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viastro · 4 years

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since we were eighteen | xu minghao

ミ★ synopsis: in which you break up with your boyfriend to confess to your best friend, but he brings another girl to the party.

ミ★ genre: kinda angsty, some fluff

ミ★ warnings: does alcohol count?

ミ★ word count: 1,897

ミ★ pairings: minghao x gender neutral reader

ミ★ notes: hi guys! it’s been awhile since i’ve posted a oneshot. quite literally caught lackin luv! i dedicated a lot of my free time into finishing my sm!au, you were beautiful, so that i can start working on other stuff without having to worry about it. i’m also going through finals, and tomorrow is my last exam for precalculus and then i’m done! i’ll be trying to post a lot more oneshots, and i’ll definitely be trying to work on my requests again. this is a really long note uhhh am so sorry luv x. i hope you guys enjoy this one!

You stare at him from across the room, drunkenly admiring his lopsided smile when he laughs. He turns his head and catches your gaze, and you turn away, now looking up at the ceiling as you listen to the loud music around you.

Mingyu’s parties are typically known to be the one that everyone on campus wants to go to. However, you can only come if you’re invited. Lucky for you, you’re best friends with the thirteen heartthrobs of Seoul University. Typically you’d be hanging out with your boyfriend right now, probably watching him play beer pong or playing one of those typical party games.

But you’re lying alone on the couch as everyone around you dances, quite tipsy, borderline drunk. You broke up with your boyfriend of three months the weekend before. You realized you couldn’t stay with him when your heart belonged to someone else, it wouldn’t be fair to him. He was surprisingly alright with it though, even patting your head and telling you it’s okay when you started crying at the fact that you’re a horrible person for hurting him.

“It’s okay yn, I knew.”

He even told you to go for it, assuming a while back that the guy you loved had feelings for you as well. Yet here you are. Laying on the couch by yourself, tipsy, in love, and alone with your thoughts as you stare up at the ceiling.

“God. This is pathetic.” You mutter to yourself, watching the colorful lights dance and hearing the sound of cheers around you. A certain laugh catches your attention, and you slowly turn your head to see Minghao laughing at something the girl he brought to the party said. Now pouting, you look away from the girl when she begins to cuddle up to him.

You close your eyes, mind fuzzy as you blindly reach for the soju bottle you placed beside the couch. You frown when you grab something that’s definitely not a soju bottle, and you open your eyes to see you holding onto Jun’s leg. He gives you a smile, patting your head when you groan and cover your face with your hands.

“You wanna sleep in Mingyu’s room until Hao can take you home?” You shake your head no, and Jun lets out a small sigh. He nudges you with his knee until you finally look at him with a glare, and he motions for you to sit up. You groan, moving so that you’re no longer laying down on the couch. Jun sits down beside you, taking a sip of his Coke as he takes in your miserable appearance.

“I typically associate you with being a happy drunk, but you look really sad tonight.” You turn your head to look at your friend, and you let out a tired laugh. You look at the other side of the room, finding Minghao and the girl engaged in conversation. His fluffy blonde hair is parted down the middle, emphasizing the soft look in his eyes as he stares at her attentively. He’s wearing an oversized gray shirt, with ripped blue jeans that he designed himself on a whim.

Jun follows your gaze, letting out a sad smile when he finds who you’re staring at. He lifts up his hand and covers your view, and you slowly turn to look at him. The two of you don’t exchange any words, you just rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes which allows a tear to fall and drop onto his shirt.

“You know, he really lo-”

“Don’t. I don’t wanna hear anything.” You mumble, just trying to find solace in Jun’s familiar scent that’s now mixed with alcohol. “I just think you should talk to him.”

Your eyes open once you hear the girl’s laugh again, and you glance over to see her basically throwing herself into Minghao’s arms as she laughs. You glare, and before you know it, you’re standing up and stumbling over. Jun’s eyes widen and he follows after you, attempting to put a stop to whatever you’re about to do, but you slap his hand away. You only pause when you’re right in front of Minghao and his date, and he looks up at you with a small smile on his face.

“Hi yn.”

“Yn, let’s go.” Jun mutters, reaching for your hand again and you harshly pull it out of his grasp. You stumble slightly due to your lack of balance, and Minghao immediately stands up to rest his hands on your waist to steady you. You freeze at the contact, looking up into his eyes to see him staring at you already.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, let’s take you back home.” Minghao tells you, eyes glancing over your red cheeks and glassy eyes. He lets go of your waist, turning to the girl and telling her he has to bring you home.

“Why not just have one of your friends take them? We were having a great time.” She says and you shoot her a glare. Minghao shakes his head, “Yn matters more to me than a great time. I’ll see you around.”

And with that, he grasps your wrist softly and takes you in the direction of the front door. The two of you pass your friends, and they break out into giggles at your obvious drunkenness. It’s when you and Minghao step out of the house and the cold night air hits your skin that you let out a whine.

“I don’t wanna walk.”

“We just need to walk to the mailbox to get to my car and then you won’t have to walk anymore.” Minghao responds, practically dragging you now.

“I don’t wanna.” You say once you’re closer to his car, and he chooses not to respond to you. Continuing to pull you in the direction of the mailbox. You fling your wrist out of his grip, and he turns to you with a confused expression on his face.

“What is it?”

“You’re annoyed that you have to bring me home right?” Minghao rolls his eyes, shaking his head ‘no’ before reaching for your hand again. You take a step back and cross your arms.

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not. Yn, it’s cold and you’re not even wearing a jacket. Let’s go to my car, mm?” You shake your head, looking up at the stars. Minghao lets out a sigh, taking a few steps closer to you to just pick you up and you stumble away from him.

“Yn.”

“No.”

“Listen, I know you’ve been upset about the breakup but-” He stops when he hears your chuckles, and he raises an eyebrow at you. Your chuckles slowly turn into a laugh, until they turn into tears filling your eyes.

“I’m not upset about the breakup.” You mutter, and Minghao tilts his head to the side in confusion. You look back into his eyes, and his expression softens when he sees the tears in your eyes.

“Then what are you upset about?” You choose to stay silent, and he bites the inside of his cheek before continuing.

“If it’s not the breakup then what is it? I know you were upset about it because you called me crying after it happened, so if you’re not sad about that then what-”

“It’s because I love you.” Minghao freezes, head turning back towards you to find you staring at him with your nose turning more red by the second.

“What?”

“I’ve loved you since we were eighteen. I only dated him in an attempt to get over you, but I knew it was wrong so I ended things with him.” Minghao stares at you with an indecipherable look on his face, and you quickly try to wipe away the tears spilling from your eyes. “I was going to confess to you yesterday, but you were so excited about the date you were able to score with that girl that I couldn’t. Now I’m kinda drunk, really alone, and in a one-sided love with my best friend-”

You’re effectively cut off with a small gasp when Minghao’s hands reach up to softly cup your face. He stares into your eyes, and warmth floods your cheeks. “Say it again.”

You find yourself staring at the hopeful expression on his face, wondering if he’s been wanting this for as long as you have.

“I love you.” You whisper, and Minghao lets out a small smile before his lips crash onto yours, hands resting on both sides of your face as your hand now tightly clutches his shirt. The kiss tastes of salt from your tears with a mix of the strawberry soju you were both drinking. Your heart does a somersault in your chest, finding his kisses to be addicting.

Minghao pulls away and rests his forehead on yours, a smile breaking out onto his face when you look into his eyes. He moves back and presses a kiss to the top of your head, before bending down and throwing you over his shoulder. You let out a small squeal, laughing at your new perspective of the world.

“We’re going to the car now yn, it’s cold and you’re gonna get sick.” You smile, patting his nonexistent butt to the beat of the steps he takes. Minghao unlocks his car, gently placing you into the passenger seat and buckling your seatbelt. You nuzzle into the leather seat, closing your eyes sleepily as you’re now in the sleepy stage of being drunk. You’re half asleep when you fail to notice Minghao starting the car and pulling out of his parking spot.

“Was that kiss a dream?” You ask sleepily, and Minghao lets out a small giggle. “No it wasn’t.”

“Are dating you and I now?”

“Dating is you and I.” You smile in your half-awake state, and he reaches over to turn up the heat in the car for you.

“You’ve loved me back this entire time?” Minghao nods his head, grinning at you trying to keep your eyes open.

“For as long as I can remember.” A sleepy smile forms on your face, making him coo at you. You’re about to ask another question when Minghao shushes you.

“Go to sleep yn, we can talk about everything tomorrow, okay?” You nod your head, letting sleep take over a few minutes after. Minghao turns his head to look at you once he hits a red light, and he smiles softly at how cute you look when you’re asleep. He reaches into the back and grabs his jacket, bringing it to the front and placing it over you as a make-shift blanket.

The light turns green, and Minghao drives through the intersection. He’s still thinking of the kiss the two of you shared, and he lifts a hand up to his lips shyly. He glances over at you, and chuckles at your now open mouth.

“Can’t believe you’ve loved me back this entire time.” Minghao whispers, reminiscing the times he thought his love for you was hopeless. He pats your head softly, before turning back towards the road. Letting day6 play softly in the background.

말로 다 할 수 없어, 이 아름다운 느낌.

can’t express it with words, this beautiful feeling.

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vanchlo · 4 years

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The Partner / Chapter One

Word Count: 10.4k words / Story Masterlist / Read The Assistant / Read on Wattpad / Song: Green Eyes by Coldplay

“The best love language is being irritating. I will annoy you because I love you.”

- Unknown

It smelled next to awful, and the feeling beneath my hands made me cringe. I didn’t know what I was expecting when I had wandered in here after a long day of work. Several other people seemed to have the same idea at five o’clock on a Tuesday, so I wasn’t the only one. Their drinks aren’t that great, either, I quickly found. Nevertheless, they did their job, and they were cheap, so I’m not sure what more I could ask for.

The flat screens above the bar area played nothing but American baseball and footie matches. I silently made a promise to myself that if I ever opened a pub of my own, that Rom-Coms and FRIENDS would fill the tv screens, not bloody sports.

“‘s this seat taken?” a voice hums, pulling me away from my inner monologue. My eyes begin their lull back into my head at the stranger’s question.

“Ye-,” begins on my lips when my eyes tear away from the orange colored drink before me. That is, until, they still when I look at the stranger who stands in front of me. He’s bloody gorgeous - all curls, legs, and those dimples. Hell, you own this seat already. Please, do sit down. “N-No,” my words come out rushed and therefore, sloppy. He doesn’t seem to mind as he pulls out the wooden stool to sit down beside me.

I swallow against a dry throat when my eyes nervously flit away from him. Never have I had an actually handsome bloke talk to me at the pub. I sound more than selfish, and far bitchy than I intend, but it had always been some lousy drunk who had a bit too much liquid courage. Not that I’m anything special, especially compared to him.

Listening to his slow drawl as he orders a drink, I can’t help but try to remember as many details about him as possible. First, there were the chocolatey brown curls. Then, there was the way his violet button up was opened to show ink donning his chest, a cross sitting in the middle, and the wildly attractive chest hair around it. I only saw a glimpse of his unwrinkled, black suit that looked far too good on him. That wasn’t the best part. No, not by far. That award went to the cavernous dimples that sat in his cheeks when his lips spread into that heavenly smile. One that made me wonder how it could be just for me.

“Ta, mate,” he murmurs to the bartender, the gold liquid greeting his lips. All of a sudden, I’m quite jealous of a lousy pint of beer. He doesn’t notice me watching him, the way he licks the foam from his lips, or how I admire his thick eyelashes. Most of all, I catch the long sigh that passes his lips, tugging on his drooping eyes with circles underneath them.

“Rough day?” bravery finds me a moment later, but I don’t announce

myself until I’ve looked away.

“Huh?” he hums distractedly, and not in a rude way. I wait a moment before doing anything, looking at him or even replying. It feels longer than several seconds, and stirring the ice chips around with my red straw doesn’t make it pass any quicker.

“You look like you’ve had a hard day, is all.”

“Oh,” he rasps, clearing his throat after taking another drink of the amber colored liquid. At last, I turn my head to look at him, finding that light stubble covers his cheeks in every place. I don’t know how in the hell I had missed that, because, God, does that look good on him. “Ya, reckon you could say that.”

I nod along with his words, feeling like we belong in the same boat. It only rings all the more true when he shifts in his seat, and my eyes catch something on his breast pocket.

“It must be a hard case, then.”

“What?” he asks. When I see the way his bold eyebrows near his inquisitive sage colored eyes, a laugh escapes my lips. It warms my cheeks and surely reddens them furthermore at the appearance of those dimples again. “How’d you know?” his smile is heaven and everything more than that.

My shoulders rise and fall, answering his question, before I do, “I just had a feeling.”

“Yer good,” his answer is concise, finished with a staccato like laugh. The next sip of his pint is silent, and I would know because I can’t help but watch. At last, there’s something good to watch at this pub. It only took me two drinks and far too long of waiting for it to happen. “What ‘s it now?” his question is light and affable when he finds my eyes waiting on him, holding back a laugh.

“You have something,” I begin, pointing a finger to his mouth, but he doesn’t get it. Instead of wiping the foam donning his upper lip, he brushes under his eye, and then his nose. “Here,” it’s louder than I intended it to be, but my laugh makes its way out with a soft snort, something else I didn’t intend. His upper lip is sand papery from his stubble when I wipe away the foam from his pint.

“Thanks,” he murmurs gingerly, and all I can do is nod, because my lips had begun to fall. “Y’know, I usually don’t let a bird get tha first flirt in befo’ I introduce meself.”

“I wasn’t-,” I start, but his shaking head of curls stops me, and so does the hand that he holds out. More ink marks it up in places when his sleeve rides up above his glinting watch.

“‘m Harry.”

“Becky,” I announce, once again greeting the ball that’s appeared in my throat, ever since he asked me that first question. His hand is cold at first from caressing his pint, but then it warms in my own. The rings that adorn nearly all of his fingers greet my own, lingering a few moments too long. His handshake is firm, and yet gentle. Surely, I must have set the world record for how quickly you can fall in love with a stranger.

“How’d y’know ‘m a lawyer? Really, ‘s it that obvious?”

“Yeah, Mr. Styles,” I tell him, reaching a hand out as his face contorts with confusion again. My fingertip comes under the plastic corner of the name tag against his breast pocket. “Harry Styles of Styles and Lawson law firm.”

Surprise gives away to realization on his face when he looks down his nose at the name tag that gave it all away for me, just a little.

“Oh, ‘d forgot ‘d been wearin’ that,” his answer is giggled, and it truly couldn’t be any more cuter. He slips a hand into his blazer and removes the name tag held to the fabric with two magnets. “I had this convention thing t’day, speakin’ at a uni t’ promote me law firm.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of those. I know they used to have them quite often, those job fairs, when I was at King’s.”

“You went t’ King’s College too?” the surprise rises in his voice, and it fills me when he pushes the basket of chips over that had just been dropped off. His eyes are patient as they wait on me while he feeds a hot chip between his rose colored lips.

“Yeah, I graduated last year, after taking a bit of time off and coming back to my degree,” I answer him, relenting after he nodded his head at the basket and then to me. Ignoring him in part, I reach for the heavy glass bottle of Heinz beside the napkin holder.

“What was yer focus of study?”

“Really?” now, it’s turn for my lips to rise, as if they hadn’t been stunted for the last several minutes, hiding their secrets.

His question comes out in that breathy laugh of his, in between munching on chips and licking his fingers. Good God, Mr. Styles.

“You’re a lawyer yourself and you can’t tell when you’re speaking to another one?” it doesn’t come out haughty or anywhere near cocky, but I still relish in the astonishment that comes over his face.

“You too?” Harry says, excitement loud in his voice, and which I nod at. “Where at?”

“Turner and Jones.”

The chip is perfectly salty when I take my first bite of it coated with ketchup. I echo his laugh as he shakes his head, murmuring about how stupid he is, and it takes everything in me to not tell him he’s the least bit of that.

“I see, so how’re you likin’ it there? ‘ve heard good things, but y’know, I may be a bit biased towards Styles and Lawson. They’re rather great, ‘ve heard.”

