without fail, the verbiage and tone implied competition, hinting that their healthy bond was only a bit of showmanship to hide the rocky resentment beneath.

This weekend is different. Sure, his teammates and friends had already gotten ample face-time with both of his parents, as well as his kid sister, but never all at once. Though they all did their best to coordinate, busy schedules rendered a revolving cheering section for Reese Johnson. 

This weekend—family weekend—will change that. By some stroke of luck (or a cruel twist of fate, the jury's still out on that one), everyone would be here… together. And that’s not to say he isn’t grateful for their effort or that he isn’t excited because he is. Reese is thrilled to share this new slice of life with his loved ones. It’s just that…

Reese knows how it looks when they venture out into the world.

Not that his dad is exactly old or even old-looking. In the same way you aren’t questionably young. Still, the age difference is noticeable. Before you were more than a nanny to the Johnsons (if you were ever just a nanny to begin with), it was easier for on-lookers to assess the dynamic, and still, albeit seldomly, they would drum up gossip. Things got remarkably more awkward, though, after his father finally plucked up the courage to propose, and increased tenfold once Erik had a gold band to match. It was as if the wedding ushered in the open season on Johnsons.

More times than he cared to count, Reese found himself cupping Josie’s ears to keep his little sister from hearing jeering crowds calling their dad an old pervert and you a shameless gold-digger. No one’s had to explain what a “sugar daddy” is (or why it's the first thing that auto-populates when you plug ‘Erik Johnson’ into Google), but the burden would’ve fallen on Reese if he hadn’t left her in the car while he ran in to grab a takeout order last summer.

But Erik’s eldest isn’t just worried about his family existing outside the warmth and safety of their insulated bubble. His sleepless nights are filled with fear. Fear of the pain and sadness he’ll undoubtedly feel about it all now that he sees you less as his friend and more as a maternal figure.

Reese’s always been protective; it's led to many a fight with his own father and, sometimes, his own sister. He’s the first to rush to your aid and the strongest force in your defense. The habit, however,  strengthened when his perspective shifted as swiftly as flipping a switch. 

Suddenly, you weren’t just his dad’s girlfriend or the person who made him pancakes in the morning. Or the savior who dropped off his English paper because he was in such a hurry he left it on the printer. You were a confidant, someone he called for when he was in a bad spot or when he wanted to see the latest mind-numbingly bad action flick. When he asked his date to prom, it was you he wanted help from. When Reese was sick, your home remedies worked better than anything store-bought or concocted by his dad. When practice ran over, he could count on you to wait up with his dinner hot and ready, the rest of the house already fast asleep. 

For the first time since he could remember, the Dad-shaped gap wasn’t devastating. It hurt like a bitch, but it was bearable because he had another adult—another parent—he could rely on. In every sense of the word, you were his mom.

And no one wants to hear disgusting lies about their mom.

However, Reese hasn’t called you that yet. At least, not to your face. In passing to his childhood friends or when referring to you with Josie, sure, and once or twice over the phone with Erik, but when he calls for you, he uses your first name like he's still your “nanny-kid.” But it's not for a lack of trying. It’s just that every time he thinks he’s worked up the nerve, the three letters catch in his throat like molasses, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

Moments like those are the rare few he wishes he were Josie instead of himself. His jovial spitfire of a sister never missed a chance. During her lunch block with classmates, on the phone with their extended family, to strangers at Avs games, or on the sidewalk, the moniker slipped off Josie Johnson’s tongue like water down a slide. Their dad liked to poke fun, warning her to be careful so as not to wear it out from overuse.

Maybe it was the sister snuggled in your stomach that tightened his throat. The baby that could and would call you “Mom” with little effort beyond mastering the string of sound. The baby that would grow up not knowing you as anything besides her mother. It was a shade of ownership Reese felt hesitant to touch. No matter how desperately he yearned to.

The closest he’s come is penning in the title beneath your name on the lanyard that’ll hang from your neck for upcoming festivities. It was a small gesture. Still, it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

Reese is caught between wanting to honor the bond and all you’ve done with the accurate label and the fear of explicitly acknowledging it stirs in his chest. At least in this limbo of sorts, as cumbersome as it's become, Reese can have what he’s always wanted and keep you in his life without risking capsizing the boat with an awkward declaration. It’s an uneasy compromise, but it's the devil he knows. At least he knows what and when to feed it.

Reese hates that he’s letting his worries dictate his life. It's just… hard. No one tells kids how to navigate gaining a new parent or any of the baggage that unique situation carries. No one tells kids how to trust the position’s new occupant not to follow in their predecessor’s footsteps. In his heart, Reese knows you won’t run. But knowing that doesn’t shut down the nagging voice in the back of his mind. The one that drones on like a broken record, telling him that the burden of the word, knotted with his expectations, will be his family’s unraveling.

He couldn’t do that to Josie. To his dad. Or to you and the little sister you’re carrying. 

So, he’ll stomach it. For how long, Reese isn’t sure. But, for now, he’ll stand on the outskirts of the minefield, bidding time.

"Johnson! Your whole family's coming, right?" Kody, a junior defenseman from Fort Collins, yanks Reese from his downward spiral.

The last place he wants to be right now is out in the world. The last thing he needs is to cannonball himself back into the fishbowl. Even if the phantom audience never spoke to him, sometimes their heavy attention pushing into his back was enough to send Reese reeling.

But he made a promise to make more of an effort. To be more social, to have more fun—to take life a little less seriously. 

In his mind, if he was at school to learn and play hockey, there was little room to wiggle. Sure, Reese has had his fair share of adolescent recklessness and could lean toward boyish immaturity at times, but at his core, he was a rule-follower. A responsibility fiend with a penchant for playing the white knight. A stickler for structure. When given the choice between a teenage dream and a full-grown reality, the freshman chose the latter nine times out of ten. 

Reese Johnson’s moral compass weighs down his back pocket; he feels most at peace when things fit neatly into their proper boxes. Good and bad, black and white. One or the other, never both.

Stress and anxiety exacerbate his mental rigidity. And he’s been so fucking far from zen lately.

Reese would’ve broken the stupid promise if it’d been made to anyone besides you. So, when a few of the upperclassmen on the team appeared at his dorm with an invitation to get pizza, he begrudgingly accepted.

It isn’t so bad. Far from awful this far. Definitely not the worst way to spend an evening. His teammates were alright enough guys, and their girlfriends weren’t as callous as he’d expected. Reese just found it hard to connect with them, a situation that couldn’t be more different than his previous team experience. 

With his childhood friends, it all clicked. Fell into place without much real effort from any of them. There was an awkward period, but it ended within the first month and, honestly, had more to do with prepubescent cringe than anything.

An entire semester came and went, and Reese still felt like an outsider. When he looked out onto the ice, he saw a sea of strangers. They had different interests, different priorities. Inside jokes he wasn’t in on. Ones he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in on. Even their sense of decorum was foreign. He was well-acquainted with profanity and vulgar jibes, but Reese’s neck still occasionally heats at their… colorful chirps.

But maybe this will be a good step, Reese thinks to himself as he clears the nerves from his throat, making room for an answer to Kody’s question.

“Uh, yeah. My parents and my little sister,” he nods. The blip of quiet that follows coaxes out further details. “They’re going to skip the mixer-campout thing tomorrow night because of the baby, but they’ll be at the student fair and our scrimmage the next day.”

It feels odd to talk about his family. The words, somehow both intensely personal and casual at the same time, taste funny on his tongue. Reese’s stomach clenches, suddenly too aware that he’s never really had to do this before, the small talk. Back home, everyone knows everyone. There’s little to talk about by way of mundane facts because there’s no need; it would be incredibly redundant. His friends from home wouldn’t think to ask if his family was coming, nor would they nudge him to share their schedule. They’d just know.

Reese is aware that this is a silly thing to get worked up over, or even care about at all. He knows it’s part of the process. Part of making new friends is letting them know you. Telling them about yourself and your life, and all the people in your life. Especially the ones you love. Offering up bits of yourself in exchange for bits of them. Still, it's unsettling. Like he’s inviting a group of strangers to pass judgment on his unconventional family. 

No one’s said anything, but Reese already feels defensive. 

And rightly so, he’d soon find.

"That was quick."

Lane, a senior forward from some beach town in California, draws first blood. The quip seems innocuous, but the shit-eating grin undermines any plausible deniability. Even without his smug expression, they probably would’ve understood the implication lurking below the surface anyway. 

It isn’t the isolated comment that burns the tips of Reese’s ears. It’s the fact that he’s never spoken about the circumstances or the timeline of your relationship with his father. Reese hasn’t tried to hide anything, but he certainly hasn’t been forthcoming either. For all they knew, you could’ve been Josie’s biological mother. A long shot, but feasible enough if you didn't know any better. 

But somehow, this kid from out of state knew. Knew that, by “traditional” standards, it was a little soon for his parents to be welcoming a new life.

"Can you blame him? Hot young thing at your beck and call?” Kent, a sophomore from outside of Toronto, cuts in before Reese can. 

The lecherous glint in the winger’s tone makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t need to look up from his half-eaten slice of Hawaiian to know his mouth matches Lane’s.

“Fuck, dude. I would've knocked her up before she dragged me down the aisle. But, I've heard Viagra massacres your swimmers, so maybe that wasn’t in the cards for Ol’ Johnson.”

The group, crowded around a hodgepodge of tables, descends into a fit of snickers and profanity.

Reese contemplates leaving until a manicured hand gently squeezes his arm. Callahan Graham blinks up at him, a sweet smile tight on her rosy mouth. Callahan “Callie” Graham, Lane’s on-again-off-again girlfriend of three years. They’re “off” right now, if he’s remembering correctly. Not that it matters. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Reese’s chin dips in gratitude.

From across the table, Callie’s roommate, Greer, pipes up over the commotion. “I hope I'm as cute as she is when I'm pregnant."

"Me too," Bree, one of the other girlfriends, sighs dreamily into her Diet Coke. "I couldn't believe how pretty she looked the last time she brought Josie to watch you play, Reese. If I was pregnant and holding down a two-kid fort by all by myself for most of the year, I know I'd look it. But I guess that’s just another perk of true love, isn’t it? Beauty in spite of it all.”

Kent snorts. “True love…right.”

Reese’s molars pinch together. Beneath the table, he picks at his nails. It hurts, but it's the distraction he needs right now.

"It's not like being a trophy wife is a real job anyway, so I'm sure that helps. Just lie back and spread those pretty—"

Reese’s fist finishes Lane’s sentence. As badly as he wants to put it through the douchebag’s face, he (thankfully) had the foresight to direct his anger downward. It was the succinct thwack! of his hand against the table that cut the lewd thought off prematurely. 

Reese is a striking juxtaposition; hardened jaw, sharp eyes, pinched mouth—silent. Only his chest moves. Shallowly, the accent on the exhalations.

For a moment, everything is still. It’s nice. While it lasts.

Kody is the one to crack the ill-fated stalemate. Trepidation peeking through the tiny cracks in his smooth confidence, he approaches like a hunter would an agitated deer, “Loosen up, Reese. We're just having fun. And, if anything, it's a compliment."

Reese openly glares, unconvinced.

Kody persists, deadset on being the one to subdue the beast. “Come on, even you have to admit your dad's locked down a fuckin’ tenner. A real win for Team Geriatric, I’d say. You should be proud of him, kid.”

This isn’t the first time someone’s prodded Reese about your physical appearance. He wasn’t blind. He knew you were attractive, but you’d never entered that part of his brain before. Ever. It's as if his subconscious preemptively locked you away in the same box as his dad and kid sister, or any other family member. But they weren’t asking if he thought you were pretty, not really.

The omnipresent “They” wanted to know if he thought you were attractive the way he thought Pedro Pascal or Olivia Rodrigo was attractive. They wanted to know if he felt the way his dad felt about you. They’re probing for a twisted scandal, a sick taboo love triangle. As if they weren’t already gorging themselves on the age difference or the boss/employee origin story. 

They wanted more. They always wanted more. They wanted to take one of the best parts about Reese’s life and fuck it up.

His teammates are proving themselves no different than the losers populating Twitter.

“She ever read to you a story before bed?” Lane again.

Then Kent, in quick succession. “Tuck you in nice and tight, and come running when you had a nightmare?”

There’s barely enough time between the two to squeeze in a meager answer. Though Reese surmises that’s by design. 

Innuendos are funnier when they have a single target in the audience to fly over. At least, to people with cheap senses of humor. Easy laughs are no accomplishment when they weaponize the feelings of an innocent bystander. Even in his anger, Reese wouldn’t have humored them with a doe-eyed reply of feigned ignorance. It wasn't earned. 

“If I got to spend all of high school being coddled by a rocket, I'd still be milking that shit. Maybe if you had, she would've fucked you instead of your dad."

Reese’s brow shrinks to a contemptuous pinch. It wouldn’t take much for him to be reacquainted with his dinner; it’s already halfway there. 

As he looks over at Kody, he loses what little hope he had that he’d find a place in this friend group. He hasn’t found his people yet, on the team or in general, but Reese is certain they’re not sitting around him tonight.

"How far along's your mom?" Callie seizes the conversation knowingly.

Briefly, her pale eyes slice pointedly in the direction of her… whatever Lane is to her, and then back to Reese, warmth restored.

"Uh, almost seven months? But Josie and I were both late, so Dad thinks we'll have to wait until the end of summer until she's here. Maybe they’ll share a birthday.”

"She?" one of the freshman girls squeals, clutching her companion’s forearm in excitement.

"Yeah," Reese says bashfully, head dipping to conceal the grin tugging the corners of his mouth. The meat of his cheeks ache with joy. “Two sisters."

"I give Johnson Sr. six months before he puts the moves on Nanny 2.0,” Lane’s whisper pierces the lukewarm calm that settled the table at his… Callie’s hand. 

She kicks his shin. Hard.

"You really think the old timer's game is that reliable?" Kent picks up the slack between open-mouth chews.

And Kody is not far behind, “He's decently famous and moderately rich. That was enough the first time, so why wouldn't it work for the second? Or, Junior, maybe this next one can be yours—if you pull your head out of your ass in time, that is."

Reese is done. Has met—no, exceeded his limit. He doesn’t have to sit here and take this. Yeah, it would be better for the locker-room culture if he stuck around, but a boost in morale wasn’t worth the decimation of his pride.

His goodbye is simple but effective. The deafening screeeeech! of his chair sliding back on the linoleum.

The sidewalk is blurry beneath his feet as he trudges back to safety. Whether it's the tears’ fault or how quickly he’s running, Reese can’t be sure. All he knows is that he needs to be as far away from them as possible.

He needs… he needs…

Reese’s fingers tremble defiantly while he fishes for his phone. He continues to fight with them, shoving his key into the door and pushing it open with the other as he scrolls through the call log. He slams the world out and hits the green icon.

“Reese? Are you okay?” your groggy, but no less sweet voice flits through his phone. 

Only two rings. 

Reese’s shoulders melt, comforted by the familiar warmth of what home sounds like. But his mouth remains frozen, stuck. 

You allow a few beats of silence to lapse, giving him ample space to answer if he is able and wants to before speaking again. “Do we need to come up tonight?”

He blinks, attempting to wash away the salty film over his eyes to read the clock above his desk. 1:37 AM, the angry red letters read. 

Guilt seeps into the mix of nasty emotions monopolizing his body. The acidic cocktail begins its ascent of his tender throat.

You shouldn’t be up right now. Not this late, not when his sister’s made you an insomniac for so much of your pregnancy. Not because someone was mean to him.

Reese feels like an asshole. An inconsiderate asshole bothering you with his problems in the middle of the night, knowing you’re already sacrificing your weekend for him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry for waking you and the baby, and probably Dad, too. I—It's nothing, really. It can wait. We can talk about it when it's not, y’know, the middle of the night.”

“Reese, no one sets off the alarm on my Bullshit Radar faster than you do. You wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t urgent. Talk to me, Reeses Pieces. You know I won’t be able to go back to sleep knowing you’re not alright.”

Reeses Pieces. The nickname, said with such casual affection, is like a magic wand.

“Uh— I-I, um… I had a, um, a r-really bad night… and I— and I just really needed to hear y-your voice, Mom.”

It slips out. Slips free. It just… slips into the mix with all the other words like it belongs there, too. And it does. It feels right. Reese feels a twinge of satisfaction. Regardless of the circumstances (and the night he’s had), it happened.

It finally happened.

The floor crumbles a little and gentle flames lick at Reese’s cheeks. His phone feels as though it's floating up and away from his clammy palm. He’s telling his fingers to tighten their grip, to hold on. They hesitate, and when they finally decide to obey, it only makes matters worse. He fumbles, nearly dropping his phone to the floor. The elephant easing down onto his chest is making it hard to focus, to think, to listen. 

“Reese? Did I lose you, bub?”

He blinks himself out of the daze. “Hmm? No, I—I, sorry. I’m here.”

“Oh, Reesey. I was just saying I was glad you called then. I mean, I always love it when you call. Even when it’s to tell me you sent your Airpods through the washing machine. Again.”

Reese barks out a phlegmy laugh.

Note to self: the rice hack only works the first time you let your electronics go for a swim.

Second note to self: this reaction—this non-reaction is better than any teary blubbering or callous rejection. Normalcy doesn’t require a reaction.

“You can always, always call me. Especially when you’re having a rough time. Even when it's the middle of the night. My main priority in life is making sure you’re safe and happy, you and JoJo. And the peanut sitting on my bladder. And the 6’4 blanket-hog snoring like a hacksaw beside me.”

“Maybe we should get Dad a sleep study coupon for his birthday,” Reese teases.

He feels better now. You, and finally being courageous enough to be vulnerable, was the medicine. Reese feels lighter than he has since you dropped him off in September.

You snort. “I’ll gladly pay to see your dad covered in wires. But, as much as I love laughing at his expense when he’s none-the-wiser, that's not why you called. Spill it.”

He does. The spiel tumbles out like an overdue avalanche, and Reese hardly realizes how quickly he’d been talking until he finishes with burning lungs. You listened patiently, letting him get it all out without interruption. You were good about that, knowing when someone needed room to rant more than they needed interjections with guidance or commentary. Reese usually fell in the first category, tonight being no exception.

“…I just don’t get why they found it so funny. Or why they even thought to say it in the first place. It's so...gross.”

He listens to you sigh and knows you’re doing it through your teeth. You’re probably massaging the waves of frustration between your eyebrows, nose scrunched. Josie calls it your ‘Dragon Face’ because of the way frustration contorts your features, but Reese adopted the term into his own lexicon because it almost always appeared when someone threatened the safety of your family. Like him, you’re generous with your protection. Fierce without delay. 

“Because you aren’t them, Reese. You’ve always had a strong sense of right and wrong, respectful and not. And you’re rarely swept up by group-think, if ever. Those things may feel like a curse right now, but I promise they’ll be superpowers one day.”

“I wish I could fast-forward to that day. This sucks,” he groans, tossing himself backward onto his twin bed.

“It does suck. Majorly. Still, even if you had time travel in your vast arsenal of powers, I’d tell you to stay put, Reese. Part of college is learning how to deal with immature people, building up a tolerance for their bullshit as you grow stronger and more confident in yourself.”

“But I’m not strong. I ran away crying like a little baby,” Reese croaks into his pillow. A warm saltiness tickles his eyelashes.

“You removed yourself from a bad situation, and you let yourself feel your feelings in the present tense. Those are both huge wins in my book,” you counter.

Your voice is louder now, stronger. Like coaxing Reese—coaxing your son out of a pit of self-pity breathed all the energy you lacked for the better part of a year back into you. The subtle shift whittles away some of his earlier guilt.

“It takes guts to do that, Reese. Most people spend years trying to learn what you did instinctively. Some people never learn to do it at all. And don’t tell anyone, but I’d put money on Kody, Lane, and Kent being some people.”

