#what does dj call her

[biblionerd07]

Not only did Alexis almost let Daniel take the fall for her attempted murder but THEN to make everything worse he finds out she slept with the model he slept with just because their relationship sucked and she’s DJ’s biological parent?????

[yuuuhiii]

≡ The Weekend

sum: You were only supposed to be a booty call. So why does Rindou find himself wanting more of you?

includes : Rindou Haitani x reader, 5k words, SMUT, fluff, angst, open ending?, fwb, alcohol usage, vulnerable Rindou

other : This fic is inspired by BIBI’s The Weekend! And a little from DEAN’S Die 4 you:) so have fun with that:D this is my first time writing a fic this long so please leave feedback! I’d appreciate it a lot:)

Would it be ironic to say you met Rindou in a club? Or more so, predictable? Or was it bound to happen?

He was the club owner after all, he’d never seen you before. He’s sat in his VIP section with Ran, girls littering the table. Rindou couldn’t care less though as he watched you from his seat. Eyes scanning your form and face.

It seemed you were only here with a friend. You both danced and joked on the dance floor, your guy's drinks sloshing in your hand. He even gets irked when he sees a guy trying to rub up on you but you shove him away. A smirk laces his lips at that, he’s trying to read you.

What your personality was like.

Were you loud and rebellious? Or shy and reserved? He guessed he’d have to find out for himself. With that conclusion he gets up, the girls that were feeling him up whining.

“And where are you off to?” Ran said with a smirk, watching as his little brother dusted himself off.

“Somewhere.” He muttered, eliciting a laugh from his elder brother.

You had made your way to the bar, refilling on a new beverage. He sits next to you and the bartender straightens up, greeting him.

“I’ll pay for her tab,” Rindou says and the bartender nods. You turn to look at him with your eyebrows raised.

“I got it covered. Thanks.” You say with feigning gratitude, sipping your drink. He turns fully towards you with a smirk.

“I’m fully aware you do, I can’t treat you?” He says with his raise of his brows. You narrow your eyes skeptically at him.

“Without even knowing me.” You roll your eyes, somewhat amused. He lets out a chuckle.

“Well then, will you let me get to know you?” You pretend to think over your answer, deciding to tease him more.

“Your way of getting into girl's pants is paying for their tabs? I’m flattered.” You place a hand on your chest, lightly gasping. Rindou is enjoying this, an amused smirk on his face.

“Only yours.” You stare at him for a second then gaze down at your drink.

“Y/n.” You say and he hums, satisfied.

“Rindou.” He holds out his hand, and you look at it and back at him, slowly taking his hand in yours. He stands up abruptly, surprising you.

“Wanna see something?” You blink, and with a hum you let him lead you to where the DJ is.

He waves his free hand the guy is gone. You watch as he messes with the turntables with experience, sipping your drink with a small smile.

“You’re good with your hands.” You say with a bite to your lip and he looks at you over his shoulder.

“This is nothing.” He pulls away and reaches for your hand.

You’re in front of the system as he cages you between it. He takes your drink and places it to the side. His back presses up against your chest, his hands placed over yours. He leans down close to your lips, whispering.

“This okay?”

You were usually one to never wither under a man’s presence. But this one had you weak in the knees. You hum and he smiles, straightening back up. He coaches you through what everything is. What button is what, which switch is which, and even shows you how to scratch.

The whole ‘lesson’ has you sharing laughs and smiles with the latter. He watches you with content as you mess around with the turntables. It was probably terrible for everyone in the club however he couldn’t care less.

“Ok, ok no more.” You giggle and his hands rest on your waist.

The music goes back to the way it was and he slowly moves you to the rhythm. You roll your eyes, engaging in his small act.

“You’re trying awfully hard don’t you think?”

“Huh?” He yells and you slightly push him, marking him snort.

His hand is clasped in yours once again and he leads you around the club, pushing a curtain it reveals a whole other empty club room. Now it was just the two of you, no people or music to interrupt you both.

“So? What were you saying?” He says as he walks over to the bar, pouring himself some whiskey. You sit on the stool, your chin resting on the palm of your hand.

“I said, don’t you think you’re trying too hard?”

“With what?” He says with a lazy grin, sipping his drink.

“You know what Rindou? You try this hard with other girls?” You tilt your head and he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Nah, you’re special.”

“I know.” You smile and he grins.

He walks over to you standing inches away from between your legs. You stare up at him and he’s physically holding himself back from shoving his lips against yours.

“You’re stunning.” He says almost breathlessly and you smile.

“Thanks.” He leans down to peck your lips but your hands shoot up to his face, pecking the corner of his mouth.

“I’m more than just a booty call Rin.” He smiles, his violet eyes boring into yours.

“I’m glad we got that covered.”

Is the last thing he says before he’s smashing his lips against yours. The kiss is feverish and needy. He’s slotting himself between your legs, big hands resting on your waist.

The kiss turns heated fast, his tongue easing into your mouth. You let out a small moan, mostly to egg him on which succeeds when he squeezes your waist. You bite down on his lip and he groans, your hands moving into his hair. He pulls away and starts attacking your neck with bites and kisses. You tug on his hair and another groan leaves him.

“Fucking beautiful.” He says breathlessly, sucking on your collarbone.

Your head leans back in bliss, his hand sliding under your dress. Teasingly, he inches closer to your clothed cunt, causing you to trap his between your thighs.

A loud buzz halts you both. You blink and he groans not out of pleasure but annoyance. He pulls his hand from under your dress, pulling out his phone.

Missed calls and texts pop up from his brother, making him suck his teeth. He rolls his eyes and looks towards you. You’re pouting and he smiles, tugging at your lip.

“I gotta go.” He sighs and your pout deepens.

“Bored already?” You scoff teasingly and he smiles, pecking your lips.

“Never. Let me give you my number. So I can finish what I started.”

When you pull out your phone it displays texts from your friend, saying she had already left. You huff when you stand up and he pushes a strand of hair past your ear.

He kisses you again however this one’s longer, trying to savor your lips against his. He walks you out of the club, standing lazily next to you. He shrugs off his blazer, placing it over your shoulders.

“You got a ride home?” You yawn and let him know you’d just Uber home.

“I’ll pay for it, make sure you get home safe.” He tussles with his hair, and you hum.

His phone rings again and his face is quickly laced with annoyance. As the car pulls up he opens the door for you, making sure you got in carefully.

“Text me?” He says as he closes the door, the window rolling down.

“Desperate?”He laughs and leans down, kissing you again. He nods his head and the car is off.

He sighs once again, walking back into the club. His brother is standing there with a smile on his face.

“Who was she?” He raises his brows and Rindou scoffs.

“A woman.”

“I could see that Rindou, I have eyes. Another plaything?”

“Dunno, we’ll see”

Rindou didn’t mean to not respond to your texts but things at the clubs had been busy. Several events and just having to manage the different locations as well.

Luckily it’s the weekend and he has a certain person he wants to see.

rindou

hey, you home? 10:45 PM

y/n

Oh? You still remember me? 10:50 PM

rindou

very funny. Can I come over? Rather talk to you in person. 10:51 PM

y/n

only if you’ll bring me smth from the convenience store😊 10:51 PM

rindou

mhm, let me know what and send your address. 10:52 PM

y/n

k<3 10:53 PM

Rindou is off to the convenience store, grabbing what you wanted, and a box of condoms. The cashier gives him a smug look but Rindou ignores him, grabbing his stuff and leaving.

From where you are on the couch, you hear knocks on your door. The clock read eleven o’clock. You patter to the door with a small smile, opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight before you.

Rindou had his round glasses on, a very loose v-shaped shirt and baggy pants, jewelry littering his hands. You guess you’ve been staring for quite some time when Rindou speaks up.

“Am I allowed to come in?” He says with a small smirk and you quickly open the door, letting him walk in.

He walks over to the counter, setting your stuff on the counter. You light up at the snacks and quickly open one of them up.

“So, gonna tell me why I haven’t heard from you?”

“A lot of shit was goin' on with the club, a fuck ton of events and stuff.” He sighs, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his temple. You pause your chewing.

“You’re the owner?” You blink at him and he blinks at you back.

“Uh, yeah?”

He’s a little surprised you didn’t know, given that everyone knew who the Haitanis were. You mumble a small ‘oh’ and he shakes his head in amusement.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” You speak up and he laughs, pushing them up.

“What is it a turnoff?” He quirks a brow and you smile, setting your snack down.

“No, it’s cute.” He cringes, turning away.

“No, it’s not.”

“Too manly to be called cute?” You poke fun at him and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Not a word I’d associate myself with.” You let out a laugh and he finds himself smiling at the sound.

You ask a little bit more about the club and throughout the night Rindou kinda rambles. It’s weird to him honestly, with any other woman he’d come to get things done and leave right after.

But ever since that night he laid his eyes on you, you piqued his interest. He just found himself wanting to know more about you, wanting to be more around you.

“You have a tattoo as well?” You peer up at the deep black ink on his arm and he hums.

“It’s a pretty big piece.”

“Think I’ll be able to see it all tonight?”

You knew what to say to take his breath away. Most of the girls he’d meet were never upfront or held themselves high like you did. They were…easy, but you were the true definition of a woman.

At one point you had brought a couple of beers, the both of you just chatting the night away. You guys had moved to your couch, his arms outspread on the back of the couch with you close to his side. You hum along to his stories, taking a swig of your beer.

“I didn’t know there were still interesting guys left in Roppongi.” He smiles down at you.

“I’m one of a kind sweets.” You roll your eyes at him, placing your beer down.

“You’re so corny.” You laugh, raking a hand through your hair.

Rindou’s eyes rake over you, you were very pretty. He’d seen when you were all dolled up and now when you were natural and bare. Just a tousled T-shirt and short shorts. He’d be lying if those shorts weren’t bothering him the whole night though.

“You’re beautiful.” He almost whispers and you gaze at him with a soft smile.

“You are too.”

Out of the times that you’ve seen him, you finally got him to blush. You feel a sense of pride well up in you, even a little confidence.

You got up from where you were sitting, straddling his lap. His downturned eyes were captivating, you could stare at them all day. While your hands reach up to grab his glasses, his hands rest at the base of your thighs. He watches you intently when you place them on the coffee table. Your hands move up his chest, resting on his neck.

“You gonna finish what you started.” You asked, inches away from his lips. Both of your eyes are lidded and he lazily smiles.

“If you’ll let me.” His hands move to the small of your back and you hum, finally connecting your lips.

It’s slow and sensual not as rushed as it was last time. The both of you take time to experience each other’s mouths. He pulls away though, nipping at your neck.

“They already gone away?” He says lowly and you laugh.

“Well yea it’s been a week dummy.” You feel him smile against your neck, tugging at your shirt.

“S’fine, I’ll just give you more.”

You pull back to pull off your shirt and he’s a little taken aback when you’re not wearing a bra. You cringe a little at the feel of him cupping your breast, the cold metal of his rings making your bud harden.

“Want me to take them off?” You purse your lips and shake your head to which he smiles.

“They’re hot.” His smile widens, leaning closer to your breasts.

“Atta girl.” He pulls a breast into his mouth, sucking and nibbling like he was on your neck.

Your whining and squirming against him, your movements have him hardening underneath you. He pulls off with a pop, his lidded eyes staring up at you.

“Where’s your room.”

“Down the hall to the left.”

In a second he’s lifting you, making you squeal. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing along his jaw. He groans when you suck a spot under his jaw near his ear, making you grin.

“Found it~” He grins, kicking your door open and placing you on your bed. He takes off his shirt throwing it on your floor, he’s moving to kiss you again but your hands against his chest stop him.

“Something wrong?” He pulls back and your hand immediately begins to trace his tattoo.

“Jesus, why is everything about you so hot.” You pout and he lets out a small laugh.

Your hand slowly drags down to his stomach, dragging over his clothed cock. He hisses, pushing you back on the bed. Achingly slow, he pulls down your shorts and panties.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, do I even need to prep you?” He looks up at you and you shake your head.

“Just fuck me.” You whine and he sighs, taking a condom out of his pocket.

“Are you clean?” You ask and he looks confused.

“Yes? I never fuck without a condom.”

“I’m on the pill.”

“Are you clean?” He retorts back.

“I don’t sleep around.” You cross your arms.

“This your first hookup?”

“That a problem?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“‘Course not.” He shoves the condom back in his pocket, stepping out of his jeans. You blink at his cock when it slaps against his lower abdomen.

“Y-You’re huge.”

“That a problem?” He teases and you scoff.

“‘Course not.” You mimic his voice and he just smirks.

“Keep it up, let’s see how bold you are.”

You bite your tongue when he rubs his tip against your slit. You both moan, his eyes are raking over your body and he’s already panting.

“S-Stop teasing Rin.” You whimper and he groans.

“S-Shit don’t say my name like that.”

He’s inching himself inside you and you kinda regret not getting prepped. Rindou was girthy, it felt like you were getting split in half.

“S’big.” Your legs quiver, he smooths his hands on your thighs, putting your legs on his shoulders. With a thrust, he bottoms out.

“Fuck!” You moan, gripping your bedsheets.

“You’re fucking t-tight.” His brows are creased, trying to calm himself or else he knew he’d blow his load. It gave you a moment to adjust to his size as well. He pressed a peck to your ankle.

“I’m gonna move ok?” You nod, your lips pulled between your teeth.

He almost pulls out, slamming right back into you. He sets a steady rhythm, your bed creaking. Your breathless whines only egg him on.

“Shit baby, so tight and pretty.” He’s losing himself, he can feel it. Your warm pussy has him feeling like a virgin all over again.

“R-Rin please.” You beg you don’t even know what exactly for. Just babbling out whatever comes to your mind, anything you could usher out.

“Please what?” He pants, moving with more force. You clench around him and he stutters.

“Pussy sucking me in.” He groans as he leans down, putting you in a mating press. This new angle has you seeing stars, your eyes rolling back.

“R-Rin.” You moan, your nails dragging along his back. You feel his dick twitch at the act.

“Let go, baby. I got you.” His hand comes down to rub eights on your clit. With a high pitch gasp, you’re coming undone around him.

“Oh shit.” He groans when he feels your walls close around him, even tighter than before. The final blow for him is your hands in his hair tugging but more so your words.

“K-Kiss me Rin.”

With one more harsh thrust, he’s smashing his lips against your lips. His teeth biting down on your bottom lip. His seed explodes and fills you until you’re full of him. You throw your head back already past your limit. He is too but he fucks his nut back into you mindlessly.

Afterwards, he’s falling against you, your guy's ragged breath mirroring one another’s. He moved to your side, you cringed at the feeling of him pulling out.

“You ok?” He rasps, looking down at you. You nod, scooting up your bed, and resting your head against the pillow.

“Haven’t been fucked that good in a while.” You lazily smile and he shakes his head, a grin on his face. You scoot closer to him, your hand tracing the curves and swoops of his tattoo.

“M’tired.” You blink, eyes slowly falling shut.

Before fully giving into your slumber, you reach for his hand. His eyes widen, looking at your sleeping form. His heart is beating at an abnormal speed but he blames it on the sex, that he hasn’t calmed down. However he knows he should leave but he turns on his side, facing you.

“I don’t think I’m good for you.” He mumbles, letting himself to succumb to slumber as well.

When you wake up your bed is cold and empty, your heart pangs but you somehow have a little hope. You get up and put on a shirt and some panties.

“Rin.” You call out as you walk through your apartment.

Cold.

Empty.

You sigh, turning to open your refrigerator. At the same moment your door swings open. You gasp, turning to the door and it’s Rindou with bags in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper and he blinks.

“Ouch, went to get you breakfast.” He sets the bag down. You shake your head, walking towards him.

“That’s not what I meant sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you to come back.” You look down and he gazes longingly at you, you don’t catch this though.

“Well I’m here.” He mumbles, pulling out the food.

After that morning Rindou kept in contact with you, he’d invite you out here and there to eat or back to the club with him. You didn’t want to admit but your found yourself falling for the guy.

The way he’d treat you, look at you, talk to you. You loved the way he made you feel and the way you felt around him. You admired him as a man as well, how he was confident and had a good business going, the way he held himself. It was honestly all you’ve wanted in a guy.

However one day something changed. You were probably overthinking, he said it was work. You wanted to believe him and you wanted to-

You guys weren’t even dating.

No label was put on you both, you were just seeing each other with the side of fucking. You sigh, this was why you took a break from dating. The headaches and anxiety it gave you. The fear of the unknown or what could’ve been.

You never liked it.

You sat on your couch, your tv playing as background noise for your raging thoughts. When you look down, Rindou’s glasses were on the table. You blink at them and move to grab them. You hold them in your hands, smiling at the memory of how cute he looked when he wore them. Then an idea popped into your head.

Why don’t you go visit him at work?

With a newfound mission, you rise with the intent of returning his glasses and seeing him as well.

You walk into the club, the music already blasting and people littered everywhere. You honestly weren’t one for clubbing but your friend had begged you that night. You’d have to thank her later because if she hadn’t begged you to come, you never would’ve met Rindou.

You walked around the place for a bit and weren’t able to find him.

Maybe he wasn’t working today?

You click your teeth, might as well have one drink since you were here.

And so you did.

Just when you’re about to leave, you hear cheering from the corner of the room. Upon looking it was a booth. You peak over a bit and see a glimpse of Rindou. A smile rises to your face and you start walking towards him.

That’s until you see a girl come into view, glued to his side and feeling him up. You watch him and he leans into her smiling, at the woman. You gulp and your stomach churns.

Then they kiss, a kiss was an understatement, they were sucking each other's faces off. You quickly turn away and make your way straight to the bar again.