“Oh, I can only wonder why,” it’s becoming difficult to say all of my words before they’re overwhelmed with laughter, especially when his are too. “But, I like it. I did my clinicals there for my degree, and was offered a job. You couldn’t really ask for much better than that.”

His eyes are brimming with laughter as questions float between us until the basket of chips is no longer. Then, when the greasy tacos come, and the next few drinks only loosen our lips more.

“So, ya got a crush on that Ben Sanders there like ev’ry other bird?” Harry drawls, words muffled against the rim of his third Scotch Coke a little later on.

“What? No, why would I?” my response is framed with laughter, especially as I think of what to say next. “Are you worried or something, that your reputation for London’s heartthrob lawyer is being threatened?”

“‘Scuse me?” his drink is soon running down his chin. He coughs again after it had went down the wrong pipe when I stole a laugh from his lips.

“God, learn how to breathe, would you?” I tell him, slapping him hard on the back a few times as he presses a napkin to his mouth.

“No,” his chuckled reply comes a few moments later.

“No, what?” I say, taking the turn for furrowed brows when I set down my own pint.

“Don’t reckon me heartthrob status ‘s bein’ threatened,” he shrugs, plucking one of the taller billiard cues from the rack on the wall. “I seem t’ be winnin’ my way with you, afta-all.”

Now, it’s my turn to choke on my drink. Thank God, my back is turned to him so he can’t see it dribble down my chin, or more importantly, the scarlet that fills my cheeks.

“Would you shut up? You’re so cocky. Newsflash, you’re not in the courtroom anymore, mate, you don’t have anybody to win over,” I insist, grabbing a shorter cue and stepping up to him where he sets up the balls.

“I have you t’ impress, don’t I?” his greens lift for a moment to find mine. I can’t help but notice the way that they sparkle.

“You already have,” my answer is gentle and quiet enough for only me to hear. I thought wrong, because he steps towards me and keeps going. For the first time tonight, the sour pub smell has gone, and replaced by it is his cologne. What is that? Leather? Warm vanilla? His nose just brushes past mine, his lips hovering above mine until they pass and press softly to my cheek.

“Have I now, ‘s that right?” his breath is warm against my ear. The skin there sings when his teeth graze it. “Winner buys tha next round ‘o drinks?” his proposition is laced with a knowing glint on his lips when he’s facing me again.

“I thought you had agreed to cover the tab, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer? I only remember one of us being a partner and co-owning a firm.”

“Ah, givin’ me that lawyer lip o’ yers, are ya now?” Harry smirks, dusting the tip of his cue with the blue block.

“Maybe, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

His shrug is accented by his lips turned down with a thoughtful question, “‘m sure I could find somethin’,” he muses aloud, staring off into the distance. When his eyes turn back to me, a corner of his lips pops the dimple out of one cheek. It only falls deeper when he walks around me holding his cue proudly. I feel his hand pinch my ass.

“Harry Styles!” it comes out as nothing less than a giggle, all firmness absent in my voice.

“Y’know, yer not very convincin’ with that voice o’ yers. Ya sure yer a lawyer?” his shit eating grin spews another line as he leans down, readying his cue. “Yer bum ‘s rather nice, ‘ve been wantin’ t’ do that all night,” he has to shut his eyes to ride out the rest of his laugh when I walk over to him and swat him on the shoulder.

“You’re bad,” I murmur, stepping away to grab my drink again.

“And who said that’s not a good thing?”

Turning, I find him mere inches away from me, cue forgotten on the table amongst the array of billiard balls he’d just cracked.

“I dunno,” is all I can think to say, until it hits me. “Why’re we playing billiards when we could be playing Truth or Dare?”

“Truth or Dare?” he wheezes. My insides continue to melt when his large hand comes into view, dragging his fingers through my hair. “What, are we thirteen ‘gain, Becks?”

“Becks? My name is Becky,” I protest, but all he has to answer with at first is those shrugging shoulders of his.

“Don’t care, I like ‘Becks’ better. It sounds mo’ like you,” he insists with lips that haven’t stopped smiling since . . I can’t remember when. “I choose tha dare, then.”

Setting down my finished glass, the hops-y flavor remains on my lips, sending courage into my veins. I ready my question, staring back into his eyes, trying not to think so hard about his thumb nudging at my bottom lip.

“What, are you a pussy or something?”

“N’body calls me a pussy, love,” he denies softly, his quiffed curls shaking with his disagreeing head.

“Then, show me . . I dare you to kiss me.”

“Oh, d’ya now? I see you went right fer it, didn’t beat ‘round tha bush one bit.”

“Yeah, but you are, because you’re still talk-,” I have one syllable left when his lips steal it away from mine. His hair that I’d wanted to touch and caress all night is at last between my fingers. I taste Scotch and Corona on his pillowy lips, and feel the warmth of-

“Becks, wakey wakey, my love,” comes a voice, ripping the dream away from me. Grunting, I shift under the covers, feeling my tired limbs. My expression tightens when I feel lips sponge kisses across my face slowly.

When at last I open my eyes, I find my favorite face in the entire world hovering above me.

“Mornin’, bubs. Did ya have a good sleep?” Harry murmurs with a dopey grin stuck to his face. His voice is deep and slow like molasses, even more so after sleep. It only makes him all the more attractive as my eyes dance along his shirtless chest.

“Yeah, did you?” I yawn, and his mumbled reply is heard between kisses pressed to my lips.

They stir a laugh from me, especially when his own wander to the crook of my ticklish neck.

“Time t’ get up, my Mrs. Styles,” he coos, his words sending an instant tingle up my spine.

“Harry, I’m not your Mrs. Styles.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he replies from his position underneath my chin where his lips lie. A smile doesn’t come this time though, and even if it did, it’d leak of melancholy, at best.

“What were ya dreamin’ ‘bout, li’l one? You were extra hard t’ wake up t’day.”

My answer is framed by yawns, “What’s it to you?”

“Oooo, I see somebody ‘s upset I woke her up,” his response tickles against my cheek in his warm breath tinged with the taste of mornings. I squirm away from him, tugging the covers back up my shoulders, feeling their returning warmth. “It must’ve been good, then.”

“I was having a good dream, and you ruined it.”

“Oh no, poor baby Becks,” the pout couldn’t be stronger in his answer, and my groan couldn’t be louder. His facial hair leaves zings of irritation across my cheeks and temple where his lips trail. “‘s time t’ wake up, bug. We hafta go t’ work.”

“Why can’t we ever just have a late day, like a ten to six, instead of eight to four?” I moan, taking the covers back when he pulls them down my body.

“Hey, you were tha one who wanted t’ have three rounds o’ sex last night, so don’t be gettin’ mad at me now.”

“Harry, don’t act like you didn’t want to too,” I sigh after twisting and turning until I find that perfect spot again.

“‘Kay, but doesn’t change tha fact that we hafta be at work in a li’l over an hour, my love,” my lips sputter a short laugh at his admission. “Alright well, ‘ll be in tha shower, and if yer not up by tha time ‘m out, we’re gonna be late. Again. Y’know how I feel ‘bout bein’ late, bug.”

“I miss the time when you liked being late. You being this responsible boss isn’t much fun anymore,” my words are muffled by the firm pillow. They’re ended with a yelp after he pinches my ass. “Fuck you, Styles!”

I know my regret the second his sweet laugh hits the air, “You already did last night, Becks, but . . if ya wanna have a quickie befo’ work, y’know where t’ find me.”

“Ugh,” I groan into the off white pillow case, turning my head to find his naked ass walking away from me. “You’re a tease, Harry Styles! A proper, no good tease!”

“And what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it, Rebecca Styles?”

The cold air greets my skin when I at last sit up, our duvet cover falling to my waist. Any words that had been ready to spring off of my tongue stop there, replaced by others, “Don’t call me that!”

“Why not? I thought you liked it,” he calls back, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the shower starting.

“Just . . don’t.”

“I don’t like it when yer crabby in tha mornin’s. I can think o’ somethin’ that’ll cheer you up, tho’,” Harry comments wryly. I take the bait unknowingly, mumbling a ‘what’ when I step foot into our walk-in closet. “Dick,” his voice is right behind me. I should’ve known, is what I think to myself when I’m lifted off of the floor and soon have hot water hitting my skin.

“You’re so bad, Harry Styles,” it comes out in a giggle that grows throaty and belly deep as he pulls the shower curtain shut behind him.

“Am I, now? I rememba you sayin’ you liked that ‘bout me last night, so why ya seem all upset?”

A squeal jumps from my mouth when his teeth nip at the corner of my neck. By habit, his name leaves them next when he surrounds me with his body, and his fingernails dig into the flesh of my ass. It’s carried with a laugh as he takes the brunt of the hot water, sponging kisses to my neck that the shower washes away.

“When’re you gonna work again with me, bug? Huh? I swear, you’ve been with Rose fer months now. Simon and that intern Jilly are hoots and smart ones, but I miss workin’ cases with you,” by now, his nose has reached to my shoulder, and so have his lips.

“I dunno, Harry,” is all I say, because those are all of the words that I can find right now.

If I’m telling myself the truth, they are the only words that he can handle to hear. I had been with Rose off and on for the last six months, and my off with Harry had never been longer. We hadn’t talked about it for a while now, but it may have had something to do with him having a fit when we last worked a case together. Like, a proper fit. It was a difficult case, to say the least, and because of that, it made things outside of work hard for us too. I usually loved working with him, but I’d found out the hard way that it’s already hard enough having your boyfriend as your boss. You’re only adding more hell to the handbasket when you throw in working with him every minute of every day, leading to being with your significant other quite literally twenty-four/seven. I loved him, quite a lot, but I also get sick of him, quite a lot. Just don’t tell him that part, is all. I try not to as his lips wander my body and so do his hands, first with cloudy intentions, and then with body wash.

“Eat,” the word comes out clipped until a stubborn curl comes to my lips.

“No.”

“It’s not a question, Harold, eat your fucking breakfast. Since when did you stop liking eggs?” I insist playfully, shoving a plate towards him where he sits sipping his plain coffee.

“Since I said I don’t, Mum. Now, would ya leave me be t’ drink me cuppa and read tha paper?” he returns with a lift to his brows, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And me name’s not Harold, dunno why ya fancy callin’ me it lately. Yer not funny.”

“I am, you just don’t want to admit it,” it comes out in a sigh. A shock of cold air slaps me in the face when I open the freezer, grabbing a plastic wrapped block of chocolate ice.

“Are not.”

“Are to,” I grumble in response, scraping his plate of eggs onto mine. Shaking my head, I turn around with the plate in hand, grabbing the toast peeking out from the toaster. “Grape or strawberry today?”

“Mix ‘em, please.”

“I’ve never met somebody who likes to mix their jams,” I comment playfully, soon hearing the nostalgic sound of a butter knife against toasted bread.

“‘ve never met somebody who cared so much ‘bout eatin’ bloody breakfast.”

“What, as if I didn’t used to get you Starbucks breakfast every morning three years ago?” he tries not to smile at my wheezed words, but I see it when I set down the new plate in front of him.

“Now, eat something, Harry. We need to leave soon, since somebody is intent on being on time.”

When I turn my back, the silence is interrupted by him biting into the toast. The microwave beeps and I gingerly carry the plastic wrapped steaming muffin, plopping it onto his plate.

“Our kids better not be picky eaters like you someday. These chocolate veggie muffins are like, the only way I can get you to eat vegetables for breakfast.”

“Why not, Becks? You think ‘s cute,” he smirks, cocking his head to face me when I take a seat next to him.

“Do not.”

“Do to,” I can hear the grin in his voice as he devours the rest of his toast. Shaking my head at his stubbornness, I pick up my fork to fill it with scrambled eggs.

“What features o’ mine would you want ‘em t’ have, then?”

“Um,” I idle, unsure of why I have to, seeing as how I’ve thought this through about a hundred times, by now. It’d only made it harder before, his hand cupping my knee, but it brings me comfort, by now. “It’d be easier to say what I wouldn’t want them to have of yours.”

“God, do I even wanna know?” he scoffs, showing me his dimples sunk into his cheeks full with food. Licking the dollops of jam from his fingers, he picks up the wrapped mozzarella cheese to peel the wrapper off.

I almost choke on my eggs when a laugh finds me, but as I chew and then swallow, his hand rubs circles on my leg through my sheer black tights.

“Ya sure ya won’t consult with me on my new case startin’ t’day? I know ya jus’ finished that Doud theft case with Rose.”

“What, are you spying on me?” it comes out hearty and laced with a joke. I listen to him sip his coffee and flip the paper, scooping eggs onto my buttered toast.

“No. Did somebody fo’get who their boss ‘s now?” Harry smirks, flashing me those god awful eyes that by now he knows I can’t resist. I sometimes really hate it when he pulls that card, but at other times it’s undeniably sexy, and he knows it.

“Yeah, his name is Myles Lawson. There’s this other guy he works with, Harold something or other, he’s this rubbish lawyer who keeps hitting on me.”

“Hush, you, or no tacos t’morrow,” his words make me groan through my mouthful of food. It’d become hard for us to honor our Taco Tuesday dates when I teamed up with Rose, and we had different schedules. Eventually, they’d fell away to consist of random days here and there, until we’d started it back up again.

“Be nice,” I warn, feeling the cold wood under my feet when I get to them. The warmth from the toast and eggs is replaced by the cold wetness when I pour orange juice into two glasses, setting one before Harry.

“I am?” he laughs, holding up his glass in question before gulping half of it down. “C’mon, Becks, jus’ give this case a shot with me, please? Ya can quit after a day, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine and you can go back t’ Rose.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way, and so do I after working with you for a year and a half now.” And dating each other for the same length, just about.

“Why you bein’ so mean t’ me, bug? I jus’ wanna work a case with you, ‘s been ages,” he whines from my side once again, feeding the last chunk of mozzarella between his grumpy lips. It’s always boggled my mind why he doesn’t peel it, and instead, eats it in chunks. He really is a weirdo, but he’s mine.

That thought sticks with me as my eyes remain glued to his handsome figure. Some sleep still clings to his captivating green eyes framed with thick lashes. His hair couldn’t be more curly these days, cropped to its usual length below his ears and longer on top. He had caved, letting Skye work her magic on him, and to the surprise of both of us, he had been happy with a recent cut from her. Even if it had only been a measly trim, as well as giving him some tips to keep it styled so the top wasn’t always in his eyes. Bringing his coffee to his lips again, a question sits in his eyebrows.

“Whatcha thinkin’ so hard ‘bout?” he wonders aloud, rosebud colored lips moving under a dark brown beard claiming the outskirts of his mouth. If that wasn’t enough to get me going, that new maroon suit he dons does. It’s fitted perfectly for him, just how he likes it. Me too, since I get to see his bum in nearly all of its glory in it. His legs. His crotch. His arms, too. The dusty black button up beneath leaves little of his chest to imagination, just the way I like it.

At times, I still catch myself wondering how he was all mine. Well, almost, that is.

“Oh, here’s one. I hope that they don’t have your weird eating habits.”

“What weird eatin’ habits?” Harry wonders aloud, leaving smears of chocolate against his lips a moment later from his muffin.

Declining to answer, I finish off the rest of my eggs after checking the time. “Eat your banana and clementine.”

Sure, I’d missed working with him too, but not his micromanaging, how he’d sometimes pick the most challenging cases as if he had to prove something, or how I still couldn’t get past the added pressure I felt working with him. I’d wished for so long that it’d be the opposite, but it was wishful thinking, at best.

The hum of the air conditioner fills the silent space as I tap away on my phone, sighing at the weather forecast. The warm front that had come in a few days ago wasn’t leaving anytime soon, leaving me in dresses for work. I find Harry without his blazer once again when my eyes turn to the window, admiring his attractive backside while pumping petrol.

“What?” I murmur, lifting my head when the door opens, sending a rush of hot air inside.

“I said d’ya need anythin’ from inside? Ya want a soda or anythin’?”

“No, and don’t you get one either. I know what you’re doing, Harry,” the reply comes out giggled and with a finger pointed at him.