Reese snorts. “I know you’re right, but I think what’s actually bugging me is that you guys’ll be subjected to that shit this weekend. It’s one thing for them to say it to me, but it’s another to say it to you or in front of JoJo. I hate that people care so much about us and our business that they can’t keep their mouths shut. If you don’t feel comfortable coming now, I would totally understand. Fuck, if I were you, I’d never visit again. Maybe I could come home this weekend instead?”

“Reese, as sweet as that is, the only thing that’ll stop me from coming this weekend is early labor, not chauvinist pigs.”

“You shouldn’t even have to hear it, though. And besides, won’t smiting college kids stress the baby out?” Reese asks, worry tearing through his voice despite the lighter tone.

“Do you honestly think your dad will let them get more than a couple words out?” you ask through an airy chuckle.

For the second time tonight, someone else speaks before Reese can.

Erik’s voice is muffled and gravelly, but the protective bite—the very same one that took hold of Reese at dinner and you just moments ago—is loud, “They’ll keep their mouths shut if they want to keep whatever teeth they have left.”

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[vivwritescrappythings]

good morning

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

Mornings with Joel are wonderful.

can be read as a stand alone fic, but also has a part 1

tw: smut!, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, crying, sex with feelings, not proofread, soft Joel.

word count: 4.7k

masterlist

MDNI!

–

Mornings with Joel were quickly becoming your favorite despite their rarity.

After the night of your mother’s wedding you’d never expected to actually have anything come from it. Maybe another hookup for either one of you to blow off steam, but nothing that actually was meaningful. So when Joel had called you and sounded so nervous to ask you on a date six months ago, your heart melted and you excitedly agreed.

The date was precious, Joel had chosen a place that was fancy enough to make him put on a navy blue sport coat and use gel to style the wonderful mess of his curls. He had been awkward in all the cutest ways, blushing and bashful as though the two of you hadn’t already slept together

He was so crestfallen when you’d suggested that you get the check instead of ordering one of the flouncy, expensive desserts, his dark eyes had dropped to the tablecloth as he quietly mumbled his agreement. Of course, you’d suggested that you have the delicious and, more importantly, free pint of cookie dough ice cream that you kept in your freezer, some part of you intent on the fact that you knew you were taking Joel home at the end of the date.

Six months later, you were waking up luxuriously in his bed. 

He only shared the morning with you when Sarah was gone, sleeping over at a friend’s house or staying with his brother, Tommy, for the night. You’d only stayed over a handful of times, each time feeling just as giddy and special as the first. More than once you had imagined getting to stay longer than just one night, the night turning into the weekend and the weekend turning into the week and the week turning into you just making a home with Joel and the teenager you’d seen photos of all over his house.

In time, you hoped. 

But this morning, waking up was a wonderful thing. It was still relatively cool in the mornings in Austin, the sunlight painting your eyelids orange as you stretched. His mattress was so soft, your body sinking into the fluffed topper. The sun-warmed sheets were wrapped around you, keeping off the chill of the morning as you finally opened your eyes.

You could see the dust motes floating in the shaft of light through the parted curtains, the brightness of it making you blink slowly as you rolled onto your back. Joel’s room was surprisingly cozy, the walls painted a deep blue with a few paintings of southwestern landscapes hung up. There were framed posters from concerts he’d been to as well, mostly acoustic guitar gigs in open-air parks. He’d taken you to one as your second date, the poster proudly framed and hung up next to the large window.

Joel was still asleep, snoring softly as he lay partially sprawled on his stomach. You’d forced Joel to see a musical with you the night before, plying him with drinks and a steak dinner that he begrudgingly let you buy for him. The musical was fine, Joel distracting you through most of it by just having his thick arm curled around your shoulders as it rested on top of the seatback.

The night ended in your favorite way: the two of you tangled up in Joel’s truck because you just couldn’t wait until you made it back to his house. He practically begged you to stay the night, his huge hands pulling you over the threshold and sweet kisses stamped to your lips and cheeks.

How could you say no to this man?

He mumbled something in his sleep, reaching out and curling an arm around your waist. You were yanked close to him, his skin hot even through the stolen Pearl Jam shirt you were wearing. A quiet hum echoed from your throat as you snuggled into him. It was a sign for you to relax, to attempt to reverse your early bird ways as you burrowed into his warmth.

You drifted in and out of a light sleep, his snores just barely quiet enough that they felt more like background noise. Every time you opened your eyes another thirty minutes had passed, Joel’s hand slowly creeping from your hip to rest against your stomach beneath the tee shirt. He held you close, spooning with his right arm acting as your pillow.

It was the feeling of Joel’s aquiline nose pressed against the side of your neck and a loose, open-mouthed kiss against your skin that finally woke you up fully. His wide hand clutched at your waist beneath your shirt, pressing your back close to his chest.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, reaching up to comb your fingers through his dark curls as you blinked in the bright sunlight. You rolled back toward him, your shoulder blade pressed against his chest as you laid partially on your back. As soon as Joel heard your voice he chuckled, grinding his clothed cock against your ass as you came to.

“Mornin’ baby,” Joel murmured against your cheek, his voice raspy from sleep. The feeling of his lips on your skin sent a shiver down your spine. His hand left your waist, the shirt you wore bunching up on his forearm as he cupped the swell of your left breast in his palm. 

Your head turned toward his, you hand in his hair tightening as you arched into his touch. “Joel.” You already sound wrecked just from him thumbing at your nipple, rolling it beneath the calloused pad of his finger before squeezing your entire breast under the stretch of his grip. It was always the best way to get your plush thighs squeezing together.

The press of his smile felt intimate as his beard tickled the curve of your jaw. His right arm bent, the scoop of his palm cradling your left shoulder in the loose form of a headlock. You loved when he held you like this, the column of your neck in the curve of his elbow as your bodies pressed closer and closer.

Joel’s hand moved from your breast to trace down the soft skin of your stomach, snapping the waistband of your panties playfully. You giggled, your hand wrapping around the forearm pressed against your collarbone as he groped a handful of your ass. 

“This is nice,” you whispered as you lifted your top leg and curled it back around his hip, giving Joel better access to your already wet cunt. He grabbed at your parted inner thighs, making you whimper.

“Thought I deserved a morning treat for going to that musical last night,” Joel said, making you huff and roll your eyes.

You turned your head just enough to catch his mouth in a needy kiss, whining against him as he continued to grope at you. The curve of his hand from the tip of his thumb to the pad of his forefinger slotted into the crease where your thigh met your hip. His fingertips just barely brushed under the lace trim of your panties, just enough contact to tease you.

Joel loved to take his time in the mornings. Every touch was slow and calculated despite your hips impatiently rolling in the grip of his hand. He was so stubborn, smiling as he squeezed and kept you steady. You locked your lips with his, noisily smacking together as your noses pressed into each other’s cheeks. 

Ever the benevolent god, he finally inched his fingers beneath the soaked gusset of your panties. A stuttered whimper pulled from your throat just to be absorbed by Joel’s mouth. 

There was a sightless exploration under your fingertips, your hand leaving the thick curls of his hair to snake beneath his arm. You could feel the practical, working-man muscles beneath his tanned skin as you traced the cap of his shoulder. 

He already looked smug as you pulled away, your lips parted and shiny with his saliva. You let out a soft, punched moan as his fingers smeared wetness up and down the slick seam of your sex, your head spinning. Your fingers dug into his shoulder, your other hand tightening around his forearm. Joel was smirking at your reaction, his dark eyes watching you fall apart at the simplest of touches.

“You are sensitive this morning,” Joel murmured, the deep rasp of his voice wrapping around you like a warm coat. You didn’t bother denying it, just nodding with another whimper as he trapped your clit between the pads of his pointer and middle fingers, rubbing tight circles against it.

You nodded dizzily, not quite trusting yourself to form a response as you spread your knees further apart. Joel chuckled against the hinge of your jaw, his hips still languidly pressing his erection against the side of your ass. 

Your hand slid from his shoulder in a path that snaked down Joel’s side, feeling every ridge of his ribcage and the softness of the pudge on his belly. The smattering of wiry hair beneath his navel served as a guide as you reached behind your back, your thumb hooking into the boxers he wore to sleep and pulling them down just enough that one half of the waistband caught around his wide, hairy thigh.

Joel was already hard when you wrapped your hand around the base of him, a choked groan resonating from him against your hairline as your pointer finger fit into the valley on the underside of his already leaking head. 

With a clumsiness from your hopelessly tangled limbs, you brought your hand to your mouth and spat in the scoop of your fingers before returning them to slick his cock with your warm saliva. “Baby, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Joel sighed, his bicep flexing against your neck and his hand tightening on your shoulder. 

The two of you were a panting mess as you touched one another, the slick sounds of his dick in your hand and his fingers on your cunt filling the room. The pace he set was a lazy one, his thick fingers circling your clit before dipping down to your dripping cunt to gather more slick. You followed his lead, slowly pumping your closed fist from base to tip. You could feel the thick veins bulging beneath your fingers.

His brown eyes were so warm, half-lidded and staring at you with an affection that knew no bounds. The intimacy of his gaze made you lurch forward to kiss him, your nose bumping against his as lips met teeth.

Joel pressed two fingers into you, the stretch was divine as you moaned against his mouth. You matched each thrust of his fingers with a roll of your wrist, the two of you leaning into one another as you shared your breaths. 

You knew you were leaking like a faucet, soaking Joel’s hand down to his wrist. His slow pace was getting you worked up beyond the point of still having dignity. You were whimpering pathetically, your hips rocking against the motion of his hand with desperation. The squelch of your cunt was loud, overshadowing your moans and Joel’s grunts and the soft rustling of sheets.

The movement of your hand started to get clumsy and uncoordinated, your focus splintering between jerking Joel off and the way he was making you feel. He chuckled, turning his head to whisper in your ear. “That’s it baby,” Joel mumbled in his deep gravel tone. “Can feel you squeezing my fucking fingers.”

His thumb moved forward to press against your swollen clit, your spine arching off the bed as the pleasure ricocheted up your body. You couldn’t help the way your eyes squeezed shut, your deep, syrupy breaths turning into shallow gasps. The gasp of your voice came out too loud and shrill, your free hand clenching in the pillows about your head. “Joel, oh my–!”

A groan left him, the pad of his thumb firmly strumming over your clit as his fingers crooked inside you.

Everything was becoming too much. You were merely holding the base of his cock, too overwhelmed by the euphoria coming from Joel’s hand to divide your attention. Solace was sought in the curve of his neck and shoulder, your body canting to one side so you could bury your face against him. Your muscles braced around him, everything becoming tighter and tighter as you huffed small whimpers against the delicate skin of his clavicle.

“Joel!” The tension became too much, your muscles convulsing and your back breaking on you repeating his name like a broken record. You rode the jolts of your orgasm snugly against Joel’s fingers, intimately grinding your clit against the joint where his thumb met his palm.

You sank down from your high, bonelessness seeping into your limbs from head to toe. It was still hard to breathe properly, Joel’s fingers smearing messily up and down your cunt in an effort to soothe the aftershocks as he pressed kisses against your jaw. Clarity returned with slow breaths, attentive eyes met over your shoulder. 

He looked pleased.

“Love making you scream like that, baby,” Joel murmured as your hand resumed jerking him off. Your own wetness smeared against your thigh as he manipulated your legs so he could take your panties off, tossing them over the side of his bed. “You always sound so desperate.”

You rolled your eyes, a tired smile stretching across your lips. “I think you’re getting too cocky for your own good, old man,” you said with a grin, gently kissing him. He pulled your leg back to where it was, spreading you apart so your calf was pressed against the small of his back while the outside of your other thigh was snug against the sheets.

Joel chuckled good naturedly, his free hand pushing his briefs down enough to kick them off with his feet. The whole motion was uncoordinated, jostling the two of you together as he settled back next to you. Another set of kisses were stamped against your cheek and throat.

“So now I’m an old man?” Joel asked, a dark eyebrow arching as he waited for your response. He moved your hand away from his cock, stroking himself from base to tip as his forearm squished into the fat of your thigh.  

“Definitely,” you said with a soft smirk, your nose bumping against his as you placed a sweet kiss on the corner of his mouth.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “I’ll show you just what this old man can do,” Joel said, his southern drawl low as he threatened you. His other hand moved from your shoulder to palm at your breast through the worn fabric of the shirt you wore, kneading it in the wide stretch of his fingers.

Your bratty response died in your throat, killed by the drag of the blunt head of Joel’s cock against your cunt. He snickered, mercilessly nudging your oversensitive clit with it. 

“Please,” you gasped, the plea slipping from your mouth before you even realized it had gathered there. The hot slide of his cock between your thighs almost made your eyes roll back, your cunt fluttering around nothing as he teased you. His hand pressed just below your belly button, making it hard for you to angle your hips just right.

“Please what, baby?” Joel asked, the wiry hair of his mustache tickling the shell of your ear. He was driving you nuts, your nerves starting to fray as you struggled against the iron hold of his hand. You knew he wanted you to beg.

You tried to be stubborn, whining pathetically as he continued to fuck your thighs. Arousal was pouring out of you like you’d sprung a leak, making your inner thighs slick as his thick cock sawed in the hinge between your thigh and your sex. You were all kinds of worked up before, but the almost stimulation combined with Joel’s grunts in your ear felt like sick torture.

It only takes you a few more thrusts for your resolve to crack. “Joel, fuck, please fuck me,” you gasped, too blinded by your horniness to keep your composure as you strained your hips against the prison of his hand. 

The laugh he let out was condescending. “There she is,” he purred against you, the smile clear in his tone. His hand moved from below your navel to adjust his cock so the blunt head pressed against your cunt. “You want this?” he asked, still not pressing his hips to yours hard enough to actually push inside.

“Yeah, yes,” you sighed plaintively, your eyelashes fluttering as you almost started to cry. It was humiliating how desperate you were, but you were too far gone to care.

Joel rooted himself deep in you with a solid thrust, the stretch and the sudden feeling of finally being full making your chin drop to your sternum. The sound that ripped from you was animal, your hips shoving back against Joel’s as his chest curved around your shoulders. 

He fell into rhythm immediately, making your bedhead even worse as you rocked against the mattress and his pillows. The arm curled beneath your throat pinned your shoulder blades to his chest, the two of you plastered together like sardines despite the size of the bed. His other hand reached forward to curl around your belly, fingertips pressing into your skin.

It felt like his cock was in your sternum has he steadily fucked into you, coaxing gasps from your throat as you clutched desperately at his strong arms. His nose nudged beneath the hinge of your jaw, his breath cooling the sweat accumulating there.

It was only when he was inside of you that you realized how badly you needed it. Fucking Joel made you feel complete, the aching emptiness being chased away as he gathered up all the loose and ragged pieces of you and put you back together with every drag of his cock against each slippery ridge inside of you.

You didn’t know if it was gratitude or reverence that made your breath nearly stop. 

“Feels like this pussy of yours was fucking made for me,” Joel groaned into your ear, drawing back and rolling his pelvis against you. The clap of his hips and your ass was getting impossibly louder, accompanied by the wet squelch of his cock pushing deeper and deeper into you.

He dug his teeth into your neck, sucking a sloppy hickey against the delicate skin as you started to fuck your hips back onto him. The head of his cock kept smashing into that spot that made you feel like mush, satisfied groans muffled in the back of your neck as your toes curled. You were seeing stars, one of your hands bracing against the headboard in a pathetic attempt to get some stability to anchor yourself to.

Joel’s big hand left your belly, dipping down to spread the messy lips of your sex. The firm roll of your clit between his fingers made tension knit in your abdomen again. Your lungs expanded, the breath stuck in your throat on instinct, sharp gasps pushing out of you. The spiral of heat forming in your stomach tightened, almost so tight you could hardly see.

Your cunt fluttered and tightened around him desperately, your body preparing for a crash. Joel moaned in anticipation, his thrusts took on an eager purpose as he kissed sloppily at your neck. 

“Love you,” you gasped, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his forearms as you tried to stay afloat.

The fat, tight plunge of Joel’s cock in you was maddening. Dizzying. You could feel yourself almost start to drool against the sheets. You were hazy and out of your mind as he rut into you again and again and again. 

“I love you too,” he muttered in your ear, raspy and deep. You felt his forehead press against your clothed shoulder, sweat absorbing into the fabric. A loud moan echoed from him, making your pussy clench as he watched your ass ripple with each slam of his hips. He always told you it was one of his favorite parts of you, stretchmarks and dimples and all. 

He mercilessly ground into your g-spot as he circled your clit with the pads of his middle and pointer fingers, making the ache in your abdomen more pronounced. You were clenched so tight around his cock, the need to orgasm almost making you feel like you were going to cry. The tightness in your core foretold you that it would be a big one, one of the orgasms that you needed Joel to talk you through as you came back down to earth.

You tipped your head back, fitting it neatly between Joel’s ear and the mattress as you whined through clenched teeth. The coarse, wiry hair of his beard scratched your cheek with each thrust, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry about it. It was like you were a bow drawn too tight, ready to snap at any moment.

There was a startling moment of clarity as your toes curled, a deep part of you realizing how safe you felt like this. Pinned to the length of Joel’s sturdy frame, sweat pooling in the few areas where your skin connected. You were wanted and protected and needed and craved, it was the same feeling you had on the first night when you and Joel had hooked up at the wedding. You felt it every time since.

Your throat was tightening with a feeling deeper than pleasure as your field of focus narrowed down to solely Joel. His thrusts were calculated and methodical, you could feel the cords of muscle bunching in his abdomen with every deep press of his huge cock. 

It was almost too much, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice as Joel refused to leave you an inch of space. Your hips twitched against his forearm, part of you trying to get away from the blinding feeling of his cock. It was impossible, the length of him staggering as he stretched you over it. You’d think that you’d get more used to it, but it still felt like the first time every time.

Something in your mind broke, tears starting to leak out of your eyes as he bullied your swollen clit and relentlessly pounded into you. “Joel, oh, oh… Joel, please–” you gasped on an exhale, your voice catching on the edge of a sob. “Ohmygod, Joel. Love you, I love you, Joel–” 

Joel responded by doubling his efforts, pulling your hips back to meet his frantic thrusts. You clung to whatever parts of him you could hold, one hand reaching back to squeeze his hip as you dug your nails into the forearm pressed into your collarbone. 

“That’s it. That’s my fucking good, perfect girl,” he hissed into your ear, the praise making your head spin. There was a hitch to his tone that told you he was just as close as you, running his mouth like a madman. “Christ, don’t know how I ever went without this sweet little pussy in my life. She’s sucking me in and fucking creaming all over me.”

It’s the nonsense that finally pushes you over the edge, a cry that sounded more wounded than pleasured rocking out of you. You rocked your hips back against his, your cunt seizing around his cock as tears leaked out of the corners of your eyes and soaked into the sheets. Joel held you tighter, abandoning your clit to curl an arm around your waist and keep you steady as your legs shook against him.

“So fucking good for me,” Joel said through grit teeth, voice like honey. You could hardly hear him over the pounding of your heart, listening to him like you were both underwater. He kept talking, mumbling things against your skin that you couldn’t understand as he kept going.

He was taking what he needed from you now, your body going mostly limp as he bounced you up and down his cock and grunted in your ear. Your nerves were frayed beyond belief, your breaths shallow as the remnants of your orgasm fizzed in your peripheral vision. His fingers dug into your flesh, probably leaving bruises beneath them as he fucked into you like an animal.

It was too much, your hands weakly reaching back to push at Joel’s thick torso as you protested. “S’too much, fuck–” you sobbed, your voice hoarse and breathless and broken. He fucked you stupid, the weight of thinking all the time finally leaving you as every thought left your head.

Joel shattered, the rhythmic pulse of your drooling pussy finally enough to coax him over the edge as his cock jerked inside of you. He groaned, pressing his open mouth against your throat and scraping his blunt teeth against it as you felt him inside you. The cage of his arms was tight around you through it, his hips slowing down without ever stopping as he leisurely ground into you.

