#some of the answers are easy some are harder

[erwinsvow]

you know how charlie reid finds you? it's because he's come to the conclusion that he hates brats. unfortunately for him, the age range he dates is usually filled with them. the girl he’s seeing—because dating is not accurate to describe whatever that was and fucking isn't descriptive enough since she was spending his money pretty freely—before he meets you fits into that category pretty well. he thinks he’ll give it a try because he doesn’t care about money or commitment or anything else in that realm. what he does care about, he learns, is making sure she listens. he needs a girl who listens to him, who doesn't make him repeat himself. a girl smart enough to pay attention but not enough to question him. that's just what he wants and he's patient enough to wait to find it. in fact, he makes a goal out of it.

when he stumbles onto you, he realizes he may have hit the jackpot. he's going to some event inside one of the rooms of the big public library and he holds the door open for you. and jesus, is chivalry really this dead? the way you beam at him like he's just saved your kitten from a tree or carried you out of a burning building, thank him twice and smile sweetly and politely. he thinks after all these years in the city he's pretty good at figuring people out from first impressions and what he knows for certain is that he wants to know more about you. people aren't just nice like that for no reason. when he follows you inside, you end up heading behind a counter because you work there. it's almost five, and he concludes this must be your part-time job. perfect, he thinks to himself, staring at you smiling at your coworkers and listening patiently to whatever they must be telling you because you're too sweet to not pay attention. part-time is perfect because convincing you to leave your job would be a lot harder if it was full-time and something you had already incorporated into your routine. you walk away with a cart of books to put away when he flags you down, this time to ask for your help finding the room he's supposed to be in.

charlie is not stupid—he could have easily found it himself. in fact, it would have taken much less time and energy to just find the room himself. but he wants to hear what your voice sounds like and see how sweet you are about helping him, particularly your reaction when he thanks you for your help and makes eye contact that he thinks will fluster you. you lead him to the room right away, abandoning your cart of books immediately and just like he thought, when he tells you thank you, sweetheart, your eyes get big and you look away and stutter out something like oh it's no problem. the correct answer, charlie thinks while watching you walk away and turn back once, only to see him still staring at you, is you're welcome. he'll have to teach you that. he'll get to it in due time.

there's no other reason for him to be at that library besides to see you—and yes, technically it might be a violation of your privacy to have someone in his office find the library's worker schedule, but that's besides the point—though he still 'runs' into you and has you track down a book for him. really it's just the first book that came to mind, but you had recognized him immediately and smiled brightly and it's almost as if you forgot to be nervous for a second there, leading him to the correct row and shelf. coincidentally, you start talking about how much you loved this book and that you can't recommend it enough. he doesn't even think he has a library card. from there on it's easy work to read the damn thing and come back to return it and then tell you he'd like to take you out to dinner so you two can have a proper discussion about it.

and you, poor thing, it's like the first time you've ever been treated right. you seem surprised when he knocks on your door, and you're scrambling to put your shoes on as if he expected you downstairs by now. your eyes are wide like coins when he hands you the flowers, expression shifting into something that makes an uneasy feeling spread throughout his chest. something he doesn't like—how reactive you are to things that charlie considers the bare minimum. he notices it for the rest of the night—when he opens the door to his car for you, when he pulls out your chair at the restaurant, when he asks you what you want to drink before the waiter gets there and then tells him your order for you. he notices it all night long—the fluster while you answer another question he's asked, the continual, repeated thank you to him, to the server, to the waiter, and how you look at him when the waiter hands him the check instead of putting it on the table. he stares back at you—because surely, chivalry can't be this dead, that you expect him to split the bill with you? it's then and there that charlie decides he'll have to teach you what a real relationship with a real man is supposed to be like, because you must not know.

it's just by chance that you also happen to be great at listening—the one thing he was looking for. he kisses you goodnight by your door after the first date, and on the second one, you bring up all the things he had mentioned on the first. you ask him about two different cases at work, another book by that same author he had said he wanted to read (not really, but if it's for you, he supposes he'll read it), and the fact that he said he liked this restaurant. the place he brings you is slightly closer to his side of town, and you thank him profusely for picking you up even though it's out of the way. charlie's a little confused—it's barely out of the way, and of course he's going to pick you up. but that's besides the point, the point being that he had a secondary reason for picking this restaurant. he wants to show you more of the area where he lives, get you more comfortable with it, since it'll be your area soon enough. at the end of the night, he kisses you outside your door again and he tells you that he'll call you tomorrow, and he does, another thing which confuses him about people your age.