“Becks, I jus’ want one Coke, please.”

“No, you said you wanted to do a no soda challenge, and we’re only a week in and you’re caving.”

“Am not, but I crave it bad, bug,” his response is whined, pulling more happiness from my lips.

“I know, but don’t even go by the coolers. Just go in and pay, please, or better yet, pay at the pump.”

He mutters a defeated ‘fine’ before closing the door, walking away from the car and towards the small building.

I hope that our kids have that feature of yours, I think a few moments later after watching him pick up and return a dolly a little girl had dropped. From here, I can even see the dimples fall into his cheeks as he speaks to her. The selflessness you’ve always had, even if it took awhile for you to share that page of yours with me.

We didn’t drive separately to work very often, unless he had an early meeting or a long day. It didn’t make sense to spend money to drive two cars to the same place five days a week when we usually get there and leave at the same time. Sure, one of us sometimes had to wait around for the other, but it worked rather well, we’d found. I usually won the fight of who got to pump petrol less than half of the time, if we were together, and even less in the winter. Mr. Stubborn usually beat me to the punches, first one out of the car got to do it, and it’d become a little race of ours that we enjoyed. I hope that our kids learn from their father about how to treat others, even doing things that you dislike to show your love for them.

“I don’t care what you say, it’s never me who makes us late, it’s always you. Usually, it’s something to do with your hair or suit, and you know it,” I jest when the lift doors close in front of us.

“Sure, it ‘s,” Harry sighs, leaning his back against the furthest wall. My head soon finds his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me. “Sorry, ‘ll see if we can get done early t’day. I know you’ve been up late tha last few nights finishin’ yer last case.”

“It’s okay,” I yawn from my place in his arms, not opening my eyes until he’s standing up straight again, my forehead itchy from his kisses. “I’ll tell you what.”

“What?” he grins at me. It takes a lot in me to not roll my eyes at his dad joke once I’ve come back to full attention. Forgotten it is when his fingers dive into my hair behind my ear, and his lips press to the imperfection below my eye. “Are you gonna say you’ll reconsider me offer o’ workin’ with me on me case?” “Yes,” my sigh is everything but sad, and neither are my lips when they meet his own.

The same word flies from his lips with excitement when we part. “Missed you, bug. I think it’ll be easier t’ have sex in me office now if we’re workin’ a case t’gether.”

“Shut up,” I giggle, savoring the feeling of his lips against my forehead, and my arms laced around his middle warm underneath his blazer.

“‘m glad I don’t have t’ say goodbye t’ you this mornin.’ ‘s been a while since ‘ve gotten t’ keep you fer tha day, my love.”

“What happened to absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I titter beneath his sporadic lips covering my face happily in kisses.

“Reckon we’ve had enough o’ that rubbish, dontchu?”

Indeed, we have, Harry. Indeed, we have.

“Ooo, the salmon’s on sale,” the whisper is soft as I pour over the page, numbers and pictures jumping out at me. Switching my attention, I press the pen to the paper until I stop. “Wait, does Harry even like salmon?” Pausing for a second, I think until shaking my head.

“Okay, what else did we need? Bananas, veggie muffins, chicken bullion, garlic, quinoa, broccoli . . ,” the words dropping from my lips soon show up on the notepad held in my hand. Call me old fashioned, and Harry will, believe me. “Granola, roasted pumpkin seeds, pistach-.”

“Beep beep,” somebody chirps from behind me. A scoff leaves my lips next when a cart bumps into my behind. Whipping around in surprise, my mouth is open in astonishment. It only falls further when I find the culprit. “What, not happy t’ see me?” Harry smirks with his face squished into a question, head cocked to the side. His hair is more disheveled by now after our day, a busy day two of researching for his new case. “Meetin’ yer other boyfriend here, or somethin’?”

“No, I just . . I thought that you had a meeting after work today,” I murmur, feeling my lips oblige with a smile.

“It was cancelled, and moved t’ t’morrow. Some schedulin’ thing fer tha space, I dunno,” his lips hum against my forehead when he wraps an arm around me. My reply is measly and suffices for a verbal understanding, interrupted by his lips on mine for a second.

“How are you feeling about that?”

“Fine, things have been good lately,” I nod my head along to his response, flipping through the grocery ad, finishing up my list. “Journalin’ has helped loads, so ‘m glad I picked that up again . . ‘m jus’ sorry you can’t enjoy a glass o’ wine at home, anymo.’ I feel bad I took that away from you.”

“It’s just wine, Harry, I’ll survive. Plus, I have one every now and then at Skye’s. Your sobriety is more important . . you are.”

“Thank you, dunno what else I can say ‘sides that,” I feel his smile on my face not just from the sunshine it spills, but through his lips on my forehead.

“That makes me happy to hear that things are going well, though. I know that it’s hard to talk about together sometimes, which is okay, and how you had a tough day this past weekend,” I murmur, setting the list and ad in the front basket of the cart his hand sits on.

“Ya, me too, bug. ‘m better now . . So, what’s on our list t’night seein’ as how we ran into each other at tha supermarket, havin’ told tha other we’d get tha groceries.”

“Yeah, we didn’t communicate that too well,” I wheeze, feeling his arm come around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“That’s okay.”

We’re quiet except for the sound of the moving cart, and our feet amongst the chatter of the shop. I wish I felt that way.

“Are you sure you are? You’ve been quiet t’day, Becks,” his question comes at the exactly wrong place, and the wrong time. How is it that he can always read my mind? I wish you would pick up on that one thing stirring up trouble in there, Harry.

I murmur a convincing enough answer, hoping that he believes it. It only reminds me of the promise I made to myself last February to not lie to him, and it only gets worse when that memory pulls with it another. The one of how he couldn’t stop saying that communication is key, and that we’re no good without it.

“Stop it,” I scold him with a light laugh, pulling on his arm when he wanders over to the cases of soda. Turning around, his lips dip into a pout. I hook my arm with his and keep walking down the aisle, having to pull him back when he goes to reach for junk food and sweets.

I’m just not sure about how to communicate this one.

“Reckon our case ‘s comin’ along nicely so far. Dontchu think?” his murmur threads its way through my thoughts, but it doesn’t quite succeed. Instead of a reply, my silent words wander to describing the way he tugs at his briefs that ride up his legs. “Becks? Babe, can ya focus mo’ on what ‘m sayin’ and less on me gettin’ undressed?”

“Oh, s-sorry,” the words are rushed out with a shake of my head as he titters. I try to apply myself to the conversation, but my eyes hold the remote, gluing themselves to his round bum when he turns around.

“Yer doin’ it again.” My voice is small when I yawn a question in return, waiting for him to return from the closet. With a hand caught in his hair, he does, rushing over with his arms around his otherwise naked body. “Actin’ weird, ‘s what.”

“Warm me up, bug,” Harry chatters, hurrying under the covers and over to me. My spontaneous giggle only lasts until the sound of his next words, “And while yer doin’ so, would ya please tell me what’s botherin’ you lately? Y’know I can’t help unless you tell me.”

The words escape me, like they have for the last few days as I’ve thought and thought of how to say them. More than anything, I’ve debated whether or not to even put them into a sentence that I could speak to him.

“No lies. Rememba, sweetheart?”

“I remember,” my voice is small and quiet. His hairy legs feel contrasting to my smooth pair tangled under the covers.

“Ya gonna show me those pretty eyes o’ yers, love? Tha ones I love so much I hope our babies have ‘em?” his question is answered with my head, and a denial at that. “‘s it easier t’ tell me what’s wrong without lookin’ at me?” this time, my head says something else. I hear his gentle hum amongst the drowning guilt.

“‘s okay, Becks, but y’know, ya never hafta be afraid t’ tell me anythin.’ Y’know that, right?” I myself hardly hear my vocal confirmation, but it’s hard to make it out over the hammering of my heart. I can’t decide if it does or doesn’t help the way his fingers are losing themselves in my hair, his cold toes against mine. “When yer ready.”

My head goes up and down with his words until it lifts, and his eyes are patient. I don’t need to look that hard to see the sunshine waiting in them for me, and how it curls his lips into his cheeks. With each second, I doubt what I’m about to do, and my body takes the brunt of it.

“Will you marry me?”

“What? No,” Harry chuckles, his face screwed up in confusion. My own falls indefinitely, turning away to hide in my pillow. “Becks, honey. C’mere.”

“No, I can’t believe you said that you wouldn’t marry me, Harry,” the whining in my voice is mostly authentic, but I do my part to milk it, as well. My guilty regret only comes once I’m on my feet and walking into the ensuite bathroom, having forgotten to take my contacts out.

“Hey, where d’ya think yer goin’?” Harry insists. As I unscrew the caps to the case, the worry almost overwhelms his voice. “I didn’t mean it that way, bug, please believe me.”

His cheek against mine from behind brings back that tingly sensation as I remove my contacts. “Why’d it sound that way then?”

“It didn’t, I promise you that, Becks.” I give him a smile when I turn around, taking his hand to pull him back into our bedroom. “Babe,” his laugh continues, seemingly never going to end as it grows deeper and heartier. Despite my upset, it finds the crack in my armor once we’re under the covers again. “‘Course ‘ll marry you, that’s not what I meant, bug- Hey, stop ignorin’ me and come gimme a cuddle.”

After a bout of failed attempts, his strong arms hook under mine until he’s pulled me into his chest. His warm hands manipulate my slack body until my chin is lifted, “Look at me, would you?”

“No.”

“Rebecca Ann Holte, look at me, so I can talk t’ you,” he replies firmly, but laced with honey. Always. Sighing, I oblige and open them. “Hey, dontchu cry on me. You bloody well know that I want nothin’ mo’ in tha world t’ marry you and have a family with you.”

“Then, why don’t you? It’s almost been a year and a half, Harry,” all fight and joking aside, my voice drips of a melancholy type of honey. Instantly, I see the effect it has on him, pulling his lips down into a sullen line.

“Where’s this comin’ from all o’ a sudden, huh? What’s happened, baby?” his question is spoken aloud. I avoid answering it, not wanting to share. I don’t need to, because within seconds, I watch the lightbulb go off behind his eyes. “‘s this ‘cos Amelia jus’ got engaged? ‘s it, Becks?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, looking away, and he lets me. Swallowing against a dry throat, my hand ventures to one of his where I remove a ring. I slide it onto a blank finger of my left hand, two others already claiming a spot. “They haven’t even been together five months . . it’s not fair. Jennings too, the other day. It’s like everybody else is . . “

“But you, love?” his murmur is gentle, and so are the pads of his fingers on my cheeks. “E’vrybody’s different, Becks. ‘m not innna rush, I didn’t know you were, love. That’s why we hafta communicate.”

“That’s why I’m telling you . . although a few days late, and I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay. Thank you fer tellin’ me,” his lips warm my face, willing the sadness away. “‘m gonna marry you, y’know that, right? . . Right?”

“Yeah,” again, I sound like a mouse. This time, he lifts my chin so I’m looking at him again, and no longer his ring dotted with black figures.

“Ya don’t sound very convincin’ . . but maybe that’s my fault. I didn’t mean t’ say no at first like that. ‘course ‘ll marry you, my bug, but I wanna be tha one who asks,” Harry explains, catching the dwindling tears that remain on the apples of my cheeks. A softness sits in his eyes that makes me pool with sour regret.

“How come? You said we could just go and do it at the courts one day, easy as that.”

“That’s not whatchu want, nor do I, Becks,” he states. Despite my stubbornness, I know that he’s right. “Same goes fer askin’ you t’ marry me . . I know we both want it t’ be special, and I need some mo’ time t’ make sure it ‘s.”

“You’ve jokingly asked me how many times now? Called me Mrs. Styles how many times a day lately?” I muse aloud, unsure of how to stop once I had taken the plug from the drain.

His laughing lips are what I first see, and then hear, “Yes, I joke ‘bout it ‘cos I can’t wait t’ ask you . . figuratively, bug. And, I love callin’ you that, don’t think it could sound any better . . But, you and I both know that we want it t’ be special . . t’ have a grand story t’ tell our kids one day. ‘m only plannin’ on doin’ it once, so I wanna make it unfo’gettable, Becks . . ‘m sorry if I made you feel like ‘ll never do it, and that yer sad it hasn’t happened yet, but it will. I promise you that.”

“When?” my question appears in the air before I can stop it. So do the dimples in his cheeks, again. “Thank you, I mean. I’m sorry I’m being impatient and rude, I know there’s more to getting married than just a pretty ring.”

“Yer okay, li’l one, I understand. Well, that wouldn’t be very much fun if I told you, now would it? It’d take away tha surprise.” his brows do the rest of the talking for him. Letting out a long breath, I dive into his arms, and start to relax when his chin rests on my head. “Soon, ‘s that good enough fer you? . . ‘kay, good. Bloody hell, yer a funny one, thinkin’ you can get away with askin’ me like that. And thinkin’ that ‘m not over tha moon mad ‘bout you that ‘m not gonna marry you one day,” he chuckles. I feel his stomach shake with the sound, and soon, mine does too.

“I can’t believe your knee jerk reaction was to say no.”

“C’mon, Becks, I didn’t mean it that way. I jus’ meant it as in, I don’t want you t’ beat me t’ it.”

“Yeah, well, I did. Again,” I giggle, and he joins me with that lovely sound his lips make.

“Seems ya did, like always . . Would you like t’ come with me t’ look at rings t’morrow afta work?” at the sound of his words, something blossoms inside of my chest, and quickly on my lips. It’s that effervescence that I find sitting in his eyes at times, an unbelievable bubbly feeling.

“I’d love to, Harry.”

“Good, I thought that’s what you’d say,” his trademark wheeze is like music to my ears, and at last, I feel my heart start to beat normally again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothin’ t’ be sorry fer, bug. I feel as if I do, leavin’ you in the dark ‘bout this. I thought you knew from our talks that I was plannin’ on it soon, my love,” and the guilt train just speeds along, taking me with it.

“You’re too good to me, Harry.”

“Hush, li’l one, you deserve it and so much mo’, my Mrs. Styles. Now, let’s get some sleep, we have a big day ahead o’ us t’morrow. Interviewin’ witnesses, and engagement ring shoppin,’” he coos with an excited lilt to his voice. I can’t do any longer without seeing it in those sage abyss eyes. “Hi, Mrs. Styles. That sounds rather perfect, dontchu think?”

“Yeah,” I smile, combing stray hair away from those beautiful eyes. I don’t know, I think I want our kids to have his eyes, instead.

“Rebecca Styles. Becky Styles.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Styles.”

“Tha married lawyers,” he whispers until his lips explode with a laugh made of dreams. I taste it on his lips when he kisses me.

“I love you, Harry Styles.”

“I love you mo’ than you will ever bloody know, Rebecca Ann. Can’t wait t’ put a ring on yer finger, see you walk down tha aisle t’ me, and have so many babies t’gether,” he speaks animatedly, holding me tight and still holding my eyes with his. “Love you, Boops,” is the last thing he says before kissing my nose, and then underneath my eye.

I love you, Styles.

“He’s still alive, ‘s he? Hmm, dunno if ya have a green thumb quite yet, considerin’ you’ve killed ev’ry other plant ‘ve gotten you.”

“Hey! Plants just aren’t my forte, okay? But, succulents? Eh, they’re better . . easier. Plants are harder than they look, Harry,” my protest is weak, and we both know it. He wheezes while thumbing at a thick leaf on ‘Frankie the Succulent,’ the very plant that’s been here just as long as I’ve been a lawyer here.

“So am I,” I nudge him away when his lousy dad joke drifts over my shoulder.

“Shut up. I’m going to go and fill my water, so he can have some too. I’ll be back and then, we can have lunch.”

“Noted. I bloody well hope yer better at keepin’ kids alive than plants.” I have to roll my eyes at him this time too for the lame comment. “Hey, watch those eyes o’ yers, Rebecca Ann, or no churros fer you.”

“You never have, and you never will, Styles.”

“Oh, ya sure are temptin’ me now, woman,” he sighs with a finger wagging at me. Rolling my eyes again on accident, and from pure habit, I hurriedly leave the room, giggling after seeing the look on his face. “Yer gonna get it, Rebecca Holte!” I hear called after me, only urging my lips further.