You were still wrapped in your own pleasure, your body tightening and shivering with the aftershocks. He shivered behind you, panting as he came down with you. The ringing in your ears was loud, color slowly bleeding back into the room as Joel finally stopped moving.

He stayed there for some time, holding you to his chest as his other hand ran up and down the long line of the thigh that was still slung over his hip. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled as though you hadn’t already gone through the song and dance, pressing sweet kisses to your throat and shoulder as you caught your breath. 

You sighed, feeling red hot come ooze around Joel’s cock and down his balls as you started to relax. It took you a moment to formulate a thought, your mind having gone slack with the rest of you. “M’leaking,” you blurted stupidly, your voice a slur as your grip on Joel started to loosen.

Joel snorted, the sound feeling loud and harsh compared to everything that just happened. He made no move to pull out, nuzzling at your shoulder lovingly. You made no effort to move away, twisting your shoulders so you could look at Joel better.

He was smiley, his dimples showing just over his patchy beard as his eyes met yours. They were half-lidded and so warm, making you reach out to stroke your thumb over his cheek. 

“I wish we could do this every morning,” you said without thinking, not considering the implications.

Before you could close up and apologize, Joel nodded. “We’d never get anything done, though,” he said playfully, slipping out of you so he could mash you against him. You felt a little sorry for the loss, come and slick dripping down your thighs. “But it would be worth it to stay like this.”

Joel’s sappy, soppy moments were rare. You tried to cover the hitch of your breath by squirming your way closer to him, pressing idle kisses to his sternum as you did. 

“Maybe you could meet her,” he mumbled against the crown of your head after a little while. Your eyes widened as you pulled back to properly look at him, assessing the sincerity in his expression. He meant it, a soft smile curling his lips upward as he waited for your reaction.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” you breathed, your own grin breaking out on your face. “I can’t wait to meet Sarah.”

He pulled you against him, not moving fast enough for you to miss the spark of pure joy in his expression. “She’s gonna love you.” He squeezed you lovingly, stamping another kiss to your head as he took a deep breath against your hair.

You nodded, curling impossibly closer to Joel as you let the rest of the morning soaked around you. “M’gonna love her,” you sighed, the words sounding muffled as your cheek squished against his chest.

Someone’s stomach rumbled, you couldn’t tell whether it was yours or Joel’s. With your other needs sated, hunger began to crop up in the two of you. 

Joel spoke first, his deep voice thick. “How about we discuss it over breakfast?”

It only took you a second to agree, yanking him out of bed with you and dragging him to the attached bathroom to clean up. He laughed at your eagerness, bracing a hand against the wall before leaning down to capture you in a kiss. It was passionate, his tongue licking between your parted lips. Your shoulder blades pressed against the tiled wall of the bathroom, your hands finding his cheeks and holding him closer.

“Only if we get pancakes,” you countered as you parted, your breaths heavy.

“You’ve got a deal, baby.”

[toomuchracket]

if you're too shy, part 2 (office nerd!matty x reader fluff)

remember those gigs you and matty got scheduled to cover in part 1? yeah. this is them. enjoy <3

“hey.”

matty's curls bounce as he looks up at you quickly. a mild sense of guilt gnaws at your ribs when you realise you've spooked him, but it dissipates when he smiles, visibly relaxing when he realises it's you breaking him from his concentration. “oh, hi. you alright?”

you nod, gesturing to the vacant desk next to his. “am i ok to sit here?”

“yeah, of course. no need to ask. here, let me,” matty slides his notebook out of your way; as you lay your laptop down and sit, you can see him biting back a beam from the corner of your eye, and your heart flutters. “was there anything you needed, or…? not that there has to be, you know,” he sits up straight, apology settling itself on that gorgeous face of his. “i didn't mean it like that, i just meant-”

“no, i know, matty,” you smile softly. “there is, incidentally, but also i just wanted to sit next to you.”

there he goes with the blushing again - honestly, you reckon you could make a fortune if you bottled and sold the colour of matty's cheeks when you fluster him. although, you suppose, maybe the colour is only appealing because of whose face it's on.

said face is grinning at you again. “well, feel free, anytime.”

“likewise.”

“i'll take you up on that,” matty's smile gets impossibly wider, before he catches himself and controls it a little. “so, what is it that you need from me?”

the sloppiest kiss known to man. “advice, actually,” you put your glasses on, preening internally at the way matty's breath catches in his throat as you do, and open spotify on your laptop. “where should i start with this band we're going to see twice this weekend?”

matty's face brightens even more - impossible, you'd have thought. “oh. well, do you know any of their stuff already?”

you shake your head. “very bad of me as a music journo, but no,” you smile cheekily. “this is my first time. need you to talk me through it.”

the way matty coughs and tries to pass it off as him clearing his throat at your words is delicious. to be fair to him, he recovers quickly, the only sign of him being flustered the way his cheeks periodically twitch into a smile and back down again. “alright, so… i think i’d probably start with their second album - can i?” at your approval, he slides your laptop closer to him and scrolls down the band’s spotify profile to find the album in question. “their first is good, yeah, but the second one is where they really start to define their musical identity…” he trails off, covering his mouth. 

you blink in concern, leaning into him. “you okay, matty?”

“yeah, i just,” he sighs, then giggles into his hand. it’s maybe the best thing you’ve ever heard. “i realised i was starting to sound a bit like patrick bateman.”

“oh my god,” you snort, covering your own mouth as you laugh. “christ, you were. was this band’s early work too new-wave for your tastes and all?”

“little bit. i think their undisputed masterpiece is album two - literally a personal statement about the band itself,” matty smiles, then winces. “that was embarrassing.”

you shrug. “nah, i like that film. and not just because i think christian bale’s fit in it.”

“i was gonna go as him for halloween this year, actually,” matty says, nonchalantly scrolling through spotify again. “would that be weird?”

fuck. matty in a suit? potentially covered in blood? you have to readjust the way you’re sitting at the mere thought. so, naturally - “i think you should do it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you smile, matching matty’s. “i’d enjoy it, at least.”

“that’s all the convincing i need,” he smiles sweetly at you, then gestures to the laptop. “so, d’you wanna know a bit about their influences before you listen?”

“go on, then.”

“alright,” matty shuffles his chair closer to you; you sit up slightly straighter as goosebumps pass over your body, increasing tenfold when he looks directly into your eyes. from this close, his are warmer than you initially realised, and you have to work extremely hard to focus on what he's saying instead of drowning in them. “to be fair, you weren't totally far-off with the new-wave joke - their music is rooted in post-punk subculture, but more along the melodic, jangly-guitar, early eighties type. you know aztec camera, yeah? convinced i saw you wear a high land, hard rain shirt to work once.”

the butterflies nesting in your stomach flutter at his recollection. “yeah, that's right. same vibe as them?”

“kinda. similar to a lot of scottish and northern bands of that era. which is weird, considering they're all about thirty and from fucking newark.”

“i see,” you nod, smiling at the way matty's twirling one of his curls. “any springsteen influence, then? not to stereotype, but… eighties-inspired music by people from new jersey? seems like there could be connection.”

matty nods enthusiastically. “yeah, great question. i mean,” he puffs air through his lips quite adorably. “lyrically, yeah, and they have quite prominent sax parts in some of the songs that are quite e street band. but the inspiration seems to be mostly melodic post-punk. does that all make sense?”

you smile, leaning on your elbow. “yeah. you're very good at explaining things. i like that about you.”

“really?” matty blushes again. “sometimes i worry that i'm just talking shite, to be honest. i know i've got a tendency to ramble a bit, always have. it annoys people, i think.”

“not me. you're always talking about something interesting. makes me feel good to talk to you.”

he clutches his hands into sweater paws again, smiling. “same. you're a sweet one, i think. m'excited that we're working a bit closer now.”

“nobody else i'd do this with, matty,” you hold out your hand, and squeeze his when he lays it atop yours; a perfect fit, you note. “you're my favourite.”

he genuinely looks like he could cry, softly rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand and speaking even softer than that. “likewise, darling.”

for a second, you do nothing but beam at each other, still tentatively holding hands; it's only when your laptop pings with an incoming email that you break out of your reverie and apart. matty clears his throat. “would you like to know which order i recommend listening to the albums in?”

“please.”

he nods. “the second, then the most recent - which is the fifth, by the way. after that, i think i'd probably say… first, third, and fourth last. that one got a bit experimental, i doubt they'll play anything from it at either of the shows. d'you want me to just make a playlist of that order for you, while we're here?”

“oh, yes please,” you watch him do just that, a slight sense of longing settling itself in your bones when you think of a playlist so sorely him settled amidst all your favourite songs; actually, it gives you an idea. “i've got a final question for you, if that's okay, matty. well, technically two.”

“yeah?” he turns to look at you again, eyes disarmingly caring and focused on you.

“what's your absolute favourite song by the band? doesn't have to be the objectively best one, and you don't have to tell me why. m'just curious.”

matty smiles, the sun breaking through clouds. “that's easy,” he scrolls down the new playlist. “this one. that's my favourite.”

“alright,” you drag it to the top of the song list. “then that's the one i'll start with. and then i'll go onto the matty-approved listening order,” pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, you turn to face him. “that sound alright?”

“mhmm,” matty nods vigorously again, wild hair bouncing all over the place; a curl falls over his eye, and he brushes it away before peering up at you through his enviously-long lashes. “meant what i said earlier, you know. i really do think you're incredibly sweet.”

“thank you,” you all but whisper, doing your best to cover your own blushing. “um - what was i saying?”

he smiles. “you had another question, i think?”

“right, yeah. um,” your throat goes dry with sudden nerves, and you try to swallow as inconspicuous as you can to make it better. twisting your fingers together, you look down at them as you speak. “i've still got a restaurant review to do this weekend, and i was wondering if you, like, wanted to go for dinner before saturday’s show? that italian, near camden road station? and you can say no, of course, no hard feelings, but,” you can feel your cheeks burning as you tentatively look up at him. “i'd just like to hang out with you a little bit longer this weekend. i like spending time with you.”

“oh,” matty breathes, blinking as if he can’t quite believe he isn’t dreaming - you hope that’s the reason, at least. he bites his lip, cheeks rosy as he looks up at you with a smile, and nods. “yeah, i’d love that. thank you.”

“thank you, for agreeing,” you exhale, nerves replaced by tingling excitement. “is half four too early? that would give us time to eat, and walk to the roundhouse before doors, yeah?”

“that works for me,” matty nods. he twirls his hair again. “d’you want to just meet at the restaurant? cos that’s the station i’d get off at, camden road. but i don’t mind meeting you off the tube, if you like.”

“no, no, it’s alright. i’ll just get you there - i’m not gonna make you brave the high street when you don’t need to,” you giggle. “especially on a saturday afternoon, christ.”

he huffs out a laugh, but his eyes are tender - so is his voice, when he replies. “alright. i’d do it for you, though, no complaints.”

you believe him. you aren’t sure if you’ve ever seen someone look so sweetly sincere, and it’s fucking your brain up. big-time.

still, you hold it together long enough to reply. “you’re cute, healy, even if i think you’re a bit mad for offering to walk through camden just to get me,” you giggle at the way his jaw drops at the compliment. “you can get me at angel on friday, though, if you fancy? makes sense, if you’re already walking down from highbury.”

“i’ll be there at six,” matty smiles. “i’m excited to hear what you think of the band, you know. i think you’ll like them.”

“well, if you do, then i’m sure i will. you’ve got good taste,” you gather up your laptop and stand, turning to matty with a flirty grin. “speaking of - i like that jumper. you look hot in red, matty. really hot. anyway,” you bite back a grin at the little gasp he lets out. “thanks for all your help, lovely.”

“anytime!” he calls after you when you turn to walk away, deliberately swinging your hips slightly more than usual - you’re convinced you hear a muffled “fuck” before he speaks properly. “and, um, thanks for, y’know, liking my jumper.”

you look over your shoulder and wink, happiness bubbling through your body when you notice matty shifting his gaze from your ass to your face so hastily it’s a wonder his neck didn’t snap. “friday at six, yeah? don’t be late.”

“i won’t!”

and he’s true to his word - when you come up the escalators at angel station at five minutes to six on friday, matty’s leaning against the wall opposite you. he grins, a big toothy eye-crinkling smile that has your heart doing backflips, and waves as you walk over to him. “hi! i like your jacket.”

“oh, thank you,” you self-consciously touch the fluffy collar. “have you been waiting long?”

“not really. ten minutes?”

“that’s not too bad. shall we?” you wander out into the chilly evening air, matty matching pace beside you. “you ever been to a show here before?”

“yeah. what a fucking weird venue,” matty steps closer to you to avoid being run over by a bike, and your heart flutters; you’re actually sad when he moves away. “i like it inside, but-”

“the fact it’s literally in the middle of a shopping centre is insane?”

“completely mental.”

“a really strange bit of urban planning,” you smile, turning to him as you wait at a set of traffic lights. “i listened to the playlist you made me, by the way. even learned some of the words.”

matty laughs. “you like them, then? that’s good. knew you would, though.”

you nod, fighting the urge to grab his hand as you cross the road. “played your favourite song about ten times on loop. i had no idea it was going to end up being a love song, by the way…”

“yeah, the title’s a bit misleading.”

“...but it really works. i can see why it’s your favourite,” you gently nudge your shoulder into his arm. “like i said the other day, you’ve got good taste.”

he looks down at the pavement, smiling, then at you. fuck, he’s so cute. “so do you, darling,” he says, voice so soft you can hardly hear it over the bustle around you. “i really like your outfit.”

the hour spent upending your entire wardrobe onto your bed to pick it out was absolutely worth it. “thank you. i figured, y’know, since i’m technically not working,” you smirk at him. “i’d make the effort for going out. tomorrow, though, when i’m on-shift? not a chance.”

“you’ll still look great, i reckon,” matty says, easy as breathing; ironically, the ease of his words practically stops your own breath. “and yeah, i s’pose you really aren’t working tonight. when was the last time you went to a gig just for fun?”

“it’s been a while,” you admit. “and i miss it, actually, getting to just experience new artists without having to analyse and critique them. that’s part of the reason i’m excited to be going tonight.”

“i get that,” matty nods as you turn into the venue entrance. “and what’s the other part?”

you grin. “the fact i’m going with you.”

once again, matty blushes. “if you keep throwing me off with compliments the whole night, i literally won’t get any work done. but thank you. m’glad you agreed to come with me tonight.”

“i’m glad you asked,” you turn to him once you join the line to get in. “and you’ll get your work done, don’t worry. i promise to be good.”

for the most part, you actually succeed at that, and it’s largely due to how bloody good the band are. for all the venue is in a weird place, it really is a decent one - it’s so intimate that even you, who only started listening to the artists onstage this week, feel like a proper part of it. and, free of note-taking responsibilities, you can allow yourself to be made giddy by the coloured lights and loud melodies, to dance as best you can on the sticky floor, to sing along to the scraps of lyrics you recognise and join in the backing vocals with the rest of the crowd. that was always your favourite part of a concert, the moments where hundreds of voices just worked as one, identities dropping and merging to prioritise the music; it’s nice to be in it, for once, rather than doing your best to observe and capture and convey it in words. you leave that to matty, and mostly leave him be aside from the odd smile and laugh, always responded to warmly by him.

that is, until they play his favourite song, and the boy beside you becomes impossible to ignore.

the singer says something about this being the last song of the night, before beginning the now-familiar melody on his guitar. matty’s head snaps up at the first few notes, and his notebook snaps shut; you turn to him at the noise, smiling at the excitement on his face, even more radiant than usual under the pink lighting. he looks at you with a matching smile, curls bouncing as he nods along to the music, before turning back rapt towards the stage. you follow suit, soaking up the lyrics about wanting and yearning and falling fast for someone - hearing those words with that person beside you sends goosebumps shooting across your skin and sparks through your nervous system, the same kind of kinetic energy crackling in the space between you and matty. it’s so strong you have to uncross your arms, stretching your fingers out by your side. mortifyingly, they brush against the back of matty’s hand, and the sparks become shockwaves; not so much born out of fear, but of the same kind of longing the singer is musing about. he doesn’t seem to mind the contact, hand staying put despite it, and something in your brain just says fuck it and snaps.

tentatively, more so than you think you’ve ever been before, you loop your fingers around matty’s, and you hold his hand. and, quite honestly, nothing has ever felt quite so right as this. the shockwaves in your nervous system fade to a gentle hum, kinda like the reverb from the speakers, with only a tiny jolt when matty gently squeezes your hand in response.that’s how you stay for the rest of the song, hand-in-hand facing the stage, both of you - unbeknownst to the other - smiling contentedly and mouthing the lyrics to the song you relate to.

it lasts a sickeningly short amount of time, though - as soon as the song ends, you and matty are all but pulled apart by a group of kids running towards the stage, shouting about setlists and drumsticks and god knows what else. matty chuckles, walking backwards towards the exit so he can talk to you. "that was good.”

“yeah,” you agree, although you’re not sure what he’s specifically referring to. “liked it a lot.”

“me too.”

there’s comfortable silence as you weave your way out of the venue and onto the street. you turn to say a reluctant goodbye to matty, but he beats you to it. “i’ll walk you to the station.”

“are you sure? you’ve got a bit of a walk in the other direction, matty.”

he shrugs. “it’s a nice night. i don’t mind.”

“cool,” you do your best to keep from smiling at the thought of an extra five minutes with him. “thank you.”

“s'alright,” matty smiles, leading the way down the street. “i've had a lot of fun tonight.”

“yeah, same here. they're really good!”

“aren't they? i'm excited to see their set tomorrow, see how it compares,” he hums happily. “i think this is gonna turn out to be a really good article, you know.”

“so do i,” you beam at him. “and i must say, i'm enjoying the process for this one much more than i have in a while.”

he giggles, and you have to fight the urge to hold his hand again. “well, if you think about it,” matty rubs his thumb over his bottom lip quite attractively. “it makes a lot more sense for us to do gig reviews together. music is something to be shared, after all, and live music especially, and so are our reviews - we probably get a better sense of it all if we're not by ourselves, don't you think?”

you don't even bother trying to hide how enamoured you are when you look at him. “i love the way your brain works, matty.”

“oh, shush,” he clutches the sleeves of his jacket over his hands, but beams anyway; it drops from his face when he notices the tube station sign up ahead. “well, i suppose this is where i leave you.”

the melancholia in his voice makes your heart sink. “yeah, i guess,” you sigh. “but not for long, though.”

“true,” matty's face brightens, and he reaches to take your hand and squeeze it gently. “thanks for coming, darling. i had a lot of fun.”

“thank you for having me,” you squeeze his hand in return, smiling at the way he looks down at your connected fingers in wonder. “text me when you get home?”

“of course. you too, please.”

“i will,” you let go of matty, pausing before you turn to walk away; quicker than your brain can convince you otherwise, you lean up to press a kiss to his soft cheek, before winking at his dazed expression and turning towards the station. “see you tomorrow, lovely.”

“bye,” comes the soft, delayed reply. you turn back to wave once you reach the escalator, then smile giddily to yourself the whole way home.

in fact, you don't think you stop smiling giddily for the rest of the night, or the next day; just the knowledge that you're going to see matty again keeps you in a state of sunniness, has you dancing around the flat and serenading your dog, who just looks at you like you're insane. a tiny part of your brain agrees with her, but how can you be expected to help it? you haven't been this excited to go on a date with someone in a long, long time.

well, it's not a date, officially. but walking into a dimly-lit italian restaurant with matty in tow, him taking your jacket and pulling your chair out for you like a perfect gentleman? it fucking feels like it. you wish it was.

even more so when he takes his own jacket off, revealing A) a short-sleeved shirt in the same colour of red you told him he looked hot in the other day, worn slightly open over a white tank; B) almost-unbelievably muscular arms; C) tattoos littered up said arms, and one on his chest just peeking out suggestively.

jesus fucking christ.

you can’t help but stare at matty, mouth agape, as he sits down. he giggles nervously when he notices. “what?”

the words leave your mouth before you can even think about stopping them. “matty… do you know how hot you are?”

he does the adorable blinking thing again. “you think i’m hot? me?”