Without your knowing, someone watched the whole ordeal, with amused eyes and a shake of his head he got up. Leaning towards Rindou, he speaks.

“Someone’s in big trouble.” He says with a grin, walking away.

“What’d you say!” Rindou yells back, his words slurred, the girl next to him whined, pulling him into another kiss.

Your heart was beating unhealthily well and your ears were ringing.

“Hello.” You hear from beside you and you look up.

You’re shocked to see a man that resembles almost exactly Rindou. However, his hair was way shorter and combed, and dyed as well. You don’t reply, turning back to your drink.

“I know who those belong to.” He nods his head at your hand. Rindou’s glasses.

“You do? Well then tell him he can have them back.” You slide them towards him, and the man grins.

“I know of you, Rindou wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Your brow twitches.

“Who are you exactly?” You say with attitude.

“Rindou’s older brother, Ran.” He holds out his hand, and you roll your eyes and shake his hand.

“Why’re you so upset?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Oh, but I do.” He laughs. “I guess I’m just a little confused because Rindou never mentioned dating you.”

“We’re not.”

That’s right.

You weren’t.

So why are you so upset? Why are you even here?

No other words needed to be said or at least you didn’t want to hear anything else so you paid for your tab and left the club.

A little later when the women had finally left Rindou he’s a little more sober, just a little. Ran mentions his little surprise.

“Guess who happened to stop by.” Rindou looks at him bored.

“Who.”

“One of your girls.” He grins, sipping his drink.

“And she wasn’t happy. Oh, she wanted me to return these.” Ran slides his glasses across the table.

Rindou looks at them for a minute, letting his brain proceed with all of the information. Until he’s shooting up.

“Fuck!” He yells, running out of the club.

“Young love.” Ran laughs, raising his glass to no one in particular.

Rindou should not be driving. His head is throbbing and he’s gripping his steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He ran to many red lights just to get to your apartment. When he reaches it, he doesn’t even park right, he runs up the flight of stairs to the best of his abilities. The alcohol made his heart feel like it was gonna burst off his chest.

When he reaches your door he isn’t knocking but banging. Probably alerting some neighbors. He’s about to knock again but the door flies open revealing you. Your hair is a mess and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, your face a little puffy.

“Rindou?” You groggily say.

Fuck.

He wanted to kiss you so bad, you were too fucking cute.

You sigh, fully awake but irritated. “It’s too late for this. Go home.” You say, shutting the door but he stops it.

“Please, let me in.” You open the door and he wobbles in.

“You reek of fucking alcohol.” You cringe, moving to grab water.

You pour a glass for the both of you. His heart hasn’t calmed down, it’s ringing through his ears.

“Drink.” You coldly say and his heart cracks at the sound of your voice.

“I’m going back to bed.” You turn around.

“Wait!” He rushes, grabbing your wrist.

“Why are you even here Rindou.”

“Stop calling me that.” He looks down ashamed.

“Isn’t that your name?” You cross your arms and he’s chewing on his lips.

“My brother told me what happened.” He mumbles.

“Exactly. So why are you here.” You blink.

“Because I-”

“We’re not dating Rindou. I don’t care what you do.”

“Just let me talk!” He raises his voice but you stand there with no emotion.

“Say what you need to say then.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

You sigh, growing irritated. “There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

“But there is! You know there is. For once just, be vulnerable with me.” He sighs.

“Be vulnerable with you? I haven’t? So what do you think of all the times you’ve come over, and taken me out? That wasn’t me being vulnerable?” You scoff out of amusement and shock.

“If you’re just planning on using me then this is the last time we see each other.”

It’s quiet.

To quiet for Rindou.

Usually, your TV is on because you hate when your house is quiet.

All he wants to do is hold you.

“I’m not a good person.” He begins. “But you make me feel good. I like the way you make me feel. I know I fucked up. I know we’re not dating but you deserve an apology because I—do like you and I want something with you. But I just was drinking and.” He sighs again, rubbing his face.

“How am I supposed to trust you if you’re like this and we’re not even dating.” You whisper.

“Can we talk in the morning? I’m not sober.” He murmurs.

You don’t say anything but let him follow you to your room. You get under the covers and he removes his suit, leaving him in his boxers. Your back is faced towards him. He slides under the covers and immediately pulls you against his chest. You stare emotionless at your wall and then you feel it.

Wet droplets against your shoulder.

He was crying.

You bite your lip but do your best to fall asleep. Letting him sob as he held you as if this was the last time he’d ever get to hold you.

Rindou woke up with a groan, holding his head as he sat up.

“Where the fuck am I?” He whispers to himself, his eyes going around the room.

It’s your room.

Slowly, glimpses of last night come to his mind and he freezes.

“Fuck.” He lets out, throwing your covers over him and walking over to your kitchen.

There you are, cooking, humming to the music you’re playing. A smile rises to his face and you turn, halting your movements.

“Morning.” You mumble. Turning back to the stove. “There’s coffee if you want.”

“You need help?” He picks at his hand.

“No, it’s fine.” He gulps, moving to sit down at the table.

He watched as you finished up, bringing his plate to him. He watches you as you eat, not even picking at his food.

“Stop staring.” You mumble and his head shoots down.

“Sorry.”

This wasn’t like him and even though you know you guys have to talk. You hated how things were right now. Would they even go back to how they were before?

“Do you like me?” Rindou asks, cracking the ice that was building up between the both of you.

You sigh, placing your fork down. “Obviously. I just don’t…trust you.”

“Is there any way you can again?” You look up at him to find he’s already staring at you.

“What do you want from me Rin.” You look tired and he hates himself for doing this to you.

“I want you. I’ll do anything to prove it, we can start over.” He pleads.

“Fucking me isn’t gonna be enough.” You quirk a brow and he shakes his head.

“I don’t care about that, I’ll prove to you that I’m all you need.” He gets up standing next to you.

You gaze up at him and he opens his arms. Slowly but surely, you rise to your feet, wrapping your arms around him.

He’s warm and at that moment that ice crumbled and melted when he held you tightly against him.

It would take time and you know he knows he’s gonna have to bust his ass because that’s what you deserve.

You deserve so much more and he’d do anything he could to prove himself to you.

© yuuuhiii 24 : don’t plagiarize, translate, or post my work on other platforms

[vivwritesfics]

Well, the time has come for a Lando GP win story where he meets reader or Carlos after his win! Please write one, I absolutely love your writing!

I would love a Carlando fic, but reader is alright too! Whatever is your mood❤️

Ok this is nothing against this nonnie, but you guys have got to realise I only write reader inserts, right? Like, I have never written something that is just driver x driver and I never will

He was gonna party is fucking ass off. Why wouldn't he? He'd won in Miami and he was, and I quote, gonna get lit.

Max (Verstappen) dragged him out to the club. He'd achieved so many wins himself that celebrating his own achievements was going to wreck his liver. But, for little Lando Norris, first time race winner? Max would risk his liver.

And they really did party their asses off. Lando ended u2p DJ-ing for all of twenty minutes, sunglasses upside down on his face.

How many girls had he made out with? He wasn't sure, but he'd spotted the one he wanted to take home with him.

He walked up to her, but she spoke to him first, finger stretched out, pointed to where Max was doing that one dance move he has where he sort of moves his arm. And then she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Your friend told me to call you no wins," she shouted over the thumping bass of the music.

He let out his typical giggle, the one that was a sort of shriek as well, tongue poking between his teeth. "He told you to call me no wins?" He echoed.

She nodded her head. "What does it mean?"

"Nothing now!"

Lando danced with her for the rest of the night. He snogged her in the middle of the dance floor and held her hand as he walked her out of the club, to the taxi that was going to take him back to his hotel room.

He slept with her, sure, but that isn't the important bit.

Waking up beside her was. Lando opened his eyes to see her beside him, still sleeping. He let out a groan and stretched his body up, accidentally moving the blankets away from her.

That woke her up.

Lando was in that stage of his life where hook ups never really stayed until breakfast. He wanted her to do the same, but how was he meant to ask her? But then she woke up and started talking to him.

Maybe it was because she called him no wins the entire time. Maybe it was because she had Lando doing that shrieking giggle. But he invited her to stay for breakfast.

Lando's breakfast was normally pre-prepared by his nutritionist. Thank God he was in a hotel room; he couldn't imagine anything worse than her watching him run around his kitchen as he searched for something for her to eat.

Luckily, he didn't have to think about that. He threw her clothes from the club at her, let her borrow a jumper, and took her out for breakfast. There wasn't long before Lando was supposed to fly back to Monaco, but he made the most of every moment with her.

Before he left, he gave her his number, put it in her phone.

"You're gonna come back to Miami, right, no wins?" She'd asked him.

He promised that he would.

[highvern]

Patterns I

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader

Genre: smut (21+), eventual fluff/angst

Summary: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a pattern. So what does it mean when you find yourself in Wonwoo's bed over and over again?

Chapter Warnings: fuckboy(ish) wonwoo, friends(?) with benefits, multiple sex scenes, oral (f. & m. receiving), choking, face fucking, penetrative sex

Length: ~10k

Note: woooohoooo part 1 done. let me know what you guys think! thank you @gyuswhore for being my beta and talking me down from a complete meltdown lmao

Remember: Tumblr runs on reblogs and I run on validation in the tags and comments :)

m.list + support my work

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked!

“And if you look at this chart, you can see profit margins over the past three quarters have steadily increased…”

Mona drones on and on. You try to listen and nod along but there’s only so much enthusiasm that can be faked for a last minute afternoon meeting on a Friday. Maybe if she was saying anything with an ounce of meaning you’d pay attention. But the numbers she spout off on record profits only confirm what the company who hired your team already knows: if they give their employees more work for less pay, they’ll make more money.

The vibration of your phone wakes you up. Peering into your lap under the table, you see your roommate’s name flash across the screen.

Lisa 👁️🫦👁️: ruby’s tonight Y/N: Do I have a choice?

You don’t even lock your phone before she responds.

Lisa 👁️🫦👁️: nope!

“Y/N, do you mind sharing the latest reports?” 

Head jerking up, you meet Mona’s gaze across the room. She flashes a tight smile, clearly having caught your moment of distraction. Lucky for you, you could recite the reports in your sleep.

You smile and say all the right things; make all the right jokes. Just enough personality they feel special but not so much they feel like you’re a real human being outside of your job.

“All right. I think we’ve covered everything.” Mona claps. “Edgar and I will be on call this weekend if anything comes up.”

Shuffling out with the rest of your coworkers, you beeline back to your desk. 

Mona breezes by, slamming the door to her office shut.

“Do you think Mona has eyes in the back of her head?” Edgar asks, peeking over the wall dividing your cubicles.

Without looking away from the email crowding your screen you quip, “No, but I hear she sleeps in a coffin.”

“Huh. I thought that was just the hottest office furniture tread for execs.”

You snort in response. 

Mona was a hard ass but she was good at her job. 

“Anyway, any plans this weekend?”

“Get drunk and watch Love Island.”

Edgar gasps, hand to his chest like a scandalized debutant. “You wild woman.”

The next two hours crawl by. Not even the usual side projects keep you entertained, giving you time to research the new art installation downtown Lisa mentioned visiting. 

Hopefully buying tickets as her early birthday present will get you off the hook for tonight.

In true Lisa fashion, a surprise gift means celebration. And the best place to celebrate is Ruby’s.

Smoke chokes the air, bodies upon bodies packed into the space of the dingy bar on a Friday night. The chill of the outside stops at the threshold of the door, sweltering heat greeting you and your friends as you join the crows eager to celebrate the weekend.

It’s almost too dark to see faces but Mingyu’s head of dark hair stands above the rest from his perch in the corner. Lisa’s hand finds yours, and your other hand find’s Amina as you shoulder towards the table he’s claimed for the night. The bass of whatever remix blaring through the DJ’s speakers thrums through the crush of drunk patrons like a frantic heartbeat, rattling your bones with each step deeper into the space.

The glossy surface of the table is already littered with cups and beer bottles. Mingyu cuts his conversation with Wonwoo short to greet your group, smiling over Lisa’s head already buried in his chest. Wonwoo's only acknowledgement is a short nod over the top of the bottle he lifts to his lips. 

A pair of not so sly eyes wander down your front, tracing across the deep v of your top, baring your sternum between the swell of your breasts. You burn under Wonwoo’s blatant gawking, breath stalled and face hot but none of your friends appear to notice the electricity crackling between you two, intoxicated brains filling with lewd ideas. 

Needing a reprieve, you slither to the bar in search of a drink. Slipping between the sweaty bodies as they part, Amina follows close behind. A few shots and a beer later, you stumble towards the dance floor with laughter on your lips and the bitter singe of alcohol on your tongue.

The crowd of strangers accepts you, swallowing you into the churning chaos immediately. A few familiar faces stand out in the crowd as you shift through the sway.

Looking over the shoulder of the random person in front of you, a mess of limbs better known as Lisa and Mingyu flashes into view; Soonyoung and Eva no better next to them. Over their embrace, you spot Amina dancing with a pretty stranger of her own, both of them with drunk smiles plastered on their faces. 

Head dizzily bobbing to the music, your eyes slip shut. You know it's Wonwoo at your back, hips following closely, one hand around your waist and the other dragging a path of fire across your thigh. 

This wasn’t the first time you found yourselves in this particular position. Since your roommates started dating, and whenever alcohol was close enough to serve as a believable excuse, you managed to find each other like super charged magnets; gluing together and drowning heady touches.

It wasn’t like anything more happened. That was the excuse you told yourself after the first time. A girls night out Mingyu and Wonwoo happened to stumble upon. You’d still been upset about the breakup with Seungcheol two months prior, indulging in the shitty white wine that only served to fuel your boldness.

You’d never admit seeking out Wonwoo with the knowledge Seungcheol couldn’t stand him; taking sick satisfaction in imagining the look on Seungcheol’s face as you let Wonwoo touch the way previously reserved for him. You pressed against Wonwoo’s front with little care for who saw; a challenging gleam in your glassy eyes, daring him to push away. Not one to be bested, Wonwoo pressed back, and the rest is history.

After the first night of the new game, you went home and came embarrassingly fast to the fantasy of what would have inevitably happened if he’d followed. The week after consisted of staunchly avoiding Wonwoo. Guilt and disgust plagued every waking moment, and if you had to look at him you knew you’d feel worse. 

Your only real connection was your roommate Lisa dating his roommate Mingyu which meant your evasiveness went undetected for nearly a month before Wonwoo managed to corner you at a party and demand to know what your “fucking problem” was. It was then you realized he either didn’t remember what happened or didn’t think it was anything to make such a big deal about. You never asked for specifics but came to the conclusion: If he didn’t care, then why should you? It was just a bit of fun. A game of chicken neither intended to end. 

Each time you came across each other on the weekends after, the stakes increased. One night, you let wandering hands catalog the planes hard muscle hidden underneath the fabric of his shirt. The next, you followed a trail of goosebumps across his neck with tongue and teeth. 

And Wonwoo called your bluff everytime. His thumb tracing against the underside of your breast while delivering a particularly harsh grind of his hips, leaving very little to the imagination of what hid behind the zipper of his jeans. Or when he spun you around, hypnotizing you with his eyes while pawing your ass, dragging your core across his thigh wedged between your legs.

But whatever transpired fizzled away by the time the night ended, both of you content to go separate ways and ignore whatever was left on the dance floor (or occasionally a wall). Tonight would be no different. It never was. It never would be.

Wonwoo was fun to play with but that's all. Throw him flirty smiles, indulge in the bold touches, take a thrill in the chase and then retreat to the safety of the bar or drag one of your friends to the bathroom for a break. He let go without any argument; something you found disappointing much to your own chagrin. But Wonwoo’s eyes never left your figure the second it left his arms. Even if he found a new partner, he would watch you while he did everything he had already done and then all the things he would have done if you stayed.

“Come home with me,” he whispers in your ear, more of a command than a question, breaking the delicate silence surrounding your unspoken attraction.

The air in your chest thickens to a sludge. For a second, you think you misheard him, possibly hallucinating that he’s spoken at all. With the thrum of music and shouts it’s not out of the question.

Unable to turn in his tight grip, you settle for leaning back against his shoulder, neck stretching, giving him a direct view down your top, his eyes privy to the fact that you hadn’t worn a bra. His chest plastered against your back heaves with a heavy breath as you continue to move against him. 

Wonwoo tries again, his hand squeezing your waist gently, pulling you closer to his body to feel the evidence of his arousal. “Come home with me.” 

It's just the next level to the game, you think. The fantasy is tempting; taking you back to his apartment, spreading you out across his bed and making good on all the promises he’s teased into your skin for months.

If he wants to play, you’ll play too.

“What’s in it for me?” you hum, lips brushing his ear in a mimic of his motion moments ago. 

Wonwoo responds with another curl of his hips against your ass.

God, he’s good at this. Wonwoo is the only guy to spark any kind of interest since Seungcheol left months ago. Not for lack of trying but they were either too tall, too short, weird hair, awful laugh. The list of excuses goes on and on. Subconsciously, you’d been comparing them all to the man behind you and found each of them lacking. But if Wonwoo wants to progress to the next level, he’ll need to work for it.

“Not convincing enough,” you chide.

The hand on your thigh pauses, taking a second to squeeze the supple flesh before setting a new course. Wonwoo moves slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop his advance if you wish. Not sensing an objection, he pushes forward. Even over the thick denim of your jeans, Wonwoo’s palm scorches against the zipper. Continuing lower, he grinds the heel of his palm against your clothed pussy, nothing more than mockery of the real thing but it has you shuddering all the same. The slope of your shoulder stings under his mouth, licking waves of fire across the nerves with each nip of his teeth. 