When I return, his lips are still twitching with a smile, and part of me grows nervous. In one way, ever since we looked at rings last week, I feel on edge every time he has that glint in his eye, never knowing when he’s going to fall onto a knee. This time, I’m nervous about the way he bites at his bottom lip.

“What’s that look for, Styles?” my lips twitch with nerves. Swallowing against a dry throat, I lift my water bottle to my mouth briefly as I walk up to the succulent.

“Frankie’s jus’ lookin’ sad, ‘s all. Ya better hurry and water him befo’ he dies on ya too.”

I hear it, and the puzzle pieces all click together when I spot the long box adorned with glittery, purple wrapping paper in the middle of my desk. That definitely wasn’t there before.

“Harry-,” I begin, setting down the water bottle as my body turns to face him.

“Open it,” he interrupts softly, something I once hated him for. At times now, he’s become rather good at finding the best moments for it.

Squishing my lips together into an eager smile, I pull the box into my hands, unwrapping the violet colored bow. My body jolts when his arms come around my waist from behind, his massive height allowing his chin to rest on the top of my head. Lifting the lid of the rectangular box, I’m greeted by a surprising sight.

“Harry,” his name drops from my lips, something that had become so easy over the years, despite the times it had been the hardest word for me to say. His lips are touching the sky almost and his dimples couldn’t be deeper as he beams at me.

“Try it on, Ms. Lawyer. Figured you needed one too t’ stay organized.” Nodding to it, he licks his lips while watching me.

“This is too much, Harry, I-.”

“Happy One and a Half, bug, and congrats on yer sparklin’ review, as always. Ya deserve it. Now, try it on already. I wanna see it on you,” he wheezes with that sunshine smile spreading even more warmth across my face. The redness coating my cheeks I’m sure only reaches further when he turns me around to steal a kiss from my lips.

The lavender colored band feels buttery under my fingertips. I have to ask for Harry’s help, but within moments, an Apple watch similar to his, despite the purple band and purple hard case, sits on my wrist.

“You like?”

“Yes, I love it,” I sigh happily, exploring the small device’s possibilities. His giggle eggs me on, especially when he shows me the Walkie Talkie feature that he insists we experiment with from opposite sides of the room. “But, I didn’t really get you anything. Well, nothing as nice as this.”

“Hush, you. You didn’t need t’ get me anythin.’ ‘m mo’ than pleased with our dinner planned fer t’night. ‘m excited t’ cook with you, bug. Steaks, alfredo, honey glazed carrots, and yer famous chocolate cake. There’s nothin’ mo’ that I could want.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll just take back your present then,” I huff with sarcasm laced in my voice, plucking the present wrapped in Beatles paper from a drawer in my desk.

He too holds back an excited smile, reaching his hands out while walking towards me. “Gimme,” he nearly squeals, and I oblige. Biting on my nail, I watch as he tears the paper away, oooing and awwing at the square box that now sits in his palm. “Oooo, another wordy board game, me likey.”

Chuckling, I relish the way he turns it over in his hands, examining the front and back, “It’s called Boggle. You shake up the dice with letters and then have to make words from the touching letters before the timer is up. Then, you go through what words you have, and whoever has the most unique words wins . . My gran and I used to play it loads when . . when she was alive. I found it at my Dad’s the other weekend when I was there, so it’s not a new one, I’m sorry.”

“Becks,” he begins, having forgotten the game entirely to meet my eyes. Stepping forward, his hand comes to cradle my elbow, all smiles gone. “You shouldn’t have, bug. I can’t imagine how special this ‘s t’ you, thank you so much. ‘ll keep it safe and be careful with it. ‘ll keep it at home, then. We should play it t’night afta dinner. ‘ve been wantin' some new games.”

“I’d like that, and don’t worry, it just goes to show you how much I love you,” I smile, feeling his honesty when his lips touch mine. “But, for the record, I get it in the divorce. I’m putting it in the prenup.”

“Shut up, would you? Stop talkin’ and kiss me, honeybug,” Harry smirks, whisking all of my words away with his lips tasting of honey. “Love you.”

“I love you mostest,” it’s a titter against his lips, but it grows fuller as he shakes his head at me, gnawing at his lip.

“God, I can’t believe you did that. Ya went right fer it. What am I gonna do with you?” he tuts, clucking his tongue at me. Before I know it, his fingers are dancing along my sides, and his laugh is mingling with mine.

Who knew that it could ever be this good?

It had been information overload, and my noggin was ready for a break a few days later. Beginning it with a coffee in hand, my legs inch closer to his door. My reprieve is closer with every second as I near the door with my favorite person’s name on it. That was the last thought in my mind when that frosted glass door swung open, and two men turned around to face me with surprise. At first, I have a hard time telling them apart, until I blink a few times.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I should’ve knocked,” the words are automatic on my lips, and so is the apology on Harry’s face.

His parting lips are fast, but they don’t beat those of the man who stands closer to me, “You’re okay, love. I was just leaving.”

I nod along with his words, but I don’t have any of my own. Instead, my eyes veer to Harry’s pair with a question in mine. The alarm that had risen inside of me at the sight of the man only worsens once I find his pages unreadable to me. His lips curls just the slightest, but there’s something else there I see as they ready themselves to speak.

“Becks, this ‘s me Dad, and Dad, this ‘s me girlfriend, Becky,” he announces warmly, removing a hand from the pockets of his beige blazer, pointing to the tall man in a dark suit. I can’t stop my eyes from widening at my boyfriend and he nods at me. I don’t have any more time to look, because Harry’s dad is stepping towards me.

“Reckon we’ve met once before, if I remember correctly. Anyways, I’m Dez. Dez Styles, ‘s nice t’ meet me son’s girlfriend at last,” the man says in a slow drawl with an accent similar to Harry’s. A smile appears on my lips from nowhere as I take his hand in my own, shaking it. If I look hard enough, I think I can see a hint of Harry’s eyes, and more in him.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Becky.”

“Pleasure t’ meet you, Becky, but I best be going. I have to get back to work meself. Maybe we could talk more another time. I’d love t’ hear more about you, and how the two of you met over some fish and chips, or a pint some time,” he continues, and so does my nodding.

“Ya, we’ll see,” the words are soft, but they’re from Harry as his dad nods to the both of us before leaving the room.

“Have a good day, the both of you. Talk soon.”

Suddenly, we’re joined by the silence, and Harry only feeds it when I wish he’d end it. No matter the looks I give him or the questions that shout from my eyes, he remains silent, despite the recent bombshell.

When he does speak, at last, it’s the least from what I expect, “Wanna play some Boggle? Reckon ‘s that point in tha day, I need a break.”

“Really, Harry? Boggle?” my question graces the air, long overdue, even if only for the last few minutes it’s sat inside of me being a bother.

Again, he deprives me. Instead, he plops onto the trusty old sofa, removing the playing items from the box to set them on top of it. When I find my seat, a blank notepad and pen both with the logo of Styles and Lawson await me across from him. The loud clatter of the plastic dice bouncing around inside of the container fills my ears when I wish it was something else. Somebody else.

When he removes the lid to set it aside, and tips the sand timer over, I leave it at that. For the next minute, we sit in an absence of words, concentrating on forming random ones of our own from the arrangement of random letters.

“Time’s up,” I announce when the white sand has completely filled the bottom half of the timer. His frantic scribbling comes to a stop, but my lips resume, with a laugh.

“What’re you laughin’ at over there?” Harry hums, lifting his narrowed eyes at me. Despite the number of times I’ve asked, he’s never let me near his beloved eyebrows, but of course, they’re rather perfect as it is. Big surprise, there.

“Your handwriting has gotten so bad, Harry. How do you even read it, anymore?”

“Hush, you. I can read it, that’s all that matters,” he whines, carding a hand through his hair.

“I hardly can, though! I barely could when I was your assistant, it took me forever to learn.”

“‘Kay, thanks fer tha lecture. Now, ‘ll start,” he shrugs with a laugh, pointing the tip of his pen to the first word on his list. His handwriting was a cross between cursive and chicken scratch, that’s all I could ever explain it as.

“Can we please wait, Harry? I want to talk,” my question is slow and gentle, or so, I hope. If anything, my hand is when I place it on top of his. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but it’s enough when he forgets the pen to cradle my hand in his.

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you?”

“No, of course not, Harry. I-.”

“Thanks, ‘cos I don’t wantchu t’ and ya don’t hafta be. I didn’t know it was gonna happen, either. I . . ,” a sigh steals his words away as his thumb worries away at my promise ring. “I texted him, askin’ him how he proposed t’ me mum . . and if he had me gran’s ring. His mum’s. He asked if he could stop by tha firm t’ speak ‘bout it, and I said sure, not thinkin’ ‘d actually happen. Things had been good lately, y’know. He was at Gem’s a few weekends ago when I stopped by, you were at a show with Skye, I think.”

“Yeah, I remember. How’d it go today with him?” my broaching of the question is careful, but if anything, this is a topic I know how to talk about. We both ride the parent trauma train, unfortunately.

“Good. It was brief, but it went good,” he answers, gracing me with a look of his beautiful eyes. Finally, they hold all of the pages to his books, open for me to read, as I like. “He gave me some tips, and we spoke ‘bout rings. It was actually really nice, and I think he was really tryin,’ which meant loads t’ me. He wants t’ get t’gether t’ meet you- Well, reckon he already did, once or twice, now. But, I think ‘d like that, too. ‘m not jus’ lettin’ him back into me life tho’, but I want to try with him again. I want t’ have a Dad again, Becks,” a happy wheeze accompanies his words, and so does a glassiness to his eyes.

“I’m so happy for you, honey.”

I feel his breath on my cheek, and then his beard when I surround him with my arms. Laughs dripping with hopes and dreams pass between us as I hug him back, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thanks, babe. I jus’ hope it’ll stay this way . . that it’ll stay good.”

“I know. I’m sure it will, Harry,” trying to ignore the weight of our words, and the impending future that settles in my thoughts.

Me too, Harry. Me too.

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spiltscribbles · 4 years

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I’ll Breathe You In, If You Hold Me Close

~Notes: This is an extremely late birthday FIC I wrote for one of the most talented fucking babes to ever write Wolfstar! And who gives me my pretty boy Remus fix!!! VICTORIA!!! You are such a kind fucking soul and so beyond lovely, and I’m so sorry if this is shit. I’ve been stuck on what to write you for weeks, but then I saw the other day that you vibe with Gallavich, so this is crack where it’s kinda that but also the Blacks are kinda the Bass family from Gossip Girl, and I am like extremely nervous that this is pure shit, but I hope it’s like tolerable enough for you to somewhat enjoy because you deserve so much loveliness!! And again I’m sorry if it sucks XS Thank you to the ever gorgeous babe Kat who stayed up at midnight with me to brainstorm ideas flkjasoigjqowifjkljgdsfj You’re an angel babey!!!!*deep breath* Final apologies ya’ll

~*~

It’s a typical Tuesday afternoon, which means that Sirius is smoking a messily wrapped joint that James had just handed over and they’re playing a round of pool in the lounge of the Grimmauld, one of the numerous hotels owned by the Blacks. Fabian Prewett is about to break right when Sirius’s kid cousin clammers inside, blotchy faced and crying. She’s always been so God damn emotional.

“What’s going on kid?”

“It’s. It’s. Remus Lupin.”

Sirius just barely lets her finish the story before he’s off after the punk.

So the thing is that Sirius knows of Remus Lupin before ever actually speaking to him past placid pleasantries exchanged in the halls or a party. Everyone knows everyone in the Upper East Side, knows all their dirty little secrets and familial histories and underhanded dealings— which are usually one in the same. They all know each others standing in this tentative hierarchy that paints the landscape of this Versace veneered bubble filled up with pasted smiles and empty eyes. The Lupins are the sort of folks that the Blacks make it a point to scoff at during soirees and the likes. The patriarch, Lyall, is as new money as they come, still stenches from the centuries of mediocrity that is his cornerstone. His wife turned scorned lover was a gorgeous young thing from an Eastern European town in the Tallin outskirts who made her fortunes from smiling pretty on magazine covers and collecting a pile of ex husbands that it would turn any head from the sheer madness. They are the e absolute antithesis of the Black family tree, which in turn has branches stemming so far back that the history books can’t even encompass their grandness. They’ve been the crowning jewel of every commendable antiquity for ten centuries on the low end, and have made their footprints of granger for all to marvel at, and Sirius is the incandescent scion from all their efforts. He knows who he is, knows what he represents. Knows that he’s literally been bread to be this beautiful and brilliant and bright. So it makes no sense why his gaze has always been magnetized to the sight of the Lupin kid.

He’s big caramel curls, and even bigger green eyes, and he spends most of his time at school ambling about with that strawberry blonde charity case that James is always sniffing around. He looks like a CW heartthrob, pretty and unassuming and shy. Sirius doesn’t like him, has punched the lights out anyone— mainly Pettigrew— who would snidely ask why he’s always got one eye on him if he supposedly does not, but they don’t know shit. He’s just interesting, peculiar, different.

In a grayscale world Lupin seems to glow with vibrancy that shouldn’t be allowed. He smiles with an ingenuous air, and helps the younger years get around and studiously sticks to his mixers at parties even while most folks are cutting coke with their black cards and sniffing it off the sweaty stomach of a easy going girl from Princeton.

But none of that is actually interesting, actually matters. So what if sometimes while gazing at his profile, Sirius thinks confidently that Lupin would probably taste as sweet as his very disposition. And so what if he occasionally wonders just how it would sound if he got Lupin’s quiet, raspy little voice to whimper out loud while Sirius was fucking into him? None of that matters, it’s not like he gives a fuck about the prick.

His intrigue towards Lupin means nothing in the world they inhabit.

He finds him on the Met steps, book in hand while the strawberry blonde— Evans— is chatting amiably about some trite that Sirius doesn’t care enough to understand, Sirius’s flocked by James and Pettigrew and has got a leer on his face as he swaggers forwards.

“Lupy Lupin.”

His pretty eyes flicker upwards for a second before just sliding off of him and back to the copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles in his lap. “What do you want Black.”

“For you to tell me why my baby cousin told me that you’re toying around with her feelings Lupin,” he snarls back, he’s top dog of this town and its ocean of blue bloods, he’s not gonna let him forget it.

“Oh come off it,” Evans— glowering straight at him as if she isn’t a scholarship kid— rebukes. “Does Dora really need her brain dead, bastard of a cousin to fight her battles.”

Sirius bares his teeth at her, but it’s belied by James interjecting hurriedly to comment on how her hair looks especially shiny today. She flips him off and goes back to eating her yogurt, nose wrinkled like they’re a pack of street rats infesting her picnic.

“I did nothing to Tonks Black, just told her kindly that she isn’t my type.” Lupin says breezily, standing up fully now and gesturing for Evans to follow suit.

Sirius steps forwards, properly irritated now. “You think your runt ass has any right to say that she isn’t good enough for you, the kid of a bimbo and drunkard.” Lupin’s pretty eyes flash at that, but he doesn’t betray his emotions, face staying unaffected, and tone as smooth and detached as ever.

“I rather prefer it if the person i’m fucking has a dick, sorry to break the news. But tell Tonks I’m flattered, and i’m still willing to be a friend and help tutor her for the calculus exam we’ve got coming up.”

With that, in an air of nonchalance, he cuts right past them, a preening Evans at his heels and three confused looking boys in his wake.

And oh. He is something interesting indeed.

~*~

Keep Reading

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius blck #the harry potter series #marauders #harry potter series #theprongsletthatlived #spilt ink #i'm like so nervous lmfao #rip me

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avengerscompound · 4 years

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The Hamptons’ House: 1988 - 1

The Hamptons’ House: A Iron Man Fanfic

Series Masterlist

Buy me a coffee with Ko-fi Word Count: 3201

Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader

Warnings: Smut (Bisexual orgy, oral sex, vaginal sex), the reader is being cheated on.