“um, yeah, i have eyes,” you giggle, cheeks burning. keep it together, you stupid slut. “i didn’t know you had all those tattoos, actually. why don’t you show them off more?”

matty shrugs. “sometimes, people think if you have lots of tattoos, you’re like, i don’t know… scary, or unapproachable,” he opens the drinks menu. “that’s not the impression i wanna give off, you know? especially at work. like, you know me, i’m quite soft and quiet. i just think the tattoos look sick.”

god, you want to eat him alive.

“i understand,” you nod, leaning on your elbows. “and i also think they look sick. kinda sexy, i’d say, to be honest. anyway,” you bite back a smirk at matty’s flustered expression. “what sort of drink are you in the mood for?”

“oh, well… i don’t know, actually,” matty scans the menu, then meets your eyes. “i’m new to this sort of reviewing. what do you usually do first? talk me through it,” he must mistake your wide eyes after his last statement for horror, instead of slight arousal. “please.”

“okay. can i see the menu, please? right, fab, thanks,” you hold it open so you can both see the drinks list. “shit, this is extensive… reasonably priced, would you say?”

“for this part of london? yeah.”

“i agree. right,” you look at him, and the concentration with which he looks back almost throws you off. “because we haven’t picked out food and don’t know about flavour palettes yet, i’d avoid wine for the time being. anything too flavoured, actually - i reckon our best bets are either some sort of fairly neutral cocktail, or a spirit and clear mixer. you know, vodka soda, a g&t, that kind of thing.”

matty nods. “makes sense.”

“yeah. the exception to all of that, in my opinion, is champagne,” you smile. “but if i start drinking it, i won’t want to stop, and if i kick the arse out of this meal on the work credit card then marianne will kick mine, so…”

he laughs, and the warmth of it goes straight to your stomach. “classy girl,” he smiles, laughing even harder when you make a face. “well, i think you are. and,” he points at the menu. “i also think we should have negronis.”

“nice. alright, let’s move on to food,” you open another menu. “oh, thank god we came here so early - this decision might take me a while. sorry.”

matty smiles, the tenderness in his eyes only exacerbated by the flickering candlelight. “that’s alright, darling. we’ll take all the time you need. well,” he winces. “maybe keep it within the two and a half hours we’ve got until we need to leave for the gig. although i s’pose we could stay here another fifteen minutes if we got a taxi.”

you wave insouciantly. “we’ll be on time. and you’ll have fun, too. promise.”

“oh, i don’t doubt that.”

and you really do have fun, despite having to constantly remind yourself that you’re not on a date and are in fact at work. the two negronis you each have over the course of the meal continue to coax matty out of his shell - and thus, get you to fall even harder for him than you already have, which to be honest you didn’t think was possible after seeing his tattoos - to the point where he’s affectionately taking the piss out of you for stealing forkfuls of his dinner “for journalistic purposes”. but, all in all, he’s completely fascinated by the process of forming your review, taking interest in the subtleties of what makes somewhere good versus great, and marvelling at the breadth of your culinary knowledge (which you’re actually very proud of, being self-taught and all); he’s still raving about it as you walk - with plenty of time to spare, mind you - along chalk farm road towards the roundhouse. “i actually don’t know what i’m more impressed with, you or the food. genuinely. you’re incredible. and to think i was going to make you soup!”

you frown. “past tense? why?”

“you know too much about food. i won’t be able to impress you.”

“matty,” you turn to look at him, wide-eyed and crestfallen. “that’s not true at all!”

he scoffs, but not harshly. “come on, babe,” the nickname does something funny to your stomach. “i’m not upset about it, just thinking realistically. how is my nana’s carrot and coriander recipe gonna stack up against michelin-starred minestrone, or whatever? not at all, that’s how. and that’s alright!”

“matty. matty - alright, fine,” you clear your throat, stopping and standing with your hands on your hips. “matthew. listen to me, and listen good, yeah? right,” when he nods, blinking those pretty eyes, you continue. “soup is a whole different thing - in fact, all domestic cooking is, especially if you’re making something for someone you care about. i don’t want to be impressed by the technique, i want to be nourished. cared for. dare i say, healed. and, in that regard, i have no doubt that your nana’s recipe would fucking decimate any posh restaurant soup. alright?”

he nods, shyly peeking through his eyelashes. “alright.”

“thank you.”

the walk continues, silent for a few minutes until matty talks again. “you know,” he says, smile audible in his voice. “i didn’t think i’d find being lectured about soup sexy. and yet…”

“oh my god, stop it,” you giggle, although you’re simultaneously fighting the urge to skip along the path and secretly filing that piece of matty information away in your mind. just in case. “thanks, though.”

he shrugs, smirking. you’re into it. “just telling the truth. it’s my job, after all.”

“and here i thought you were flirting with me,” you smirk back. “shame,” you wink, speeding up slightly towards the venue; you drop into serious mode when you see several different door queues. “shit. where do we go, with the press passes?”

matty hums, looking around. suddenly, he takes your hand, gently leading you to a side door; you’re quite content with this, a sort-of fuzzy feeling overcoming you, so much so that you barely register him talking. “here we are. you ready, darling?”

you nod happily at him. “round two. let’s go.”

the night, at first, progresses a lot like the previous one - you spend the opening set dancing, singing along to the songs you know pretty well by now, leaning in to talk to matty about any discrepancies you see in performance between both nights while he diligently takes notes. when they close with his favourite song, again, you’re slightly dismayed that he continues to write, and you can’t repeat the hand-holding; pretty much as soon as you’ve thought that, though, matty leans into you to rest his head on yours and sing along to the lyrics, and the room seems to get brighter. out of both desire and necessity (you know how clumsy he is), you wrap an arm around matty’s waist, and you swear you can hear him smile. it’s warm, sweet, intimate without being weird, and you really don’t want to let go of him. ever.

eventually, once the song ends and the house lights come up in the break between sets, you do, pulling your notebook from your jacket pocket with a sigh. matty straightens up, stretches with a groan that should not be as attractive as it was to you, and smiles. “pasta tiredness hitting you too?”

“little bit,” you wince. “maybe dinner then dancing was a bad idea.”

he shakes his head. “nah. it’s been fun. i’ve really enjoyed it.”

“i’m glad to hear that,” you smile at him. “wouldn’t mind making a habit of it, actually.”

“really?” matty beams. “neither would i. maybe we can pitch it to marianne as an actual segment. like, restaurant pairings with gigs, potentially highlight local places near the venues we go to. yeah?”

it’s a fucking great idea. he goes all bashful when you tell him as much. “cool. we can maybe see her about it on monday, if she’s in.”

you nod. “of course. come and find me on monday morning, and we can come up with a proper pitch while we get this piece done, alright?”

“‘course,” matty nods, smiling when the lights drop and the audience scream. “right, i’ll leave you to your notes.”

“cheers,” you reply, reluctantly turning towards the stage. it isn’t that the gig is bad, at all - as you wrote in your notes, the band are talented, charismatic, well-rehearsed. it’s just extremely difficult to focus on them and your notebook when you have the boy of your dreams beside you, close enough to touch and kiss and dance with, singing along happily and doing a dorky little two-step that makes his hair bounce quite beautifully. every so often, the urge to turn and smile at him becomes too much to resist, and matty goes visibly - adorably - pink under the stark white lighting every single time he makes eye contact with you.

by the time the gig ends, you’re dead certain: you are down so incredibly deeply bad for matty healy, and you need to tell him as soon as possible.

as it turns out, the opportunity for that happens extremely quickly once you’re both out of the venue, talking and laughing and dissecting the show even further than you did in your respective notebooks as you leave, and it’s so romance-media smooth that you genuinely think a higher power might be involved. perhaps an apology from the universe by having a group of teenagers push you and matty apart at yesterday’s gig, this time a group of them push you closer together, bolting past you and screaming about catching the bus home - matty tugs you into him to stop you being completely bowled over, and turns so the two of you are right next to the building instead of in the firing line out in the open. his hands are warm against your waist and lower back, and so is his neck under your clasped hands; you have no recollection of putting them there, but you sure as shit aren’t going to move them anytime soon. if you did that, you’d further the distance between you, and why on earth would you want to do that, when you’re so close you can’t tell whose breath cloud is whose and the little flecks of gold in his dark eyes are visible to you for the first time?

no. you’ll stay as you are, thank you very much.

“you know that thing we were going to pitch to marianne at work on monday?” you whisper, heart pounding as you notice matty’s eyes flick to your lips. “the thing we want to make a habit of?”

“yeah,” matty breathes, the words so close to your lips you can practically taste them. “what about it?”

your lips part, and you take a shaky breath before you reply. “well, the thing is,” you bite your lip, and his pupils dilate. “i don’t think i want it to be a work thing, matty.”

a beat passes before he responds. “neither do i.”

thank fuck.

your eyes close in contentment. “matty?”

“yeah, darling?”

you reopen them, looking up at him - for the probably millionth time in two days, you don’t bother trying to hide the feeling in your gaze. “kiss me.”

that gorgeous face above yours cracks into a smile. “alright.”

and he does.

it’s exactly how you imagined he would be - a little bit sloppy, tentative with tongue, but so eager and giggly and just so caring that it doesn’t matter. on instinct, your hand roots itself in matty’s curls, and the little whine he lets out is probably enough to fuel your bedtime fantasies for a fortnight by itself. you smile into him, tracing your tongue around his lips before sucking on the bottom one and releasing it slowly. your head is spinning, from matty more than lack of oxygen, and you honestly don’t think you’ve ever been happier post-kiss in your life.

there’s a happy silence for a minute, save the two of you gasping for breath, broken by matty kissing you quickly again and grinning. “hi. and, also, wow.”

“indeed,” you beam up at him, gently twisting those pretty curls around your fingers. “you might’ve figured it out by now, but… i like you, in a more-than-platonic sense.”

“the kiss gave it away, yeah,” he giggles breathily. “i take it there’s no policy at work about making out with your colleagues? or, y’know, taking them out on actual, unrelated-to-work dates?”

“no such thing.”

matty smiles, pulling you in for another kiss. “well, thank christ for that.”

[bettyfrommars]

Touch my cheek before you leave me, baby//Part 2

gigolo!Eddie x virgin!older!fem!Reader

(part 1)(part 3)

18+Only, mature content, intimacy smut, sweet!Eddie, nipple play, praise!kink, masturbation, oral (f receiving), protected p in v, toxic mother, self-esteem issues, alcohol consumption, implied self-loathing, pet names, implied sex with someone other than reader, paid sex. wc: 4.6k

summary: After that first night together on your 29th birthday when you lost your virginity to gigolo Eddie, he mentions, in his own way, that he'd like to see you again off the clock. Reader is an introvert dealing with self-esteem issues and invites Eddie to be our date for a wedding, but not before he invites us back to his place.

authors note: I never intended this to be more than one part, but it quickly became a favorite, and I had so many requests for more. Who am I to deny us more of sweet, gigolo Eddie?

All of your support means the world, and I very much look forward to your thoughts ❤️

pls no minors beyond this point

-------

You still couldn’t tell if it was real.  When he said he wouldn’t charge you if you ever wanted to meet up again. It felt sincere when he said it, but now, two days later, by the phone with gigalo Eddie’s number in your hand, you were convinced that it was all part of his game.  Maybe he was just that good.

He knew everything that would turn you on, everything you needed to hear, right down to the pet names and the missionary style, intimate sex. It had all been in the paperwork you’d submitted. It was nothing but a job to him, and you had totally fallen for it.  

Now you felt like one of those idiot, lovesick men at the strip clubs who always believed that the girls were really in love with them after they made eye contact a few times and tipped them for hours on end. 

You did your affirmations in the mirror that morning, trying not to look at yourself from the side in the full length mirror and pinch at the parts of your body you thought were gross.  Trying not to indulge in the morning ritual of hating yourself.

Even if Eddie had felt some type of real connection with you—which you now highly doubted—how would things progress between the two of you? From what Robin had told your friend Nellie, Eddie was a busy boy.  He was a respected gigalo within a 50 mile radius, and his list of regular clients was long; your evening with him was booked a month in advance.  On nights when he didn’t have clients, he was practicing with his band or playing gigs, and you were sure he could have any woman he wanted when he performed.

But then the phone rang as you were sitting there right next to it and you jumped, a shriek escaping your throat.

It was your mom, reminding you to pick up the dress for your cousin's wedding the following weekend. You weren’t going to be in the wedding party, but your mother had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want you to embarrass her with any of the styles of clothes you would’ve picked out for yourself.  

She exhaled a haggard breath.  “I suppose you still haven’t found a date? There’s a new boy who goes to our church. I think he might even like you, as long as you don’t bring up any of your strange conspiracy theories or serial killer statistics. Wear that special bra I got for you, and put a little makeup on.  Men like women who try to look nice for them.”

You wanted so badly to let your mother know that you’d recently paid for a gigolo to take your virginity, just to hear the horror and panic in her voice.  You were already a disappointment to her, why not put a cherry on top?

You put Eddie’s number on the table and stared at it while she talked.  “Actually,” you took a stiff swallow that felt like a marble in your throat.  “I do have a date.  For the wedding.  His name is Eddie.”

You relished the silence of shock at the other end. “Oh? What does this Eddie do? Not another jobless musician like the last boy you had a crush on, I hope?”

You winced at the way she brought it up.  Almost a decade ago, you had a crush on the brother of one of your friends, that is until you overheard him refer to you as “creepy”.

You knew she’d never drop it until you told her something; what a person did for a living and their social standing was very important to your mother.  “He’s, um,” you looked around, eyes landing on one of the cassette tapes on the shelf for the band Mike and The Mechanics.

“He’s a mechanic,” but you knew that wouldn’t be good enough.  “He, uh, runs his own auto body garage.” The lie—the fact that you even had to lie—made you squeeze your eyes shut.

She of course asked what the name of his garage was, and you told her he was from out of town and only coming in for the wedding.  She started badgering you with more questions and you lied and told her someone was at the door of your apartment and you had to go, hanging up the receiver before she could protest.  

A few hours later, after listening to music on full blast in your headphones and nearly pacing a hole in the carpet, you cracked open the nerve to call Eddie.

Your blood ran freezing cold as it rang on his end, and you glanced at the clock: it was just after 8:00pm.  You’d purposely waited until it was later in the evening, praying that he’d be with his band or with another client, and then you could leave him a message on his machine.  You were banking on this, actually.  If he picked up and you heard his voice, you’d probably hang up on him.

As luck would have it, you did get his answering machine.  Nervous as all hell, your voice was a tad squeaky at first, but then you cleared your throat. 

You decided you would present the invitation to be your date to the wedding as a job, one you would pay him for.  You let him know you’d had a great time the other night, and then made sure he had your phone number, and that you would TOTALLY understand if he was already busy that weekend.  You were about to hang up when you realized that you’d never said exactly who you were, and so you blurted your name out at the last minute, but it was too late because the recorder beeped and cut you off.

You went to bed that night convinced you would never hear from him again.  

Much later that night, after a long day, Eddie grinned down at the answering machine the second he heard your voice—he knew it was you right away.  He’d been thinking about you nonstop since that night you’d been together, but he never expected to hear from you.  He worried that he had put you on the spot when he said you wouldn’t have to pay him, and it had probably made you uncomfortable.  Flirting on the job was not something he had done before and it was very unprofessional of him. At the very least, he needed to apologize to you.

But there you were, calling him this soon as if you’d been thinking about him too.  

He tucked his hand in his armpit and nibbled at his lip when you asked if he was free this weekend to go to a wedding with you.

His heart skipped a beat.  He was thinking something more along the lines of dinner and a movie, but, sure, he would be your date—he had a tux. He’d have to reschedule one of his regulars, but she would understand. Other guys might’ve seen that as getting too serious too quick, but not Eddie.  He hadn’t had a girlfriend, or even been on a date that was not work related in over a year.  Women weren’t interested in taking a gigolo home to meet their parents.  They wanted his cock in all of their holes, but none of them ever wanted to know how his day went or what his dreams were.  

“So, just let me know…” you continued in the message.  “...if you’re available, and how much would you charge for something like that? I’d totally understand if…”

Damn it, he cursed to himself, sucking air in the side of his cheek.  He thought that invitation was sounding a little too good to be true.  

All the same, he called back the next day and left a message while you were at the local grocery store where you worked as an assistant manager, letting you know he’d be honored to be your date, and to tell him the where and the when.

But he did not give a price, and the omission was not lost on you.

—-----

You were so nervous, you could puke.

But it was still a day before the wedding, and you were in attendance at the post-rehearsal dinner at Enzo’s.  Although you were not going to be in the wedding, your beautiful, outgoing sister Judith was, and you weren’t entirely against a dinner paid for by your uncle at one of the fanciest restaurants in town.  

You were feeling the buzz of the wine and trying to play wallflower as the other four people at the table, including your sister and three of her friends, engaged in lively conversation and shared exaggerated stories from their college years.  You were sitting back in your chair, offering a chuckle to something that was just said, when you looked across to the main entrance and saw Eddie coming through the door.  

You were only looking in his direction for maybe five seconds before you looked away, but it felt like an hour.  There was an ocean in your ears as your heartbeat soared and your brain scrambled to make sense of what was going on. 

He looked particularly beautiful.  Hair worn down, framing his face, a crisp white button down, allowing for the dark designs of his chest tattoos to show, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, exposing his defined forearm muscles and tattoos.  

Eddie was not alone.  

Next to him, holding onto his arm, was a very pretty woman.  Shoulder length, brunette hair brushed back from her face, flawless skin, tight black dress and gold jewelry.  She might have been mid to late thirties, much shorter than Eddie. They appeared to be very cozy as they stood waiting to be shown to their booth, and when she turned to ask him something, Eddie answered, and then kissed the back of her hand.

You snapped your eyes back to the table, twirled the stem of your wine glass a few times, and then lifted it to your lips for a generous gulp.  Everyone at your table was just tipsy enough to not notice how flustered you got, cheeks blooming red hot.

Eddie saw you while he was escorting Lana to their table, but he wasn’t sure if you had seen him yet or not.  This was his fifth “date” with Lana.  Her husband passed away four years ago, and she’d decided that she’d never love another man again as much as she’d loved him, so she didn’t want any romantic attachments.  What she wanted was a man to take care of her once in a while: escort her to dinner, treat her like a lady, hold doors for, and then let her suck him off so he could cum on her tits the way her husband used to do.  He wore her husband's Old Spice aftershave and called her “Sugar” which had always been his nickname for her. 

He needed to focus on Lana, but as the waiter handed over the wine menus, Eddie kept glancing in your direction.  It'd been a week since the two of you had been together biblically, and he’d really been missing your face, more than he could even admit to himself.  He found himself drawn to you chemically in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. 

You shot him a look over your wine glass, and he lifted his fingers in a small wave, but you ducked your head and tried to hide behind whoever was sitting next to you. 

If anyone there recognized him tomorrow at the wedding, and happened to connect the dots that he was with another woman on a date the night before, that would be bad. He made a last second decision to switch places with Lana in the booth so that his back would be to the people you were with, in an effort to hide his identity.  

“I think it’s time for me to go home,” you announced to the table, getting to your feet as you said it.

Your sister protested.  “But, we just got here? One more drink?”

You fumbled so fast for your jacket that your chair fell to the ground.  Even over the Italian music and plentiful conversations, everyone turned to look, including Eddie, and then you were rushing to get out of the restaurant, bursting into the fresh air and hurrying down the sidewalk.

Down at the corner of the building, you were catching your breath and feeling stupid as hell, when you realized Eddie was coming toward you with his hands in his pockets.  He had waited a few minutes, but eventually followed.

“Hey,” he said, catching up to you after a few slow, deliberate strides.  “I hope I didn’t make anything weird for you in there.”

You covered your eyes with your hand.  “No, I’m the one who made things weird,” you told him. “I’m just not a fan of crowds. I think I got a little claustrophobic.”