Wonwoo pants against the shell of your ear on the next rock of his hand, laughing as your nails dig into his wrist before he whispers, “Unless you want our friends to watch, trust me.” 

You need to see his face; need to look in Wonwoo’s eyes and find out if he’s trying to rile you up or if he’s serious.

This time when you move, Wonwoo allows you to turn in his hold. The look in his eyes tells you he would take you right here if he thought for a second you’d let him. He isn’t trying to just get a rise out of you and see you squirm. Wonwoo isn’t playing a game anymore. 

He wants you.

You nod once and Wonwoo has you both out the door and on the way to his place before the song ends.

The cold metal of the door bites into your skin, bowing your chest straight into Wonwoo’s as he crowds against you, arms caging you in on both sides. His lips are busy surveying the skin of your neck, sucking and nipping until he pauses at the hollow of your throat. His teeth raze against the sensitive skin, tongue darting out to lave against the marks he’s determined to leave. Wonwoo listens closely to the sounds leaving your throat, focusing his ministrations whenever an exceptionally satisfied purr slips out.

He takes a step forward at the feel of your hand pushing its way into his jacket, rewarding the tease of your fingers across his stomach with a suck against your jaw. The sharp pain of your nails across his scalp forces a quiet groan out his lips; something you file away for later. 

“Get us inside before your neighbors catch us with my hand down your pants,” you gasp, giving his hair a particularly harsh yank to pull him away from your breasts peeking out from the low cut of your top.

“Wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, diving back. 

But Wonwoo concedes, grabbing his keys from his pocket while remaining focused on leaving his mark on your sternum. 

Despite your request, you do everything but make it easier for him; thumb dipping into the waistband of his boxers before slipping inside, cupping the straining bulge confined under the tight fabric. Wonwoo falters under your attention, pressing his hips into you until you're crushed between his body and the door. When Wonwoo finally fumbles the key into the lock, the door flies open under your combined weight.

Using the momentum, Wonwoo crowds you back to the wall just inside, slamming the door shut with his foot, returning where he left off without missing a beat. A hand tilts your chin back to give him more room, and you realize he hasn’t kissed you yet. Twisting the front of his shirt, you resolve to change that.

Pulling back, Wonwoo’s brows arching in confusion, mouth falling opening to complain at being interrupted again but snapping shut when you attempt to pull him forward. 

But a hair's breadth away Wonwoo stops.

“What do you want?”

You won’t beg. If anyone is cracking first it’ll be Wonwoo. Just like he did at the bar not too long ago. 

“If you won’t tell me then I can’t give it to you.” He moves forward, nose tracing along your throat, breath fanning across your neck. One of his arms moves to the space between your body and the wall, pulling until his thigh is bracketed by yours. The hard muscle is nothing short heaven against the seam of your jeans, invoking a traitorous whimper from your throat.

You manage a chaste kiss against the side of his mouth before he darts out of range. 

“Tell me and you can have it,”  Wonwoo says, cocking his head back, looking down his nose at you from behind the wire frames of his glasses; pupils blown. His eyes close and he leans forward again before continuing, “Tell me what you want, and you can have everything.”

His teeth trail across the shell of your ear on the last word and suddenly it's all too much. The rasp of his voice, the flex of his thigh, the layers of clothing separating your bodies. If you don’t get relief soon you’ll both implode.

“Kiss me.”

You feel Wonwoo’s satisfied smile a second before your lips meet, lighting the fuse for what's to come. There’s no gentleness in the connection, instead, months of insatiable need leads the way. Parting your lips, you suck his own between your teeth until it's swollen in retaliation. Wonwoo angles your head back with a gentle tug of your hair, immediately swallowing your gasp at his roughness. The hand wrapped around the middle of your back flexes, urging, no, begging you to grind against him. You oblige with embarrassing eagerness.

Your hand finds its way down Wonwoo’s front again, fingers firm and demanding. Tracing the zipper of his jeans up and down in time with your movement against his leg, the heel of your hand presses forward, causing his hips to cant up against the pressure. The motion is a mock of what he was doing in the crowded bar minutes ago. Just enough to rile him up and to piss him off until his hands drop and squeeze your ass so hard it hurts.

Refusing to let your mouths part, Wonwoo drags you down the hallway towards his room. It takes longer than it should, both of you stopping to force the other into the wall, bodies writhing against one another in search of friction and pleasure. At one point you consider letting him fuck you right their on the floor but he pushes through the door to his room just before you can unzip his pants.

Finally inside, Wonwoo herds you towards the bed in the corner. The back of your knees hit the side, bending as you land with a soft bounce. Wonwoo follows swiftly, settling himself on his elbows before diving back into your neck again. His hips slot into the warm cradle of your thighs easily, pressing forward to search for the heat he knows is there. You greedily return the movement, hips curling up, savoring the drag of his hard cock. Wonwoo sucks another bruise onto your neck, high enough you’ll have to hide it in the morning but you're so drunk on the idea of what is going to happen next you can’t even feign outrage. 

The strap of your flimsy top falls down and Wonwoo moves to explore the new span of skin. His lips drag over the uncovered swell of your breast, sloppy kisses trailing over the silky skin. Cocking his head to the side, he sucks a nipple through the thin black fabric. Your hips buck, back arching at the new sensation. The angle of Wonwoo’s cock is just right, pulling moan after moan from your throat. He’s so focused on what he’s doing he can’t be bothered to snicker at how he turns you into an aching puddle of want.

Clothes come off in a blur. You watch his abs flex as he rips his shirt over his head, eyes tracing the dark thatch of hair disappearing under the waistband of his pants. Soon, yours is gone too, lost on the floor. Wonwoo's eyes delight in the sight of you bare before him, with nipples puckered and breasts heavy with excitement. He ducks back down, mouthing at the sensitive bud, drowning in your breathy whines and whimpers. Using his hand, his calloused thumb massages the one his mouth had abandoned, pinching and flicking until you’re left raw and aching.

“Wonwoo,” you cry, hands ripping at the sheets when his teeth come out to play. 

He pulls back from your breasts, in a frenzy to remove your pants while his knees fall to the ground on the side of the bed. You arch up to help him rip the damning fabric away. An ember of fury sparks, furious with yourself for wearing jeans over the skimpy skirt Lisa had offered.

None the wiser, Wonwoo looks between your legs like he’s found an oasis in a desert. You realize too late they’re nothing impressive. Pale pink cotton; simple, practical. Just like your pants, since getting fucked tonight wasn’t even a remote possibility when you left your apartment. 

But Wonwoo doesn’t even seem to care. When you dare to look at his face, worried by the sudden pause in his actions, you find he’s not even blinking. His thumb finds your entrance through the fabric, shallowly dipping inside before moving back and massaging teasing circles over the damp spot.

Pride and ego long forgotten, you beg. “Wonwoo, please.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t give in. Focusing on the curve of your thigh, nose etching along the strained muscle while he continues teasing touches over your underwear. The wet of his tongue comes out when he reaches the hem of your underwear. So close to where you want him but not close enough.

“Please.”

The pathetic crack of your voice is rewarded with firmer fingers and his lips against the sticky crotch of your panties; the heat of his mouth right over your entrance as he laps at your release.

Another beg and he moves aside the thin strip of fabric, curling his tongue into your entrance before sucking at your swollen clit. 

The relief is short lived. Somehow, Wonwoo knows exactly how to touch and tease you, driving you up the wall only to pull you back down. One hand finds your knee, forcing it away when you try to crush his head between your thighs at the first prod of his long fingers inside you.

He slips another finger inside, his tongue continuing to swipe at your bundle of nerves, just as desperate to give you what you want as you are to receive it. Glancing down at him again, you find a scene worthy of being immortalized in a painting. His brow is furrowed in concentration, eyes pinched tight while he works to get you off. 

A pause to take a breath is all the reprieve you’re granted before Wonwoo dives back in, moaning under the sting of your nails on his scalp; encouraging you to hold him there and use him, to come for him. The symphony of your combined noises floods the room. The squelch of his fingers, rubbing up against the place that drives you mad. The wet noises of his mouth, your arousal mixing with his spit; his noises when you pull at his hair, vibrating against your cunt and pulling your spine into a harsh curve. 

You can’t help but watch him. Enamoured with how right he looks between your legs, skin slips together where his shoulders hold your legs up. Even the contrast of his hand on your knee fuels the fire.

He peers up at you when you call his name again. Eyes burning into your own. Like he can read your mind. Like he agrees this is the best place for him to be.

You hear yourself far away, chanting his name as you shatter into a million pieces. Clenching around Wonwoo’s fingers with a strength you didn't know you possessed, your hips ride them until your muscles lock and jerk. The smear of fluid across your thighs, slipping your ass and onto the bed is lewd. 

But Wonwoo doesn’t stop, working you through it like his own release is on the line. Licking and sucking and fucking you with his fingers until you finally manage to pull him away with a choked cry of his name. Even then, his hand continues pistoning into you as your mouths find one another hungrily. 

There's a sick satisfaction in your gut at the taste on his mouth. Your arousal coats his chin, his cheeks, even the tip of his nose is wet where it digs into your face as you suck his tongue.

Moving to his feet, Wonwoo bends over you, lips never straying from yours. He fails to crowd you down into the mattress like he intends. Freezing when your hands pushing his pants down the rest of the way. His cock bobs, the nearly purple head leaking. If there was any doubt he didn’t find pleasure going down on you before, the evidence of his enjoyment sits hard and heavy in your palm. An exploratory squeeze has Wonwoo’s chin dropping to his chest, a sharp breath leaving his nose.

Sliding off the bed and to your knees, you peek up at him through your lashes, letting the tip rest against parted lips. When Wonwoo drags his head back up, looking down his nose, your tongue darts out to catch some of his pre-cum, receiving another groan in response. A thought that has you blushing rears its head. 

He’ll probably like it, you think.

You let one of her hands trail down while kissing across the velvety shaft his length. Wonwoo watches closely, eyes widening for a second when you find the apex of your thighs, dipping down to collect the lingering slickness. Once satisfied, you exchange your grip on his cock and quirk an eyebrow. Stroking him coyly.

You don’t look away from his eyes even though every instinct tells you to hide from the heat in his gaze. Your palm catches at the tip, thumb brushing his leaking slit. More evidence of his arousal trickles out and you lap it up quickly.

“Shit,” Wonwoo hisses. “Fuck, you’re so good.” 

One of Wonwoo’s hands finds your cheek, helping you find a comfortable pace. Settling the back of your head against the bed, drag him forward by his ass, content to let him use your mouth the way you used his. Wonwoo stumbles for a second at the sudden movement, hands finding the bed to prevent himself from collapsing. He peers down in question. 

“Want you to fuck my mouth,” you pant, quickly taking him back in, going as deep as possible without gagging.

“Fuuuuck,” Wonwoo rasps, moving the hand on the side of your face to the back of your head. He pins you in place with his hips, giving a shallow, almost hesitant thrust as he discovers your limits.

You zone out when he finds a rhythm, hand at the base of his cock to keep him from bottoming out in your throat, the one cradling his balls dropping to trace the inside of his thigh. Eventually, Wonwoo lets himself go, savoring the pressure of your tongue when you lap against the tip as he pulls out. His abs twitch at the sight of drool leaking from the corners of your stuffed mouth, lips stretched and bruised around his cock. 

Opening your eyes, you look right at him; punching the air from his chest as you moan around his cock, the vibration forcing his head back, neck bared again as a bead of sweat settles in the hollow of his throat.

“Touch yourself,” Wonwoo commands, breaking the melody of whimpers and groans.

You disregard his command, content with focusing on untying him from his loose tether to sanity.

Not one to be ignored, Wonwoo pulls away on the next stroke. You follow, attempting to trail forward and suck him back down your throat but Wonwoo’s hand knots in your hair. He yanks your head back until his cock is just out of range. Looking up at him, you do nothing to hide the annoyance at such a sudden disruption.

“Touch. Yourself. ” he lets out tightly, enunciating each syllable. Equally annoyed but willing to make a point. 

“Wanna watch me?” you goad, smug as the tips of his ears redden. 

Instead of brushing it off, Wonwoo takes the bait.

“Yeah I do,” he says, one hand leaving your hair, guiding the tip of his cock across the seam of your lips, letting out a humorless laugh when your tongue reaches out to meet it on instinct. “Wanna watch while you suck my cock because you’re a good girl.” 

He lets you take the head, teeth grinding under the dig of your tongue into the slit. But any attempt to take more is punished with another tug of your hair. Until his hand circles your throat and he pulls you off completely. 

“Right, Y/N?”

The praise goes straight to your head, breath stunted. You barely nod before Wonwoo moves his hips forward again, slowly resuming their previous rhythm at the promise of seeing you put on a show. Two fingers slip in with ease, disappointment bubbling when the stretch doesn’t come anywhere close to his but you’ll play along for now if it means getting to feel his cum on your tongue.

Wet, messy noises echo in the room. You hollow your cheeks, hand acting as a bumper while letting his cock kiss the back of your throat. Wonwoo’s hips stutter when you swallow around him. The tension in his muscles doubles your effort, set on the satisfaction of making him cum from just your mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” Wonwoo hisses, pulling you off.

Wonwoo hauls you up into the bed, aggressively crowding you towards the pillows. The cool sheets sting against your back, but you focus on getting another fist around his cock. Wonwoo intercepts your plans before you can make it below his navel. He pins the offending appendage next to your head; grip loose enough you could break if you wanted, but the tease of his dominance turns you on even more and it's not long before he has both hands above your head, and a disapproving look on his face.

“If you don’t want me to come on your thigh, I suggest keeping your hands to yourself,” he states, leaning towards the bedside table, searching for a condom.

“Didn’t think you’d be that easy,” you bite back. Planting your feet on the bed, your hips grind up into his. 

“Says the woman who begged for my cock,” Wonwoo grinds out, flattening his chest into yours, teasing with exactly what you asked for.

You're suddenly hit by how much stronger Wonwoo is than you. Able to have your entire body pinned like it’s nothing while working the condom on at the same time. You knew he worked out, broad shoulders and narrow waist giving him away; but having that strength used you sends a swirl of butterflies through your stomach.

Wonwoo resorts to ripping open the packet with his teeth, hips easing up to quickly roll it down his length. He rubs himself through your folds, collecting the wetness and repeatedly tapping himself to your clit. You’re about to flip him around and take matters into your own hands when he catches on your entrance and presses home in a slow thrust.

He slides deep. Deeper than Seungcheol, deeper than anyone you’ve ever been with. You barely get a chance to savor it before he’s moving, wasting no time before working up a pace meant to drive you both mad. 

“Shit,” you curse.

Wonwoo huffs into your neck, tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “Yeah? Feel good?”

“Soooo good.” 

Wonwoo lets go of your hands, tangling one the sheets, the other searching for the top of the metal headboard. The change in position folds you in half, giving him the leverage to fuck as deep as possible. Finding your hands free, one claws at his back, leaving bright red lines in its wake. The other grabs for his ass, squeezing the muscle there, helping him press forward. His balls clapping against the swell of your ass drives you closer to hysteria. 

Your second orgasm rushes forward, resting on his lips finding yours. The connection is bruising, all teeth and tongues. The hand on his ass falls to play with yourself and Wonwoo breaks away to watch.

“Like that, Y/N?” Wonwoo bites, whispering right into your ear. “Fuck, you're so tight, baby.”

His words only add to the inferno. The need to come overwhelms you, demanding satisfaction to the point it hurts. But you need more. Needs something you can’t name and only Wonwoo can give. 

Frustration twists your features, eyebrows furrowed and mouth tense. Almost as if he senses your oncoming tantrum, Wonwoo drops more of his weight, pressing you into the mattress and filling you to the brink.

 “Be a good girl,” Wonwoo coos, hip punctuating each word while his teeth tug at your earlobe. “Come for me.”

His permission is the key. Bombs explode behind your eyelids, cascading colors against the black and white. Loud moans rush from your throat to fill his room, muscles locked, body convulsing with endorphins. You want to kiss him again, until you can’t breathe, until you stop needing oxygen and adapt to survive on the taste of his mouth. 

Wonwoo must feel the same, meeting you in a lazy kiss, too fucked out to put in more effort. He swallows every whimper, the syllables of his name while he fucks you through your high. The wetness smeared between your bodies echoes all the motions, his pistoning hips driving more and more from your worn cunt. 

His own high rushes for him at light speed. Pulling back, he rests his forehead against yours. You burn the last bit of energy you possess to open your eyes and find his. Wonwoo’s face is tight as a thin sheen of sweat covers his body. All you want now is to see him cum, give him as much pleasure as he’s given you. Reaching up, your lips brush his ear one last time.

“Wanna feel you come,” you sigh. “Please, Woo.”

The responding groan signals success. His hips stutter forward, a deep grunt bursts from his chest. If you weren’t exhausted, you’d demand to go again; to fuck him again and again just to see the twitch of his lips as he empties himself into you, the grind of his teeth, and shudder of his chest. But Wonwoo gives one more hard drive of his hips before collapsing, completely spent.

You don't know how long you stay like that, drifting in and out of consciousness as sweat dries, and your thighs becoming uncomfortably sticky. When Wonwoo moves to pull out, a surprising whine rips from your throat. 

“Shower?” he asks, husky voice breaking the lingering silence.

You finally crack an eye open at Wonwoo’s voice, and find him looking at you with soft eyes. Uh oh. Warning bells fire but you’re too tired to care. A shower sounds lovely.