Synopsis: Your boyfriend drags you to the Stark’s summer house in the Hamptons to celebrate Tony Stark’s 18th birthday. When Tony’s family fail to show and you find your boyfriend cheating on you, you and Tony end up bonding and he suggests you stay the week.

A/N: If you want to be tagged in this fic and you haven’t been, let me know.

1988 - Part 1

You could hear the noise from the party before you’d even reached the long drive to the house. It was one of those ridiculously large Westhampton Beach mansions in the typical turn of the century Americana style that sat right on the water and yet for some reason also has a pool. Beautiful, but cliched.

Not that you weren’t excited. You’d never been in a house this big before. In fact, you were only in Westhampton Beach because your boyfriend’s family had invited you up for the week. It was the last weekend in May and you were taking the little extra time you had off after graduating high school to enjoy the holiday spot before it was crammed full of the Summer crowd.

You weren’t the only one. The Starks had allegedly come to throw their son’s 18th birthday in their summer house. It was only just seven and the party looked to be in full swing already. You could see the bonfire already burning on the sand, along with the multitude of underage drinkers.

“How do you know him again?” you asked as he led you up to the house.

“Our fathers work together,” Grant answered. “For a while, we went to school together too. But the little nerd got skipped ahead. From what I heard he throws a hell of a party at MIT, so it should be fun.”

The front door was open when you got to it. It seemed this was no exclusive event so the two of you let yourselves in. Grant went straight for the bar while you decided you would head into the kitchen. You weren’t 21 yet either and while you would drink from time to time, you had promised your parents you’d be safe and something about getting smashed with a bunch of strangers near water felt anything but.

Besides, Grant was an angry drunk and you wanted to have your wits about you.

The birthday boy was in the kitchen with what looked to be the only responsible adult in the house. There were several other people around your own age clustered about drinking from red solo cups and sitting on any available surface so the thought you were intruding didn’t even pass through your mind.

“What do you mean they’re not coming?” Tony said.

You didn’t know him, but despite the fact he had tried to sound sarcastic and uncaring, the pain practically dripped from his voice. You looked up at him as you poured yourself a coke.

You knew who Tony Stark was. The kid had been in the gossip magazines since the day he was born and as he was only a few months younger than you, he’d held that spot of teen heartthrob for a lot of your friends. He was good-looking. Not particularly tall and kind of skinny, but handsome in a traditional way.

The man he was talking to looked to be in his seventies. He was dressed in a suit and was using a cane to support himself. “I’m sorry, Master Stark. Your father did say he wanted to come, but he was held up.”

“You don’t have to lie for him, Jarvis,” Tony said and waved him off. “It’s fine. Whatever. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Besides, it’s better they aren’t here. Now I can have some real fun.”

He slung his arm around the two closest women to him. It just so happened that one of them was you. “What do you think, ladies? Shall we make it a real party?”

The other woman, a blonde, who looked to be about twenty, tittered and nosed at the younger man’s cheek. “Sounds fun, Tony.”

You looked around startled, trying to see where Grant might be, but even through the door to the living room, he was nowhere in sight. “Oh, I’m not…”

“Tony,” Jarvis said gently. “You don’t need to do anything silly now.”

“Why not? It’s what he’d do, isn’t it? Make it an orgy? It can’t be the first one you’ve witnessed,” Tony argued.

“It wouldn’t be,” Jarvis said, keeping that same gentle tone. “But is that what you really want? To be like your father?”

Tony blinked at him for a moment and just for a second you thought he might start crying. “Yes. It’s all he’ll accept, isn’t it? Let’s go ladies.”

Jarvis put his hand on Tony’s elbow, stopping the young man in his tracks. “I’ll be out in the annex. If you need me.”

Tony clenched his jaw and gave a small nod and the elderly butler turned to you. “I know you don’t know me, nor do I have any reason to trust your judgment, but if you could keep an eye on him. I’d appreciate it.”

Before you could even answer that you weren’t sure how long you were staying, Tony was dragging you out to the living room. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the bar and led the two of you to a couch out on the patio that overlooked the beach.

Tony unscrewed the top off the bottle and took a long swig from it. You looked around for your date again. He wasn’t out here either. You wondered if you should go look for him. Given you’d just been handed rich kid babysitting duty by a complete stranger, you wondered if you wouldn’t have been better off staying at home.

The blonde kissed Tony's neck and ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. As soon as the bottle left his lips, hers were on his. It was kind of a turn-on, despite there being three additional layers of awkwardness.

“Tones!”

Tony looked up at the sound of his friend’s voice. He smiled. The first genuine smile you’d seen yet. “Hey, sugar plum,” he said. “Get in on this action.”

“What are you doing? Your parents are supposed to be coming,” the friend asked.

“Rhodey, Rhodey, Rhodey,” Tony tsked. “Why would you think they’d waste their time with something like this?”

Rhodey sat down in the chair beside him. “Oh shit,” he said. “I’m sorry, man. Don’t let them ruin your night.”

Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not. It’s a party,” he shouted. “We’re gonna have an orgy all up in here!”

There was a cheer from the group around the pool and people immediately started shedding their clothes. Tony grinned and took another swig from the bottle. Rhodey sighed. “You don’t have to do this, Tony.”

“Do what? Enjoy my birthday? I think I can,” Tony said. The blond slipped off the couch and kneeled between Tony’s legs as she unfastened Tony’s pants.

“Oh,” you said, the startled sound coming from you a little unexpectedly. This was definitely not the night you had expected. The idea was a little exciting. You just wished you knew where your boyfriend had gone so you could discuss each other’s boundaries like a couple of adults.

Rhodey turned his attention to you. “Are you okay?” he asked. The question was completely genuine. He was offering to rescue you from a situation you must not look completely comfortable in. You decided that you quite liked this friend of Tony’s and you gave a small nod.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just here with my boyfriend and I don’t know where he is,” you said as the woman began to suck Tony’s cock.

Tony’s head fell back and he groaned loudly. “Yeah, Rhodey. She’s fine.”

“Don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t want to do,” Rhodey warned. “He’s really good at that.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. And don’t worry. This is coke,” you said, holding up your cup.

“Won’t matter,” Rhodey said, getting up. “Well, I do not want to witness this. Happy birthday, Tony. I’ll come around tomorrow.”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Honey bear, don’t go.”

Rhodey waved back to him as he left. “I’m just going to my room. You know where to find me.”

Tony groaned and took another swig from the bottle before turning his head to face you. “Have we met?” he asked.

“Nope,” you said simply.

He offered you his hand. “Tony Stark.”

You chuckled and shook his hand, giving him your own name.

He groaned and closed his eyes for a moment, his hips rolling up into the blond’s mouth. “Fuck,” he gasped and his hand went to her hair. “You wanna make out?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Mmm… really need to find my boyfriend first,” you answered.

“That’s not a no though?” he said.

“No. It’s not a no,” you agreed.

“We should find your boyfriend then,” he stroked his fingers through the blond’s hair and tilted her head up to him. “You want to come find her boyfriend with me?”

She pulled off his cock with a wet pop sound. “Count me in.”

“You can finish what you’re doing,” you said, breaking down into laughter as Tony tucked his cock away and the blond got to her feet.

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll get there,” Tony said. “Let’s go.”

The three of you made your way through the party. While you looked you found out the blonde’s name was Stacy and she studied mechanical engineering at MIT with Tony. Grant wasn’t in the formal living and dining room where the bar was and couples were in various states of undress on the couches. Nor in the screened-off outdoor dining room where several people were fucking on the dining table. He wasn’t in the kitchen which was oddly devoid of any sex. After checking the den, where people seemed to be getting high as well as having sex, Tony decided it was time to check the bedrooms. As you walked through the people would call out to him, wishing him a happy birthday. More people joined your group as he passed through the room, drawn in by the lure of Tony and the potential for something really wild to start up. He kept taking swigs straight from the bottle of Lagavulin and by the time the now large group of you found Grant in the master bedroom Tony was well and truly drunk.

Grant was fucking one woman while she was eating another out. “Grant!” you yelped.

He turned and looked at you startled, like the last thing he expected was that you’d find him fucking two women at the party you’d arrived at with him. The women scrambled away from him and hid under the covers.

“Hey… babe… don’t get mad…” he said.

“Grant Peterson?” Tony slurred, sounding a little offended. “Your boyfriend is Grant Peterson?”

“Well?” you said, putting your hands on your hips. “Why shouldn’t I get mad?”

“Things just started up. They started kissing me…” he rambled.

“What?” The darker of the two women said. “You came hitting on us!”

“Grant! I was sitting out there, politely declining the offer of sex until I spoke to you. And you couldn’t do the decency of at least finding me and telling me!” you shouted.

Grant stood up, squaring off, while he held a sheet in front of his dick. “What? Who’s been coming on to you?”

“What does it matter?” you asked.

“It was me, shit-for-brains,” Tony snapped, putting his arm around you. “And you should hear about the fucking depraved things I was hoping to do with her.”

“Tony, don’t,” you said putting your hand on his arm. “This isn’t about you.”

“No…” Tony slurred. “This dipshit thinks he can fuck anyone he wants and you’ll just run along with him, but you can’t even have another guy look at you.”

Another couple of men stepped up next to Tony and clenched their fists. “Listen here you little weasel,” Grant snarled. “Get your hand off my girlfriend.”

“I will because she asked me to,” Tony said, taking his arm from around you. “And you can get out of my house.”

“Fine,” he huffed, pulling his shirt on. “Who needs it.” He gestured to you as he pulled his jeans back up, jumping as he tried to button up his fly. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“No,” you said. “I don’t think so. I think I will stay. Might get Tony to show me what he had planned.”

Grant scowled at you. “Fucking slut,” he hissed.

“What did you just call me?” you roared, lunging forward. Tony caught you around the waist. Not that it mattered. Stacy stepped forward and slapped Grant hard across the face. He reeled back startled and looked like he considered hitting her back for a moment.

“I think you should just go,” one of the guys flanking Tony said stepping forward and cracking his knuckles. “Right, my man?”

For a second he looked like he was going to start something up. He thankfully rethought it and stormed out of the room. One of the guys followed after him, you assumed to make sure he actually left. You turned to Stacy with your mouth dropping open. “Oh my god, Stacy!” you said and pounced on her.

“I know!” she said as the two of you jumped up and down on the spot together. “But he deserved that.”

You gave a shudder. “Oh god. What am I going to do? I was staying with his family! How am I going to get home?”

Tony moved up behind you and rubbed your back. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you home. Tomorrow. Party now.”

“Mmm, yes. Party now,” you agreed, leaning into him. He captured your lips and kissed you. It was sloppy and hungry and burned like the Scotch he’d been drinking - warm and woody. Stacy moved up beside you and started kissing first your neck and then Tony’s. Tony nudged you both toward the bed and then stopped. “Wait. Stop. Everyone!” he said. “Parents’ room. No-go zone.”

There was a collective huff and shifting as people adjusted to the idea that what had been about to happen now had to change venues when Tony stopped again. “No. Wait. Yes, in my parents’ room. Get jizz everywhere.”

Some people started laughing but the room flowed back into action. People kissed and touched and shed clothes. You moved onto the bed with Tony and Stacy, kicking your shoes off before climbing up onto the mattress. The women who had been with Grant seemed to welcome the three of you into the bed. They kissed each of you and helped you strip off some of your clothes. Others’ moved onto the bed too but seemed more caught up with each other to pay attention to you.

Tony unhooked your bra and Stacy leaned in and captured one of your nipples in her mouth. Tony groaned and kissed his way up Stacy’s back towards your mouth. He was about to kiss you when one of the other women caught his attention at the last moment and he kissed her passionately.

You let out a needy moan. Part of you was telling you that this was a bad idea. This was exactly what Rhodey had been talking about. Tony had managed to convince you that this was something you wanted when it wasn’t. Another part, a bigger, louder part knew it had nothing to do with Tony and everything to do with you. This was new and exciting and you were young. It was time to do stupid things you could tell your friends about when you were in your forties and reminiscing about college over glasses of red wine.

The other people moved up the bed, joining in on the mass of bodies. Stacy was coaxed over to another guy, and for a little while so was Tony. You started to grind on one of the women that not that long ago, your ex had been sleeping with. Your arousal dripped from you only made deeper by the sounds of moaning and grunting and panting in the room. Tony moved back to you and the woman you were with, clutching a condom in his hand. “I said I had plans for you,” he said.

“Oh yes?” you asked. “And what are they?”

“How about you sit on my face while your friend here rides my dick?” he suggested. “Or the other way around. Either way, I’d be happy.”

You looked at the other woman. You had no idea what her name was, and that made it a little more exciting. She bit her lip and pushed Tony onto his back. As she rolled on the condom on and straddled his waist. As she did you straddled his head and lowered yourself down onto his face.

He began to eat you out like a starving man. You braced your hand on his chest as you leaned in and kissed the other woman. Despite only being 18, Tony knew what he was doing. His tongue flicked expertly over your clit as he fucked you with his fingers, pushing them in and out in and out. With each thrust in, he seemed to seek out that special spot inside you. When he hit it, you clenched suddenly on his fingers and broke the kiss, crying out. He didn’t ease up. His fingers hit that spot, again and again, making lights pop behind your eyes, and your legs begin to tremble. The other woman began to finger her clit and bounce faster and faster on Tony’s cock. Her tits bounced with her and you couldn’t take your eyes off them.

Tony spread his finger and twisted his wrist and he sucked hard on your clit. You jerked against him and cried out as you came hard on his face. The sound of your cry mingled with others in the room and you slithered off Tony and lay on the bed panting, as you enjoyed your orgasm high. Tony began to buck up into the other woman a guy reached over and began to massage his balls and finger her clit. It was all it took to bring both of them over too. Tony jerked hard up into her and groaned as he released while she screamed and arched back with her own orgasm.

She climbed off him and immediately moved to someone else as Tony moved up next to you and dropped his used condom in the wastebasket beside the bed.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

“Mmm… yeah, a bit,” you agreed.

He gave your thigh a pat and got up. “Come on. There’s probably cake here too. Let’s see what other trouble we can get in.”

You followed him. The two of you gathered up your clothes and redressed as you passed through the group of people and out of the room. “You babysitting me, Tony?” you asked.

He chuckled. “No. You’re babysitting me. Remember? Just making it easier for you.”

You laughed and he offered you his hand. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it,” you said as you linked your fingers with his.

This night had already not been at all what you were expecting. It was strange. You felt like you should be sad or angry or something other than excited. All you could think was how you wondered what Tony was going to lead you into next.

// NEXT

#tony stark #tony stark x reader #iron man #iron man fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #smut #the hamptons' house #1988

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hypnoticwinter · 4 years

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Down the Rabbit Hole part 17 (nsfw elements)

I keep telling myself that it’s enough to have gotten this far, this is an adequate demonstration of bravery, that I should be impressed that I kept my nerve enough to even get to this point in the tunnel, but even though my heart quails and I’m shaking lightly, a kind of mixed blend of anxiety and terror at the prospect that something might be stalking me down here, I stay where I am as though my feet had grown roots.

For there in front of me, just as Makado had said there would be, is the puckered, anus-like entrance to a ballast bulb. Only took me roughly twenty minutes of crawling through a tight, suffocating, pitch-black venterial canal, all manner of slime and scum and filth caking around my face and arms. My suit will be an absolute mess but nobody will know the difference, most likely; after this first day all of the pristine and immaculate dull orange suits have become equally dirty - mine will just be a little fresher.

Getting out of the camp was surprisingly easy. I had crept by Joker with some trepidation, half expecting him to spring into life and go after me without Euler holding his leash, but all that happened was that the machine’s head had risen slightly as I had moved past and then settled down again.