on the third date, he gets an invitation inside. breathless from the usual kiss, you quietly ask him do you want coffee or something? when he accepts, you seem to regain your senses and realize it's almost ten-thirty and fluster while telling him you don't have any decaf. you offer to make him hot chocolate and he laughs, settling onto your couch while you come sit beside him, thinking of how you won't have this problem soon. he always has decaf and regular at his place, and though your apartment is charming, it's certainly not big enough for you both. he has a house and there's extra rooms, and that's exactly the sort of place you need. he even gets distracted looking around at your belongings—knick knacks and an overflowing bookshelf and all the other things he can imagine fitting in nicely with his own things. but you put your hand on his arm to get his attention and he forgets about all of it temporarily.

he doesn't actually sleep with you until two dates after—which is right around the time he starts spoiling you. he shows up with a pretty necklace for you and you try and fail to explain why you can't accept it, but when he says the magic words—let me take care of you—you give in easily. and right around that fifth date is when you've become a little bit needy, the result of one too many prolonged good night kisses and staying horizontal on your couch until he's hard and you're soaked. when he takes you back to his home, he gets hard just thinking about how perfectly you'd fit in here. he makes you cum once just against the door as soon as he gets you inside, and then twice on his bed. in the morning, you wear his button-up while he makes you both breakfast and it's a little too easy to imagine you there every morning.

but charlie doesn't just imagine things and leave it at that—he makes them happen. after the first night, it's all too easy to convince you to sleep over and start leaving things. you work short, periodic shifts, but his place is closer to the library anyways, so you really can't complain. besides that, you have a noisy neighbor and there's construction down the street and charlie's place is peaceful and quiet. perfect for sipping coffee and reading whatever book you've taken out from the library. he tells you he doesn't like all the rooms in the house and if you have any ideas to change it, he'd listen to you, and you do the thing you always do where you flush and pretend that he's just saying that to be nice, when really, he's not. it's going to be your house anyways, relatively soon at that, so you may as well decorate however you please. that's the sort of thing charlie knows to leave for his wife.

it's easy after that—you barely make enough to cover rent each month and when you get a letter from the landlord that rent is going up starting next month, well, it only make sense to move in with charlie. things have been going great for months and there's no use in wasting money. so the playing house gets much more intense after that—charlie has a strict routine and you blend in perfectly with it, though he could have guessed that. it's all the things he didn't expect, the things he's not used to, that take him by surprise. how when his alarm goes off—six fifteen sharp—and he goes to shower, you get up too. you make him coffee and breakfast like it's second nature to you, yawning and stretching in whatever one of his shirts you had slept in the previous night. how easy it is for you to remind him of commitments—a meeting or someone dropping by at his lunch or a friend's birthday.

it turns into a routine, one that he likes very much, and when he surprises you with a ring at the same restaurant he took you for that first date, it's ultimately so easy to say yes. to get compliments at the library on the gigantic rock on your finger—for people to wonder why you still work if your fiancé can afford something like that. and then it's way, way too easy for charlie to convince you that wedding planning and redecorating and thinking about what to do with those empty rooms in the house are going to take up more time than you have. to bid your job at the library goodbye, to focus on your future life as a housewife. one night charlie comes home to you debating between two wallpapers and you let it slip—well, i think this one would be nicer for the baby's room—and after that, it's like you've created a demon. and then charlie reid has a new goal, because he's always been like that, always been focused on a goal—meeting you, getting you on that first date, moving you into his home, making you his wife. the latest goal is to see how quickly he can get you pregnant.

[mostlyghoestly]

Chapter 3- Grease and Guts

A/N- Im thinking of making this a story on Wattpad after I finish on here! what do yall think about that? It will be more detailed, while less “Y/N” but following the plot of the story of the tv show more .

Summary:You shouldn’t be here, be this close to him but you just can’t help it.

Part 1 | Part 2

Tag List:@ihyperfixateoncharacters @untoldshortsofthefandoms @stormgrl19

You swore to yourself it was just the two nights. A fluke. A heat-of-the-moment thing. A harmless brush with a world you didn’t belong to but Ironwood didn’t let go of people that easy. Especially not when Shyann was involved. It started with a text while you were elbow-deep in flea dip, scrubbing down a wriggling mutt someone left behind in the clinic’s alley.

[SHYANN]

Garage hang tonight. You-Know-Who’s crew will be there. Don’t be a coward. I’m outside at 7.

You rolled your eyes. Left it on read. Didn’t answer when she called. And still… at 6:52, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, biting your lip as you stared down an array of clothes that didn’t feel like they would make you even fit in. Didn’t hate it though.

You went simple. A cute pale pink dress and flowed around you perfectly. You looked like a ethereal Fairy . Makeup soft and simple, mascara and some lip gloss.