Wonwoo hauls you up, leading you into his small bathroom. The water in the shower is already running, steam escaping the stall as he ushers you under. The scratches at his back contrast brightly against his pale skin, a few bite marks spattered across his chest. You know you look equally debauched but the lull of warm water calms any concerns. The silence is comfortable, thick as you move like zombies. Wonwoo passes his body wash without a word, moving to shampoo his hair. Swapping between the brutally frigid air and the comforting warm water under the shower head, you both race to finish up quickly. Once satisfied, Wonwoo shuts off the faucet and grabs the towels from the hook on the wall. He hands you one before stepping out to dry himself. A spare toothbrush waits on the counter when you exit the stall.

Wonwoo leaves first, heading back to his room to dress. It gives you the opportunity to look in the mirror for the first time. Your skin glows, both from the steam and Wonwoo’s attention. Across your throat, bruises cluster like a necklace, splotches of darkness maring the skin. Unfolding the towel, you find more littered across your breasts, and an impressive one on the inside of your thigh. 

After the shock fades, exhaustion creeps back in. It had to be far into the early hours of the morning. You hope Mingyu stayed with Lisa at your shared apartment. Having to face Wonwoo in the morning was enough horror, but if Mingyu heard anything then you would never be able to look him in the eye again despite having heard your roommate and him more times than you can count.

Returning to Wonwoo’s room, you see him already under the covers, spread out on his stomach with his face squashed into the pillow. On his desk sits a tshirt and a pair of old shorts. Hanging the towel up in his bathroom, you snag the shirt and pull it on.

Finding your pants, you fish out your phone and see the time: 3:47AM. A few missed calls from Amina, several dozen texts from the group chat, and one from Lisa that reads “You better not be where I think you are” clutter the screen. 

There's no point in arguing the accusation. She has your location, you know she checked it before she went to bed. And in the morning you’ll have to answer every inane question that pops into her head. But for now, you need to sleep.

Sliding open the group text, you send a quick “I'm alive, see u in the morning for brunch?” tossing your phone aside.

Your head hits the pillow and you’re out like a light.

The dream you’re lost in is lovely. A faceless figure bends you over a desk, your heated face pressed against the glossy wood. Naked as the day you were born, nothing protecting your nipples from rubbing against the cold surface, hardening until you hiss from sensitivity. Large warm palms massage your ass, hands pushing upwards, lightly parting the cheeks to give him more leverage to lick at your leaking hole. You can feel him moan, echoing your own sounds of pleasure as he indulges. One hand finds its way back to his head, fingers tangling in his short hair, holding him in place as you rise on tiptoes to move against his mouth. He feels familiar but it doesn’t matter who he is, more so what he plans to do. Just as a thumb swipes against your other hole, pulling a shocked gasp from your lips, it all comes crashing down.

You claw at the tendrils of pleasure slipping past to no avail. Harsh whispers outside your door pull you awake as they gain volume. It isn’t out of the ordinary to hear snippets of your roommates’ conversations as they pass down the hall towards their own rooms. Having the first room off the kitchen was the sacrifice you made to have a bigger closet and a better view. Usually though, Lisa and Amina had the decency to not have a full blowout so early, and on a weekend no less.

As the whispers crescendo into a one sided screaming match, you make out Lisa and Mingyu’s voices on the other side of the thin wood. 

“Mingyu if you don’t move out of my way there will be TWO BODIES TO CLEAN UP.” 

Lisa is pissed, using a tone of voice saved for rare occasions. Occasions you rarely witnessed Mingyu be on the receiving end of. Whatever he had done, he better pray Lisa forgives him. He also better pray you forgive him for working Lisa’s temper up so early in the morning.

“Shut the fuck up!” you yell, voice thick with sleep, refusing to open your eyes against the light trickling in from the window above. Snuggling deeper in the soft covers, you try to force yourself back asleep, hoping to reunite with the anonymous dream man.

When did the window get above your bed? 

You shoot up, instantly regretting the decision. Splinters of pain shoot behind your left eye causing you to collapse back into the pillows to find reprieve. The grumble next to you sends your heart racing.

“I’m going to kill her,” a gravely male voice threatens.

Turning on your side, you brave the torturous sunlight to catch Wonwoo’s profile. His face is scrunched in annoyance, eyes shut as he too tries to get lost in the blankets. He drags the comforter over your heads, pulling you towards him to hide in the curve of your throat.

It all comes rushing back. Going home with him, your dirty deeds, the shared shower. You beg the powers that be to kill you when you remember how you begged with embarrassing ease.

Outside his door, Lisa bellows and forces the door open; sending it cracking against the wall with the force. 

The blanket rips down, uncovering who's hiding underneath. She only manages to pull it below your shoulder before you and Wonwoo realize what's happening and clutch at the fabric. Thank god you both are wearing clothes.

“What the fuck?” Wonwoo’s voice is acidic as he looks to Mingyu over Lisa’s head. Mingyu at least has the decency to look apologetic as Lisa acts like an overly concerned mother who just found her daughter with a boy in her bed.

“See? Y/N is alive, we can leave now,” Mingyu tries in vain to placate his girlfriend. Lisa snatches her hand away from him when he attempts to pull her out of Wonwoo’s room.

Lisa’s eyes take in your tousled hair, the bruises at both your necks, the clothes littered on the floor haphazardly. She isn’t stupid, she knows exactly what has happened. Lisa also knows Wonwoo wouldn’t take advantage of you, but she is still protective nonetheless. The amused look spreading across her face nearly sends you out the window and to the cement several stories below.

“Oh my god, are you fifteen?” Her question is pointed at Wonwoo, catching the string of hickies marking your neck.

“How about you get the fuck out of my room?” Wonwoo bites, raising his voice. He burrows under your chin, dragging the blanket over his head once again.

“We’ll talk about this later!” Lisa calls as Mingyu finally drags her out the door, her voice is muffled by the slam of it shutting but you clearly hear her yell, “Brunch is in an hour!” 

Finally left alone, you mind races to prepare for the interrogation waiting for you. Wonwoo appears to be unaware of any such troubles. Cuddling down into the swell of your breasts, he’s already trailing back towards sleep. 

Despite yourself, the hand stuck under him rises up to gently trace shapes across the expanse of his back. The warm skin lulls you into a trance as the memories from the hours prior replay.

“Are you sure I can stay?” A deep yawn warps your voice. You’re  already halfway under the covers, hoping he doesn’t change his mind. If you have to stay awake any longer you’ll have a meltdown.

“Yes.” His face is still pushed into his pillow, voice distorted by the barrier and slurred with his sleep. “Now shut up and sleep.”

And you do just that. Shocking, given you’re a horrible bed partner; tossing and turning most of the night, waking frequently. Seungcheol experienced many grumpy mornings courtesy of your poor sleep hygiene after a sleepover. But in Wonwoo’s bed, your restlessness decides to take the night off, allowing you to sleep like a rock.

It can’t have been more than a couple hours before you awake again. Despite the short snooze, you’re more rested than you’ve been in months. Stretching with a yawn, you find what roused you awake. 

Somehow Wonwoo found you in his sleep, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, body firm against your back. He’s hot skin and hard muscle, the tent in his boxers sliding roughly across the naked skin of your thighs. Cursing yourself for forgoing the shorts he laid out, you try and twist away only for Wonwoo’s length to settle between the dip of your ass.

You freeze solid. Listening to the sound of his breathing stop then even out once again. Waiting to confirm he’s still asleep, you try moving away again only for his hips to press against you once you wiggle against him. Body acting on its own, your spine curls, sending your ass back into his crotch. 

And then Wonwoo’s arm around your waist flexes and he thrusts forward. 

Shit.

“Can I help you?” he asks, face buried somewhere between your shoulder blades, nose tracing your spine until he finds the bare skin of your neck to leave heated gossamer kisses.

There’s nothing left to lose. You’ve already fucked. Wonwoo face to face with your most intimate parts, and you the same. You begged him to cum inside you for Christ's sake. Giving another curl of your hips, you decide to meet his challenge.

“Can you?” you whisper into the darkness, eyes sliding close again as a tired breath leaves your nose. It's less of a goad, and more of a subtle beg for his attention.

Wonwoo drags the hand wrapped around your waist downward, wedging it between your thighs gently. You’re already wet from the brief movements against one another. He wastes no time, immediately framing your clit with two fingers, teasing friction to warm you up. The first twitch into his hand has his fingers dropping, pushing into your entrance as you parts your legs to make more room. His movements are sluggish but he placates your want the best he can.

One of your hands slides under the covers, moving behind your back to grab him. The unmistakable heat greets you through the fabric of his underwear. His breath stutters against your back, his chest pressed tightly against your back like a second skin. Wonwoo jerks forward through your fist, clothed tip prodding against the soft curve of your ass when you reach the base.

Continuing to move just like that, you both are more than content to get off like this, much too tired to put in any real effort. But when you push down his boxer just enough to feel the hot velvet skin of his tip against the dip of your spine, leaking from light touches, Wonwoo decides he wants more. Needs more. 

He pushes your hand away, directing himself between your legs, resting his tip at your entrance. With shallow thrusts forward, he lets himself catch on the ring of muscle just inside, barely parting your walls. The thought of him returning deep inside you, condom nowhere to be found, makes you drool. At some point Wonwoo’s hand finds your waist again, this time under the fabric of the flimsy t-shirt. The thick cotton bunches across your breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples while his hand splays between and pulls you against him.

You have half a mind to let him fuck you like this, raw, half asleep, tucked under the covers in the silence of his room. The other half blares with sirens and red lights flashing DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! 

The louder part of your brain, the one that sounds suspiciously like when Amina scolded you for not using condoms with Seungcheol after getting an IUD, wins. 

It takes all the strength you possess  to break the trance Wonwoo has. His lips have taken to mouthing at the back of your neck, his nose tracing the notches of your spine while his tongue sends goosebumps blooming.

“Condom.” you finally manage to breathe out, voice pushing past the thick blanket of lust and fatigue.

The hand on your chest flies off, moving in the direction of the bedside table. Within seconds Wonwoo wraps himself in the latex and pushes inside.

The stretch is perfect, muscles already accommodating his languid thrusts inside you. His hips are tucked tightly along your ass, barely a sliver of space between your bodies. One of Wonwoo’s hands reaches back under your shirt to thumb your sore nipples, letting a heavy flesh rest in his palm. The arm propped under your head reaches out, Wonwoo’s fingers twisting in the pillow cases. The web of veins and muscles flex with each cant, almost ripping the fabric of the sheet apart when you clench around him. 

As if having a mind of its own, a hand trails up his neck, cradling the back of his head and tangling in short locks of hair. Wonwoo hitches his chin over your shoulder, leaning forward to moan right into your ear. Your other hand takes the abandoned post at your clit, determined to make yourself cum and pass back out in the next five minutes. 

Unlike the explosions earlier, your orgasm crawls up slowly, bubbling to the surface in a smooth simmer. Your thighs tighten, twitching as the pot boils over and melting you into Wonwoo’s chest. He follows you over the edge quickly, hips continuing their fluid rhythm until they stutter against your ass; shuddering breaths leaving his chest, a quiet groan of satisfaction punctuating his content. You can’t move even if your life depends on it, heaviness settling in your muscles like concrete.

You're already descending back into the realm of dreams when Wonwoo slips away.

Wonwoo’s soft snores jolt you back. You’re far too awake to try joining him. And you can’t just stay in his room forever. Glancing around the room, you devise an escape plan. Wonwoo’s position doesn’t lend any subtlety, any effort to move from under him requires you to lift his entire weight.

You sit still for another minute, contemplating the potential pros and cons if he is awake to see you run, away from the sanctuary of his room and into the reality sitting beyond the door. Precisely as you decide to deal with whatever teasing he’ll no doubt hurl your way, Wonwoo shifts, burrowing back into the pillow on his side to provide easy access. Waiting with bated breath, you’re relieved when the muscles of his back expand with a deep inhale as he settles in slumber once again.

Springing out of bed, you collect your phone and wrinkled clothes. The shocking level of cleanliness and organization the room possesses for a man his age aids your quest. However, your underwear appears to be a lost cause. With haste, you search under the bed, eyes scouring the area around his desk, even sneaking a quick glance back towards him to see if the missing garment is mixed with the pillows. All is fruitless as the bright pink garments have disappeared, gone without a trace.

After slipping on your pants with impressive speed, you're out of his bedroom and into the hallway. Body on autopilot, you tiptoe towards the front door.  

The cracked door of Mingyu’s room where Lisa is no doubt waiting to ambush lingers just ahead. You don’t dare to breathe as you breeze past and ruin her plans. The heavy metal of the front door groans at your pull, tensing as noise echoes in the hallway behind you. You’re swift, slipping between the crack in the door frame and into the stairwell before Lisa can even call out your name. By the time Lisa is able to pull the front door back open, you’re down the stairs and halfway through the lobby, beelining for the busy street outside.

Everyone on the street can tell you’re taking a walk of shame; their judgment burning into your skull with each step closer to home. The tale tell signs are clear as day: messy hair, t-shirt clearly belonging to someone else, eyes downcast as you move along the congested sidewalk of a Saturday morning. The only solace is the neck of Wonwoo's shirt covering a majority of the marks staining your skin. 

You don’t breathe until you round the block of your apartment. Thankfully the lobby is empty and so is the elevator as you ride up in stifling silence. Slipping through the crack of the sliding doors, you rush the remaining distance and finally find your way into sanctuary.

The door clicks shut, and the dull thud of your head meeting metal rings a second later; the cool melt against the sweat on your brow is a lovely reprieve.

The sound of a throat clearing down the hall less so.

Glaring over your shoulder, you find Amina leaning over the kitchen island, an eyebrow cocked inquisitively. Lisa clearly informed her of the morning's findings.

Her lips twitch with humor, choking out, “Have a good night?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, launching off the door and to your room. Sharp laughter meets your back.

Hiding away in the bathroom, you cloak yourself in steam and scrub away any remnants of the night. Starting with the piney smell of Wonwoo’s body wash. 

You run through the facts despite wanting nothing more than forgetting the entire ordeal. 

Fact: Wonwoo isn’t as horrible as Seungcheol made you believe.

Opinion: He’s still infuriating.

Fact: You slept with Wonwoo.

Opinion: It wasn’t half bad.

Fact: You won’t do it again.

Thirty minutes later, the hot water runs out and you’re forced back into reality.

She can’t look in the mirror, knowing exactly what you’ll see. The proof that can’t be scrubbed away, the proof that the you let Wonwoo fuck you silly, and that you wouldn’t mind if it happened again. 

Some time later, hidden amongst the piles of blankets littering your bed, you mope. The hood of your sweatshirt tied tightly around your head leaving only your face visible. The TV hums with the drunk gibberish of the reality tv show cast as they laugh and cry over something innocuous.

A soft knock on the door breaks your focus, Amina appearing in the opening.

“Are you still coming to breakfast?” She asks.

“Don’t feel good.”

“Y/N,” Amina sighs, sitting on the edge of your bed. “It’s not that bad.”

You almost swallow your tongue. Of all your friends, Amina dislikes Wonwoo the most. She’s polite as she can be for Lisa and Mingyu’s sake, but everyone knows they get on as well as fire and water. 

“Who are you?” you question, eyes widening at the impersonator perched at your feet.

Amina cackles in response, and you can’t help but join. 

“You had fun, right?” Amina asks, waiting for your nod before continuing.“Okay, then who cares?”

“You don’t?” 

“No,” Amina sighs. “You’ve been…” 

She pauses, weighing her next words. “...down, since Seungcheol left. Maybe this is what you needed to get back out there.”

You start to object but fail to find any evidence against her claim. Seungcheol leaving turned your world upside down. You couldn’t hate him. It wasn’t like he didn’t try to make things work. But there was nothing for you in Seattle, just like there was nothing for him in New York. Other than each other. Somehow it’s much harder when no one is to blame other than unchangeable circumstances.

Amina rubs your knee over the covers. “It’s not my business who you sleep with. Unless you bring him here and I hear you, then I reserve the right to kill you both.” 

“Trust me, it won’t be happening again.”

“Why?” Now it’s Amina’s turn to be shocked. “Was it that bad?”

“No!” You blurt, face heating at the sudden outburst. “It was just a one time thing. Get it out of the system.”

Amina hums. Silence falling between you.

“So… was he better than Seungcheol?” Amina asks like she doesn’t care either way but you know she’s curious. She heard enough times about the lack of chemistry between you and Seungcheol for to have a vested interest in your sex life.

Truthfully, he was. The best experience with Seungcheol paled in comparison next to your night with Wonwoo. 

Taking silence as an answer, Amina stands.

“Get dressed. Eva is already on the way here to pick us up.” 

She leaves with out another word.

Across town, Wonwoo contemplates the ramifications of murder. 

The morning after a night like his should have him walking around like the sun shined out of his ass. Instead, the most annoying person in the city chose to rain on his parade. That person is coincidentally his best friend's girlfriend.

If it hadn’t been for Lisa’s shouts this morning, he’s more than confident you would have agreed to a repeat of the nights events. Maybe even two or three if he was lucky.

But no, you sprinted from his bed the second he feigned sleep. Watching through barely cracked eyes, he almost broke his cover when you nearly fell head first into the door knob, hastily trying to pull your pants up and walk at the same time. 

Wonwoo let you go, no snide comments or crude remarks. He knew if he wanted you to return to his bed then the best way was to bite his tongue. Goading had worked the first time, now he’d have to let your curiosity get the better of you. You would come back sooner or later, and he'd be ready when it happened.

He’d given you a few minutes to find your way out, hoping you avoided Lisa and saved you both the embarrassment. The slam of the front door and lack of screaming informed him of your success. Wanting to make sure you were long gone before he exited his room, Wonwoo took his time brushing his teeth. Catching himself in the mirror, his reflection gave a self-satisfied smirk. The stain of your teeth and lips contrasted against his skin and his back stung along the raised red welts from your nails.