I guess that after Makado and I had left to return to my hotel room and retrieve my gear, the team had asked Euler to showcase some of Joker’s other features and he’d activated some sort of autonomous mode. It had taken him some thirty minutes to set up, Elena had informed me, the back of Joker’s cranium hinged open and Euler poking around in there, but afterwards they’d lead him over to some sort of obstacle course Elena had called a ‘kill house’ and let him loose and the results had been so impressive and entertaining that they’d had Joker repeat the course four times before Euler had begged off, citing some sort of instability in the machine’s logical pathways…whatever that means. We hadn’t seen either of them for the rest of the day up until the party; Euler had explained, briefly, that he’d been working with the Engineering department to get radio tags working with Joker’s system so that while we were down here he know who was and wasn’t part of the team. Don’t go walking around without your suit, they’d warned us. Otherwise, if for some reason we do let him operate on his own, he might not know who’s who. Might act unpredictably.

Shades of Terminator, of Robocop. But I rolled my eyes at myself and brushed past him, let my hand press lightly against his burnished chestplate for just a moment – you can never be too superstitious – and then squeezed my way into the tunnel. There were no tents clogging its entrance on account of it being so small. I had to go on my hands and knees most of the way, except for a little bulbous bit in the middle where it widened up and I was able to stand.

I don’t know how I made myself go through it. I kept getting a prickling feeling along the back of my scalp, like something was stalking up behind me, but whenever I curled over and looked back there was nothing there, just the ribbed walls of the passage, like I was inside of a giant esophagus.

I had a panic attack halfway through. I don’t know what brought it on; I’m not prone to panic attacks, normally. I made it to a section where the tunnel dropped down a couple of feet, a sort of rough 45-degree angle, and I just started crying. I wanted fervently to be back at home in bed waking up from the crazy dream I’d been having. I wanted to go and listen to We Didn’t Start the Fire by Billy Joel and follow along to the lyrics and not hear anything odd or unusual, just have my mind skip over everything like normal and have it all be okay. I wanted –

I don’t know what I wanted.

But at the end of it I rolled over onto my back and closed my eyes, and then I sat up and smoked a cigarette from the pack I’d smuggled in with me. Just one cigarette, and then I crushed the pack in my hand and threw it away. I kept the lighter, though; you never know when something like that will come in handy.

Then I got back on my knees and pulled my way through the tunnel and now here I am, nose still clogged and runny, but feeling better.

I have a knot at the base of my stomach the size of a baseball and I keep looking behind me, frightened that something’s going to grab me and eat me and that I’ll never see anybody – especially Elena – ever again. I’m afraid that I’ll drink this stuff and that’ll be a wrap for me, the Pit will have gotten its claws in me and I’ll be different, I’ll be changed somehow.

“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath. The cigarette had calmed my nerves a little and, to tell the truth, I’d been craving one after a few days without. A momentary pang of regret few through me on ghostly wings; I thought for a moment about going back and finding the pack I’d discarded but then my lip curled at the thought of myself grubbing around in the muck looking for it. I’m not that pathetic.

Getting the bulb’s entrance dilated enough for me to crawl through is tough work. I’m buried up to my elbows in the thing, feeling vaguely nauseated at the wrinkled folds of flesh just a few inches from my face. There’s some sort of sphincter-like muscle there banding around the opening like steel cord, but the more I press and lever with my elbows opposed the more it relaxes. Soon it’s large enough for my head, then for my shoulders, but I keep going to make sure that I can fit through with the added bulk of the suit.

The smell is intensely strange. I had thought for a while that it might remind me of a Coke Heartthrob, especially with memories of the last one I’d had still relatively fresh in my mind, but the smell is completely different, more…earthy and spicy and invigorating. It smells like…like vanilla. There is a distinct odor of vanilla. There’s still the same disgusting organic undertone to the air that pervades everywhere in the Pit, but it mixes with the drooling sweat odor pouring from the orifice in front of me to form something new and strange and…appealing. Appealing in the same way that a mixture of sweat and men’s deodorant can be appealing, appealing in the same way that –

I shake my head, try to clear it. Easy, girl. You’re just going to crawl in there, drink some of this stuff – I can feel my gorge rising again but I shut my eyes and count to five and breathe through my mouth and the feeling dissipates – and then crawl back out and go back to Elena and fall back asleep. That’ll be all.

The Pit groans, a little noise of stress and tension, and I jump.

“Fuck it,” I murmur again, and then I clamber into the orifice, feel it suck at my thighs and calves and feet as it tightens behind me, and then I slip down a slick, slippery surface of flesh and fall face-first into about three or four feet of murky, milk-white ballast. It takes me a moment to find a purchase on the rubbery flesh at the bottom of the pool but I do, finally, and then I come up sputtering, trying to clear my eyes. I haven’t drank any of it; some instinct screwed my mouth shut as soon as my head went under and I couldn’t force myself to open it for all that I tried.

I open my eyes and look round. The inside of the bulb is red and fleshy and membranous; there is a long rind-like deposit of something stretching between the ceiling and the floor, just a little off-center of the middle of the room, thick as a tree trunk. There are little curling wisps of some sort of vapor rising from the surface of the ballast; that must be what gives it such a strong smell. The odor’s grown even more intense here, inside the thing, and I can –

Huh.

I can feel something happening on my face, my hands, pretty much every piece of exposed skin that had gone under when I lost my balance and fell down the side of the bulb face-first. It’s hard to pin down at first, but then it resolves from an indistinct feeling to a light and pleasant tingling a little like the breathy feeling you get when someone’s been tickling you for a very long time and then they suddenly stop. I wait for a moment, cringing inwardly, but it doesn’t resolve into burning pain or – or whatever I expected, it just stays light and tingling and pleasant.

No wonder people liked to bathe in this stuff.

I raise my hand to my cheek hesitantly. The skin on my face feels softer somehow. Gentler, as though I hadn’t been baking in the West Texas sun for the last week or so. The same’s happened to my hands, I realize on closer inspection; the hard nubby calluses on either wrist, just above that little bone on the edge of the wrist, gained from hours spent working at a desktop typing, are now little more than suggestions of their former selves.

I spend a long while there, staring at my wrist, the detached headlamp clutched in my teeth. What the hell is this stuff going to do to me if I drink it?

But the tingling feeling is already abating, and it isn’t as though it took my skin off, didn’t disfigure me. Most likely, anyway. I probably look a couple of years younger. I prod at my forehead experimentally; it feels a little tighter.

“Fuck it,” I say again, and then I cup my hands and dip them into the pool of ballast at my feet, and then raise it to my lips and drink.

The taste is surprisingly mild and savory. The texture, though – it’s thick, thicker than water. It feels as though I’m drinking some kind of oil and for a moment it’s enough to make me gag, but I force down a couple of swallows and then, almost as soon as it hits my stomach, I feel a heat building there, the same kind of warm, pleasant one gets after they’ve eaten a large meal and want to do nothing other than lay down somewhere and not think for a while, just without the accompanying sensation of fullness. This dissolves after a moment into the same sort of tingling that I’d felt on my hands and face, only a dozen times stronger, and it turns into a sort of burning, fizzing sensation that races through my body, and I double over with the force of it but I’m grinning, I’m grinning so hard, because I’ve never felt so good –

And then I move wrong and I nearly scream at the sudden jolt of pleasure so intense that I initially mistook it for stabbing pain. It takes me a moment, frozen, eyes wide, to identify what happened, and then, cautiously, I isolate my chest and move it gently, trying to brush against the inside of the suit, and it sweeps through me again and even though my knees grow weak and I hear a low animal moaning echoing in the bulb, it takes me a disconcertingly long time for me to realize that it’s issuing from my mouth.

When I had moved my nipple had brushed up against the coarse fabric on the inside of the suit and I had almost came just from that. I flop against the side of the bulb and feel my breast through the suit carefully; it feels larger than usual, swollen somehow, and taut and sensitive, the nipple hard enough to cut glass. I look down and I can see it actually poking through the suit.

I get shakily to my feet, trying hard to avoid any other accidentally brushes like that, and I realize that I am incredibly, almost discomfortingly, wet. There’s a throbbing in my groin like a heartbeat and a warmth that quickly turns into an ache, a need for something to fill me. I shake my head again, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t do anything to help. I glance back down at the innocuous milky ballast; did I drink enough? Two cupped handfuls – not that much. But if it’s already doing this to me, can I handle more?

My hand, I realize, has gravitated to my crotch, and I’ve started rubbing myself through the suit. “Goddam it,” I hiss out loud, pulling my hand back like it was burned, my body aching for it to come back.

I can feel a small trickle run down my leg and I feel my lip curl, first in disgust, then it curls further into a lascivious grin. I think for a moment about undoing the bottom of the suit and just masturbating there, thinking I might get the demon off of my shoulders and out of my head with an orgasm or three, but while my hand is idly massaging my breast through the suit I think of Elena and such a surge of lust goes through me that for a moment I can’t even breathe. I squeeze at my chest through the suit until I feel pain and that wakes me a little, and then, still grinning, I rise and start to make my way back to the orifice, head filled with all of the things I’ll do to Elena when I get back to the tent, hands quivering lightly with anticipation. I find the light and fumble with it clumsily for a moment before I click it on and angle it up towards the opening so I can make my way out, but then when I see what the light is shining on I almost scream again and it is only the sudden presence of mind that makes me clap my hand to my mouth that stops me from shrieking.

For there, at the mouth of the bulb, is a pale human arm, stuck elbow-deep inside the orifice, and gradually wrenching it open!

I click the light off and drop into a low crouch and then slowly creep backwards, taking care not to make too much noise with the wet ballast up to my knees. I make it to the pillar-like deposit of – of whatever the hell it is in the center of the bulb and skirt behind it just as I hear the soft groan of the bulb’s sphincter giving up the fight against whoever is trying to make their way in here.

I scarcely dare to breathe. I can feel my heart thumping a million miles an hour and I can feel terror gnawing at me, trying to get its fangs in, but for the moment I’ve mastered myself. Whoever it is, they have a much more powerful light than I do, but they don’t seem to have spotted me; the light sweeps once, twice, around the inside of the bulb and then I hear a sliding sound of something heavy and then a definitely male grunt as whoever it is splashes into the ballast. I hear him set the light down and then indeterminate splashing, but at the very least he doesn’t seem to suspect I’m here.

Now that the immediate danger is over my body is urgently reminding me how horny I am. I bite my lip and bear it; if anything the feeling seems to be intensifying rather than falling off, especially since I’m not doing anything about it. If I don’t consciously think about it and stop myself I find my hands gravitating back to my breasts, to my groin, little twinges of pleasure making me bite my lip, suck in soft breaths. Finally I end up just putting my hands on my cheeks and keeping them there, to hell with whatever aching neediness I feel between my legs. I feel a little stupid, but if my hands are on my face I can keep track of them more easily.

I shift a little to the left and peek around the waxy deposit growing out of the ceiling and my mouth drops open; I see Crookshank’s ruddy cheeks and unruly sideburns, his powerful barrel chest heaving as he scoops handfuls of ballast from the pool and rubs it on his arms, his cheeks, his face. He’s undone his suit, the halves of it flopping around his waist, and as I watch he slaps the liquid on his bare chest, rubs it in like lotion.

This continues for another few minutes before he kneels and takes a great gulp of the fluid, and I gasp lightly, for he lapped up so much more than I had, and even though he is much bigger than I am and perhaps the same principle as alcohol applies, perhaps he can handle much more of it, I shudder to think of what that much of the fluid would have done to me.

He stands there for a long while, leaned against the wall, eyes shut, his cheeks slowly growing even redder, and then he zips his suit down further and starts to jerk himself off. I lean back around the deposit and force myself not to think about it but I can’t help it, I can’t get the image out of my head, I can’t stop myself from salivating over it, from thinking of the way it’d feel inside of –

No. Stop. He’s going to jerk off and then he’ll leave and then you can get out of here and never talk about this ever again.

But if that’s the case, goddam it, why am I fucking touching myself, why is it so much easier to peek my head around the corner like this and watch him and rub myself through the suit. He’s not even hot, he isn’t my type, fuck, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him, but with this – with this drug in my body I can’t stop myself from thinking about him taking a fistful of my hair and bending me over and then forcing himself into –

Stop.

I crouch there in the dark, reeking of ballast, listening to Crookshank grunt rhythmically as he fucks his hand, and then finally he lets out a louder grunt and I swear, I swear I can hear it hit the ballast. I’m crying, I realize again, something’s short-circuited inside of me and all I can do is cry and rage at the stupid animal cage I’m trapped in, the stupid animal cage that wants to get bent over and fucked and used. I don’t want to have to think, I don’t want to have to be like this, I don’t want to -

Crookshank leaves and I finally let out a shaky breath. I’m still unbearably, agonizingly horny. I think about touching myself, about just getting it over with, but again I think of Elena, and I think of Crookshank, of goddam motherfucking Crookshank grunting like a bear in heat, and suddenly I feel as though doing it here would make me vomit. I don’t want to see this place again, I don’t want to even think about it. I want to just go back and crawl into the tent and let Elena hold me and wake up clean. Except…

I eye the murky surface of the ballast.

What if the amount I drank isn’t enough? What if I should have drank more, what if if I leave now I’ll be throwing away the only chance I get? I doubt we’ll have time for me to sneak back here on the return trip, and even if we did I don’t want to take my chances running into Crookshank or whoever else.

But Christ, if the small amount I drank is doing this to me…

I reach down and cup a small amount in my hand. I raise it to my mouth and then stop, then I squeeze my eyes shut and drink it down. I stand there and sway and shudder as the heat intensifies. I put my arms around myself and clutch and just hold my ribs tight until I feel as though I can move, and then I make my way to the orifice and force my way out of it. It’s easier going out than in, although I still have to squeeze. I nearly shriek again as it presses against my breasts unexpectedly, and the sudden pressure and the burning jolt of pleasure makes me buck my head, momentarily lost in the sensation, but I claw my way out, manage to clear my head somehow and keep moving. The smell of ballast has become sickening, and as I crawl my way down the long ventricular canal back to the camp I feel as though it’s clinging to me and I’ll never be able to get it off, no matter how many showers I take, no matter how hard I scrub myself.

I happen upon my discarded pack of cigarettes and laugh to myself even as I ache to see if any of them escaped destruction, but I keep my dignity and pass it by. Well, some of my dignity; I’m so horny now that even the soft rubbing together of my thighs, a motion forced by the tight quarters where I have to go on my hands and knees, is becoming unbearable. I keep arching my back and imagining filthy things and pawing at myself, but somehow I manage to keep enough of my mind from crumbling in on itself to make my way back to the camp. I squeeze past Joker again, trailing my fingers along his shoulders, the cool dull spark of the metal on my fingertips seeming newly sensitive to my revitalized fingers. It’s late, it’s so late, but I feel agonizingly awake. I find the tent, slip out of the suit as quickly as I reasonably can, leave it crumpled on the fleshy floor next to Elena’s neatly folded suit, and then I unzip the tent and clamber in.

Elena’s eyes are tracking me there in the dark, little glittering jewels glinting at me. She rolls over as I move fully into the tent and I am so unspeakably happy to see her that for a moment I can do nothing more than squat there on my haunches with an idiot grin plastered all over my face before she smiles at me softly.

“Hi,” she says, her voice grown innocent, still heavy with sleep.

I breathe her name like it’s a prayer and then I am kissing her and she kisses me back, a laugh bubbling in her throat as she does, and I can’t stand it any more, I have to be closer to her, I want all of her, I want everything, and while she makes little delighted sounds of amusement and disbelief at how insatiable I am I kiss my way all over her, grinding against her thigh as I do, and when she reaches up for me and finds my breasts I shudder and arch my back inwards, trying to press more of myself against her.

“Missed me?” she asks, her thumbs working in slow circular motions. She has a smug little smile on her face. I’m panting I want her so bad. I don’t trust myself to speak so I just nod. Her hand trails upwards from my breast and I let out a little whining moan. It fixes around my throat, squeezes lightly, and I swallow. Her other hand tracks down my stomach and I can feel my hips buck gently as I know what’s coming, and I grin at her, but she stops just before where I want her to, tangles her fingers in my pubic hair, massages me there, and though I try to angle my hips forward and slide her fingers against me, wet and slick and willing, she stays agonizingly still.

“Why do you smell like ballast, Roan?” she asks, cocking her head at me. Her eyes have gone cold and calculating and her grip on my neck has become very, very strong. I want to fuck so badly that the well of fear bursting in my gut is something I can barely recognize, barely react to. I open my mouth and let out another little moan.