The garage sat at the end of an old service road, half-swallowed by overgrown weeds and the crumbling bones of old brick buildings. The sign above the door was faded, paint peeling, but you could still make out Locke’s Auto if you squinted

The lot was full when you pulled up with Shyann , cars gleaming under harsh halogen lights, hoods popped, engines exposed like raw muscle. Someone had music blasting from a speaker in the corner, the thrum of bass bouncing off metal walls. Guys in oil-streaked coveralls leaned over engines, laughing and cursing. A couple girls lounged on the hoods of cars, looking half-bored, half-deadly.

You’d barely stepped out of the car before the smell of oil and burnt rubber hit you. And then you saw him. Ray was crouched by the open hood of his car, sleeves pushed up, grease smudged across his forearms. His hair was messier than usual, strands sticking to his brow. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit. He worked with the kind of easy, practiced confidence that only came from owning every room he stepped into.

You tried not to stare. Failed miserably.

Shyann nudged you with a grin. “Y/N, you’re practically undressing him with your eyes.”

You glared. “Am not.”

“Babe, if you looked any harder, that man’s pants would unbutton themselves.”

You shoved her lightly. “Go get your damn drinks.” She winked and peeled off toward the cooler, leaving you to hover awkwardly by one of the cars. You ran your fingertips over the chrome side mirror, pretending you were interested in something ,anything ,other than the man across the garage.

That’s when it happened. A smear of grease appeared on the hem of your dress as you leaned against the car. You groaned under your breath, “Shit.”

“Careful, Doll,” a voice drawled behind you, low and lazy like honey warmed over an open flame. “Gonna get yourself all dirty.”

Your stomach flipped. You turned, already knowing who it was. Ray stood there, wiping his hands on a rag, that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Up close, he was worse. Smelled like motor oil, leather, and something sharper, something that curled low in your belly and made your knees a little too soft.

“Guess I should’ve worn something I didn’t mind getting wrecked,” you shot back, proud that your voice didn’t shake.

That grin of his widened, wicked and slow. “See, now you’re just teasing me.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks but held your ground, arching a brow. “You don’t strike me as the type that minds a little mess.” Ray chuckled, stepping closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin, the way his eyes flicked down and back up, like he was undressing you in his head and didn’t give a single damn if you knew it.

“Depends on the kind of mess,” he murmured. The noise of the garage faded, everything else a blur in your peripheral vision. It was just him now. The way his voice slid over your skin. The way he looked at you like he could already picture you laid out across the hood of his car.

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” Ray added, eyes glinting.

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “Nah. I just have a job. Responsibilities. Not all of us can spend our days looking pretty in a garage.”

He let out a sharp laugh, genuinely amused. “Pretty, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping, “too late.” Before you could fire back, he reached out , fingertip brushing the grease stain on your dress. The touch was barely there, but it sent a jolt straight through you.

“Official initiation,” he teased, his voice rough and close enough you could feel the words against your throat.

Your heart kicked up, pulse hammering behind your ribs. “You always get this handsy with the new girls?”

“Only the ones worth it.” You swallowed, caught somewhere between punching him and pulling him closer.

He grinned like he could read your mind. “Relax, Doll. Not gonna bite… unless you ask real nice.” A voice called his name from across the lot , one of his boys, waving him over. Ray lingered a second longer, eyes locked on yours like a dare, then tossed you the rag he’d been using.

“Keep it. Might need it later. By the way, What’s your name?”

“Y/N” You said bashfully. And with that, he was gone. Back to his car, back to his world, but you could still feel him under your skin, like the aftertaste of something sharp and sinful. Shyann reappeared at your side, drink in each hand, eyebrows up to her hairline. “Okay, what in the thirsty hell was that?”

You grabbed the drink, not trusting yourself to answer right away. Shyann nudged you. “Don’t play with me. That was a whole-ass moment. I’ve never seen him flirt like that. Never. Why is it every time i step away to get drinks?!”

You bit your lip, staring down at the grease-smudged rag in your hand like it might burst into flames. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something.” She smirked. “You better watch yourself, Y/N. That boy’s dangerous.” And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running from it. You felt like seeing how close you could get to the fire before it burned.

[hearthandhallows]

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Jinhwan’s expression softened again, listening closely. He didn’t try to rush past Griffin’s pain or fill the silence with false comfort—he just nodded, slow and understanding. “I think it’s okay if the shaking hasn’t stopped yet,” he said gently. “Some quakes leave fault lines. You don’t always see them, but you still feel them when you ‎‎least expect it.” 