Flicking off the light, Wonwoo heads towards back to his room. Lisa will demand audience sooner or later and it's better if he rips the bandaid off now. In his peripheral, a swatch of pale pink fabric tucked underneath one of the legs of his dresser catches his attention. Ducking down, he puls at the stretch of cotton. Lifting them up to inspect the out of place garment, Wonwoo finds himself face to face with your panties. He huffs a laugh before crumbling them in his hand, and tossing them in the hamper on the way out of his room. 

Lisa waits for him at the dining table; commanding the head seat like a mob boss.

From her perch, she watches him with keen interest that makes his bowl of cereal taste like mush. Mingyu already excused himself to take a shower before Wonwoo sat down, attempting to avoid the ensuing blow out. 

Every question is answered with one word answers or dismissive grunts. Even Lisa’s attempts to bait him into unrelated arguments roll off. Lisa chisels away at any sign of weakness but Wonwoo refuses to give her the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. It’s none of her business. Even if you’re her best friend.

Wonwoo counts his blessings when a call comes through her phone, the vibration on the table interrupting her attempt to burn a hole through his skull. Lisa rises to answer, pacing the kitchen while the feminine voice coming out the receiver chatters on. She ducks her head into Mingyu’s room, bidding him farewell. As she passes Wonwoo again on her way out, she gives him another furious look to let him know she isn’t done with their “conversation”. 

To rub salt in the wound, Wonwoo sends her off with an overly friendly smile and a wiggle of his fingers. He wipes down his face when the door slam shuts, shoulders dropping.  He knew hooking up with you might cause problems. He didn’t know they would become evident so quickly, but problems nonetheless. 

Worth it, he thinks 

The look on her face when she came for him made anything Lisa planned to throw his worth the price.

Wonwoo didn’t care what any of them had to say, you both were grown adults. He wanted to sleep with and you wanted to sleep with him. End of conversation. Anyone else’s opinion meant nothing.

And if things go the way he thinks they will, he’ll get to see you in his bed again.

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu @lovelyhachi

Series Taglist: @aaniag @sdoulc @wonvsmile @jeonwonwooscutie @wonrangwoo @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @yogurttea @4cheezflatbred @fragmentof-indifference @p-dwiddle @icedearlgreytea @cottoncheol @hoshiskimchi @listxn @kwonshiho

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

[afewproblems]

Give me Steve, Eddie, and Robin at a bar on a Friday night.

They've had a few drinks, and a shot or two when a song comes on, and Steve immediately jumps to his feet with an, "Oh shit!!"

It's Madonna's Get Into the Groove and for a moment Robin and Eddie think Steve is in pain, that he hates the song as is going to ask the DJ to change it.

Except Steve waltzes onto the dance floor, right into the center.

There aren't too many others dancing, it's early still, barely nine in the evening but the spot lights are on and the DJ flicks on the multicolor strobe as Steve parks himself on the dance floor.

Robin laughs and wishes she had brought the disposable camera instead of leaving it in her junk drawer at home.

Eddie meanwhile rolls his eyes, and pretends not to notice the tightness of Steve's jeans or how the light catches the flecks of gold in his hair and eyes.

He's been attempting to hide his pathetic little crush for awhile now, complaining to Robin every chance he gets when Steve does something particularly charming or handsome.

She tells him, as sagely as she can muster, to grow a pair and do something about it already.

But how can he, Steve was, well, Steve...lovely caring, hot as hell, Steve.

What chance did Eddie have?

So he sits there, miserable, nursing his beer, letting his eyes trail after Steve while Robin giggles beside him.

They've never seen him dance, it's bar, they're drunk, the worst that could happen is he makes an ass out of himself and they all go home with a great new story to tell the party later.

God Robin really wishes she brought her camera with her.

But then Steve is moving and he's fluid, never missing a beat. It's some kind of choreography, intentional and practiced movements that wouldn't be out of place in a music video. Eddie and Robin look at each other because, what the fuck, where did this come from??

And people are cheering and whooping, strangers scattered here and there sitting off of the dance floor. There's a sense of comradery, like they're all witness to something and being allowed to share and indulge in this little impromptu performance, but all too soon the song is over and Steve heads back to his seat with a small round of applause and a blinding smile pulling at his flushed cheeks.

"Steve, what the fuck was that??" Robin blurts out before Steve can even sit. Eddie nods, a little dazed, beside her and tears at the paper label on his beer bottle, maybe if he can keep his hands occupied he can keep them to himself.

"What was what?" Steve breathes out as he hops onto the stool beside them, Robin in the middle.

Robin's mouth falls open as her face scrunches into something exasperated but fond, "What was--that! The dancing!"

"Oh, that," Steve huffs with a lazy smile, he leans his elbow on the sticky wood bar and waves at the bartender to signal for another gin and tonic, "I used to help Carol with her choreography for cheer".

Eddie pinches his thigh below the bartop and chews the inside of his cheek as the image of Steve in the Hawkins High cheer uniform begins to solidify in his minds eye, fuck.

Robin elbows Eddie without looking, somehow reading his mind, and throws her hands out, beckoning Steve to continue because that isn't nearly enough information.

"Yeah, she'd come up with routines and you know, they are meant to be done with more than one person, and I mean she and I were friends before Tommy so," he shrugs and smiles at the bartender as they pass him the drink, "I dunno, it was fun, and I remember that one the most".

"Plus," he says with a smirk, "Carol always said the best thing about dance is that you can tell who appreciates the performance and who appreciates the person doing it," he winks as Robin scoffs and calls him gross, but Steve isn't looking at Robin.

Eddie swallows as molten heat creeps up his neck and over his ears, the urge to hide his face, run for the door, melt into the floor, is immense.

But Steve doesn't move his gaze, he smiles softly at Eddie and winks again over Robin's head which she promptly drops into her hands.

"I'm surrounded by horny idiots," she grumbles but the words are muffled in the din of the bar and her own hands as Steve tips his head back to the dance floor and holds out his hand for Eddie to take.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 45

part 1 | part 44 | ao3

Nancy, Jonathan, and some guy with the longest hair Steve's ever seen are standing in a loose circle with Eddie and his bandmates, talking and sort of dance-nodding along to The Power of Love by Huey Lewis (a fact that Steve absolutely intends to mock his boyfriend for the second he gets the chance), and Steve, like, mentally girds his loins.

He and Jon are cool with each other, and he and Eddie are obviously, uh, plenty warmed up to one another by now, but the rest of them...

One's a stranger, one's an ex who seems drunk as shit and is currently so invested in spinning around to the music that she hasn't opened her eyes to notice him, and the other three are thawing to him at a truly glacial pace. Steve hasn't so much as been invited to watch a rehearsal yet because Eddie's 'still working on them' and needs 'a bit more time, but don't worry, they'll come around.'

They don't openly scowl when he and Robin approach, though, so Steve takes that as a win.

"Harrington!" Eddie calls, bowing deeply to add, "Lady Buckley."

Steve would feel stung by the surname if not for how downright giddy Eddie sounds. God, he loves tipsy Eddie; fucking Disney cartoon boy.

"Munson," he plays along, giving him a sly grin and a shoulder bump as he sidles up next to him. "Didn't know you were allowed to leave the basement at these things."

Jeff interrupts his air-guitaring to glare at Steve, bur Eddie holds out a hand and assures him that Steve's just fucking around. Before Steve can apologize or defend himself, Long Hair Guy leans in across the circle, his eyes wide and intense and bloodshot to hell.

"Dude," he greets. "You have. Such beautiful hair."

Steve barks a laugh. Robin rolls her eyes. Jonathan also rolls his eyes, but it seems more fond and less annoyed. "Can't take you anywhere," he mutters to the guy, then asks them, "You guys met Argyle yet?"

Steve holds out a hand. Confusion washes over him as he processes what Jonathan just said. "Uh." Argyle. "Like the sweater?"

"Yeah, man," Argyle smiles, dopey and slow. Sure. The guy in head-to-toe tie-dye and a neon green fanny pack is named Argyle. Why not? "My parents wanted a sheep, but they got me, instead."

Jonathan laughs like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard. Steve's pretty sure he's too sober for this conversation.

They exchange handshakes, and Robin asks if she can touch the guy's hair, and they all slip into easy, friendly conversation, naturally splintering into smaller groups of twos and threes. Steve's just getting the rundown on all the 'sick new gear' the band got for Christmas when the song changes, and god, this night just could not get better.

"Oh, fuck off!" Eddie groans in the DJ's direction.

Steve has to practically swallow his lips to keep himself from cackling, and then he gives up and does it, anyway, because Eddie looks like he just sucked a lemon while watching a dog die as his bandmates all start sing-shouting along. "We're talking away..."

"No." Eddie wheels around and points a finger at Steve, because Steve's singing, too.

Steve just sings louder. "I don't know what, I'm to say!"

"Oh, my god." He scrubs a hand down his face, dragging the skin down until Steve can see the pale pink of his inner eyelid. "Nobody I know has any goddamn taste!"

"Maybe you don't have any taste!" Robin teases, bouncing around and swinging her arms haphazardly to the music.

Nancy backs her up with a mumbled "Yeah!" but she's still spinning around in such tight circles that Steve doubts she has a single clue what's happening in the argument right now. Which is kind of endearing, actually. He likes how willing she is to stick up for people.

The chorus kicks in; Gareth air-drums the switch to half time just before Frank does an honestly super impressive falsetto of 'in a day or twoooooo', and Eddie despairs while Steve laughs his fucking head off.

—

part 46

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[royaltozaki]

what if nerd momo x bimbo reader author I need u

failing maths, but getting the girl

synopsis: momo and y/n have hated each other ever since an incident in first year. now, y/n's failing a class and momo offers to help.

warnings: mentions of blood and cuts, overbearing parents, drugs, implied sex

w/c: 4.0k

a/n: this is kinda funny for me bcs im blonde and my dad keeps making jokes in chinese about how im ltr a blonde bimbo now. anyway i combined these 2 reqs bcs im lazy forgive me anon/s

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"y/n!"

you turn in the corridor, almost crashing into the burly man behind you who yells a "watch where you're going blondie!" before rushing off to a class he was probably late to.

you spot your friends who had called you, grinning and waving you over, "can't go one day on campus without running someone down can you?" a friend teases.

you pout, "i didn't walk into anyone yesterday!"

"no but you got stuck in the revolving door outside the chem building."

you whine at their teasing, you were a naturally clumsy person! sometimes you'd mix up salt and sugar, and sometimes you'd lose your car keys only to find them still in the ignition keyhole of your car from the last time you used it.

"so you coming to that party tonight? i heard some famous dj from the states is playing."

"awwh really?! i can't tonight i'm failing that dumb math class i have to take and i have a quiz tomorrow so i gotta study."

"you're failing everything y/n, what difference would one night make for you anyway?" a scoff from a student passing by, who you recognise as the infamous hirai momo from the back of her head and the evil way she sends a side-eye at you and your friend group in disgust.

"i wouldn't be if it weren't for your sad ass hirai!"

"stop looking at my ass and get your eyes on some books for once."

momo was meant to be your roommate in first year. although you had accidentally locked her out in the rain for 5 hours while you were hooking up with someone you can't remember the name of anymore. that was during orientation week, safe to say she was pissed and completely drenched when you finally let her in. she filed for a roommate change not long after, citing "poor etiquette and stupidity that could infect my genius", and being the university's most promising academic scholar, she pretty much got whatever she wanted. meaning she also got you assigned to the harshest tutors and markers as her own form of personal revenge, essentially making you fail most of your first year courses. which is why you were even taking this math class again.

the problem arose however, when you find out you would actually lose your scholarship if you failed another class. so failing was definitely not an option.

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

“you failed.”

“what!? but i studied all night! i even brought the right calculator model this time!”

“miss l/n, bringing the correct calculator doesn’t help you if you don’t know how to use it. and neither does studying all night if you haven’t been coming to class for most of the semester.”

you’re gaping at the professor in disbelief.

“i’m afraid you’ll lose your scholarship if you fail the upcoming final exam. take this as your final warning. good day miss l/n.”

the door is shut in your face while you're still left trying to process exactly what just happened, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

a familiar scoff behind you brings you back though, "what is y/n l/n doing here outside the staff meeting room? what? about to blow one of your professors for marks or something?"

you spin, stepping into her space, faces inches away from each other, "you jealous or something hirai? i'll blow you too if you beg."

you revel in the way her cheeks immediately flush, a slightly shaky finger pushing up the glasses on her nose as she looks away, "jokes on you l/n. i don't have a dick dimwit."

"you don't need one for me to make you feel good."

she's sputtering, moving around you quickly to escape, knocking on the staff door. you smirk, reveling in the slight win over her but immediately forgetting the feeling of triumph when you realise you're still fucked for your final in 2 weeks.

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"y/n, you know i love you, but i cannot explain this again in any other way."

you groan, hands coming up to pull at your hair.

"but you got like a high affliction or something for this class last year! if you can't teach me i'm actually royally screwed, pleaseee?"

"it's high distinction sweetie. and just because someone's good at something doesn't mean they're a good teacher. sorry to break it to you but i couldn't teach my little cousins how to multiply fractions without wanting to commit homicide."

you wrinkle your nose, "gross dude they're literally related to you."

"no babes homicide means i wanted to kill them."

"oh... i guess that's better?"

"focus! c'mon you remember how to do the cross product right?"

"i don't get ittttttt!!!!!!! isn't that just multiplication? a times b equals ab!"

"this isn't algebra it's vectors. cross product isn't multiplication y/n."

you groan again, facepalming the desk in front of you.

your friend sighs, "sorry y/n i have to get going now. promised my boyfriend i'd go watch his game tonight."

"what?! you can't leave me here!"

your friend's already packing up their stuff though, "sorry! good luck with the studying though!"

you wail in goodbye, sitting up again and slapping your face a few times, trying to hype yourself up.

two minutes later, and you're still absolutely nowhere.

you decide to go out for a quick stroll rather than start a campfire in the middle of the library with all your papers. the evening breeze feels refreshing against your skin as you take in the sky. breathing in a deep sigh and closing your eyes briefly.

definitely the wrong idea when you crash headfirst into something that yelps a "what the fuck!" followed by the sound of smashing glass and a whine of pain.

your eyes are quick to open and you stare down at a bleeding hirai momo next to what looks to be a ruined 3D print of a final project or something.

"oh shit momo! are you okay?" you crouch down quickly, trying to collect the glass pieces that have broken, yelping when a piece digs into your skin.

"has all that bleach finally reached your brain y/n? who goes for broken glass with their bare hands?" she's frowning, rubbing her head a little and inspecting the cut across her arm.

"i-i'm sorry i-"

she sighs, "save it. i've had a long enough day as it is. being around you any longer is just gonna increase my chances of dying to some freak plane crash or something." she's standing up and brushing her hands off on her pants muttering to herself, "i'll have to call security to come clean this up."

you realise then that her eyes look a little puffier than usual, slightly tinged with red, the telltale signs of crying.

you suddenly feel terrible. whatever you had just broken seemed like an extremely intricate piece of work, and she was still bleeding down her arm but she didn't seem to pay it much mind, taking a phone out of her pocket and dialing security.

you step to the side and wait for her to finish talking on the phone. she doesn't realise you haven't left yet, swearing under her breath as she assess the damage once again.

when she turns and sees you again, she scowls, "what are you still doing here bimbo? don't you have a dick to ride or some jewelry to shine?"

you ignore her, blushing instead, "you're still bleeding."'

she looks surprised at that response, glancing at her arm again briefly and shrugging, "it's whatever. i'll clean it up later."

you wrap a hand around her wrist then, still not meeting her eyes, "let me? it'll be hard to bandage it properly with your left hand. and i kinda owe you for all of-" you gesture vaguely with your other hand at the ground, "this."

she's tugging her hand back quickly though, "don't bother. you'd probably make it worse. just go home y/n."

you sigh exasperatedly, "won't you just let me help! i feel bad okay? i can't just leave you here bleeding onto the concrete waiting for security to come clean this up."

she's surprised at your outburst, eyes locking onto yours and then nodding slightly. you don't let her rethink her decision as you drag her back inside the library, heading into the storeroom where you knew they had emergency first aid supplies.

you sit her down on the chair and rummage through the small kit for some alcohol wipes to clean the wound first.

she's eyeing you with a sort of caution, but is quick to clench her eyes shut and gasp at the first sting of disinfectant.

it's quiet for a bit while you work on cleaning her wound.

"where'd you learn first aid?" she speaks up first, eyes meting yours again.

"my little sister used to play around a lot with the rougher kids in the neighborhood. so she was always coming home with scratches and cuts and my mom was at work most of the time so i had to learn to take care of her myself."

momo hums, "guess that didn't really translate to taking care of yourself then huh? i mean with the way you're always tripping over air and stuff, you're more of a danger to yourself than a serial killer would be." there's no malice to her words this time, just lightly teasing you and you smile.

"i am sorry by the way. for breaking that. it looked like it'll be pretty hard to replicate."

"nah. i can just print another one tomorrow don't worry."

you both fall into silence again as you finish cleaning her wound, going to collect a few of the bandages to start wrapping around her arm.

you clear your throat a little awkwardly, "so... long day?"

she chuckles humorlessly in response, "something like that."

"wanna talk about it?"

she bristles then, and you're quick to correct yourself, "i mean you don't have to. just... making conversation."

it's quiet for a little longer and you're finishing wrapping her up, grabbing a small adhesive to stick it all together when she sighs. "sorry. just had a lot of pressure from back home lately. my parents keep wanting me to hurry up and graduate so i can go back to japan and take over the family companies. they called earlier saying how they're cutting off my funding for next year if i continue to drag out my studies."