“Elena,” I groan, “I don’t –“

“Oh, don’t lie,” she murmurs. I see her eyes flick down to my nipple and then she darts forward and latches onto it with her mouth, eyes still fixed on mine, at least until she brings her teeth together extremely gently and I shudder, starbursts blossoming in my vision. Then she lets me go with a wet pop that I find incredibly, unspeakably lewd. I feel as though my cheeks are on fire.

“Your name isn’t Merriweather either, is it?” she asks me.

“Elena,” I say again. It’s all I can say. I can’t summon the breath for anything more complicated.

“See,” she says, “after you left I thought I’d stay awake until you got back. But you took a long, long time. So then I started thinking,” she says, punctuating the statement with a sharp gesture downwards with her finger, just brushing against me, and it feels like heaven.

“Y-you can’t,” I start, giving her a pleading look, but she’s enjoying this too much. The torture will end when she wants it to.

“Then I looked up your personnel file, cause I wanted to creep on you. Only guess what?”

I shut my eyes.

“Right,” she says, squeezing my throat a little tighter. “You don’t have one.”

“Elena,” I say very carefully, trying to keep my voice from pitching upwards into a moan, “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can,” she says. When I crack my eyes open she’s looking at me with something resembling sympathy. “But I don’t care about that right now.”

“You don’t?”

She moves her hand downward, lets go of my throat. I gasp slightly, and then when she inclines her middle finger slowly upwards and brushes against me I gasp harder. “Tell me this is real,” she says.

“W-what?”

“Tell me,” she repeats slowly, “that this is real. That you aren’t using me to get down here, that there’s not some ulterior motive at play. Tell me it’s real, Roan.”

Her finger presses inside of me and I collapse against her, bury my face into her neck, kiss her again and again, leave a trail of bite marks in my wake. “It’s real,” I moan into her ear, and then she fits another finger into me and all I can see is her wide grin growing wider before the night dissolves into a parade of sensual enjoyments, of flesh and reactions and noises burned indelibly into my frantic, pleasure-drunk brain.

* * *

When we’re done finally and whatever effect the ballast had on me is fading, Elena curls me into her arms and I kiss her softly. My mouth and tongue are still a little tired but it was infinitely worth it. We stay like that in fuzzy oblivion for only a moment before Elena inclines her head and nuzzles at my forehead with her nose.

“So who are you really?” she asks me. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh,” I groan. “It is a long story.”

Elena laughs quietly. “Well, we’ve got nothing but time.”

“It must be so late,” I tell her. “Shouldn’t we get to sleep?”

“It’s midnight.”

”What?”

“See?” she asks, twisting around a little to show me her watch. It’s a huge clunky tactical-looking thing. I almost laugh at it. “Down here the name of the game is early to bed, early to rise. I know Sarge will get us going later though, cause of you and Euler. You won’t be used to it.”

“Well,” I say, not knowing what else to. Elena holds me tighter.

“So tell me,” she says simply, and so I tell her.

She handles it well, but it’s not a very difficult story. It even makes sense in places, I think. I skirt around the main issue for a while but eventually seize on it and just tell her. When she doesn’t react I glance up at her, meet her level gaze. “It’s only transmitted through blood-to-blood contact,” I say quickly. “So we don’t have to worry about –“

“I know how it works,” she tells me. “Still sort of the thing you ought to tell someone about before you fuck them.”

I feel myself flush; Elena sees too. She takes my chin in her hands, looks down at me. “It’s okay,” she tells me. “I get why you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said it’s okay.”

“I’m sor-“

“Shh.”

We lay there in silence for a while longer. “They told you you were allergic?” she asks. “At the hospital?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“That’s what they said? Verbatim?”

I can feel everything shrinking into myself. “Yes,” I say quietly. “I think so, I – yes.”

“Or did they say it was like you were allergic?”

“No, they – well. I don’t know. You’re making me doubt myself.”

“Medicine can go off,” she says. “It can go bad. If it did and they didn’t know and used it anyway, if it had been mislabeled, you might have gone into shock, you might have –“

“I don’t want to –“

“Shh,” she says again, holding me to her. I try to pull away but she doesn’t let me. More than anything I want her to stop asking questions, I want her to just hold me here and not judge me, not say anything. I feel fragile, I feel like a thousand needles are poking in at me just millimeters from my skin and if I make one motion they’ll stick –

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and she laughs.

“What the hell are you sorry for?” she says. She runs a hand through my hair and try as I might not to like it, I like it. I like the way it feels. “What else were you going to do?” she asks. “You were scared, you didn’t know any better. You wanted to run from it and not confront it, I don’t think there’s shame in that. And then you found out about this place and everything just fell like dominoes.”

“Yeah,” I agree in a small voice.

“Fucking cruel of Veret to send you down here, though.”

“I asked for it,” I say. “She didn’t want to.”

Elena grunts.

“You don’t like her much, do you?” I ask.

“I think,” Elena says after a long time, “that after 2007 she should have gotten as far away from this place as she could and found something that made her happy.”

“I don’t understand –“

“Makado made it her mission to make sure the Pit could never hurt anybody ever again,” she tells me, “when she got Head of Sec. But that’s impossible, you know. The thing’s so large, there’re so many ways in, so many ways out, you can’t do anything about it. She lets it eat her up.”

“You didn’t call her ‘Veret’ just then,” I point out. Elena looks at me.

“I don’t hate her. I just think that she isn’t suited for the job.”

“You really don’t care that I lied to you?” I ask her.

“About who you are? No. In the same circumstances I’d have lied to you.”

Elena has been kneading my hipbone gently with her thumb for the past five minutes, and the rhythmic motion is going to put me to sleep soon. I kiss her again, near her collarbone, and shut my eyes. Elena holds me tighter, there in the dark, and for a moment I’m able to not worry.

Just as I’m about to drift off, all wrapped up and warm and happy, still basking in the afterglow, I feel her thumb stop.

“But if I find out that you’re lying about this being real…” she murmurs, very softly, clearly thinking that I’ve fallen asleep, and there is such a knife-edge of menace in her voice that I lay there for a long, long time in her arms, even after her breathing has become low and regular and even, trying to will myself to fall asleep.

Continue with Part 18

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#mystery flesh pit #down the rabbit hole #writing #writeblr #alt lit #Michael Crichton #thriller #novel #original writing

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captainhotch · 6 years

Text

Day Four; Steve Harrington

Steve Harrington x Reader

Day four of my twelve days of Christmas

Steve was soft for you. At least that’s what Dustin insisted as he sat next to the older boy in the passenger seat in the car. Dustin was tired of hearing Steve run his mouth about you. All he talked about was how smart you were, or how pretty. How much he wished you would pay him the attention he thought he deserved.

“Just ask her out,” Dustin deadpanned, his arms crossed over his chest, daring Steve to argue.

“No, no, no—“ Steve began, shaking his head as he continued to drive, “I already told you, the jey is acting like you don’t care.”

Dustin scoffed, “Cause that’s worked out so well for you. Y/N isn’t into assholes so you never even had a chance anyways.”

“Cause you’re a genius in girls now? Excuse me. I didn’t know the student became the master.” Steve grinned, shaking his head at his younger friend.

Come to think of it, maybe Dustin was right. Steve never saw you fall for any of the tricks the douchebags at Hawkins High tried to pull on you. Then again you were way too smart for all the bullshit.

Maybe he should try a different method with you. You were different, after all. The feelings that Steve had for you— they were, well, different.

The next day Steve decided to take a trip to the local supermarket, reciting his short list of things to buy in his head over and over again as not to forget.

Sunflowers, powdered donuts, doritos, and coke. All your favorites, and all things he hoped to woo you with. Steve didn’t have a full scale plan— he just wanted you to know he was listening when you talked to him.

Honestly it was hard not to when your eyes lit up everytime you spoke about something you loved. Steve couldn’t help to cling onto your every word like you were reciting a scientific theory that could cure cancer or parkinsons disease. Steve would be far from surprised in all your passionate, well informed speeches if you didn’t cure some disease— or find a solution to climate change.

As Steve approached your door with the bright yellow sunflowers clenched tightly in his hand, he couldn’t help but notice all the differences in this and the last time he brought a pretty girl flowers.

Last time he had an arm full of roses, apologizing to Nancy for something he wasn’t even responsible. Steve couldn’t help but mentally thank Dustin. If the younger boy hadn’t swept him up in all the upsidedown drama, maybe Steve would’ve never met you. The thought made him frown.

He closed his eyes for a second, allowing himself to gather his thoughts. Steve could already see himself screwing up, tripping over his words like a love struck twelve year old when you looked at him with those bright and shining eyes of yours.

He willed himself to knock on your door, quietly at first out of hesitation, until his confidence built up.

You looked out the peephole, grinning when you saw Steve Harrington at the other side of your door. Steve was all hair and flirty smiles but it made your stomach flutter in anticipation of what could be— that is if either of you ever decided to pick up your big boy pants and make a move.

“Hey handsome,” you smiled, looking up so you could see Steve in all his 80s heartthrob glory.

Steve blushed, one hand going up to scratch at the nape of his neck, “Hey beautiful, can I come in?”

You opened the door wider, side stepping so he could enter, closing the door behind him. Steve loitered by the front door still, holding his hand out so you could take the bright bouquet of sunflowers from him.

“For me?” You questioned, taking the flowers and holding them close to your chest, “Sunflowers are my favorite.”

“I know,” Steve nodded, his hands finding the pockets of his leather jacket out of habit, “—your eyes always light up when you see them. They make you smile.”

That made you blush. “I didn’t know you paid that much attention.” You replied over your shoulder, walking towards the kitchen so you could put the flowers in a vase.

“I can’t help it,” Steve shrugged sheepishly, “—you’re an easy person to listen to. I love hearing you talk.”

“Always the sweet talker, Harrington,” you shook your head, fighting back a large grin.

“I’m serious. You talk about everything with the same passion. It’s captivating.”

Steve paused in the door way of the kitchen, watching you as you filled a glass vase with water, followed by the flowers. He watched as you smiled down at them and then back at him. It was now or never, he decided.

“I came here for a reason, though,” Steve added, walking closer so he could stand in front of you.

“And what could that be?” You questioned, your cheeks flushing with color at his new found close proximity. You were sure Steve had no idea the effect ge had on you.

“I uh- I wanted to see if you would be interested in seeing a movie with me.” Steve stuttered, internally cursing himself.

“We see movies together all the time, Harrington,” you teased, though slightly confused. Why was he making such a big deal about the theater.

Steve huffed, “Well this time I wanted to be able to call it a date.”

Your eyes widened, your cheeks now full on pink with no hopes of hiding it from the taller boy.

“I would like that,” you whispered, smiling softly up at him.

“Really?”

“Of course, handsome.”

#stranger things one shot #stranger things imagine #stranger things #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington imagine #steve rogers one shot #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington

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inkyardpress · 7 years

Text

Excerpt: When It’s Real by Erin Watt

HIM

“Please tell me every girl in there is of legal age.”

“Every girl in there is of legal age,” I dutifully repeat to my manager, Jim Tolson.

Truth is, I have no clue if everyone’s legal. When I came home last night from the studio, the party was already raging. I didn’t take the time to card anyone before grabbing a beer and chatting up some eager girls who proclaimed that they were so in love with my music that they sang it in their sleep. It sounded vaguely like an invitation, but I wasn’t interested. My buddy Luke took them off my hands and then I wandered around trying to figure out if I knew even a quarter of the people in my house.

I ended up counting seven, tops, that I actually recognized.

Jim presses his already thin lips together before taking a seat in the lounger across from me. There’s a girl passed out on it, so he’s forced to perch on the end. Jim once told me that the biggest hazard of working with a young rock star is the age of his groupies. Sitting this close to a bikini-clad teenager makes him visibly edgy.

“Keep that line in mind in case TMI asks you about it on the street today,” Jim warns.

“Noted.” Also noted? Avoid any celeb hot spots today. I have zero desire to be papped.

“How was the studio last night?”

I roll my eyes. As if Jim didn’t have the studio tech on the phone immediately after I left, replaying the track. “You know exactly how it was. Crappy. Worse than crappy. I think a barking Chihuahua could lay down better vocals than me right now.”

I lean back and stroke my throat. Nothing’s wrong with my vocal cords. Jim and I got that checked out with a doctor a few months ago. But the notes that were coming out yesterday lacked...something. All my music seems flat these days.

I haven’t recorded anything decent since my last album. I can’t pinpoint the problem. It could be the lyrics or the rhythm or the melody. It’s everything and nothing, and no amount of tweaking has helped me.

I run my fingers over the six strings of my Gibson, knowing my frustration must show on my face.

“Come on, let’s walk a little.” Jim dips his head toward the girl. She looks passed out, but she could be faking it.

With a sigh, I set the guitar on the cushion and rise to my feet.

“Didn’t know you liked walks on the beach, Jim. Should we start quoting poetry to each other before you propose?” I joke. But he’s probably right about putting some distance between us and the groupie. We don’t need some yappy fan talking about my music block to the tabloids. I give them enough to talk about already.

“Did you see the latest social media numbers?” He holds his phone up.

“Is that an actual question?”

We stop at the railing on my wraparound deck. I wish we could walk down to the beach, but it’s public, and the last time I tried setting foot on the sand in the back of my house, I came away with my swim trunks torn off and a bloody nose. That was three years ago. The tabloids turned it into a story about me getting into a fight with my ex and terrorizing young children.

“You’re losing followers at a rate of a thousand a week.”

“Sounds dire.” Sounds awesome, actually. Maybe I’ll finally be able take advantage of my beachfront property.

His perfectly unlined face, courtesy of some of the best Swiss knives money can buy, is marred by irritation. “This is serious, Oakley.”

“So what? Who cares if I lose followers?”

“Do you want to be taken seriously as an artist?”

This lecture again? I’ve heard it from Jim a million frickin’ times since he signed me when I was fourteen. “You know I do.”

“Then you have to shape up,” he huffs.

“Why?” What does shaping up have to do with making great music? If anything, maybe I need to be wilder, really stretch the limits of everything in life.

But...haven’t I done that already? I feel like I’ve drunk, smoked, ingested and experienced nearly everything the world has to offer in the past five years. Am I already the washed-up pop star before I hit my twenties?

A tinge of fear scrapes down my spine at the thought.

“Because your label is on the verge of dropping you,” Jim warns.

I practically clap like a child at this news. We’ve been at odds for months. “So let them.”

“How do you think you’re going to have your next album made? The studio’s already rejected your last two attempts. You want to experiment with your sound? Use poetry as lyrics? Write about things other than heartache and pretty girls who don’t love you back?”

I stare sullenly at the water.

He grabs my arm. “Pay attention, Oak.”

I give him a what the hell are you doing look, and he lets go of my arm. We both know I don’t like being touched.

“They aren’t going to let you cut the record you want if you keep alienating your audience.”

“Exactly,” I say smugly. “So why do I care if the label drops me?”

“Because labels exist to make money, and they won’t produce your next album unless it’s one they can actually market. If you want to win another Grammy, if you want to be taken seriously by your peers, then your only chance is to rehabilitate your image. You haven’t had a record out since you were seventeen. That was two years ago. It’s like a decade in the music business.”

“Adele released at nineteen and twenty-five.”

“You aren’t fuckin’ Adele.”

“I’m bigger,” I say, and it’s not a boast. We both know it’s true.

Since I released my first album at fourteen, I’ve had unreal success. Every album has gone double platinum, with my self-titled Ford reaching the rare Diamond. That year I did thirty international tour stops, all stadium tours, all sellouts. There are fewer than ten artists in the world who do stadium tours. Everyone else is relegated to arenas, auditoriums, halls and clubs.

“Were bigger,” Jim says bluntly. “In fact, you’re on the verge of being a has-been at nineteen.”

I tense up as he voices my earlier fear.

“Congratulations, kid. Twenty years from now, you’ll be sitting in a chair on Hollywood Squares and some kid will ask their mother, ‘who’s Oakley Ford?’ and the mom will say—”

“I get it,” I say tightly.