“I know what you mean,” Eddie had his head down, shuffling his foot, and you noticed how different his demeanor was when he wasn’t “working”.  

You huffed a laugh.  “You’re a natural with people, what are you talking about?”

“Maybe I just play a good game,” he lifted his eyes to meet yours, chin lowered. “On the inside I spend plenty of time curled in a ball in the corner, I promise you.”

A car horn blared in the distance, and then Eddie spoke again.  “You look really pretty tonight,” his hands stayed in his pockets, but he gestured with his elbow.  “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Of course,” you said quickly, praying he hadn’t suddenly changed his mind.  “I mean, if you still want to?”

“Of course I want to, sweetheart,” he cocked his head, but then he gestured toward the restaurant. “I need to get back in, I can’t leave her hanging.”

You started to speak nervously, something about “oh yes sure go ahead absolutely okay goodnight” as you walked away, but then he caught your arm.

He searched your face in the dark shadow of the street corner.  “Are you…busy later? Like, in a couple hours?”

Your heart tightened at the urgency of his question.  The way his eyes settled on you, they were full of desire, and you couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave you all of their attention like that.  

Eddie was really taking a chance with this one.  What woman in her right mind would want to spend time with him right after he’d been intimate with someone else?  This is where any dating situation he ever attempted came to a screeching halt.  He went home lonely more often than not.  

Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his beautiful neck, letting the gravity of what he was asking you sink in.  “Won’t you be…tired?”

He brushed his knuckles across your cheek.  “Not too tired.”

—----

He called from the payphone at Enzo’s and left his address on your answering machine, just like he said he would, and so there you were, in your car in the driveway of the adorable light blue house he shared with a friend named Steve, who was supposedly also in the gigolo business. Steve was out of town for a few days, though, and inside your head you were screaming; you couldn’t believe this was happening.

 It was one of the better maintained houses on the block; lawn perfectly mowed and trimmed, a flower bed with purple pansies along the sidewalk.  There was the husk of an old muscle car in the garage though, and an engine weeping oil on the pavement.  The lie you’d told your mother wasn’t too far off, and a grin kicked up one side of your mouth thinking about how Eddie’s strong hands had some black stains in the crevasses from working on cars, even though he scrubbed them constantly.  

Eddie had no idea what he was doing.  The good thing about being a gigalo was that he could control the atmosphere and the outcome: he never had to worry about getting hurt because it was just a job.  

You could tell he’d just come out of the shower when he answered the door in a plain white tee and jeans exposing the tattoos on his arms, hair wet down his shoulders, skin warm and soft when he hugged you in the doorframe. 

The hug lingered, and when you stepped back, your chin was down, your eyes trying to avoid him at all costs. Sure, you wanted to be there with him, but also, your body was in fight or flight mode.  You could hear your mother’s voice in your head then, telling you there’s no way a guy as good looking as Eddie would be interested in a girl like you. She’d insist he was using you for something.

“Hey,” Eddie caught your chin and brought your attention back to him. He ran a thumb across your mouth.  “I’ve been dreaming of these lips.”

It made you snort a laugh, and Eddie laughed too, squeezing one eye closed.  “Sorry, was that too cheesy? Occupational hazard.”

“I like cheesy,” you beamed, parting your lips to accept his kiss, opening your mouth to take him deeper, working your hands up the front of his chest over his shirt.  You tried not to think about the woman he’d been with just an hour earlier, and the things they’d possibly done together.  If he could accept you and still find you desirable, even when you didn’t even like yourself, you were willing to have an open mind about his profession.  At least for now.

You found out he had an episode of Elvira’s Movie Macabre on the TV, and told him it was one of your favorites.  This made Eddie like you even more.  He sat back on the couch, legs long, and beckoned for you with a few eager flaps of his wrist to come and sit flush with your back against him.  “This is what I needed,” he said as you got comfortable between his legs.  He kissed the side of your head, intertwined the fingers of one of his hands with yours, and you could barely concentrate on the show with the way his closeness made your pussy pulse.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.  Both of his thumbs slid down the front of the blouse you were wearing to graze the hard nubs of your nipples, while he kissed the outer ridge of your ear.  

You could only make a needy purr in the back of your throat, pushing against him at the need for more.  

“Are your nipples this hard just for me, sweetheart?” He hushed, nuzzling your ear.  You squirmed a bit more, nodding, exposing the side of your neck to greet his mouth.  He unbuttoned your shirt and pulled down the front cups of your bra to pluck at your tender buds, making you whine.  He found your pulse point on your throat and sucked there, continuing to work your nipples in a way that had your underwear immediately damp with arousal.

“You getting wet for me so I can taste how good I make you feel, baby?”

Indeed, your body was letting him know loud and clear that this is what it wanted.  

He licked his fingers to wet your nipples, and you felt like you might be able to cum from his finger twisting alone.  You undid the zipper on your trousers and sank your fingers into the wetness there, working your slippery clit.  You slid your digits down a little further and dipped them into your hole; it gripped around you, begging to be filled.

“Let me taste it,” he told you.  You presented your two glistening fingers up and he sucked them into his mouth, licking them clean, making you tremble at the way his tongue flicked between them.

“Keep touching yourself,” he encouraged, milking and twisting your nipples with a bit more force now that they weren’t as sensitive, causing zings of pleasure to rock through your body.

“Eddie,” you whimpered, finding your clit again, working your wrist.  “You’re going to make me—”

But then it was already happening, a pop of velvet streamers liquified at your core, pulsing, throbbing, making you go blind for a second.  

Eddie’s cock bucked hard against his denim.  You turned to kiss him in the aftermath, and he slid out from under you to get on his knees, pulling your pants off the rest of the way.

“I need to taste it,” he breathed, hiking your knees up over his shoulders so he could bury his face and lick you clean, lapping up your gift, groaning and rocking forward on his knees as he did so.  

You grabbed onto his hair.  “You like how hard I cum for you, don’t you baby?”

You were learning to be more verbal, and it made his hips twitch against the couch, he wanted you so bad.  Once he devoured the sweet  nectar of  your cum, he worked his way up your body, kissing your breasts, and then finding your mouth.  He sank two fingers into your aching hole, and your pelvis flexed eagerly up to meet his hand.  

“Hey,” he brushed his lips over yours, hovering there.  “I don’t ever go down on...clients,” he admitted to you, eyes finding yours, fucking his fingers slowly in and out, curling them up once they were deep inside of you. “You are special, I just thought you should know.”

“I like knowing that,” you said with a quiver in your voice, holding his face. “I want you inside of me.”

There was a condom in his wallet and he helped you guide it onto his cock after he pushed his jeans down, every bit the teacher.  You slid your shoulders down the couch, legs spread wide, exposing all of your holes for him.  Gripping your hip, he teased the tip at your entrance, eyebrows pinching together at the sensation.

“Without a condom, I’d probably blow a hole through you, baby, you’ve got me so hard.”

Your pussy was soaked, dripping from your folds down the condom on his cock.  “You’re the only one I want inside of me,” you were merely stating a fact, but it was just what he needed to hear, and he rose up on his knees, pulled your ass a bit further off the couch, and buried himself balls deep with a hard gasp.

He leaned forward to brace his forearms on the cushion at either side of your head, kissing you, thrusting in a few times as deep as he could go, skin smacking, your wetness now shimmering on the curly hairs at the base of his cock.

You were amazed at how your body knew how to respond, even though you had absolutely no clue what you were doing.  Bucking your hips up to meet him was your favorite, and then every now and then, he’d swivel his hips, holding your legs out.  

“That was a fancy move,” you breathed against his lips. 

“I save all my fancy moves for you, sweetheart,” he chuckled.

He brought his thumb in to play with your clit.  “I want you to cum with me.”

You didn’t know if that kind of tandem miracle was possible, but you were willing to try.  You brought your fingers in to work your slick juices over just the right spot, and Eddie sat back to watch you. He was observing and taking notes.

“You stretch me out so good,” you whined, getting into the swing of things, swiping your fingers faster, not phased at all by the way the parts of your body you hated were all hanging out for him to see.  

“Shit,” Eddie bucked. “You’re gonna make me cum right now if you talk like that.”

“You’ve ruined me for everyone with your big cock, baby,” you continued. “No one will ever fill me up like you do.”

“Fuck, you’re so tight, holy shit,” Eddie cried out.

You could feel the peak approaching but then Eddie pushed in a bit too eagerly, and his cock slipped out and dove up into the folds of your pussy.

“Oh, fuck, right there,” you called out, clutching his shoulder, begging him to work the head of his cock on your clit.

“Fuck baby fuckkkkk,” he hissed, thrusting his hips, fucking your folds with the underside of his cock.  “I’m gonna cum, baby.”

And then, it was you who was cumming, babbling, riding the wave as Eddie cock dipped back inside, needing to feel like he was pumping it inside of you, worshiping you from the inside with his seed.

In the aftermath, his head lowered, hair hanging down, he enjoyed the slip of your cum, feeding you the shaft a few more times. 

Eddie was about to pull you against him to watch Movie Macabre for real this time, but when you came out of the bathroom, you were fully dressed with your bag over your shoulder and a distinct look of goodbye on your face.

“I should get going,” you announced, picking at some loose skin around your cuticle.  

Eddie stood from the couch, fixing himself, making sure the zipper was up on his jeans.  He didn’t have a shirt on, exposing the cut lines at his hips and trail of hair below his belly button.

“Sure, sure, um,” he looked around, hands on his hips.  “You don’t have to go.  I mean, you could even stay here, if you wanted. I could set my alarm if you have to get up early.”

You wondered what he charged for overnight stays.  Would you receive a bill on Monday for two full days worth of gigolo time? You had no idea what his rates were, and you still knew you couldn’t afford it.   The voices in your head were telling you what a gullible, cock drunk fool you were. While in the bathroom, you realized that everything he said was way too good to be true.  No man had ever wanted you this bad, nor would they ever.  A part of you was even harboring some anger towards him for being deceitful and making you feel things you’d gone 3 decades without.

“Thank you,” you cleared your throat. “For this.  I have a big day tomorrow, so,” and then you turned without another word, headed for the door.

Eddie hustled after you.  “Okay, so, I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow, yeah? We’ll go together?”

“Actually,” you gave him your profile.  “I think it would be better if  you just met me at the venue.”

“If that’s what you want,” he said quietly.  He was having a hard time reading you. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay, thanks again,” you said in a rush. 

“Hey, wait—-” but you were already out the door and hurrying down the driveway to your car, afraid to look back.  

---------

Thank you for reading!

[fluentmoviequoter]

Best (Fake) Boyfriend

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!reader

Summary: When you receive unwanted attention at a fancy restaurant, a handsome SWAT sergeant pretends to be your boyfriend to help you.

Warnings: pushy man is pushy and mean. Deacon is perfect and pretty. reader isn't rich (not necessarily poor, just usually unable to afford the vacation she's on). lots of fluff!! there's also a Psych reference and if you find it, we should be friends

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

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“It’ll be fun!” your best friend insists.

“I don’t know,” you reply.

“It’s just a weekend. This is the hottest resort in LA and we’re never going to be able to afford it again. Besides, it’s an Uber ride away, if you hate it after the first night, just go home. We wouldn’t hold that against you, swear.”

Closing your eyes, you nod. The small group of friends surrounding you cheers. After they force you to pack a bag, you find yourself in the back of an Uber driving through Beverly Hills.

“How did you get a room here again?” you ask.

“I got an insane discount voucher when I went to the grand opening of that new organic restaurant in Santa Monica!”

“And we’re just spending a weekend in the resort? Swimming, relaxing,” you trail off, unsure if you believe the lack of ulterior motives.

“Yeah,” your best friend answers, “plus rich men from the Hills.”

The Uber driver rolls his eyes, and you can’t blame him... not at all.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Save a whole school full of evacuees and you get a dinner reservation at a Beverly Hills resort,” Street muses. “I knew there was a reason I liked this gig.”

“You do know that place will be crawling with rich, single women,” Hicks begins.

“Yeah, we do,” Tan and Street cheer together.

“And badge bunnies,” Hicks finishes.

Street shrugs, and Deacon and Hondo shake their heads. 

“Do we have to attend?” Deacon asks.

“Why? Got better plans?” Street asks.

“A night in the hills isn’t everyone’s idea of a fun time, playboy,” Hondo answers. Deacon nods his agreement.

“Yes, you have to go. Mayor’s going to be there tonight, too. Every week like clockwork,” Hicks answers.

“Hey, Deac,” Street calls as they walk out. “What’s the real problem?”

“Just seems like a materialistic, money-based approximation of the worth of the lives we saved,” Deacon answers. “The mayor’s office just implied all those lives are worth approximately $650.”

“Those meals are over $125 each?” Luca gapes. “Sorry, I know that’s not the point.”

“It’s not the first or last time we’ll receive a monetary thank you, but at some point it becomes more about the reward after the job than the job itself,” Deacon adds.

“Maybe we’ll be there for a reason,” Luca offers. “But I get what you’re saying. We are focused on the job, and that’s all we can control.”

“Then I guess we should clean up. Places like that frown upon dirt covered tactical uniforms."

"Their loss; this is my best look,” Street jokes.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Um, I can’t afford to look at this menu,” you say, pushing it back onto the table. “Maybe I should go find a diner or something.”

“It’s included,” your best friend whispers. “But we’re trying to play the part, so sit up and feel as good as you look in that outfit.”

Sighing, you straighten your shoulders, picking up the outrageously priced menu again and trying not to let your shock show. Indeed, you’ll never live like this again, but you’re not sure you’d want to even if you could.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Would it be wrong for me to say there’s one for each of us?” Street asks, glancing over his menu.

“Yes,” Deacon, Hondo, and Luca reply in unison.

“They’re women, not suits, Street,” Deacon adds.

“Think I could land one?” Street asks.

“Playboy,” Hondo sighs. “You don’t have enough game for half of one of those women, kid.”

“Really? ‘Cause the one in the blue’s lookin’ over here.”

“Probably at Deacon,” Luca says, keeping his eyes on the menu.

“Right,” Deacon agrees sarcastically. “I- honestly, I don't know what's in most of these foods, so one of you order for me.”

He sets his menu down, his gaze wandering to the table of women Street was talking about. One of them catches his attention, and when the four other women get up, giggling as they walk toward the bathroom, he decides he’s looking at a kindred soul.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Mind if I sit here for just a moment? My friends are running late, and the reservation is under another name,” a man explains, smiling as he looks at you.

“Uh, I don’t think-“

“Thanks,” he says, cutting you off as he sits beside you.

“My friends are coming right back,” you state. “So, you should find somewhere else to wait.”

“Sounds like you have time to kill, and I do, too. What’s your name?”

You don’t answer, fiddling with the bottom of the tablecloth as you watch the doorway for your friends to return.

“I can’t imagine someone ditching you.”

The man leans into your peripheral vision, and you turn your head away. When his hand brushes against your covered hip, you stand quickly.

“I told you that I didn’t want to talk, so you should find your way to your own table before I come back,” you say lowly before walking to the balcony entrance.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon tunes out his teammates as he watches a man sit beside you. Your obvious discomfort makes him eager to help. He stops at the thought that one uninvited man in your personal space is likely more than enough.

“Deac?” Hondo asks. “Oh,” he adds when he looks at what is so worthy of Deacon’s attention.

“Didn’t think he still had it in him,” Luca whispers to Hondo.

Deacon stands suddenly, his attention on your back as you walk onto the balcony. Hondo notices that the man beside you looks angry, and when he jostles the table in his haste to follow you, he knows why Deacon is so invested.

“Go help her out, Deac, we got your back,” Hondo says.

Deacon nods wordlessly, buttoning his blazer as he follows in your footsteps. His team looks on, sure that Deacon has control of the situation but is prepared to jump in if the situation calls for it.

“Deacon comes back with her glued to his side or that starry far-away look in his eye,” Luca announces. “Trust me.”

“My money’s on the first one. You see how she relaxed the moment her friends left? She’s just like him,” Tan points out.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Looks like you found your way to my table, too,” the man says behind you.

When you turn to face him, you step back. His jaw is tight, and his eyes look darker than they did inside.

“Change your mind about spending time with me, girlie?”

With your side to the door, you notice someone walk out, but don’t expect an arm to circle your waist a moment later.

“Hey, babe,” the man says. “What’s going on? Came back to the table and you were gone.”

Looking up at him, you sigh at the sight of his large, kind eyes. Trusting him, you relax against his side, raising a hand to press against his sternum.

“Sorry, handsome. This guy was waiting for his friends,” you explain.

“You need help finding your table or somethin’? This is a nice place, I’m sure they can help with that.”

The man clenches his fists at his side, looking between you and the man holding you to his side.

“Or do you need a different kind of help?”

The hand on your hip tightens, his touch still gentle as his voice drops. He’s defending you, angry for you, and though you don’t know why, you’re grateful.

“No, I’m good. Your ‘babe’ here might want to learn some manners, though.”

You press your hand against your guy’s chest when he tries to follow the man inside. Whispering your name to distract him, you sigh when his attention returns to you.

“I’m Deacon,” he replies. “Sorry for grabbing you.”

“Don’t apologize. Thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking walking out here alone.”

Your hand is still spread over his chest, his arm around your waist, and his hand rubbing soft circles on your hip. You know the moment has to end, but your desperation to draw it out outweighs your logic.

“Well, thank you, Deacon. You’re a great boyfriend; I’m sure there’s a very happy woman somewhere.”

Deacon’s hand moves to your waist as you move back, and he quickly raises the other to stop you. 

“There is no happy woman,” he responds. “I just- how often do you have to deal with stuff like that?”

“Not very often. Most guys get the idea, even if it takes a few tries. Never had to be saved like this before.”

Deacon sighs, disappointed either in you or the situation. You hope it’s the situation, and Deacon can practically read your mind.

“I’m a SWAT sergeant, and we have to watch for crossfire,” he begins.

You nod with furrowed brows, confused as to where this is going.

“I just will never understand how some men are so okay with not caring how many women they hurt in pursuing their own… whatever it is they’re looking for.”

“How? How is there no lucky woman?” you ask softly. “Between the kindness and the poetic speeches, you’re just begging to get snatched up.”

Deacon drops his chin, shaking his head as he smiles.

“Why’d you follow me?” you ask.

“You were uncomfortable. I noticed you before he sat down, and then when you stood up so fast I couldn’t just sit there. Especially when he followed you.”

“Then you can tell I don’t fit in here.”

“I can,” Deacon agrees before whispering, “because I don’t either.”

“Could you maybe ditch your friends?” you ask. “Let me call you handsome for a while longer?”

“You seem a bit too pleased to have a fake boyfriend who only came out here to scare somebody off.”

“Because my fake boyfriend is better than any real one I’ve ever had.”

Deacon smiles, pulling you against him. “I have to stay for dinner, it’s a work thing. But if you’re still up for pet names later, and tomorrow, and for a good, long while, I think we can work something out.”

“I will be.”

“Have your phone?”

You pull your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. He keeps one hand on your side as he adds his contact, sending himself a text with your name. After he returns your phone, he sighs.

“The moment’s over?” you ask.

 “The moment is on hold,” Deacon corrects.

“Enjoy your work dinner. I’m going to go have a free dinner and listen to my friends pretend they belong here.”

“Feel free to sit at my table if you need a break. I’m sure they’re talking about you already. Trying to decide if I’ll actually act on my feelings or just come back in alone and puppy-like.”

You smile, slowly separating yourself from Deacon. Walking in first, he holds the door for you, and you brush your knuckles against his hand before returning to your table. As you sit, your eyes stray to Deacon and never leave.

✯✯✯✯✯

“That little hand thing counts, right?” Tan asks.

“Counts for what?” Deacon inquires as he sits.

“I thought you’d come back with your arm around her.”

“We’re, uh, we’re gonna keep talking later.”

“Atta boy, Deac!” Luca cheers.

“Why didn’t you invite her over?” Hondo asks. “This may be a work thing, but that doesn’t mean it has to be boring.”