"what? but you're only 23. don't you have like, things left you wanna do before you're all old and unable to move anymore?"

she giggles a little, its the first time you've heard that from her, "yeah tons actually. i've always wanted to see the northern lights and stay in one of those cute little igloos in finland, maybe go to antarctica and do some research there."

"okay! do that! what's stopping you?"

she smiles at you sadly, "my parents won't allow it. they'd disown me for not taking over their companies. and frankly, i'd be broke without them. i don't have the kind of money to keep living abroad like this if they were to stop supporting me."

you tilt your head a little in confusion, "can't you find a job?"

she's laughing then, a full, nose-scrunching laugh, "not with the classes i'm taking. i'd have to either take part-time study, which my parents would literally kill me for because it's 'embarassing' and would bring shame on our family name, or... never sleep again and take a night job or something."

you frown, sitting back on your heels.

"thanks for this by the way. you're still hurt though, do you want me to do you?"

"-and don't make a weird joke about that." she interrupts you before you can even open your mouth.

you pout, nodding a little as she laughs, and grabs the first aid box from you, gently placing your hand in her lap and cleaning your fingers.

you're caught by the way her eyebrows furrow a little in concentration, her teeth biting into her bottom lip slightly, and you can't help but think she looks cute.

you're brought quickly out of these alarming thoughts though, when she asks "how come you're in the library so late on a friday night anyway? never thought the day would come."

you groan, remembering the stack of math papers you have sitting on your desk, "i have to study for a math final coming next week. if i fail i lose my scholarship and i can't let my mom pay for any of this. she's already worked hard enough getting both my sister and me through school."

momo looks surprised at your admission, "oh. i'm sorry. i didn't know you were on scholarship."

you hum, "yeah most people don't assume it from looking at me." you tease a little, flipping your blonde hair over your shoulder and giving a little jingle of your bracelets.

"i'm not materialistic or anything but i enjoy having things that make me look nice y'know?"

she rolls her eyes, placing bandaids carefully onto your fingers.

"you don't need any of those things anyway."

you're caught again, unsure whether that was a compliment or some new way of torturing you.

she clears her throat, "all done."

you look at your hand, cutely littered with some winnie the pooh bandaids she must have found in the first aid kit.

you beam up at her, "thanks!"

she blushes a little and looks away from you, shyly rubbing the back of her neck, "hey look... i can help you study for that test next week if you want. don't want you losing your scholarship over something simple like that. plus i kinda helped go through all the first year math exams for some extra credit with the head of department."

you're shocked at first, and then jumping and squealing, bringing her up with you, "what?! you will?! oh my god thank you!!!!! holy shit oh my god i'm not gonna fail oh shit i'm-"

she's shooshing you in an instant though, a hand clamped over your mouth, eyes darting behind you, "y/n! we're still in a library!"

you grin when she lets you go, whispering loudly, "thank you!"

she's rolling her eyes and letting herself be dragged over to your table, praying that she didn't make the wrong decision deciding to help you.

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

momo's standing outside your lecture theatre, waiting for your class to end. you texted her saying you were getting your final results back today so she decided to pop by and make sure everything was okay.

once students start exiting the class she slips in, walking towards the professor who's packing up her stuff..

"momo! good to see you here. although i'm a little surprised. i wasn't expecting you."

"hey professor kwon. i'm just here to-"

momo's attacked from the back, you're squealing as you latch onto her excitedly, waving a test paper in front of her face, "i passed! momo look i passed! with a 62!!!!! that's higher than i've ever gotten!!!!!"

"miss l/n. i didn't know you knew momo." professor kwon is looking you up and down with a little distaste but you ignore it, squeezing momo even tighter in thanks.

"y/n- stop- wait lemme see that-" she snatches the paper out of your hand and scans it, eyes lighting up when she confirms you did in fact pass.

"congratulations! all that hard work really paid off."

you're blushing, "couldn't have done it without you hirai. c'mon, come out with my friends and i tonight to celebrate!"

"o-oh i don't know about that y/n... i've got-"

"study yeah yeah you always do. but you've gotta relax every now and then you know?"

"miss l/n is right momo. you're the most hardworking student here you should give yourself a break every now and then."

you're nodding fiercely, "right right! thanks professor kim!"

she looks at you with a glare, "kwon. its professor kwon miss l/n."

you're nodding, waving her off shaking momo, "c'mon pleaseeeeeeee? i'll pay for everything. as a thanks for helping me. and i can afford it now too since i won't be losing my scholarship which is also thanks to you so..!"

momo's still uncertain, hand at the back of her neck again, a nervous tick you've picked up on.

"oh professor i just remembered!" you're switching back to your professor, excitement and attention everywhere, "you were looking for outstanding students to tutor next semester right? how about momo? she's the only reason i passed this final and trust me when i say i'm a pretty difficult student to teach."

"oh?" the professor looks towards momo who's eyes have widened, "i had actually planned on asking you regardless but seeing as you were very successful with miss l/n it's just even more proof that you'd be a great teacher. what do you say momo? it's paid decently and great on your academic and work transcripts as well..."

you're looking between your professor and momo with full eyes.

momo looks like she's about to reject the offer, you knew it was because her parents expected her to be back in japan next year but you stop her before she's able to say anything.

"momo! this is great! this is exactly what you need! a job while you're still at uni so you can study at any time but still get paid for it!"

"y/n..."

"it's okay momo. think about it and let me know if you're interested and you've got the job 100%. i've got to get going to my next class now but goodbye girls, congratulations miss l/n but i hope i won't be seeing you in my class next year."

"oh definitely not professor kim!" you wave enthusiastically, giggling at the way the professor sighs in defeat.

you look back at momo who still looks a little stunned.

"well? what do you think?" you ask her excitedly.

"i- i don't know... there's a lot to think about..."

you tilt your head to the side a little in confusion, a gesture momo was beginning to grow fond of.

"i can't just abandon my family y/n. it's a decision that will take me some time to go over." she smiles at you gently, you can't believe this was the same girl who used to call you mean words and intentionally pray on your downfall.

"mm okay. i don't really get it but as long as you're happy in the end it doesn't matter. now c'mon! you coming tonight or not?"

she sighs fondly, "yeah yeah just this once. and we better be home by 12!"

you're pulling her along again scoffing, "riiiiiiiiight 12pm maybe."

"y/n!"

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momo was most definitely out of her comfort zone. she mostly stuck to the bar, avoiding eye contact with people who tried to approach her. she quickly ordered another drink, hoping the alcohol could at least ease her nerves.

you were most definitely in your zone. you adored being able to dress up and let loose, especially when everyone else is so drunk you’re no longer the only person falling over themselves. you could laugh a little and have fun as well.

you could feel momo’s eyes on you and you ached to drag her out onto the dance floor and join you but she was adamant on staying by the bar when you had tried.

you’re not sure if it was the alcohol or maybe you were just attracted to her now after you’ve spent a whole week studying with her pretty much every minute of every day. but she looked good. you licked your lips as your eyes trailed down the slant of her jawline, her neck and clavicles outlined in the halter top she was sporting. your eyes politely moved past her chest but darted straight down to the abs that she apparently had hidden from the entire student body. how did she even have time to have abs when she always had her nose in a book or was in a lab conducting experiments?

you snap out of it when you realise said abs were moving closer to you for some reason, and suddenly she's all in your space, shoving someone behind you that you hadn't even realised was there in your momo-induced daze.

you turn to see a man with half his shirt unbuttoned and a look of surprise on his face. "the fuck dude?"

momo says nothing, reaching for your drink instead, sticking a finger in and swirling it around for 2 seconds before bringing it to her lips.

that was hot.

"rohypnol."

"what? what the fuck are you on about?" the guy is annoyed, drawing the attention of bystanders as they create a small circle around the three of you, you spot your friends in the crowd looking at you in confusion silently asking what's going on?

you can only shake your head, attention moving back to momo who's standing up straight, almost chest to chest with the guy now.

"rohypnol. a drug belonging to the benzodiazepine class of drugs that inhibits the central nervous system causing the user to experience extreme drowsiness and even blackout in some cases. it can also cause the user memory loss and brings the user to a higher state of intoxication in a rapid amount of time. it's street name is roofies."

the man is sputtering now, "w-what? what is this bullshit? what are you tryna say huh?"

"that you tried to roofie my friend here. do you want me to call the police? have them check this drink for traces of the drug?"

"what!? the fuck?!"

momo sighs, her eyes closing for a second, "is your vocabulary only limited to what? and the fuck? it's getting tiring talking to you."

he's gaping like a fish, the people surrounding you have called security over and they're tying his hands behind his back and he's left squirming against them, yelling more curses as momo stands stoically, watching him get taken away.

she sighs when he's out of sight and turns to you with a smile, "you should be more careful. you could've been hurt tonight."

you can't even think straight and the music is being turned back up, and momo looks so good, you can't help the way you're pulling her in by the waist and planting your lips on hers.

she makes a sound of surprise and is shocked for a second, but closes her eyes and returns the kiss, maneuvering you a little so she can place the spiked drink on a nearby table before her hand returns to you, one hand cupping your cheek, the other on your shoulder.

you're a little desperate when you claw at her abs that are now within touching distance, and she giggles into the kiss. you mutter a small shut up, reattaching your lips, feeling all the adrenaline of the night pumping through you as you mould yourself against her.

"god is it weird that- that kinda turned me on a little?" you're speaking between breaths, her lips swallowing up your words, not letting you catch a break.

she hums lightly against you, "which part?"

"the- when you were talking- about all those chemicals- and whatever-"

she breaks away from you then, an eyebrow arched and a hint of a smirk on her face, "you get off on me talking nerdy?"

you want to wipe that smirk off her face. "take me home and i'll show you what i get off on."

her eyes darken considerably, and she's tugging you towards the exit, grabbing the spiked drink and pouring it down the drain first to make sure no one drinks it. the little action of consideration even when you're both overwhelmed with lust just gets you more wet.

you send a quick text to your friends saying you had to leave early, and then you're in a cab, lips on each other's again, hands roaming and exploring every inch of available skin.

you suppose the one good thing out of that math exam was it bringing the two of you together at last.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

[chxrrysprxut]

What they do as your bf/gf hc PT 1

A/N: This contains Cody, Duncan, Trent, Gwen, Lindsay. (i'm doing every character)

Cody:

Okay, So Cody is literally SMITTEN by you

Like this boy. Would do anything for you

Lemme tell you what he does

first of all, if you hurt yourself, he will be RUNNIN over to you

Like he will be bolting', Like USAIN BOLT

And you'd be like "WTF" and he'd be like "baby! are you okay???"

Also, when he's around his friends they would get sooooooo tired of hearing about you

he's shorter than you

you can't change my mind

A Ton of movie nights

You are literally his idol

every date night he buys you those chocolate boxes shaped in hearts, and a bouquet of roses.

Duncan:

When he first met you at TDI, he thought you were annoying af

But boy DJ and Geoff, told him he was in LOVE with you

and he was like "No way"

3 weeks later

you guys make out

And lord ever since he has been SMITTEN by you

you guys are like an OTP

You always go to his Juvie center, and call him on the phone

he fights the guards when his call time is over

Trent:

Trent is always playing his guitar for you

when you guys cuddle, he braids your hair

you make him bracelets and he ALWAYS wears them, and i mean ALWAYS

He always sends you notes like: "Hey Beautiful, Date night 2night? 7pm Movies?"

He writes you songs ;-;

If you stay at his house and he wakes up earlier than you

be prepared for a breakfast feast

whenever you wear lipstick he ALWAYS wants you to kiss him. All over his face. His lips. His neck. His Hands. He loves YOUR lipstick marks

And dont get me started

this boy.

is always

sneaking into your house

also

Your parents

LOVE HIM

also when you hurt yourself. He cries

A ton

especially if its S3lf H^rm

He be crying a waterfall

Trent is Hubby goals ;-;

I want him now;-;

he loves it when you wear his clothes

he kinda

he kinda just thinks about

things...(if you know you know)

also hes a bottom

like honestly

Gwen:

You help her dye her hair

When you wear her clothes she gets annoyed

idk why

she loves doing your hair in the mornings

ahem shes a top ahem

On your bunk bed

Why yall have dirty minds

If you know you know

she helps you study for your tests

Lindsay:

You love her ditzy manner

She loves doing your makeup

She giggles at the stupidest thing

"Omg, this pigeon wearing a top hat is like soooooo cuteee"

She once almost cut her finger off

she cried

for 7 hours straight

she like falls asleep during movies

[myheartismadeofstars]

Imagine Good Ending Origin Characters meeting their Bad Ending counterparts:

Spawn Astarion meeting Ascended Astarion would be horrible. AA feels nothing but disdain for Spawn and Spawn doesn't even recognize himself. His sense of humour is sardonic and warped, he looks down on everyone, even his friends! I can't imagine anything other than AA belittling Spawn, calling him pathetic and weak.

Professor Gale meeting God!Gale might be surprisingly cordial lol. I think that while obviously God Gale is less helpful and and more arrogant but I assume Gale would expect that.

Lae'zel...does Lae'zel have a bad ending other than getting eaten by Vlaakith? Then again, maybe that would be horrible enough. NOT having a counterpart to meet...

Silverheart meeting DJ Shadowheart. Horror. Neither can believe that the other would do something so unthinkable. And they would probably fight over it.

Karlach meeting Illithid!Karlach...I think Karlach would be sad to see herself like that. She'd be nice to her, though. Because desperation.

Wyll's is interesting. Good Ending!Wyll looks like a devil and he fights through the Hell's...but he's made good choices and is free. Bad End!Wyll still looks human, and is probably still under Mizora's contract. GE!Wyll probably is horrified to think what BE!Wyll did to Karlach...

And to round them all out:

Durge. Redeemed Durge is shocked to see the...degraded creature the Embrace Durge has become. Embrace absolutely tries to kill his counterpart and the companions...

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 17

Description: It's a three-day weekend, so you go out dancing, run into Miguel, and Gabi does her own investigating.

Pt 18

You’re really not sure how you didn’t make the connection between Miguel and Spiderman before. They have the same build, similar voices, they do that same head tilt thing, and they call you cariño, along with a few other heart-stopping petnames.

“Y/N, y/n, earth to y/n.” Janey is waving her hand in front of your face, her bag on her shoulder.

You snap back to reality and scroll past the news footage of Spiderman saving a bus full of senior citizens. “Yeah, sorry, I’m listening.”

“Are you? Because Principal Alan just emailed us saying a water line broke, so school is canceled tomorrow, and I was trying to tell you about it.”

“Really? So, we get a three-day weekend?” You set down your phone, face down, so you aren’t tempted to pick it back up and obsessively search for more footage of Spiderman.

“Yeah, so I’m thinking we go out tonight?” Janey suggests a mischievous expression on her face.

“Oh no, no, are we going to one of those weird clubs where all the drinks aren’t called what they actually are, and the DJ wears a mask or something weird like that?”

Janey rolls her eyes playfully. “I take you to one speakeasy that’s a little weird—”

“A little? Janey, people were having sex just like, on the floor.”

“That is not usually a part of it, that was really weird.” Janey admits, giving you an apologetic smile. “But still, I know this new club, it’s really cool, and not weird at all.”

Janey is a liar. The club is super weird. All the employees are dressed in an odd sequined fabric, the drinks are dirt cheap, the DJ keeps switching up the songs halfway through, and the whole place is housed in an abandoned hospital.

“Janey, this place blows, can we please leave?” You shout over the music, trying to pretend you’re not grossed out by the couple making out on a decades old hospital bed.

“It’s an experience, y/n, just relax, have another drink, if the music doesn’t get better by the time, it’s midnight we’ll leave.”

You look at your phone, it’s eleven thirty now, you can tough it out for thirty more minutes.

“Okay, but you get my drink, and I’ll save our spot.”

Janey smiles and thanks you, then disappears into the crowd.

You sway to the music, watching the others around you. Everyone seems to be having a lot more fun than you. Then the song changes, the bass so loud you feel it in your chest.

Janey returns and hands you your drink. You both clink your plastic cups together and down them.

“Oh, that is so bad, ew, ew, ew, what the fuck was in that gasoline?” Janey crinkles her nose, coughing into her elbow.

Yours was pretty bad too, but you’re used to drinking shitty drinks from your time with Todd.

“Let’s just dance, I kind of like this song.” You say, holding your hands out to Janey and pulling her further into the crowd.

You leave the club right at midnight, pleasantly buzzed but not drunk, and you two share a cab back to your apartments, with Janey promising that next time she’ll pick a better place.

You wave goodbye and take the elevator up to your apartment, smoothing out your dress in the reflection on the doors. Tight, low cut, a gorgeous color, you love this dress because you just look so damn good in it.

Part of you wonders what Miguel would think of it. You toy with the idea of knocking on his door, pretending you need his help with something but think better of it. It’s midnight, Gabi is most definitely asleep, you don’t want to accidentally wake her up and have her see you in a clubbing outfit.

The elevator doors ding, you step out, and run straight into Miguel.

He looks you up and down, then cocks an eyebrow. “Night out?”

You try to subtly tug down your skirt. “Yeah, but it was kind of lame, so we left early.”

His eyes flicker behind you. “We?”

“Janey and I.”

He visibly relaxes and stretches his arms behind his head. “Can’t sleep, thought I’d go for a run.”

Your eyes drink in the bend of his arms, the flexing of his muscles through the long sleeves of his form fitting gray shirt.