“No. You don’t get it. Your existence will have been so fleeting that even that parent will turn to her kid and say, ‘I have no idea who that is.’” Jim’s tone turns pleading. “Look, Oak, I want you to be successful with the music you want to make, but you have to work with me. The industry is run by a bunch of old white men who are high on coke and power. They love knocking you artists around. They get off on it. Don’t give them any more reason to decide that you’re the fall guy. You’re better than that. I believe in you, but you gotta start believing in yourself, too.”

“I do believe in myself.”

Does it sound as fake to Jim’s ears as it does to mine?

“Then act like it.”

Translation? Grow up.

I reach over and take the phone from his hand. The social media number beside my name is still in the eight digits. Millions of people follow me and eat up all the ridiculous things my PR team posts daily. My shoes. My hands. Man, the hands post got over a million likes and launched an equal number of fictional stories. Those girls have very vivid imaginations. Vivid, dirty imaginations.

“So what’s your suggestion?” I mutter.

Jim sighs with relief. “I have a plan. I want you to date someone.”

“No way. We already tried the girlfriend thing.”

During the launch of Ford, management hooked me up with April Showers. Yup, that’s her real name—I saw it on her driver’s license. April was an up-and-coming reality television star and we all thought she’d know the score. A fake relationship to keep both our names on magazine covers and headlining every gossip site on the web. Yes, there’d be hate from certain corners, but the nonstop media attention and speculation would drive our visibility through the roof. Our names would be on everyone’s lips from here to China and back again.

The press strategy worked like a charm. We couldn’t sneeze without someone taking our picture. We dominated celebrity gossip for six months, and the Ford tour was a smashing success. April sat in the front row of more fashion shows than I knew actually existed and went on to sign a huge two-year modeling contract with a major agency.

Everything was great until the end of the tour. What everyone, including me, had failed to recognize was that if they threw two teenagers together and told them to act like they were in love, stuff was going to happen. Stuff did happen. The only problem? April thought stuff would continue to happen after the tour was over. When I told her it wouldn’t, she wasn’t happy—and she had a big enough platform to tell the world exactly how unhappy she was.

“This won’t be another April thing,” Jim assures me. “We want to appeal to all the girls out there who dream of walking down the red carpet but think it’s out of reach. We don’t want a model or a star. We want your fans to think you’re attainable.”

Against my better judgment, I ask, “And how do we do that?”

“We conjure up a normal. She starts posting to you on your social media accounts. Flirting with you online. People see you interact. Then you invite her to a concert. You meet, fall in love and boom. Serious heartthrob status again.”

“My fans hated April,” I remind him.

“Some did, but millions loved her. Millions more will love you if you fall for an ordinary girl, because each and every one of those girls is going to think that she’s their stand-in.”

I clench my teeth. “No.”

If Jim was trying to think up a way to torture me, this is absolutely it, because I hate social media. I grew up having my baby steps photographed and sold to the highest bidder. For charity, my mom later claimed. The public gets a ton of me. I want to keep some parts of my life private, which is why I pay a couple of people a fortune so I don’t have to touch that stuff.

“If you do this...” Jim pauses enticingly. “King will produce your album.”

My head swivels around so fast that Jim jumps back in surprise. “You serious?”

Donovan King is the best producer in the country. He’s worked on everything from rap to country to rock albums, turning artists into legends. I once read an interview where he said he’d never work with a pop star and their soulless commercial music, no matter how much anyone paid him. Working with King is a dream of mine, but he’s turned down every overture I’ve ever made.

If he wasn’t interested in producing Ford, then why this latest album? Why now?

Jim grins. Well, as much as his plastic face allows him to smile. “Yes. He said if you were serious, then he’d be interested, but he needs a show of faith.”

“And a girlfriend is that show of faith?” I ask incredulously.

“Not a girlfriend. It’s what dating a nonfamous, ordinary girl signifies. That you’re down-to-earth, making music for the sake of music, not for the sake of money and fame.”

“I am down-to-earth,” I protest.

Jim responds with a snort. He jerks his thumb at the French doors behind us. “Tell me something—what’s the name of that girl who’s passed out in there?”

I try not to cringe. “I...don’t know,” I mumble.

“That’s what I thought.” He frowns now. “Do you want to know what Nicky Novak was photographed doing last night?”

My head is starting to spin. “What the hell does Novak have to do with anything?” Nicky Novak is a sixteen-year-old pop star I’ve never even met. His boy band just released their debut album, and apparently it’s topping the charts. The group is giving 1D a run for their money.

“Ask me what Novak was doing,” Jim prompts.

“Fine. Whatever. What was Novak doing?”

“Bowling.” My manager crosses his arms over his chest. “He got papped on a bowling date with his girlfriend—some girl he’s been dating since middle school.”

“Well, good for him.” I give another eye roll. “You want me to go bowling, is that it? You think that will convince King to work with me? Seeing me roll some gutter balls?” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I just told you what I want,” Jim grumbles. “If you want King to produce your album, you need to show him you’re serious, that you’re ready to stop partying with girls whose names you don’t know and settle down with someone who will ground you.”

“I can tell him that.”

“He needs proof.”

My gaze shifts back to the ocean, and I stand there for a moment, watching the surf crash against the beach. This album I’ve been working on these past two years—no, the one I’m trying to work on and failing—suddenly feels as if it’s actually within my reach. A producer like King could help me move past this creative block and make the kind of music I’ve always wanted.

And all I have to do in return is date a normal? I guess I can do that. I mean, every artist has to make sacrifices for his art at one point in his life.

Right?

HER

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I want,” my sister objects.

“I don’t need to. You have that look in your eye.” I pull the bacon out of the microwave and dump four slices on each plate.

“What look?” Paisley checks her reflection on the back of the spoon I used to stir the eggs.

“The one that says I’m not going to like what you have to say.” I pause as I dish up the rest of the twins’ breakfast. “Or that I’m too young to understand.”

“Ha. Everyone knows you’re more together than most adults. I wish you were more impulsive, actually. It’d make this easier.”

“Breakfast is ready!” I shout.

The clatter of shoes on the staircase makes Paisley sigh. Our little brothers are incredibly loud, eat an incredible amount of food and are getting incredibly expensive. All I can say is, thank goodness for Paisley’s new job. We’re barely keeping our heads above water, even though Paisley has performed miracles with what little insurance money our parents left us. I’m adding to the family account with my waitressing job at Sharkey’s, but we don’t have much extra left over. Spencer and Shane insist that we don’t need to worry about college tuition for them because they plan on full-ride athletic scholarships. But unless it’s for competitive eating, I’m not going to count on it.

As the twins practically fall face-first into their breakfast, Paisley pours their milk and shoves a paper towel next to their plates. Hopefully they’ll use it instead of the kitchen towel. Again, I’m not holding my breath.

I drink my coffee-infused milk, watching my twelve-year-old brothers inhale the first of what will likely be their six meals of the day. As they grumble about the shortness of Christmas break, I think about how glorious it is that I haven’t had one class this year, unlike them.

“Vaughn,” Paisley says urgently. “I still need to talk to you.”

“I already told you no.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, fine. Talk.”

“Outside.” She jerks her head toward the back door.

“We’re not listening,” says Spencer.

Shane nods in agreement because that’s their shtick. Spencer talks and Shane backs up everything his brother says, even if he disagrees.

“Outside.” Paisley’s head jerk looks painful this time, so I take pity on her.

“Lead the way.”

The screen door slams shut behind us. I take another sip of my rapidly cooling drink as I watch Paisley search for words, which is worrisome because Paisley is never at a loss for words.

“Okay, so I want you to hear me out. Don’t say anything until the very end.”

“Did you drink one too many Red Bulls this morning?” I ask. We both know Paisley kind of has a caffeine addiction.

“Vaughn!”

“Okay. Okay.” I zip my lips shut. “Not another word.”

She rolls her eyes. “You do the lip-zipping after the last word, not before.”

“Details, shmetails. Now talk. I promise not to interrupt.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how they finally gave me my own cubicle, so I don’t have to share with that other assistant anymore?”

I nod. “They” are her bosses at Diamond Talent Management. Paisley’s official job title is Brand Coverage Assistant, but technically she’s a glorified gofer—she goes on coffee runs, makes a zillion photocopies and spends an insane amount of time scheduling meetings. I swear, the people she works for hold more meetings than the UN.

“Well, my cube has this little bulletin board on the wall. I’m allowed to put up pictures, so yesterday I brought in a few photos. You know, like the one of Mom and Dad that we love, where they’re kissing on the boardwalk? And one of the twins at baseball camp. And then I put up the one I took of you at the beach bonfire we had for your birthday last month.”

I have to fight the urge not to make a waving motion with my hand to tell her to speed up. Paisley takes forever to get to the point.

“Anyway, so get this! Jim Tolson is walking by my cube—”

“Who’s Jim Tolson?” I ask, breaking my vow of silence.

“He’s my boss’s brother. He manages some of the biggest musicians in the world.” Paisley is so excited her cheeks are flushed. “So he’s walking by, and he sees the picture of you on my bulletin board and asks if he could borrow it for a minute—”

“Ew! I do not like where this story is going.”

She shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not done. You promised to be quiet until I was done.”

I swallow a sigh. “Sorry.”

“So I’m, like, sure, go ahead, but just make sure to bring it back because that’s my favorite picture of my little sister. So he takes the photo and disappears into his brother’s office for a while. He’s got all these assistants in there and they’re all talking about your picture—”

Okay, now I really don’t like where this is heading.

“Something major is going down at the agency,” Paisley adds. “I have no idea what, because I’m a lowly assistant, but Mr. Tolson has been in and out, arguing with his brother all week, and they keep having these secret meetings in the conference room.”

I swear, if she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

“So at the end of the day, my boss—Leo—calls me into Jim’s office and they start asking me all these questions about you.” She must see my worried look, because she’s quick to reassure me. “Nothing too personal. Jim wanted to know how old you are, what your interests are, if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law—”

“Um, what?”

Paisley huffs in annoyance. “He just wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”

Forget this vow of silence. I’m too confused to stick to it. “Why does this agent—”

“Manager,” she corrects.

“Manager...” I roll my eyes. “Why does this manager care so much about me? And you said he manages musicians—is he trying to sign me as a client or something? You told him I can’t carry a tune, right?”

“Oh, totally. That was one of his questions, if you had any ‘musical aspirations.’” She air-quotes that. “He was pretty happy when I told him you’re (a) not musical and (b) interested in becoming a teacher.”

“Is it a matchmaking thing then? Because, gross. How old is this dude?” I ask skeptically.

She waves a hand. “In his thirties, I think. And that’s not it.”

“Is there an it? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”

Paisley pauses for a beat. Then she blurts out her next words in one breath. “They want you to pretend to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend this year.”

I spray the concrete steps with lukewarm coffee mixed with spit. “What?”

“I promise you it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

She runs a hand through her ordinarily perfectly styled black bob, and I notice for the first time that her hair is sticking up on the sides. Paisley’s usually so polished, from the top of her shiny head to the tips of the flats that she buffs every night.

“Mr. Tolson thinks you’re perfect for the job,” she tells me. “He said you’re pretty but not in an over-the-top way. More like a natural, girl-next-door type. I described you as down-to-earth, and he thinks that will complement Oakley, because Oakley can be really intense sometimes—”

“Okay, let’s back up,” I cut in. “Are you talking about Oakley Ford, pop icon? Oakley Ford, the guy with so many girls’ names tattooed on his body he’s like a phone directory of former Victoria’s Secret models? Oakley Ford, who tried to depants a monk in Angkor Wat and nearly caused an international incident? That Oakley Ford?”

“Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”

Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.

“Ew, Vaughn.”

“Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”

“You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”

“When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.

Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”

“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

She blinks. “What?”

“I have a boyfriend!”

“W?”

“Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”

“That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”

“Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.

Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”

“Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”

“Really.”

Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.

“So you’ll do it?”

I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.

Or so I thought.

“No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.

“Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.

I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”

I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”

“Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”

“That would...”

“Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”

I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.

I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.

That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.

“An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.

“How long do I have to think about it?”

“Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”

Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.

This is...nuts.

“Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”

Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...

Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.

HER

I said yes.

Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.

Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.

Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.

The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.

Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.

“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.

“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”

“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.

We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.

I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.

A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”

“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”

As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.

“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”

Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.

“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.

Jeez. His assistant has assistants?

Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”

“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.

“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.

I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.

Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.

My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”

“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.

I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”

Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.

“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”

“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.

Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”

I almost gag.

“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”

He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”

Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.

All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.

“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”

“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”

“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.

“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”

“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”

“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”

I have never been more humiliated in my life.

“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”

Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.

“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.

“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.

Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.

I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.

“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”

I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.

Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”

Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.

“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”

I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.

“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”

I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.

“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”

“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.

Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.

If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.

HER

I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.

“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.

“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”

But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.

Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.

He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.

He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.

But he has it.

Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.

And I can’t look away.

Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.

I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.

“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.

I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?

This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.

Which I’m going to be.

Fake.

I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.

Paisley nudges me.

“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.

A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.

The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?

“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.

Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”

I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.

Okay then.

Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.

For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?

There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.

I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.

“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.

“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.

“Yeah, since this is my job.”

She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”

“Role?” one of her assistants offers.

“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”

I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.

Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”

Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.

“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”

“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.

Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.

“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”

Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.

I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.

“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.

“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.

She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”

Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.

I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”

Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”

“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.

“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.

I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”

Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”

“W is not pretentious.”

“If you say so.” He smirks.

“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”

“So why’d you break up with him?”

“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.

His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.

“He hasn’t!”

Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”

“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.

“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”

“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.

“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.

These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.

“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”

My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.

“You?” he prompts.

“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.

“How sweet. Just like the saying.”

I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.

Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.

Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”

“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”

“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.

“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.

She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.

“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.

“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”

He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.

How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.

That will go over well.

Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”

Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.

Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.

“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.

“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”

“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.

“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.

“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”

Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.

“Let’s talk about her look again.”

“I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”

I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.

“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”

“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”

“Baby?” I scoff.

He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.

“So you’re into infants?”

“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”

“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”

“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.

Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”

“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.

I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”

When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.

“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.

Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.

The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?

Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.

But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?

I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.

But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.

“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.

“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.

No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”

I have a voice?

“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.

“Is the granola bar all you’ve had today?” Oakley asks.

A burst of surprise jolts me. Out of all the people in this room, Oakley’s the one to ask? “I had breakfast, but I like to eat like a normal person.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Jim, we need to eat.”

“Oh, sure.” Jim turns to Paisley. “Run and get us one of everything from the café across the street.”

I see a chance for fresh air and an escape. “I’ll go, too.” Not to mention that I don’t want to be here without Paisley.

“Oh, no, we’ll need you here,” Jim objects.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my sister. She doesn’t need to wait on me.

Paisley laughs. “It’s my job, silly. I’ll be right back.”

She trots out like she’s glad to be out of there, while I watch her exit and wish I could go with her.

On the other side of the table, Oakley leans back, crosses his arms again and looks smug, like he cured world hunger. “Well?” he prompts.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Why? Paisley’s the one getting the food.”

“You wouldn’t be having lunch without me.”

I point to the clock. “I’ve been sitting in this conference room for five hours. Prisoners in maximum security receive better treatment. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying on the beach rereading The Handmaid’s Tale and I would have eaten something. But sure, thank you for alerting your manager to send my sister to get me food.”

He doesn’t like my smart-ass response. “It’s too cold for the beach.”

“I never said I was going to swim.” I speak in the same tone I use when I tell my little brothers they’re acting like immature idiots.

“Why are you at the beach, then?”

I gape at him. “Why does anyone go to the beach? Because it’s awesome.”

“If you say so,” he responds, but the smugness he’s previously displayed is dialed down a watt as if my reasons for liking the beach are important...or even interesting. Or he might be confused about why I’d choose to go there rather than sit five feet away from his holy presence.

But I’m not going to tell him.

Instead, I drain the rest of my Coke, slam it on the table with more force than necessary and then sit back and refuse to say another word.

Is it childish?

Oh, yeah.

But it feels really, really good.

#When It's Real #erin watt #book excerpts #ya book #ya reads

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