“I did. If she gets tired of her friends, she’ll be over.”

“Yeah,” you interject, pausing at the corner of their table. “I’m tired of my friends and your table seems like a better fit.”

Street, Luca, and Tan rush to pull a chair over for you, arguing over who gets the credit. You laugh at their antics as Deacon tells you everyone’s names.

“Nice to meet you. And thanks for letting me crash your dinner,” you say.

“So, what do you think of our Deacon here?” Luca asks, smiling kindly.

“I think he’s great,” you answer honestly. Turning toward him, you whisper, “And handsome.”

“Are pet names our thing now?” he asks.

“Hey, you started it, babe.”

Deacon dips his chin before his eyes rise to yours, and you think ‘beautiful’ might be a better fit for him. Luckily, he promised plenty of time to try all the pet names you can think of.

[junedenim]

2003

beneath the boardwalk, part 1 (series masterlist)

bigger boys & stolen sweethearts

warnings: long-haul series, drug usage, fluff, angst, etc.

word count: 13k

As a favour to my friend, Joanie, I went to Barnsley College. She was my best friend and it was between that or going to Wakefield College. I didn't want to go to Wakefield. Everyone from Wakefield went to Wakefield College. Albie, my recently ex-boyfriend was going to Wakefield. So, I went to Barnsley.

I decided to study English Literature solely because I had no idea what else to do. I hated reading at that age and I don't know why I fathomed in my mind that it would be a proper fit for me other than the fact I liked to write. Still like to write.

Barnsley was more about my "friends" than education. Joanie and I got drunk most weekends and my whole friend group seemed to indulge in some version of friend-cest with one another. By the end of that first year, it seemed like everyone had seen a peek of someone else. I'm sure I got around more than most. I don't think I even enjoyed it half the time. I don't think most people enjoy sex at that age other than the rush of doing it and the inevitable quick release.

Matt seemed to be the only guy I wouldn't touch. I had met Matt in a photography class we both took and he became a good drinking buddy. At those booze-filled parties where people's noise would practically shake the building, Matt and I would sneak out and share a smoke with one another.

One night, as we were sitting on the curb next to each other, he asked me, "How come out of everyone at this school we've never hooked up?"

He passed me the cigarette. "I don't know," I told him. "I just don't see you that way, Matt."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Think it would be too weird."

Right before our first year was finished, Matt told me his band had their first gig in a couple of weeks. He didn't say it like an invitation. It was all casual, like, "There's this place called The Grapes. The band's got a gig there."

"Oh, cool," I told him. I'm not sure if he was expecting me to show up or just inform me. "Do you want me to come?"

He shrugged and took a bite out of the sandwich he was eating. It was silent for a moment and I thought that was it until he said, "You could bring a couple of your friends. Joanie or something. Make a night out of it."

I had already been informed by both parties that Joanie and Matt had hooked up last week but neither knew that the other had told me. I knew I wouldn't be seeing most of my friends over the summer and it felt like a rather nice bon voyage event.

So, I invited a group of friends like Matt requested. Rosie, Will, Claire, AB, and, of course, Joanie. Will and I had a complicated relationship, to say the least. We'd go back and forth from having sex like rabid bunnies and hating each other. When I invited him that night I had expected that I would end the night in bed with him. I'm sure he had the same impression.

AB was the gentleman of the group and in typical fashion resigned to being the designated driver. The rest of us were planning to get completely hammered.

The Grapes was bigger than I had expected. When I pictured a band performing their first gig, I suppose I imagined a garage somewhere. It wasn't giant by any means but there was a little stage that they all would squeeze on together.

I had met Alex before—in passing at any number of parties. I can't remember if I had been introduced to him before I knew Matt but I recognized his face somewhere. Like I had seen it before in some picture. I was likely too intoxicated at our first meeting to make much sense of what I said or what he said but the next time I was introduced to him, at this Grapes's show, he looked nervously fidgeting like he was desperate for a cigarette or something to choke back on.

"Jeanie, right?" He pointed his finger at me and smiled uncomfortably.

"Jane." I corrected him. To be honest, I think I only remembered his name because Matt told me he was the lead singer. I couldn't picture Alex as a lead singer.

He was endearingly embarrassed by his mistake and repeatedly went, "Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry." Like he had just rear-ended me or something. "Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane." Like it was his mantra helping him calm himself.

"It's fine," I told him. I was itching for a cigarette now too. It was awkward and the air at The Grapes felt too hot and sticky for North England.

"I'm Alex." He stuck his hand out like he was being interviewed for a job.

I shook his hand and said, "Good luck with your show." I smiled and passed by him walking over to where Claire had grabbed our seats. Something tells me his eyes were following me as I left.

I don't think of myself as some style icon. Others have placed that upon me, which is quite the honor, but at 17 I didn't feel that so much. However, that night I felt comfortable. It was a feeling I hadn't felt in my skin since maybe nursery. In my opinion, I hadn't worn anything marvelous. It was this orange and red plaid mini skirt with a red tank top I had tucked into it. I had brought a red cardigan with me if it got cold. I didn't often coordinate my outfits but I suppose it felt like a special occasion to me. I didn't think there was any need to impress anyone. So, on a rare instance, I was dressing for myself.

I think Will must have been grabbing my ass for half the show. I didn't tell him otherwise but I think if I was older I would have rejected it. Back then I didn't think I had the option. I regretted wearing that skirt.

They didn't blow me away but they were better than I expected. Matt was cocky when talking about them but Matt is still cocky talking about anything. But most times, he's being honest. I suppose I have to agree with his comment: "We're fucking brilliant. You'll see one day, J."

I didn't think I would ever talk to Alex again. I've been trained to avoid those awkward conversations and Alex was often the type to stay huddled in a corner, sometimes with a drink, sometimes with a lass. I hang around my own bunch. My arm rarely strayed from wrapped around Claire's side and we affectionately called each other "babe" just to have someone call us "babe."

Later that night, I accepted my fate of having to go out for a solo smoke. Matt was practically grinding up against Joanie at this point of the night. I went out and there Alex was, leaning up against the wall, having a smoke.

I decided to act like I didn't see him, which was probably rude but I didn't think he'd want to talk to me either. He was against the left side of the wall so I went to the right.

"'Ey, Jane." He called out to me.

It took me a second to get my feet to move and it took me too long to realize it was him calling me. I turned and he stood straight, staring at me. I felt myself get warmed in the cheeks with a mix of shame and flattery. I couldn't tell where he was heading with this and Will's hand had been on my ass for the past hour.

"Did we do alright?" He seemed to genuinely care. Now, I can tell you that this was a special thing. Then, I thought he did this with everyone.

"I thought so but I'm no critic."

He quickly shook his head refuting my comment. "Nah, nah. Matt's told me otherwise."

I snorted. An ugly snort. "Really?" I don't have the belief others talk about me when I'm not there. I'm some ghost in their mind.

"Yeah, yeah," he sounded like he was pacifying me. "He says you're a writer."

I shrugged. I didn't consider myself to be much of anything. "Just studying it. It's not like I've got anything published."

"Nah, nah." That was his most popular word. Some double-jointed phrase he said so much but had no clue that he did. "I don't believe all that. If you write then you're a writer."

"Everyone writes." I reasoned.

He didn't verbalize it this time. Just shook his head. "Not everyone."

"Are you a writer?" I was distancing myself without moving an inch. I looked away from him and went down to my cigarette. It seemed Alex had gotten a hold of me without ever holding a conversation with me before. I felt as though he must know all my deepest fears and insecurities like he was a psychic or something. That scared me more than anything. At the time, it was more violating to me than an unwanted grab on the ass.

He shrugged to answer me and returned to his smoke. I didn't let him off easily, I thought I had control now. "Would you say you're a musician just because you play music? Plenty of people do that."

I thought I would sway him off. Alex was a little lamb and I was about to bite his head off. Until, as always, he saw right through it. "You're trying to tease me, Jane, I can tell."

I scuffed and rolled my eyes. I stared at my shoes and in a nervous fit swung my left leg back and forth. "Deflecting."

"I suppose so," he conceded, "but so are you."

At that time I was a debater in all aspects of life. I liked the thrill of arguing. I suppose that's why I went back and forth between fucking and hating Will so much. Or I was just 17. They are much of the same.

"So," he interrupted the silence we were enduring together, "how was the show?"

I smiled softly. I wanted to be endearing to him. Fool him into thinking I was this sweet little girl and then trample him. "I'm very opinionated. You wouldn't want to know."

He chuckled and leaned away from me, up against the brick wall. Most guys I had known before—most 17-year-old guys I had known before—took my girlish smile and batting of my eyelashes as an invitation to try and mess about with me. Alex took it for what it was. A facade.

"I like the opinionated girls," Alex told me, "Means they have something going about in their head."

I gasped. "Most girls have a bunch more going about in their heads than boys."

He nodded. "I'm sure that's true." He took a puff and said, "Most people I can't see playing pinball with their own mind."

I crossed my arms and thought I was one-upping him when I said, "I'm more a solitaire kind of girl."

Alex chuckled, threw down his cigarette, and scuffed it out. "How lonely."

I was utterly exposed. In shock, I said, "What?" He shrugged, unsure of what to say. "I'm not lonely."

He shook his head. "I never said you were."

I rapidly nodded mine and needed to throw off any sign that he was right. That in some 5-minute chat outside a pub, he somehow knew everything about me. "Yes, you did."

"I just meant..." he trails, tossing around what to say in his own head. (Now I could realize he knew me so well because he knew his own mind so well.) "The mind is a lonely place to be."

I shook my head. I was sure of this. "You're just not being imaginative enough."

"I suppose not." He agreed. He stood up straight from the wall. Put one hand in his jeans pocket. Then, the other. "But I'm not a writer."

He headed off back into the pub and I stood outside thinking more than smoking my cigarette. I decided to myself I could think about what he said there in those minutes I had only outside and then I would never think about it again. I wouldn't lie awake that night and give thoughts to a boy who once vomited in the middle of a game of Spin the Bottle. One who spent most of our drunk nights, chatting about with one girl, and then not even going home with her. Then, I thought I must have been the girl tonight. I felt sorry for all the girls before that had to deal with him. I thought about yelling at him. Then, I thought about fucking him. Then, I just felt sorry for myself.

I didn't finish my cigarette and went back inside. I'm not sure what point I was trying to prove to Alex. I guess that I wasn't lonely, but, like everything, he was right about that too. Will grabbing my ass didn't disprove that.

I made eyes at him for most of the night. Challenging him. He was too busy talking to someone else. There always seemed to be someone else. Will was grabbing my ass and chatting a girl up at the same time. I began to question why I endured all this.

I excused myself to the bathroom but went to the bar where Alex was trying and failing to order a drink. "You have to be more assertive."

He smiled cheekily at me. I placed my back up against the bar and leaned my elbows on the edge. I was a character in a movie. A femme fatale. "I'm too quiet for that," Alex says.

I nodded. "You seem it."

"I guess I have that reputation." He acknowledged.

"Among other things." I was flirting but I couldn't tell if he was falling for it. He intrigued every corner of me. I couldn't tell if he was shy, not interested, or just oblivious.

He tried to flag down the bartender again. Failure. I faced the bar, lifted my hand, and received attention immediately. I experienced some perks as a woman. "What do you want?"

Alex didn't say anything for a moment. He laughed. He shook his head. "Whatever you've been having."

He made me laugh. "Two lime margaritas." I ordered and the bartender got to work.

"Is that a skill?" He asked me. "Like hailing a cab."

I shrugged. "I've never had to work at it. Some of us are naturally gifted, Turner."

He raised his eyebrows. "How'd you learn my last name?"

I smirked at him. "I don't have some glamorous spy story. Matt talks about you guys all the time. You've known each other for a long time."

"Yeah," he nods, "over a decade now."

"We're getting old now," I told him.

"I think you have some time until you have to worry about that, Jane." He said to me.

I disagreed. "You're old when you realize you're actually living a life."

"So, when you're 6?" He joked.

We both received our margaritas. I ran my fingertips around the rim of the glass. "Percisely, Turner."

"You're an awful cynic." He told me.

I returned to my old position of leaning on my elbows against the bar. Margarita in my left hand this time. I ignored his comment and said, "You fascinate me, Alexander."

He exhaled loudly. "I'm not very interesting."

I bite down on the lime I had been given. "That's exactly why."

Alex laughed. "You're not being very nice to me, Jane."

I giggled. "That's not what I meant. I like people who aren't full of themselves."

"Then, why do you hang out with Will so much?" He questioned.

I sighed, leaned my head back, and placed the back of my hand on my head in a form of dramatics. "I have no clue." It made him laugh and that made me laugh. When we both quieted down, I leaned closer to Alex. "But I'm here with you and Will is over there. You're very interesting, you just don't know it. I can't wait to see when you realize that."

"You sound like a psychic, Jane." He looked so dreamy there and for a moment I think I was looking into a crystal ball. Futures where we were side-by-side like this, smiling at one another, making eyes at one another, saying unwritten truths to each other in whispers. I felt he already knew all my secrets, he was letting me in on them and was interested in looking into my eyes with those chocolate pools of his. It was probably then that I knew I wanted to love him.

"I hope so." I smiled at him and he smiled at me and that was that. "You're very pretty, Turner. Has anyone ever told you that?"

He chuckled softly and boyishly. "My mum maybe."

I laughed too, soft, and boy, I could get used to this. I traced my own nose as I said, "You have this angle to your nose." I grinned wide and pearly, just admiring him. I pointed left and right to my eyes as I said, "Puppy dog eyes." He was a fan of that one, he smiled but tried to hide it. I pointed to the middle of my forehead as I said, "Strong widow's peak. Those are genetic, you know?"

"Yeah, we've got a couple of widow's peaks in my family." He told me.

"See." I kept my smile on. I pointed to my lips. "You always look like you're trying to find something to say. Rolling it back and forth and tasting it before you spit it out."

He smiled at me all lovely. "You've got a way with words, Jane. You should write that somewhere."

"Write about you?" I fanned disgusted. "Never."

I wrote about him in my diary that night. He became a main character in every story I told. He wormed his way like a true bookworm. He poked holes in all my stories and forced himself into them. I'm writing about him here.

Maybe he was the psychic.

*

In the nook of summer, I spent a month in the Bahamas with my family where the main food source was drinks and my father let me sit in on his poker games for the first time. When I returned, tanned and lush, in July, Joanie turned 18, the first of our group of friends. To my surprise, Joanie and Matt were still together. I never doubted the affection they had for each other but our group of friends went through relationships like my mother did with her liquor.

Two days after I'd returned to Wakefield, she threw a birthday party at Will's house because Will had the luxury of being an only child with parents who were always going on these couple retreats that we all thought were code for sex trips to Vietnam. 

In my typical fashion, I arrived an hour late with a dumb present and a dress that was too short. Mini-dresses were my religion at that age (maybe still are). I felt cute and exotic with a glowing complexion compared to the pale Brits. I had my hair in loose braids with bows tied to their ends and had stolen my mother's diamond earrings. I suffered from a deep superiority complexion and didn't care much that it was Joanie's birthday. I had turned it into my homecoming party.

"Janie Cavendish! Is that you?" Joanie exclaims too perky for my liking. Being called Janie made me want to barf. "We all thought your plane went down in the Pacific!"

"Atlantic," I corrected. Joanie likely eliminated some brain cells with the amount she had drunk before I'd arrived.

"Oh, oops! Come, come, sit!" She grabbed my hand and dragged me over to Will's mother's ugly Boca Do Lobo wrap-around couch likely already ruined by drink spills. I had noted the flimsiness Will cared for expensive things. For the first time, it revolted me.

The room was on fire with excitement, alcohol, drugs, and sex, but over on the filthy couch was just Rosie, who was nestled into Will, a development I wasn't aware of and hurt my heart more than I wanted to ever admit. AB appeared from out of thin air and yelled, "JC's here!" He then crashed into me with a hug and I never understood how he survived these parties sober but he refused a drink and offered you a ride home. He probably saved all of our lives.

On the other end of the couch's prongs was Paul, who I had definitely slept with and not remembered, and his girlfriend, Cecilia, who he had definitely been with when I had slept with. Not that I felt any guilty over it back then. My parents did it, why should it matter if I did it? It was Paul's problem, not mine.

Next to Cecilia was Jamie Cook doing something weird with his tongue, stretching his mouth with his dirty fingers, sticking his tongue out, and trying to touch his tongue to his nose. It both impressed me and disgusted me and if I had a drink I'd probably spit it out in laughter at the sight of it.

Matt was egging him on saying he was so close when his tongue was a mile away from his nose. Joanie left her place beside me and dove into Matt's arms, all drunk, flirty, and cutesy. She tapped his nose like he was her prized poodle.

Right at the end was Alex. Roughed up in some scruffy red tee and jeans that had a hole in it that his mum patched up and there was writing down the sides of them. He was talking to some girl and something bubbled in me that I couldn't explain away. I was offended his eyes didn't stare at me from the moment I walked in. To me, he was some lost pup who would follow me wherever I went. It wasn't true, I was the pup begging for attention. I found it ridiculous he wouldn't be all over me. I needed that to feel I had accomplished something. 

When AB left, I was on the other section of the couch, facing him, staring at him to convey some spell: look, look here, notice me, notice me! Alex only grew closer to the other girl and I must have missed something in the month I was gone. It felt like an atmosphere shift had occurred and I didn't feel pretty because Alex wasn't staring at me and Will was feeling up some other girl.

Drink.

It was the clearest solution for occupation purposes but Joanie's high-pitched voice irritated me and Rosie's tits nearly spilling out over Will made me feel the need to vomit. I ran into Claire, who hugged me, gave me her drink, and made me take Molly with her before leaving with her now-on-again boyfriend, Ollie. 

Claire's drink tasted like cherries and she could work as a bartender if I wasn't convinced she'd drink all the liquor at the bar. I poured vodka into the drink and returned to the couch where not much had changed except that someone else was sitting in my seat now.

"You're in my seat," I told the man. He was older, a few pounds overweight, and suffering from a massive neckbeard.

He scoffed, "It were empty when I got here."

I smiled and bowed my head, "Yeah, I went to get a drink but now I'm back."

He waved me off. "Ya got up."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm back now. Joanie's one of my best friends and it's her birthday party."

He laughed. "What are we at a 5-year-old's birthday party?"

I furrowed my brows. "What are you 40 hanging with teenagers?"

Rage covered his face and I'm certain his neckbeard moved like it itself was going to attack me. "Fuck off."

I grew pleasure inside me for the first time that night. If I couldn't make someone fall at my feet, at least I could knock someone down. "Give me my seat back. You could probably use the movement."

"Fuck. Off." He enunciated. 

"Give me my seat back."

"Fuck off!"

"Give me my seat back!"

"Fuck off!"

"Just give me the fucking seat back!"

"Fuck off!"

"Give me the fucking seat!"

"No, now fuck off!"

"No, give me the fucking seat!"

I didn't really even want the seat. I just got a kick out of the vein popping out of his forehead and the way a girl could make him sweat bullets of rage over the end piece of an offensive-looking couch.

But then he stood up, 6 feet 6 inches, and 15 stones of him towered over me. I felt small again like he was going to snap me in two. But my seat was empty! I twisted around him and sat down in my seat.

"Get up!" He yelled.

"No, fuck off!" I yelled back.

"Get the fuck up, bitch!"

I supposed we were both too focused on the other to notice that the party's population had turned toward our display. Everyone was either engaged or snickering at the display.

"It's my seat," I said calmly.

He didn't respond verbally, instead, he picked me up. I heard Joanie scream, "Matty, help her!"

I laughed. I didn't find the whole ordeal funny, I just wanted everyone else to feel I found it funny. My bones hurt, I was riddled with goosebumps and had my underwear exposed for everyone to see.

Joanie would later comfort me and tell me it wasn't a big deal because "everyone has seen you in your underwear already pretty much, I mean, you know, cuz you've slept with everyone." It didn't comfort me much to be called a slut in Joanie language.