You want him bad, so bad you start to open your mouth to say something you’ll blame on the alcohol flooding through your system, then you remember Gabi’s face. How she clung to you crying, how scared she was that you’d never come back.

You can’t mess this up, can’t throw yourself at Miguel just because he’s kind, smart, handsome, a good dad, and he eats pussy like a fucking champ. You have to be smart about this, it’s not just you and him, but you, him, and Gabi. And you will never do anything to hurt Gabi, and you’re sure neither would Miguel.

“That’s too bad, hopefully it’ll tire you out.” You say, forcing yourself to meet his eyes and steady your breathing.

“And what about you? Up for a run?” His voice dips low, and you know exactly what he’s asking.

“I can’t.” You say even as you scream internally, the parts of your brain fueled by lust cussing you out six ways to Sunday. “I’m so beat, and I’ve been drinking, it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Miguel scans you once more, then nods. “Take an Advil before you go to bed, I’m making you breakfast, I’ll see you at ten.”

You buffer for a moment. Is he asking you out on a date?

“If you’d like, no pressure.” He backtracks, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression sheepish and nervous?

Is Miguel O’Hara nervous?

You step closer to him and brush your painted lips across his cheek, leaving a perfect imprint of your lips, the pink of your lipstick complimenting his tanned skin. “I’d like that. I’ll see you at ten.”

Then you slip into your apartment, flop down onto your couch, and scream into the nearest pillow.

“Lyla?”

“Yeah, Gabi?” Lyla pops into the room, her form dimmed to match the low light of her room.

“Is Papá here?”

“It looks like he’s in the hallway with y/n, do you want me to tell him you’re awake?” She’s sitting beside Gabi’s bed now, a concerned look on her face.

Gabi turns onto her back, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling. “No, it’s okay.”

Lyla hums in response. “Anything else kiddo?”

“Can you see if Ms. Y/N is single?”

“Sure, one second.”

Gabi hugs her bear tighter as she waits.

“She is, and it looks like…oh, ya know what, maybe your dad should tell you this stuff.”

“Lyla, come on, I thought you were cool.” Gabi pouts, sitting up in her bed and staring at Lyla’s shifting form.

“Ugh, okay but, promise me you’ll tell your dad you heard about this on the news or something.”

“I promise.” Gabi says, rubbing at her eyes, sleep already pulling at her, beckoning her back to dreamland.

“Todd Jameson, twenty-six, found dead in the Brooklyn River. Apparently, he was pretty scratched up, but that was probably from the stuff that was in the river.” Lyla bites her lip then continues. “Anyways in other news, a water pipe burst in your school, so you get a three-day weekend! That’s super exciting, congrats, kiddo.”

“No school tomorrow, yay.” Gabi yawns and lays back down, snuggling closer to Oso.

“Yep, no school, so just get some sleep, okay? Don’t think about anything but how much fun you’re gonna have with your dad on this three-day weekend.” Lyla urges, her tone soft as Gabi drifts off to sleep.

“Promise me you’ll tell Papá that Ms. Y/N is single.” Gabi insists, fighting sleep like a wild honey badger.

“I will, I promise. Now sleep, three-day weekend.”

“Three day weekend.” Gabi whispers, her head drooping, and her breathing evening out as Lyla dissipates from the room.

Miguel checks his watch to see a message from Lyla.

You couldn’t have been any more subtle with his death, could you?

He chuckles and dons his suit. Looks like he needs to get rid of a body.

Posting this while I wait for my flight bc I couldn’t wait any longer to get it to y’all!!!!

Tag list: @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650, @idolautism, @rheannajrs, @merakiq, @rexs-wife, @sukaretto-n, @twilight-loveer, @f1shb0nez, @callsign-blue

[mariacallous]

If anyone can rally up a base, it’s Taylor Swift.

When sexually explicit, likely AI-generated, fake images of Swift circulated on social media this week, it galvanized her fans. Swifties found phrases and hashtags related to the images and flooded them with videos and photos of Swift performing. “Protect Taylor Swift” went viral, trending as Swifties spoke out against not just the Swift deepfakes, but all nonconsensual, explicit images made of women.

Swift, arguably the most famous woman in the world right now, has become the high-profile victim of an all-too-frequent form of harassment. She has yet to comment on the photos publicly, but her status gives her power to wield in a situation where so many women have been left with little recourse. Deepfake porn is becoming more common as generative artificial intelligence gets better: 113,000 deepfake videos were uploaded to the most popular porn websites in the first nine months of 2023, a significant increase to the 73,000 videos uploaded throughout 2022. In 2019, research from a startup found that 96 percent of deepfakes on the internet were pornographic.

The content is easy to find on search engines and social media, and has affected other female celebrities and teenagers. Yet, many people don’t understand the full extent of the problem or its impact. Swift, and the media mania around her, has the potential to change that.

“It does feel like this could be one of those trigger events” that could lead to legal and societal changes around nonconsensual deepfakes, says Sam Gregory, executive director of Witness, a nonprofit organization focused on using images and videos for protecting human rights. But Gregory says people still don’t understand how common deepfake porn is, and how harmful and violating it can be to victims.

If anything, this deepfake disaster is reminiscent of the 2014 iCloud leak that led to nude photos of celebrities like Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton spreading online, prompting calls for greater protections on people's digital identities. Apple ultimately ramped up security features.

A handful of states have laws around nonconsensual deepfakes, and there are moves to ban it on the federal level, too. Rep. Joseph Morelle (D-New York) has introduced a bill in Congress that would make it illegal to create and share deepfake porn without a person’s consent. Another House bill from Rep. Yvette Clarke (D-New York) seeks to give legal recourse to victims of deepfake porn. Rep. Tom Kean, Jr. (R-New Jersey), who in November introduced a bill that would require the labeling of AI content, used the viral Swift moment to draw attention to his efforts: “Whether the victim is Taylor Swift or any young person across our country—we need to establish safeguards to combat this alarming trend,” Kean said in a statement.

This isn’t the first time that Swift or Swifties have tried to hold platforms and people accountable. In 2017, Swift won a lawsuit she brought against a radio DJ who she claimed groped her during a meet-and-greet. She was awarded $1—the amount she sued for, and what her attorney Douglas Baldridge called a symbolic sum “the value of which is immeasurable to all women in this situation.”

Last fall, tens of thousands of people registered to vote after the superstar posted a link to Vote.org on Instagram. And in 2022, her fan base, so enraged after waiting hours to buy tickets to the Eras Tour only to be beaten out by bots, reignited conversation around antitrust issues with Ticketmaster and Live Nation’s mega-merger. A cringy Senate hearing followed, and an investigation into Live Nation’s agreements with venues and artists is ongoing.

Swift and her fans could advocate for legal changes at the federal level to pass. But their outrage could do something else: lead platforms to take notice. “When you have a really massive group of users saying this content is unacceptable in this very high-profile way, the power there is about what it says to the platform about what users will and won’t tolerate,” says Cailin O’Connor, a professor of philosophy at University of California, Irvine and coauthor of The Misinformation Age: How False Beliefs Spread. X did not respond to a request for comment on the images and its moderation efforts regarding deepfake porn. Elon Musk bought the site in 2022 and quickly gutted its moderation teams. Advertisers have also dropped off recently after Musk’s apparent endorsement of an antisemitic conspiracy theory.

It’s not clear whether Swift will take on this issue. A representative for Swift did not respond to a request for comment for this story. Harassment of female celebrities is frequent and often brushed aside, but deepfakes are harming them and others without the same power. This could be a moment for Swift to use her powerful platform—or at least for her fans to push the issue before the public.

[atinylittlepain]

Born in the USA - Part One of Hungry Hearts

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

Hungry Hearts masterlist

warnings | 18+ cursing, eventual smut, young joel is a goddamn menace

a/n | hellooooo, folks, and welcome to the first installation of my Hungry Hearts series! i'm so stoked to share this one with y'all, as always let me know what you think!

...................................

The radio DJ called for record-breaking heat simmering the streets of Austin this week, and he certainly delivered. Too hot to think, too hot work, too hot to do much of anything until the sun starts to melt down in the late afternoons. She swears that she can feel the rubber soles of her sneakers sticking to the sidewalk with each step, the heat pressing humid hands to the back of her neck, sweat pooling in all the soft dips of her body. And it’s not like she wants to be out here in the first place. In fact, she would much rather be sitting in front of the box fan in her room right now, calculating how many days, hours, and minutes until she’ll be leaving again for school. It can’t come soon enough.

Nothing much has changed around her neighborhood since she was home in December for her holiday break. Same houses with the sleepy looking windows and basketball hoops in the driveways, same families with the nosey wives and oblivious husbands, same kids getting older and taller and more socially awkward. And the same empty lot at the end of the cul-de-sac that had been turned into patchy baseball field when she was in the first grade.

“Outfield, bring it in a little for this next one!”

“Fuck you, Miller! You’re gonna be eating those words!”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that, kid. Show us what you got, why don’t you?” And that’s the same too, unfortunately.

“That’s a strike, wouldn’t you say, Tommy?”

“Sure looked like a strike to me, Joel.” All a bit juvenile, though she would expect nothing less from the Miller brothers. They’re in fine form this afternoon, she thinks, and it seems that all the other girls home from college think the same thing as well, hanging off the chain-link fence and tittering to each other about every ball Joel fields or every fifteen-year-old Tommy stamps out on first. Joel’s idea, no doubt, his eighteen-year-old brother always too happy to hang onto his shirttails and terrorize the pubescent neighborhood kids.

And for his part, Joel seems to know he’s garnered a small audience, just a touch too much flare when the teams switch out and he steps up to bat. He’s dressed in an obscenely short pair of cut-offs, frayed hems grazing along the tan, corded muscles of his thighs. Hi-tops and tube socks, and what once could have been called a shirt, now cropped and unbuttoned so it doesn’t do much but blow in the breeze and expose the lean tautness of his torso. Stance wide, leaning down low in his hips, he winds up the bat right behind his head and lets it rip entirely too hard on the lob he was pitched by that poor fifteen-year-old, sending the ball soaring right over the fence. She has to scoff when the girls she’s standing next to actually clap for him while he drinks it up as he takes a leisurely jog around the plates before jumping down on home with both his feet. And yeah, she thinks, not much has changed, at all.

“Will! Mom wants you home for dinner, let’s go!” Her baby brother, who has decided he is definitely not a baby anymore, does not like her shouting at him one bit, entirely ignoring her with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head from where he’s standing covering first base. Someone else, however, is more than happy to take notice of her.

“Is that? Oh shit! Cherry!” Long and drawn out, Cherryyyyyyyy, with a low whistle at the end. She hasn’t been called that since the last time she saw him, which was last summer in about this same position. Though if there’s one thing she’s gotten good at, it’s ignoring Joel Miller.

“Will, let’s go please!”

“Oh c’mon, Cherry! Why don’t you come over here and show these kids how it’s done? From what I remember you always had a mean little swing.” That gets most of the kids on the field laughing as Joel and Tommy snicker to each other in the makeshift dug out, more of a dirt ditch with a sheet of metal over top of it than anything else.

“Will, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Now.” Maybe she looks like a bitch stomping out onto the field to grab her brother by the arm. She doesn’t care. She’s hot and has sweat dripping in places that sweat should never drip and is coming dangerously close to throttling Joel in front of his little fan club if he doesn’t shut his smug mouth real soon. 

“Stop, you’re embarrassing me.” Will doesn’t budge from first when she hooks her hand around his bicep, brooding at her from beneath his bowl cut.

“Do you think I want to be taking you home? Just do me a favor and stop trying to act all tough in front of your little friends so I can go home and get mom off my ass.” 

“Hey, Cherry, he’s already got one mom. He doesn’t need you nagging him too!” Joel’s dig drums up another round of laughs from the whole field, and suddenly she’s reconsidering that whole throttling thing. Fine, she thinks, she can do nagging, just wait and see how good she can do nagging. She shifts her tactic, grabbing her brother by the back of his neck instead and starting to haul him along beside her, not giving him time to do anything but trip over his feet in a stilted shuffle to keep up. And of course, it is at that moment that Joel gets the whole crowd of kids started in a chorus of boos. 

“Damn, Cherry, when did you become such a tight-ass?” Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the girls still standing along the fence shooting her daggers, maybe it’s just a little bit of all of it that makes her stop dead in her tracks when Joel says that. But before she really knows what she’s doing, she has let go of her brother to march right over to home plate. Seeming a bit surprised that she did, Joel scrambles out of the dug out still too smug for her taste when he comes chest to chest with her. 

“Well are you going to give me a bat or what?” His smirk slips into a full grin at that, and for a moment she remembers how pretty she always thought he was. Strong jaw, dark eyes, and that shock of thick, brown hair of his. Such a shame that he’s an enormous tool, really. 

“I tell you what, Cherry, what time does your mom want Will home every night?” She knows that look he has in his eyes, all squinted up with his mouth screwed to one side. Always a sucker for a challenge, and she’s all too happy to play along.

“Seven o’clock, why?” He leans in a little closer, ducking his head down like he has the most delicious secret to tell her. She can see the sweat beading and pooling in the hollow of his throat he’s so close.

“Seven o’clock, alright, Cherry. If you can hit a homerun, I will personally see to it that Will is home at seven o’clock on the dot every night for the rest of the summer. How’s that sound?” She tilts her head, hands on her hips like she’s giving it a good think before finally answering him.

“Does he really hang out with you every night?” Joel snorts, his smile going slanted at her.

“Well, someone’s got to keep the kid entertained since you got all boring, miss college.”

“Fine, give me a bat.” That gets her a big grin from him as he backpedals to the dug out to grab a bat for her.

“Let’s switch out who’s fielding. I wanna be on short stop for this hit.” Of course he does. But she thinks to herself that that’s just fine, she’s going to give him a hit to remember. 

Tommy was always the nicer of the pair, and as he walks out of the dugout to cover first, he offers her a smile and a shrug as if to apologize for his brother’s dramatics. She always liked Tommy better, even as kids.

She hasn’t done this in a long time. Not since before puberty, probably. She used to play every summer with the Millers and all the other neighborhood kids in this exact lot, and it starts to come back to her as she toes the rubber of her sneakers against home plate. Her palms twist up on the bat, hips shimmying down and back a little to get into the stance, trying her best to focus on the pitcher and not the drawling heckling going on between second and third. He’s doing a warbling rendition of that old Four Seasons song, and she’s pretty sure that the name in the lyrics is Sherry, not Cherry. But he has made it fit with his own demented drone, crooning as he sways a little side to side.

Cherryyyyy, Cherry, baby, Cherryyyyy, can you come out tonight

Youuuuu better ask your mama, Cherry baby

Deep breath in, deep breath out, she has her eyes focused on the ball leaving the soft cradle of the pitcher’s fingers. Like riding a bike, really, the quick swing in her hips and the satisfying crack of the ball hitting the middle of her bat, and, oh. Oh. 

“Motherfucker!” It’s not like she meant to, but it’s also not like she’s mad that she did. It was a nice hit, strong and straight, right between second and third. And, well, straight into Joel’s groin. 

“What are you doing? Get up, man!” Tommy is all but shrieking at his brother. Joel, however, is still crumpled on the ground and groaning, his hands clenched between his thighs from what she can tell with her quick glances as she jogs from first to second. But she quickly realizes that it’s not just his hands clutched between his legs, but the ball too. And, well, it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting up anytime soon to field that one. 

“If you could have him home more around ten till that’d be great, thanks.” If he hears her talking over his curled up body, he makes no show of it, still groaning and writhing around in the dirt with his eyes scrunched shut. She steps over him and continues a much more leisurely pace through third and home. 

“Will, let’s go.” Her brother, slack-jawed with his eyes practically popping out of his head, finally listens to her, falling into step alongside her as she can’t help a smirk sliding over her lips. She has to roll her eyes when several of the girls rush out onto the field to fawn over Joel who still seems to be incapacitated and on his knees. 

“I can’t believe you just did that.” She tries not to laugh at Will’s exclamation, bumping his shoulder with her own as they start to head home.

“He’ll live.”

…

Sure, he’s always had a competitive streak, he’s not about to deny that. But that competitive streak may, emphasis on may, have gotten a little out of hand now that it’s his baby girl that’s in the competition and not him. Sarah has a talk with him before every game about it. About not yelling at the umpire, about not constantly asking her if she’s staying hydrated in the dugout, and, what she calls the most important point, about not trying to heckle the other team. And everytime, Joel promises her that, yes, he’s going to keep his cool and stay on the bleachers like every other normal and sane parent. And he tries, he really does. But, well, try is the operative word.

“Alright, babygirl, just like we practiced. Keep your eye on the ball and let your hips lead.” It’s the middle of June, the sun bright and beating down hard on the local ball fields where Joel spends most of his weekends cheering Sarah on in her softball matches. He is not sitting on the bleachers like every other normal and sane parent. He is hovering at the side of the dug-out with his head stuck out just enough that the umpire won’t yell at him to get back while he coaches Sarah on her swing. Sarah, however, does not seem particularly grateful for his pointers, glaring at him from beneath her helmet as she steps up to the plate.

“Strike!” Swing and a miss. Joel has to remind himself that no, it is not appropriate to swear at a little league softball game, settling instead for a quick clap of his hands.

“That’s alright, baby, that’s alright. Shake it off, baby, focus.” 

“Dad, please.” She says it with a dejected tap of her bat against the plate, the universal sign for back off, now. And sure, he thinks, he can back off, a few feet back toward the bleachers so his girl can focus on her swing, sure. 

“Strike two!” 

“Goddamnit.” He says it quietly enough that he’s pretty sure no one else hears it before stepping back closer to the plate, because obviously Sarah needs a little help here.