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The quiet smile that followed Griffin’s joke was small but sincere. “You’re not dumping anything,” Jinhwan assured him. “You’re sharing. And that’s brave. Honestly, I think that’s harder than ringing someone up.” A tiny flicker of amusement lit in his eyes. “Though I will admit—being trapped behind a frozen register is a specific kind of nightmare.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Jinhwan’s easy smile wavered just slightly when Griffin asked if he really meant it, a hint of bashfulness flickering through his expression. “Mhm,” he said softly, the word tucked into a small nod. The invitation to see the mural gave him something steadier to hold onto, and he brightened a little. “I’d like that. Maybe I could bring flowers that match the colors you’ve used. It might be nice—to see how our work speaks to each other. Just let me know what palette you went with.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He ducked his head a bit, touched by Griffin’s defense of floristry, his words making something warm settle in Jinhwan’s chest. “Thank you,” he said, quietly but with weight. “Sometimes it feels silly, caring so much about petals and stems when the world’s so… big. But beauty matters. Even if it’s fleeting.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The mention of Griffin’s partner again made something tighten in Jinhwan’s chest—not jealousy, exactly, but something tangled and warm and uncomfortable all at once. Empathy, he told himself. It was just empathy. But his hand still came up, covering part of his mouth. When the other mentioned that he didn’t anymore, Jinhwan raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but didn’t push. He felt that, with him covering his blushing face and his flustered words, he didn’t want to embarrass himself further. 

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He perked up at the mention of roses, though. “Roses are a wonderful choice,” he said softly, nodding in agreement. “Elegant, timeless, and capable of carrying so many meanings—love, respect, even apology. I don’t think anyone could fault you for that answer.” The Witch laughed then, when the question was turned back toward him. “I think the cliché answer would be, ‘They’re all my favorite,’ but… I think it changes. I work with so many beautiful flowers, it’s honestly hard to choose. Right now, I think I would have to pick peonies. If you ask me tomorrow, it might be different. I think that’s truly how another florist might be.” After a beat, he added, "I feel more inspired after our conversation, actually. I might need to choose more colors, rather than just one."

Sighing, Griffin crossed his arms and leaned against a shelf, nodding at Jinhwan. "It was," he confirmed. "It was really hard. Still is." Griffin didn't elaborate, didn't talk about the way his world had gone into a tailspin the moment he'd gotten the call, the way his entire world had shattered that morning. And he didn't talk about the incredible guilt he carried now. All Griffin did was nod once more. "That's the perfect way to describe it," he replied. "Earth-shaking change. The problem is that the shaking never stopped, like a perpetual earthquake. Hopefully that'll change." Griffin hoped that feeling would subside, but it was like every time he thought things were about to settle, he was hit with another aftershock. Again Griffin sighed, muttering, "Wow Griff, you're doing great today. Free art supplies when you couldn't use the register, and now dumping everything on a poor, kind stranger. Employee of the year."

Luckily Jinhwan continued to be very nice and understanding, and Griffin thought he was lucky because some people might not be so gracious. The way that Jinhwan smiled was sweet and made Griffin smile in turn; he wondered if the guy always had that effect on people. "Well I'm glad you appreciate my rambling," he said, smilie growing, especially when Jinhwan complimented his voice. "Oh? You really think so?" he asked the other. Although he shrugged when Jinhwan began talking about the mural, like it was no big deal, Griffin smiled again; he liked that the other could appreciate when he was doing. "You could come see it sometime if you wanted to. I live here in Cardinal Hill, so you know nothing here is ever that far."

Griffin was glad that he hadn't just forgotten about Jinhwan's shop. "Okay, good," he said, feeling relieved. "And floristry is definitely art. It makes me angry when people trivialize it." Maybe Griffin was a little bit sensitive about that sort of thing since his parents used to trivialize his own art, but whatever the reason, he was a staunch defender of all art forms. "You should never be embarrassed about wanting to make something beautiful, Jinhwan," Griffin told the man. "And you should also never be embarrassed if what you think is beautiful doesn't match what other people think.

The way that Jinhwan talked about his work made it clear why he was a florist, that he understood the power in such an act as giving someone flowers. "That's a really nice way to think about it," he said. "I like the notion that he used to think about me in color. He doesn't anymore, but it's a nice way of remembering that time." It actually made it a little harder too in a way, but Griffin didn't say that. At Jinhwan's question, Griffin answered quickly, knowing right away. "Maybe it's a common answer, but I'm going to say roses," he told the other man. "I feel like they suit so many different occasions, and there's something so elegant about them. So maybe it's a cliché answer, but it's mine." Griffin didn't think Jinhwan would judge him though. "What about you? Or is that like picking a favorite child for a florist?"

[bookwyrminspiration]

hey I got bored and made a kotlc-themed crossword puzzle :)