Matt tried his best to rescue me but he was scrawny and this guy looked like Andre the Giant. Eventually, the commotion of the party and the embarrassment got to the guy and he dropped me to the floor where I fell onto my ass. My hair was falling out of my braids and my dress was twisted up. 

Matt helped me to my feet and to distract myself from the pain of falling straight onto my ass, I laughed into his shoulder. The ecstasy helped too.

"Are you okay?" He asked me.

Before I got an answer out Joanie rushed over and hugged me tight, highly increasing the already likely chance I'd be bruised tomorrow. "Oh, my god, Janie!" A shiver went down my spine at the word. "You're going to be okay. Get that guy out of my party!" She acted like she was the Queen of Hearts ordering for him to be executed. Andre the Giant had already left. I think she just wanted to feel like she helped in some way.

"Yeah." I felt like crying but I turned to where the crowd had gathered and curtsied to them. "That's all folks!"

Once people got the okay, they were quick to go back to their conversations, now discussing what had unfolded. Music played up again and the world kept spinning.

Alex sat alone in his place on the couch. No girl, no chatting, no smile. When I looked at him, he looked at me. It didn't make me feel any better. I had wished for it the whole night and I finally got it and it was a look of pity.

"Do you need anything?" Matt asked me.

I looked at him and shook my head. Joanie pulled him back to their reserved seat.

Alex stood up and walked to me and I felt nervous. If some psychoanalyzing was to begin, I think I'd cry in front of the whole party. He lightly grabbed my elbow. I looked into his eyes, deciphering slowly what he must think of me. I was scared of every move he'd make. I wanted him to like me. I wanted to be the cool girl. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to cry. "Do you want to go for a smoke with me?"

One of his hands tugged on my heartstrings, the other pushed me through the crowd by the small of my back. It was the most forward he had ever been but any intentions he had were unknown to me. 

Outside, he placed distance between us. Away from the large portion of the masses, we walked side-by-side. I followed him. He led the way. The stragglers that messed about the lawn must have annoyed him as he walked until he was away from the whole scene. In other instances of my life, I'd think the guy wanted a moment alone with me for a snog or shag. I thought Alex didn't want to be seen with me.

"We can sit if you want." He was polite in his voice and he gestured slowly to the bench in the house's decadent garden.

I sat first on one side and he sat on the other. He pulled his pack out and tossed me the lighter. He stuck one in his mouth, then handed me the pack. I felt like one of the boys and it made me laugh for some reason. I plucked one out like a lady, like my mother would. I lit my cigarette and when I went to light his, he took it out of my hand and did it himself. I felt stiff and awkward and that I must have grown a seventh head when I was in The Bahamas.

"You went to The Bahamas. Joanie said." He was taking slow drags of his cigarette and I was taking slow drags of him.

"Yeah." Maybe I was being evasive for enigmatic purposes. Maybe I was uncomfortable. I can't quite remember.

"How was it?"

I thought about lying. But I didn't see the purpose anymore. "Boring."

He chuckled light-heartedly. Everything is light-hearted. "Why?"

"I just sat on the beach all day. Maybe if I went with friends." I shrugged and pulled my legs up behind me on the bench.

"I'd like to travel," Alex told me.

"Where?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'd like to do it more though. Like when I'm older, you know, that kind of thing."

I laid my head on my arms on the bench's backing. Ash collected on the end of my cigarette but I ignored it and looked at Alex. "We could go somewhere together."

"Really? Where do you wanna go?" His head was leaning against his hand. I felt we mirrored each other in some way that if I dug deeper then I would've known why.

"Away. Doesn't have to be far but I don't feel like myself here." I slipped. All those things I spent days pushing down, fell out mid-conversation with no remorse. I didn't care because I knew Alex wouldn't blab. He already knew everything about me. I wasn't revealing anything by saying this.

He didn't talk for a while. He sat with what I had said. Then he told me, "I don't think anyone feels like themselves at this age."

"Do you?"

He sat with that too. Then said, "I'm trying to."

I sat up straight. "I have an idea." Alex smiled at me and I felt wind sweep through me. "Why don't you act like your true self and I'll act like mine."

"I don't think I can do that."

He knocked something in me. "Why?"

He hid himself. He looked down at the slits in the bench. He bounced his foot. He tossed some idea in his head. Then, it spilled. "You make me nervous."

I was shocked by this. I found him intimidating. I got a boost in myself knowing he found me an equal representation. "Why's that?"

"I'm not good at telling people to fuck off."

I vowed, "I'll do it for you."

It wasn't a hit to him; a woman defending him. In fact, I think he got a kick out of it.

"Did you get into fights in The Bahamas?"

"Only with my family." 

"Do you get along?" He shifted forward like he had some actual interest in me. It was conflicting with every other interest I'd attracted from a man. It was a perked-up ear instead of a perked-up dick.

I shook my head. "No, not really. We kind of...I don't know. Things have never been great with my parents but getting older I've drifted more away. My siblings are a wild card."

"How many you have?"

"2 sisters, one older, one younger, and an older brother. I've never been close to the two older ones but Stacey, my younger sister's 11 so other than being annoying we get on well. You're an only child?"

His eyebrows raised, his eyes widened, and he looked as if I was some private detective. "You snoop me out, Jane?"

I took a drag of my cigarette and tried my best to look abject. "You act like an only child."

He looked affronted and on guard but had a toothy smile. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"All I'm saying is you never act like you had someone yelling over you at the dinner table. Only children fall into two categories: selfish or selfless. I'm assuming by your interest in me you must be pretty selfless."

Alex tilted his head from side to side. "I don't think so." 

I shook my head. 

"Eh! Why you doing that?" He chuckled.

I laughed at him. We were laughing together. "Take the compliment. My mother always says to say thank you for a compliment even if it's not true."

"Well, thank you and it's not true." 

Alex puffed away as I looked out into the garden. The gardener cut the bushes this morning and the flowers had reached their full bloom. I didn't move a muscle but I moved my eyes to look at him. He was small in both figure and persona. He didn't burst away. He sat quietly on the bench, smoked his cigarette, and looked at me. I was looking at flowers and he was looking at me. 

"I think it's true."

When our cigarettes had finished, we didn't go inside. Neither of us made a move and I decided that he must either like spending time with me or hate the party. We didn't talk after my comment and I didn't know what to say. I thought about teasing him. I thought about flirting with him. I thought about kissing him. 

Then, I decided to walk around the garden. He didn't move, he stayed nestled on the bench and watched me skim my hands along each petal. 

"They have tomatoes here!" I gasped.

Red, plump, and hanging heavily off the vine begging for plucking. Alex came up behind me looking at the lush beings. "I don't like tomatoes very much." He told me like it was some hushed secret, pinky promising not to tell a soul.

I gasped again. "How can you not love tomatoes?" I pulled one off the vine and took a bite of it. Nobody else seemed to be enjoying them due to the unruly way they grew and the surplus of numbers.

Alex, however, seemed to think I stole from a poor family living off the street, ignoring the mansion in the backdrop. "You eat it like an apple?"

I had tomato juice running down my cheeks and while I looked particularly gross, he didn't say anything. "I like them."

"You do indeed."

We walked around the garden, cluttered and looking like no one partook in its pleasures other than the man being paid to tidy it. The stone path led out of the garden into the large backyard, fit with trees and a birdbath. 

Alex walked with his hands in his pockets and I walked with mine holding each other behind my back, tomato in my left hand. "What have you done this summer?"

"Oh." He was shocked the conversation had turned to him. Do I really talk about myself that much? "Me and the band played around a little. Went to a few shows 'round here. Wasn't too big."

I almost didn't ask him but an unknown being tugged at me to ask, "Who was the girl you were talking to before? I recognized her." I had never seen that girl before in my life.

"Uh, Lauren? I went to Stocksbridge with her," Alex told me. "Joanie knew her somehow."

"Joanie knows everyone."

We were walking in circles now, rounding the house, but I didn't want to go back inside. I wanted our secret garden. "What'd you take from Claire?" He was watching me. He was watching me. He was watching me!

I giggled. "The Molly?" 

"You do that?"

I nodded.

"I've never done anything like that. You know, other than drinking."

We took a few more paces, rounding ourselves to the front of the house. "Do you want to?"

He shook his head. I felt embarrassed and ashamed like a mother had caught my nefarious habits. "You go clubbing a lot, right?"

I shrugged. I usually boasted about my nights out like it was a badge of honor for me. I felt he ripped the badge off. 

"Live music at those things?" Alex asked.

"Some," I answered.

"You think you'd be able to—I don't suppose you could. Maybe." He stuttered.

I giggled feeling at ease again. "Spit it out. I won't judge you. Well, unless you're about to bring up something gross."

Alex looked me in the eye as we stopped on the front lawn. He tapped his foot and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "I thought maybe you'd be able to get us some gigs."

My lips slowly upturned. "I'd love that. I'll be your bookie."

He laughed. "Don't let power get to your head."

I tossed the tomato to the ground, citing that it was a gift to the rats that lived here and it would decompose just fine. I eyed the door but held no desire to reenter that world. I looked back at Alex, scuffing his trainer into the ground and swallowing whatever idea he wanted to say to me but didn't. I thought to ask but didn't.

"I think I'm gonna go home," I told him.

I got a borderline pathological level of joy when his face showed minor disappointment. He nodded and said, "Okay."

I wanted to prove him wrong. I didn't want to be the girl he talked to all night, and didn't take home, before chatting up some other girl. That's what I told myself but it probably wasn't the whole truth. Then, I realized, he was too nervous to ask me home with him. He was more occupied with his shoes and knew he'd have better luck dissecting my being than attempting to kiss me.  

So, I asked, "Do you want to come with me?" I didn't want to sleep with him, at least not explicitly. My intention was to, in some way, prove him wrong. In another way, the bigger consuming way, I wanted to talk to him more. "I don't live too far from here. We can walk. A girl really shouldn't walk alone at night."

Alex smiled suspiciously but nodded. "Shouldn't we say goodbye first?"

I furrowed my brows. "To a drunk Joanie who is probably too busy making out with Matt to care about either of us?"

He tilted his head. "Fair enough." He was a gentleman first and a teenage boy second.

"I got Joanie a shitty present anyway," I said as we began to walk away from the scene.

"I didn't even get her anything," Alex told me. "What you get her?"

"A snow globe from The Bahamas."

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back in express joy. He was contagious and I fell ill. "Does it even snow in The Bahamas?"

I shook my head through laughter. "I don't think so."

I don't know why he found it so funny that we had to stop walking. He was bent over laughing, holding his knees, and trying to catch his breath. I was laughing, more at him than the dumb snowglobe. I was infatuated. He was entrancing and I suffered from whatever his spell was. He stuffed himself into this laid-back body and busted through it with spoils of laughter. I thought about every joke I could make. I wanted to incite it more, force it out of him, have him tell me how funny I was. How I was the funniest girl he had ever met and he would like to stand by my side until my next joke. If that joke never came, he'd stay standing with me just in case it came.

Alex stood up slowly, exhaling loudly, collecting himself before we began our steps again. His face was red like I felt. On fire of sorts, lit ablaze by some force he beheld in no need of extinguishing. It was sudden and all at once, no stopping it.

When we reached my house, my father was out front in his car, which meant he and my mother were fighting. Often times my father would drive around but his car stayed parked and he was smoking a cigarette out the window. All the lights in the house were turned off, except the living room, which meant my mother was drinking.

My house wasn't unassuming by any means. It dwelled in comparison to Will's but I knew it loomed over most individuals. Sometimes, it loomed over me. 

As we headed up the front steps, my father yelled out to us, "Janie!" Everything was cold here. In this hot spell of summer, my skin turned goosey, and I prayed for a regular conversation with my father for Alex's sake. 

I turned and took two steps toward my father. Alex remained on the first step but watched us. My father gave us a look: a raised eyebrow, a tilted head, a shifting glance. A pit felt in my stomach and I thought he was going to send my Alex away. I had stolen him away from the party, from everyone, from Lauren, and he belonged to me unless my father smashed my plans all up. 

And then he yelled, "Tell your mother she's being a bitch!" 

A pit sank even further in me. My father never cared. I didn't utter a word and my father didn't wish me goodnight as he started the engine and Alex and I ducked into the house. Part of me wanted to do something nefarious with Alex to prove some point to my father. Another part thought I would be giving him too much.

Then Alex smiled at me and I didn't think my father's opinions and choices mattered much. It felt like my choice for something. Not something forced upon me or some vengeful decision.

I whispered to Alex to follow me up the stairs quickly as we dashed up. I didn't want to get hold of my mother who was clanking bottles around in the kitchen. I hoped Stacey was asleep through their whole fight. Likely, she had her ear on the door or worse was forced to witness and choose sides—something my mother made us do during fights. 

Alex and I ducked into my room. He seemed to get a kick out of it. "I feel like James Bond."

I rolled my eyes and flipped my light switch on. My room had acquired an extra messiness since I had yet to unpack from The Bahamas. I was too tired to care and Alex didn't mind. In fact, he seemed to get a kick out of it.

My walls were pink and covered with pictures from unknown drunken nights and childhood memories. Little trinkets I had collected over the years that no one knew the meaning of except me sat around across my room.

Alex picked up a plastic flower I had placed on my desk. He stayed taciturn.

"That's from my first boyfriend." I giggled. It seemed silly to talk about Tim. I felt dumb for keeping such a thing for so long but it was a sweet gesture and I took savouring to a near hurtful level.

He laughed too. "Oh." He put it down gently as if the fake petals would fall off any moment. "Holding on for safekeeping."

I folded my arms and leaned against my desk. "I hold on to everything. Too much."

Alex shook his head. "I don't think I do that enough. I wish I was more sentimental about things."

"Don't be. It's the worst fate you can have. You either become a hoarder or you become one of the people that think having something that reminds you of a person is an excuse not to talk to them."

Alex looked around on my shelves. Examining each item with detail. "Candy wrapper?"

"That's just trash."

We laughed and he moved onto the Madeline doll I had sitting on lopsided on my shelf. Likely last touched years ago. My mother had gotten the doll for me and I didn't want to talk about that. About how my mother or what used to be.

"Do you want to sit?" I gestured to my bed, a foot away from my desk.

He sat down and I didn't move. Our feet intersected but never touched. We were quiet and then Alex asked, "Did you write anything recently?"

I shielded myself and lied with a shake of my head. "I'm not a writer. I told you that."

He smirked. "I don't believe you. Come on." I shook my head and I watched as his eyes traced down to the open notebook on my desk. "What's that?"

"A book."

"What kind of book?"

"Notes from school."

"Why are you looking at notes from school over the summer?"

Before I had time to react, he launched himself toward the desk. I blocked the book with my body. He tried to swing around to try and grip it from the other side. I swayed my hips to prevent him. Soon it turned to a dance and soon Alex tried other efforts by tickling me. "Stop!" I squealed.

"Oh, come on, Jane!"

"No!"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Such a typically salacious comment came off as charming and playful and my room filled with laughter. We reverberated through the house and sliced the silence. My house hadn't been that loud since Stacey was in the throes of the terrible twos. It was a delightful charm that a home should have.

I pushed his hands off of me. "Stop it. Stop it." I giggled uncontrollably. Alex laughed along and rested back on my bed. He leaned back onto his elbows. It oozed coolness and my body was burning alive from the inside out. 

"Eventually?"

"Eventually," I promised. I was too nervous to show anything to my peers. I took it deeply seriously and if somebody—somebody like Alex—told me it wasn't any good then everything would be for nothing. I would be a talentless loser and to show that to Alex, who viewed me in a revered spotlight, meant that I truly had no future. Nothing to escape Wakefield, my parents, or myself.

"What about your writing?" I asked him. I tempted fate and hopefully Alex by moving onto my bed. I lied on my stomach beside him, resting forward on my elbows.

"I don't know. I don't really think I'm any good." He gazed off, examining the room an inch at a time.

I was reminded of an off-handed comment. "Matt says you are."

"He's just being polite, you know." Alex played things off with ease. He never made a show of compliments, even truthful ones. I don't think he believed the good himself. He put on a show of things but never had a deep confidence. Everything was locked within himself too deep for even him to know it.

"I don't think so. He had nothing to gain by telling me," I said.

Alex faced me, eye to eye, closer than we'd ever been. "What did you think of them? Those ones at The Grapes."

He read me. The wheels turning in my mind trying to formulate a response. "Be honest, Jane," Alex urged.

I didn't want to discourage him. I liked some of it. They took you on a journey and fit the music. I sat up on my knees. "Well, they were good."

Alex threw his head back. "There no good, Jane, you can just say it, you know. Don't have to tiptoe 'round the whole thing."

I grabbed his hand, the one closest to me that was lying against my blanket. It was quick and unintentional, like some gut instinct. I held it tight. "No! I like them. You're a storyteller, Alex Turner."

"But?" He smiled at me, taking no offense to my critiques.

I bit my bottom lip to prevent my own wild grin. "But...they need some work. Which! Everything needs. Revising is key to any good written work." I jostled our shared hands unconsciously while speaking. Neither of us noticed. It was an attachment that made sense to be joined together.

"So what should I do? Employ the Hemingway method and write drunk, edit sober?" He joked.

I corrected him, "Hemingway never said that. That's from Reuben, Reuben. But that's beside the point." 

"Reuben, Reuben?" He questioned.

"Yeah, it's a Peter De Vries novel and movie with Tom Conti, but whatever—"

Alex cut me off, "What's it about?"

I scowled at him for interrupting me. "It's about this poet who has writer's block and drinks all day. It's pretty much about Dylan Thomas. Anyways—"

He ignored me again. "Is it any good?" He cocked a smile at me. He knew what he was doing getting me all riled up and irritated at the interruption. 

I pursed my lips at her and dropped his hand to shove him. "Shush!" Alex cackled, pleased by my annoyed attitude, and the way my nose puckered up. I watched as his hand slithered its way back to mine, grabbing hold of it. It was the first time I realized I had been holding his hand. I didn't say anything about it. Maybe he had done it unknowingly and I didn't want him to stop doing it. His palm was soft but held callouses on the edges and he fit just right.

"The whole 'writing drunk, editing sober' idea isn't actually bad," I told him.

Alex raised his eyebrows. "You want me to become Dylan Thomas?"

I giggled softly. "Not that exactly but why don't you go out and write about all the shite that happens 'round Sheffield. You know, like fools picking girls up in the air or Joanie's hideous spray tan."

He chuckled. "I mean, I've kind of done that. Ravey Ravey Ravey Club might be shite—"

I insisted. "I never said that!"

Alex eyed me suspiciously. "It might be shite but isn't that what it's about?"

"It's a try-hard song. You're an observer. I know you're not just sitting in the corner daydreaming. You watch."

A shit-eating grin spread across his face. I thought he had been struck with inspiration. That I'd given him a brilliant idea. One that would launch a thousand ships. Instead, he said, "You watching me, Janie?"

"Ugh!" I groaned. He erupted into laughter. He dropped my hand and fell onto my back beside him.

"Don't be embarrassed. Most writers are observers." I gave him a look translating to knock it off. "What do you see?" Alex asked me.

I tap my chin like I have to think about it. "You're shy and you sit in the corner most nights unless Matt or one of the guys is with you, then you stand next to them like you're their teddy bear or something." His laugh makes me laugh. "If you're in the corner, you're usually with a girl who you'll talk with all night but never kiss or leave with. It's very bizarre."

"Maybe I'm looking to take home the girl who is doing the robot—hey!" I punch his arm and he clutches it in exaggerated pain.

"You're a little too observant," I noted.

Alex explained, "You're very entertaining to watch."

"You make it sound like I'm a stripper."

I turned my head and his head was turned to look at mine. Inches apart, perfectly aligned, his eyes dashed across every inch of my face, while mine never strayed from his eyes. 

"If you want to kiss me, you can," I whispered to him. 

I wanted to kiss him but I wanted him to do it first. I wanted to take my time, not jump him. I wanted to handle him with care because I knew he would be with me and I'd never experienced that before. I only experienced rough and snapping touches. Alex would caress me and take me with ease. He would look for my permission at every step of the way. He would push my hair behind my ear and hold my head so delicately in his hands. He would kiss me slowly and tenderly. His hand would gradually rub my thigh before I told him to take my dress off. I could imagine his eyes widening at my boobs, braless and perky. I would shred my underwear because he'd be too nervous while he would take his shirt off. I wouldn't be rushed, it would be thought-out and delicate. For the first time in my life, it would be me who was cared for. He would tend to me, ask me what I wanted, and then do it. Do it perfectly. I would offer to do the same to him and he'd shake his head and say some other time. He would lie over me but it would be me in control. I'd call the shots and he'd accept them, he'd want to do them. He'd be slow until I told him to pick up the pace. We would end together and then he'd hold me. He'd hold me. In a loose manner that didn't strangle me. I would smile over at him and he would smile over at me. It would be the best thing I'd ever experienced.

"I don't want to do that with you, Jane." I hated him. He wrecked all my dreams and I realized he must be just as bad as every other guy. Will might have grabbed my ass too many times and collapsed over me dripping sweat before I even got started but Alex emotionally assaulted me. I never expected Will to care about me but Alex sat here and acted like he did. He got off on this. Getting girls' hopes up. I wonder if Lauren thought he was going home with her tonight. If she had planned an evening of fun after he laughed at her jokes and told her she was talented. He made me feel special but I was only a special dumb girl who revealed myself to him in vulnerable ways. He must laugh at this at home and cum in his pants at the thought of me crying when he leaves. It would be the worst thing I'd ever experienced.

I sat up quickly. I didn't look at him. My heart felt heavy and my eyes begged for me to let them blink but crying in front of him would be worse and giving him some sort of power. 

I heard Alex rustle behind me. I thought he was about to touch my shoulder, pretend to comfort me, and say he had to leave. I snapped around to look at him, propped up on his elbows again, looking confused. He should be some actor, not a damn singer.

"Are you gay?" I asked. I knew he wasn't. I wanted to shame him in some way. Like he wasn't some suave guy. He was some repressed homosexual.

He let out a snort. "What?" He played clueless perfectly.

It wasn't some playful anger I felt now. It was rage. Rage at him and the games men play and whatever this stupid act was. I thought about yelling at him but I think he wanted me to do that. I felt he loved that kind of thing. Extra ammo. 

I turned back around and the room fell silent. It was everything else that happened in this haunted house. It sucked every drop of joy out of everything.

"I shouldn't get involved with my bookie, you know." Alex laughed awkwardly. The way it came out, forced and choppy, cracked away at something in me. That hidden crevice in me that not everyone was out to get me.

"Yeah." I sighed and mustered something up in me to look at him. "Do I get paid for this bookie thing?"

"Well, I mean, the band isn't exactly making much money. Not really any."

"You can pay me in drinks." 

He grinned. "Sure."

I stuck my hand out for him to shake, completing the interview process. I sniffled and it was the worst thing I could have done because Alex's face flashed pain at the realization that I was hurt by him. I could've taken it as him not having ulterior motives but I chose not to. 

He shook my hand and I walked him out. I gave him my number and he gave me his but everything was done under the guise of business. I told him to get home okay but I didn't watch him walk away. I just went back inside and went to sleep.

*

A week and a half later, Alex and I set out to get the band gigs. I invited Claire to come with us, too terrified to be alone with Alex since my self-inflicted embarrassment. My reasoning—which was in part valid—being that Claire knew Sheffield way better than I did. Alex had a set of knowledge and a list of places he thought of, but he had the voice of a mouse and no boobs. 

Claire and I walked hip-to-hip, arms hugged around each other, and Alex trailed beside us. He was an excluded child not allowed in our sandbox. I felt awkward. Alex looked awkward. Claire didn't really give a shit. She's just had to pee.

"Ooh!" Claire cheered. "Let's stop in The Boardwalk. I can pee and then we'll ask them for a gig or whatever. I know that bar guy. Joshua. Jane knows who I'm talking about." She was talking a mile a minute and definitely on something.

The moment we stepped foot in the bar, Claire ditched for the bathroom. Alex and I were left alone. I hated myself for making it awkward, a thing I seem to still have a commitment to doing.

"Do you want to sit?" Alex offered a barstool.

We sat beside one another and I placed my bag on the one beside me to save for Claire. I couldn't think of a single thing to say to him. It felt more practical to sit in silence. Take in the ambiance of the bar. Everything felt caught in my throat, or rather, caught in my head as I couldn't think of a single thing. I resigned to not make eye contact with him. He resigned to do the exact opposite.

"Why'd you bring Claire?" Alex asked me.

"She knows Sheffield better."

He scoffed. "I know Sheffield. I didn't ask Claire. I asked you."

"I'm still here." That's not what he meant and I knew it but denial is the key genetic trait subjected to every Cavendish. 

My eyes looked down at the floor. It felt uneasy and ill-fitting but, to me, it was better than looking at his eyes. Alex tilted his head down, trying to look at me. "Is this summat to do with the kiss thing?"

I answered with a "very" convincing performance of "I don't give a shit" by saying, "Pft, no way. Don't flatter yourself." It was mean and said with bitterness but I was too down on myself to be nice.

When I looked at him, his eyes were cold and uninviting, he turned away and looked at Claire as she came skipping back over. My insides twisted in on themselves at the way he smiled at her and it felt ruthless. I reminded myself that he turned me down so if he went for some other girl, I never stood much of a chance. But if he went out with Claire I'd probably kill myself.

"Right, shall we give it a try?" Claire asked us. We both silently nodded. Claire stuck her hand in between Alex and me and tapped insistently on the bar. "Excuse me!"

A man came over, dragging his feet, and it felt obvious that we were a bunch of underaged kids. But he responded, "Yes?"

"Is Joshua here?" Claire asked.

The man began to snicker. "Joshua got canned because he was giving liquor to a bunch of underage girls."

Claire's smile dropped. She attempted to recover steadily but her reaction told her story for her, despite what she proceeded to lie about. "That's unfortunate." She sounded just like her mother. "Well, we'd like to speak to someone about getting a gig here."

The man shook his head. "No can do if you're minors, I'd like to keep my job."

Claire giggled. "I'm smitten"—Alex and I both shared a look with one another and chuckled at the word usage, softening our cold war—"that you'd think I was so young. You're very kind."

"Nice try. I let you use the bathroom but you're not getting much further." 

Claire rolled her eyes. "It's just a gig."

The man fought back. "I've got nappies to buy. Shoo."

"Don't shoo me!" Claire was growing feisty and that meant a business that no one wanted to witness. She was pounding and loud and usually not forgiven.

I grabbed a hold of her arm and dragged her back. "We'll leave," I told the man.

When we exited, The Boardwalk, Claire sighed loudly. "Sorry. That fucking idiot Joshua probably fed some 12-year-old. I've had no issues before!"

I laughed at her dramatics. "It's fine, Claire."

She sighed again. "I hate to leave you guys but Reg called while I was in the bathroom and I forgot I had a shift at work."

I panicked. "So, you have to leave?" My eyes were wide and I was not winning any awards for my acting. I was rigid and displayed raised eyebrows.

Claire frowned. "Sorry and since I'm not getting paid for this I can't quit my day job. I'll call you tomorrow, J." She hugged me tight and waved at Alex. "See ya, Al."

Alex waved back and Claire dashed down Bank Street. We were left alone and I debated turning away from him but I had agreed to give him a ride home. "Sorry," I mumbled to him.

He shrugged. "I assume we're done then."

I digested a pit into my stomach and there wasn't much I could do. I didn't want to hang around him but I felt I let him down more by coming up empty-handed. I nodded and he set off toward the car.

I walked three steps behind him. I didn't bother to catch up. There wasn't much point since I didn't know what to say to him. He didn't turn back to check if I was still behind him. The clicking of my shoes was enough of any indicator. 

About a block away, he stopped. I slowed my walking until I was beside him. "What's wrong?" I asked. He was frozen, with no motion, and I worried for him.

Alex hesitantly turned his head to look at me. "You are a terrible bookie." I laughed and then kept walking.

He cracked through our tension and left me standing on the corner of Queen Street. I chased him down while wracked with giggles. When I caught up to him, I told him, "A bookie is someone who takes bets for sports. I think you wanted a booker and I got confused."

Alex grinned and reached the passenger side. We got on much better on the way back to his house than on the ride down the City Centre.

When we reached his house, I apologized for the bad job I'd done. He shook his head. "It's fine. We probably need more time to practice anyway."

"I'll get you a gig. I swear. I'd never pass up free drinks."

Alex laughed and thanked me anyway. He waved goodbye to me as he unlocked his front door. I pulled away about 5 minutes into my drive I realized I had gone the wrong way. I was headed south toward the City Centre. I decided my misdirection was giving me a sign and I drove back to The Boardwalk.

I snuck in and the same man was at the bar. Trying my luck and hoping he didn't notice me behind Claire, I approached him. "Is there someone I can talk to about booking a gig?"

His eyes peered up and his look wasn't welcoming. "Determined."

I smiled because charm was going to be the only way this worked out. "I've got a job."

He raised his eyebrow. "This band has minors. I don't think the boss is gonna like that."

"What if I could promise you a crowd?" I asked him.

"A crowd of minors?"

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "No." There totally would be but ask for forgiveness, not permission. "A promise of a crowd of legal paying customers and that no minors will be drinking. Swear."

He hesitated. His eyes moved up and down my body, before he said, "I'll ask."

I smiled pleased but demanded, "Now." I was rarely authoritative, especially around strangers, but I felt that I had to do this. I couldn't imagine disappointing Alex. I had a job to do.

He smirked. "Fine. If you'll come out with me tomorrow."

It was probably some form of prostitution but I didn't care much about my body. It was a tool for me and if I had to use it to get ahead in this, then so be it. I had little regard for myself. I convinced myself that I somehow had the power in these situations.

Later that night, I knocked on Alex's house. When his mother answered, I felt nervous like meeting my boyfriend's mother for the first time. She smiled and when I asked for Alex she called out for him with the promise there was a pretty girl at the door for him.

He came to the door the same as I dropped him off. His eyebrows furrowed. "You okay? Your car okay?"

I couldn't hide the grin on my face. It was unstoppable, wide, cheek-aching. I almost jumped up and down in front of him. "You have a gig at The Boardwalk on August 14."

Frank and I went out the following night. It was nice enough for us to start dating in a sloppy manner. I got free drinks, too, even if I was still 17.

*

On the night of August 14, I sat at the bar while Frank tended it. With the promise of action at the night's end, he fed me as many drinks as I ordered, no payment required. Besides the blowjobs, I suppose. My opinion on the Monkeys didn't shift much when they took to the stage. Their setlist was similar to their night at The Grapes, besides a new cover. 

My job as booker was done and I was more focused on my glass and Frank's hands. Joanie was attentive enough for both of us. She stood at the stage's edge and jumped around. I upheld my promise of a crowd, even if most of them weren't focused much on the music and definitely not minors. 

When their set had come to an end, they came around to the bar about 20 minutes later. Still sweaty and hair hand-run-through. Matt was the first one to appear, saying, "I knew we could trust J.R. Cavendish."

I scrunched up my brows. "How do you know about my middle name?"

"How you think?" His head gestured to Joanie, still dancing around. "I think we should keep you on."

Frank came behind me. He was no longer behind the bar and his arms around me made me jump. "Well, I certainly had fun, but that was more from Jane though you lads."

My body was rigid. I wasn't a fan of this affectionate public display. I wasn't a fan of doing it in front of any of the Monkeys, but Alex's eyes darting around in confusion made me feel even more stiff in both body and mind. 

I tapped Frank's arm. His hold only tightened. "You can thank Frank for the gig," I told them.

"Oh, Joanie told me 'bout this. New boyfriend," Matt teased me. Alex had snapped over to Matt and the instant pleasure—the endorphins that flooded my system—was the biggest high I had ever experienced.

Frank relinquished his hold on me and took two steps back. "Well, I don't know anything about that." He snickered and my high crashed. "Don't get any ideas, Jane."

I didn't care for Frank ever. I was never in love with him. I, like him, was just getting my fill of things. But the way he snickered, it wrapped around me and constricted me. I was numb to this. I had been numb to this for so long. Even if I was mad at Alex, or embarrassed, he never made me feel insignificant. I felt interesting and important, even if he confused me more than anything I'd ever encountered. 

The Franks and the Wills of the world had tortured me for extensive periods that didn't feel significant. It didn't feel significant when the first one of them treated me this way because I was my mother. Simple as that.

It felt significant to share a thought and that thought be appreciated.

"Don't worry, I don't like slumming," I told Frank. I grabbed my purse and left, too drunk to drive, too early to go home, too filled with remorse and anger to ask for help.

I walked two blocks, no tears because Frank didn't deserve tears, I deserve tears. I deserved a weeping apology from every fucking loser guy who had come near me. I didn't know what to do with the hole growing in my stomach. The black hole that was coming for my heart. I was once a sensitive child. I'm a sentimental being. So, why did every relationship mean nothing? Why was I hoarding fake roses from Tim Hoardecker for nearly a decade but never cared for real flowers from all those stupid boyfriends? How much of a loser was I that my best relationship was one that lasted a week at summer camp when I was 10?

*

School began and I shielded myself from much of my former world. I hadn't heard from Joanie since The Boardwalk. I didn't care much. Rosie was with Will and Joanie was with Matt, secluded away, so I ate lunch with Claire and AB. They were the sanest anyway. I had known Claire since primary school, much like Joanie, but we'd never been close like Joanie and I were. Claire and I only grew in our bond in college while Joanie's and I's bond diminished.

Claire was the closest thing to a model I had ever witnessed with my own eyes, despite what my mother insisted about her past lives as an "actress," "model," and beauty queen (the only one that had been confirmed due to the tiara she displayed on the mantle). She was kissed by the Sun, blonde, and what I imagine every Viking in the village fought over for a chance to look at her.

AB was brunette and always looked like he had been in a fight, even though he couldn't kill a fly. He was the sweetest guy I'd ever known and girls prayed at night that they could marry him. I hoped, after all the jerks I'd end up with a guy like AB. I never attempted anything with AB because I was an immature rascal who was at least smart enough to not ruin a guy like that.

I heard through AB that the Monkeys had a concert at The Pheasant. None of us went. Sheffield was too far for any of us to drive and AB was sick of hanging out with a bunch of drunks. Claire and I had a sleepover instead, which I can confirm was much better because her mom's cooking is made by angels.

But after intentionally avoiding Alex for a month, I ran into him on campus grounds one day. On a walk between class and the parking lot, he snuck up behind me in a way usually reserved for kidnappers and murderers. "Hey, Jane C."

I, obviously terrified, shrieked and nearly tripped over my feet over each other. He rested his hands on my shoulders to steady me. I hit him with my textbook, a brick and loaded nonsense. "Alex Turner, you don't sneak up on women."

I kept walking and he kept in step with me. "I haven't seen you in a while. You quittin' on me?" Something had changed about him. His appearance was much of the same, except he was bundled up in a cheap tracky jacket. We contrasted each other in too many ways, I thought. I was a snob but not in an extreme fashion. The only thing I turned my nose up at was clothes. My coat was wool and lined with buttons. I hadn't worn a jacket with a zipper on it since the one week my mum allowed me to play football. I was charmed by it. It wasn't in some rich girl pity kind of way. Plenty of rich losers wore tracksuits, including my mother, but they weren't as cute as a button in them. 

"I wasn't aware I was still on retainer. Not like you need my help much anyway. I heard about The Pheasant gig."

Alex chuckled. "Yeah, that nobody came to. We played The Boardwalk again too. Not so much fun when there's nobody there."

"Well, I'm sure your luck will change." We'd reached my car and I wasn't trying to force him away but I was eager to get home and the wind chill was some of the harshest I've experienced.

"I wanted to talk to you about that." I had to resist an eye roll because I was making it a goal of mine not to be off-putting to people when they were being nice. It was going okay.

I looked up at him. He was on the opposite side of the car. Almost like he knew I was going to invite him into my car. I raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to explain. Instead, he slid a notebook across the roof of my car. 

I grabbed it before it flew to the ground. He had bookmarked a page. "Don't be snoopy and read other shite that's in there."

I furrowed my brows, looking at the scratches across the page. I was unsure what to make of it. The writings looked more like his notes for psychology than "It's a song," as he said.

I held my thumb down on the page and squinted as the wind rattled the pages. It became impossible to read and I looked up at the anxiety written on his face. I was pretty good at reading him too. 

We escaped the wind in my car and I was finally able to read through it. I dissected it in an eager manner. Noting the way it flowed and how vulnerable Alex had been to show it to me. His leg bounced, he tapped his fingers on his thigh and refused to make eye contact with me.

"Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts," I read aloud. I looked up at him. His body leaning away from me, his head resting on his left hand balanced on the door. His hand framed around his face, covering his chin and cheek, shielding himself, as best he could. 

"Who's it about?" I asked. Please be me. He's a boy and he takes time to get it right but he's got it right and this song is an offering that he wants me back. It wasn't the most flattering song for a girl. He says the girl is "pretty fucking far from nice" and I was still young enough to not take offense to those kinds of things.

"How do you know it's about someone?" He questioned.

I shrugged like his lyrics didn't read as some obvious figure, even if he was talking in the 3rd person.

"That Lauren I ran into at Joan's party." Now 17-year-old me, felt this was an attack. Like Lauren was out to get me. A Lauren that I'd never met and would never meet. She was the obstacle preventing me from being the subject of the song. "I'd written this one a while ago. The advice you gave me, I went back and combed through some old ones lying about."

I pushed my anger to the back of my mind. I focused too much on what I didn't have in those days. Not the fact that Alex wrote something and thought of showing it to me first. I was the first second pair of eyes. I couldn't appreciate things, no matter how much I should've and wished I had.

My silence was irking him. He leaned over the console. Alex tried to decipher what part I was reading. My eyes darted across the small page too much for him to figure out. "What'd you think?"

Alex has never been good at believing in anyone's joy. You'd have to wrangle pride out of him and he'd doubt your belief in him no matter to constant reassurance. For the majority of people, it could be misconstrued as fishing for compliments or would become rapidly annoying. I never minded because I have always been the same way. It was a shared vulnerability. 

"I like it," I earnestly told him.

He shook his head. "You don't have to placate me, Jane." For Christ's sake, he was a teenage boy who used the word placate, I don't know why he thought he was some idiot. 

"I honestly do. I only have a few notes but they're small and you must think it's good too or you wouldn't show me."

Alex slowly smiled and then laughed. He was pleased with himself. It was his version of puffing his chest out. "Maybe."

"I think so and I have great taste. Well, in some things," I corrected myself. "Why don't you write it in first person?" I suggested.

"I like it in third," Alex said.

"You like hiding behind a character."

He gave me a pointed look. I had caught him in the act. I had given him the Alex treatment. It wasn't intentional. It was an easy thing for me to discern and I wasn't judging him. After months of languishing over it, I realized that if Alex did this to me, then it must have been instinct, not judgment. 

I told him, "We all do. Don't worry. That's what being a writer is."

"What would you know about being a writer, Jane?" Alex was teasing and flirtatious. He could switch between innocence and naughty ways in a quick compelling method that only made him increasingly attractive.

I bit my bottom lip to prevent the upturn of my lips and if I wasn't scared of being turned away again, I think I would've kissed him. "I have some experience." I had yet to admit it to myself before I told Alex about it. It seemed fitting that he would be the first to know before I even knew.

He grinned and I figured Alex only felt pride in two ways, a hidden, buried-in-his-ribcage pride and proving-me-wrong pride, which usually ended up meaning pride in me.

*

a/n: so...this is the first part...i hope you like it...more to come whether you like it or not because i'm already too invested in this. okay, thanks for reading!