“C’mon, baby, you got this. Shake it off. Don’t choke up on the bat like that, baby, nice and easy.” 

“Strike three, you’re–”

“Hey, that wasn’t a strike!” Sarah is going to be so mad at him on the drive home, but he’s too busy stepping over to the umpire to yell at him to be worried about that right now. 

“Sir, please go sit down on the bleachers.”

“That pitch was way to the right, I saw it, that wasn’t a strike.” 

“Dad, it’s fine, I’m out. Just go sit down, please.” Sarah has already taken her helmet off, nudging her bat into the toe of his boot like, hello, you’re embarrassing me here. But Joel knows what he saw, and what he saw was a way to the right pitch that most certainly was not a strike. 

“Baby, you are not out, okay? Put your helmet back on.” 

“Sir, your daughter is out, now please go sit–”

“Just give her one more shot, man. C’mon.”

“Hey! Three strikes and you’re out, buddy.” It’s a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere behind him, a parent from the other team most likely, though he doesn’t turn around to see who it is, still staring down the umpire.

“That wasn’t a strike!” He tosses the exclamation over his shoulder, but the woman doesn’t seem ready to back down either.

“Are you saying my daughter doesn’t know how to pitch?” Alright, lady, if you want in on the action, be his guest. He turns around slowly, ready to deliver some sort of clever reply that he hasn’t quite worked out in his mind when–

“Oh shit. Cherry?”

“Wow, I haven’t been called that in nearly two decades.” So it is her. And of course it’s her. He’d recognize her anywhere, even seventeen years later. Still that little jut of her hip when she’s pissed, still that little crook of her chin like a challenge, even seventeen years later.

“So you’re still a competitive bastard then?” Yeah, and still that too, seventeen years later.

“I– you– that wasn’t a strike.”

“Oh, yes it was.”

“It was not.”

“My daughter doesn’t pitch balls on two strikes, okay? That was a strike.” With that, she leans to the side to talk to Sarah standing behind him.

“My condolences to you for having to deal with him, kid.”

“Thanks, you’re catching him on a good day, actually.”

“Hey.” He whips around to scold Sarah, but she’s still focused on Cherry.

“How do you know my dad?”

“Oh, me and him go way back. Don’t we, Joel?” He finds himself opening and closing his mouth a few times, looking between Sarah and a woman he thought he would never see again, though before he can get a reply out, the umpire mercifully cuts off their little reunion.

“Folks, there is still an active game going on here. Sir, your daughter is out, so if you could all please get off of home plate so we can keep this game going that’d be great.” Sarah has to tug him back to her team’s dugout, promptly pushing him over and onto the bleachers while he continues to stare at Cherry like she might disappear. She has walked back to the bleachers for her daughter’s team, though she stands on the sideline with her hands on her hips now. 

“You’re all good, Els. Just keep them coming, babe.” His attention draws over to the pitcher to whom Cherry is talking to because, right, she’s Cherry’s daughter. Cherry has a daughter, holy shit. Well, so does he. He has to laugh to himself, a little shake to his head.

A lot can certainly happen in seventeen years.

…

The thing that she hadn’t considered in agreeing to Joel Miller’s little deal was that it would still mean seeing a good amount of Joel Miller. Seven o’clock every night to be exact. Actually, ten till, so he did listen, at least. And of course he’s all smiles and charm, and of course her mother invites him in for dinner every night, and of course he says yes, and of course she has to sit across from him, kicking away his foot every time it encroaches on her space.

“So, Joel, are you still over at Thatcher’s full time?” She tries not to scoff at her mother’s question, the subtle turn of her nose and the slight tinge of judgment quirking up the end of her words. Her mother and her penchant for pedigree, something that the Miller family definitively does not have. If it bothers him, however, Joel doesn’t show it, smiling and thumbing the corner of his mouth as he finishes chewing.

“Yes, ma’am, seven days a week.”

“And does that pay well, son?” Ah yes, the one-two tag team of her mother and father both jumping in now, her father doing that thing where he pretends not to know, his eyebrows falling in mock curiosity. When, really, she’s nearly certain he has already calculated in his head exactly how much Joel makes in a week, month, and year busting his ass in that mechanic shop.

“Well, sir, I’ve got no complaints. Roof over my head and food on my table. And, uh, the tips are pretty good.” That one flies right over both her parents’ heads, but he says it looking directly at her, his eyes crinkling up with a smile that only tugs one corner of his mouth, sleaze and smarm. She is well aware of the tips he pulls in from all the bored little housewives and their daughters, something that always seems to be the topic of conversation on the loungers at the community pool. 

If he’s trying to get a rise out of her right now, she’s going to make sure he fails at it, giving him a tight-lipped smile and kicking his shin hard under the table where his foot has started to nudge against hers again. Joel lets out a hard cough, the table shaking a bit when his knee jumps up in reaction.

“Alright, son?”

“Yessir, I think all this heat is finally getting to me is all. I better head on home, but thank y’all for the meal, it’s very kind of you.” Her mother frets and fusses over him, insisting he take a tupperware of meatloaf and salad home and telling him to bring Tommy along next time. Great, she thinks, frick and frack both coming for dinner will be double the fun. Though she’s quickly distracted from that thought when her father lets out a long sigh from the head of the table. 

“Such a shame that young man is working like that. It’s a waste of potential, honestly.” 

“Oh, honey, don’t.”

“I’m serious, Carol. He was always a smart kid, probably could have gone to college, but instead he’s working in that car shop with seemingly no drive for anything more for himself. I just can’t believe Deedee and Hank are letting him carry on like that.” She knows this spiel well. Next her father will angle his chair toward Will and level his finger at him and–

“Will, you know what I was doing when I was Joel’s age?” Will huffs and rolls his eyes, slumping back in his chair like this is the hundredth time he has heard this, probably because it is.

“Getting ready for law school, dad.”

“I was getting ready for– yes, son, that’s right. And now look at me. Beautiful home, beautiful family, and a good job. Do you know what Joel Miller is going to have to show for himself at my age if he keeps going the way he is now?” 

“A whole lot of nothing, dad.”

“A whole lot of– yes, son, that’s right. At this rate, he’s probably still going to be living in that shoebox apartment above Thatcher’s when he’s forty.” 

“Can I be excused please?” She tries to hold back the contempt snapping through her words, already getting out of her seat before her mother can ask her what’s wrong. For as much as Joel Miller gets on her nerves, she hates this more, this faux pity her father so easily slips into, turning him into a lesson. And not a very good one at that, because while Joel may not be in college or raking in money, he at least seems happy, and she thinks that’s more than her father can say. She knows it’s more than she can say, staring up at the ceiling in her bedroom, this time trying to calculate the minutes until she gets to go back to school. She only makes it through tallying up the rest of June though before something tapping on her window distracts her.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Hey, Cherry.” He’s lucky her room is on the first floor, or else she would have already shut her window. Though she can’t really do that when he’s standing right there in her mother’s shrubs with a wide grin that glints in the hazy dusk. 

“What do you want, Joel?”

“Mikey Donahue is having a party at his house. You wanna come? Have a little fun?”

“Uh, no, thanks.” She goes to shut her window again, but Joel holds it in place, not letting it budge no matter how hard she pushes down on it.

“Oh, c’mon. You used to be fun, what happened to that girl, huh?”

“I grew up, which seems to be more than you can say.”

“Oh, how you wound me, Cherry baby.”

“When are you going to stop calling me that? Nobody else calls me that these days except for you.”

“When you do something funnier than snorting cherry cola out of your nose.” At this point, she has given up on trying to close the window, resting her palms along the sill to lean out so she can whisper yell right into his entirely too smug face.

“I was nine, Joel. And it was your fault for making me laugh that hard.” 

“So you admit that I make you laugh?”

“You’re impossible.”

“That wasn’t a no, Cher.” All she can do is huff at him and his relentless grin, taking a moment to look him over. A little more dressed than usual, still in those cut-offs of his, but with an actual flannel shirt on top, sleeves rucked up to his elbows and with a few more buttons undone than what had been during dinner, slipping open even more when he leans down with his hands spread wide on the sill.

“Come on, it’s summer, and I know you’re not having any fun up in Chicago–”

“I have plenty of fun in Chicago.” His eyebrows shoot up his forehead when she interrupts him so quick, the snap of her words telling him just how untrue that statement actually is.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say. Just do an old friend a favor, Cherry, and come out with me tonight, huh? Really, it’s the least you can do after you almost busted my balls.”

“I was doing a public good by lessening the chances of little Joel Millers running around here in the future.” He lets out a long laugh at that, tossing his head back, the long line of his neck bobbing with the sound.

“Touché, but fine, if you don’t wanna come I guess I could always go knock on Lisa-Anne’s window. She got home last week.” He knows exactly what he’s doing by saying that, already pushing off the window and starting to walk away. Fine, she thinks, he can go have fun with stupid fucking Lisa-Anne from down the block. It’ll probably make her whole summer considering that she’s had a crush on him since his front teeth came in in the second grade. 

“Joel, wait!” He stops dead in his tracks, one foot still stuck in the shrubs outside her window as he turns around, his lips pursed to stave off what she’s sure would be a shit-eating grin. She’s already swinging one leg out of her window, trying to do so with as much grace as she can, though she still stumbles a bit in the shrubs,grabbing onto Joel’s arm to steady herself before quickly letting go with a huff.

“Just for a little while, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Cherry baby.” 

…

He’s not sure what the appropriate thing to do is in this situation. Not really any rules of etiquette for seeing a woman you didn’t think you’d ever see again, seventeen years later, and with a kid no less. All he knows is that he can’t let her drive off without saying something, so even as Sarah is calling his name like a question, he’s walking through the ballfield parking lot toward where she’s helping her daughter pack her bags into the trunk of their minivan.

“Uh, hey.” Great start, man, Jesus Christ. She turns around and smiles, smiles, and suddenly it’s summer of ‘86 all over again.

“Woah, old man, back off a little.” And suddenly it is most definitely not summer of ‘86, her kid stepping between the two of them and giving him a look that could kill. 

“Ellie, manners please. Why don’t you wait in the car?” 

“But, mom–”

“No buts, it’s fine, alright? I’ll just be a minute.” Her daughter, Ellie, huffs, giving him one more squinted look before she shuffles over to the side of the car, getting in with a hard slam of her door.

“So, mom, huh?” She tilts her head at him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans and her shoulders shrugging up.

“It looks that way. And dad?” She jerks her chin over his shoulder and he turns around to see Sarah standing by their car with one hand held over her eyes for shade as she squints at them. She’s never going to let him live this down.

“Looks that way, yeah. Are you– I didn’t– you’re back in town?” He’s trying to subtly look for a ring on her left hand, though her knuckles are still tucked into her jean pockets, and he’s pretty sure squinting at her pelvis is not a good way to make an impression in this unexpected reunion. 

“Yeah, we moved back at the start of June.”

“And when you say we, that’s– that’s you and–”

“Just Ellie and I, yep.” He has to try really hard not to smile at that, dragging a palm down his scruff to keep it at bay. 

“So you never left, huh?” 

“Uh, no, nope. Hopped a few neighborhoods over though. I don’t know if you heard, but the old block got torn down.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was, they put in a bunch of condos over it.” 

“Well I guess the times really have changed.” He should probably say something else, should probably get back to Sarah, but he can’t stop looking at her, and it seems like she can’t stop looking at him. Both of them studying all the places that time and life has settled. Her hair is shorter, he likes it, though he probably should keep that to himself. Before he can say anything, however, the blare of a car horn startles them both out of each other’s gaze. 

“Mom, let’s go.” Ellie has stuck her head out of the driver side window, the source of their interruption, already tucking back inside the car with another groan. Cherry just shakes her head.

“That’s my cue. I guess we’ll see each other around then, since our daughters are playing in the same league and all.” It still gives him pause, our daughters, and he has to clear his throat before responding. 

“I guess so, reckon we’re gonna give the umps a summer to remember.” She laughs, and he remembers that sound, still the same. He didn’t think he’d ever get to hear it again, but now he’s glad that he does. 

“For the record, that was a strike.”

“Whatever you say, Cherry.”

“Can’t believe you’re still calling me that.”

“Can’t believe you never did anything funnier than snorting cherry coke out of your nose.” All he gets from her at that is another shake of her head before she turns around to get in her car. Luckily, she doesn’t see the way he runs right into the open trunk of someone else’s car because of the way he’s slowly shuffling backward to get one more look at those jeans of hers from behind. He only realizes that he’s smiling like a fool when he gets into the car and Sarah shoots him a look from the passenger seat.

“Okay, you’re acting weird. Who was that?”

“Just a very old friend.”

........................................

tags for the moots and folks i think are interested - lmk if you want added or dropped : @casa-boiardi @tieronecrush @swiftispunk @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @amanitacowboy @pr0ximamidnight

[shadowlali]

bitter

COD - Alejandro Vargas x fem!reader

[18+] wc: ~600 summary: You cross paths with Alejandro after the breakup. masterlist

warnings: no smut, some proofreading, angst, heartbreak and toxic relationships, Alejandro is an asshole

a/n: story and title inspired by "AMARGURA" by Karol G. i have played this song non-stop since she released her album and i always felt it was very Alejandro-coded.

The hallway leading to the bathroom provides you with the perfect hiding place as you watch the scene unfold. The DJ happens to be playing most if not all of your favorite songs tonight, and maybe if your heart wasn’t currently being ripped in half, you’d be out on the dancefloor with your friends. 

But you watch as Alejandro slides his fingers through her hair and brings her mouth to his. They share a kiss and another, until he pulls back with a smile on his face. She places a kiss on his cheek, then grabs his hand to drag him over to the dancefloor. 

He follows her, and even over the sound of music you can hear his laugh. Or maybe you just have it memorized by now, the tone, timbre of his deep laugh, that you imagine you can actually hear it. His hands travel to her hips and they sway to the music. 

“Come on, Alejandro! It's just one dance.”

He stares at you with annoyance clouding his features. Your immediate reaction is to shrink back, already knowing that his answer will most likely be no. But you press the topic anyways, waiting to see if maybe this time he’ll change his mind. 

“No,” Alejandro says, placing his beer bottle on the table, “and don’t ask me again.” 

“You never want to dance with me–” 

He stands, sighing loudly before walking away. You deflate in your seat. You should’ve known he would react that way and now because of your insistence, Alejandro will most likely ignore you the rest of the evening. 

You think about dancing with your friends, looking over to where they are, but the last time you did that at a different party, he became angry and immediately forced you to leave with him.

So instead, you sit and watch the dancefloor. Sadness clogs your throat but you force it down with a shot of tequila and wait where Alejandro left you, just in case he comes back. 

You think about leaving, maybe sending a text to your friends that you don’t feel good. But then, how will you move on? Alejandro isn’t yours anymore, he made that very clear. It didn’t matter that you begged him to stay, that you promised him you’d change, he still left. 

Looking back now, you gave so much in that relationship. You were attentive to his needs and understanding of his job–of his responsibility as a Coronel.

He was cruel sometimes, but you thought if you gave him more love, more kindness, he’d treat you better. He doesn’t mean what he says, he just needs to let out his frustrations from work, you’d tell yourself. 

Alejandro never wanted to dance with you. Or go on dates. Or do basically anything that you wanted to do. So you compromised. And compromised. Until there was nothing left of you. Everyday was just a well at least we're together, but at what cost? 

So while you stand here, with tears flooding your waterline as you watch him be so different with her, you can’t help but hope he’s different for her. You hope he does the things that make her happy and that he never raises his voice or makes her feel small. 

You hear your name being called and turn to see your friends waving at you to join them. You take one last look at them, seeing Alejandro’s head jerk up and turn to look around him.

You wonder just for a second, if he heard your name being called, and if you should walk a little bit more in the light so he can see you. Because you do still love him, and you wish he was here with you. 

But instead, you turn and walk towards your friends, officially saying goodbye to that failed relationship, and looking forward to a future where you receive the love you deserve.

You say a thank you in your head, because while Alejandro did break your heart, he also set you free. You love him, but you love yourself more. 

-

the remixed version she sang is soooo good. viva colombia!

[mynameismckenziemae]

Unbroken

Part 3

(previous chapter here, next chapter here)

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x You

Summary: You and Bradley sneak away from the wedding early for some fun, but your past gets in the way.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! A little bit of smut. Please note: This chapter has heavy and possibly triggering topics for some-unplanned pregnancy, miscarriage, discussion of abortion, asshole ex-boyfriends. Feel free to send me a message if you’d like me to clarify anything before reading!

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

You're more than a lover

There could never be another to make me feel the way you do

Oh, we just get closer

I fall in love all over every time I look at you

I don't know where I'd be without you here with me

Life with you makes perfect sense

You're my best friend

You can’t help but smile as you watch Jake and Charlie dance to their first song as a married couple.

Who knew your brother’s wedding would be one of the happiest days of your life?

You clap with everyone else as Jake dips Charlie at the end with a sweet kiss, before turning around with a sigh to take a seat when the DJ invites other couples to the floor when another slow song starts. It’s one of your favorites.

But there’s a tap on your shoulder before you can even take a step.

“Will you dance with me?” Bradley asks.

“I’d love to,” you smile, taking the hand he offered and letting him lead you out on the dance floor.

Your mom spots the pair of you and wiggles her brows. Your dad rolls his eyes at her as he spins them away, winking when you mouth “thank you”.

“Your mom is a hoot,” Bradley chuckles.

“She’s something,” you mumble, breath hitching when he pulls you closer.

“Have I told you how pretty you look today?” He murmurs in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Only once or twice. I like hearing it though.”

“Can’t help it,” he smiles, meeting your eyes. “I’ll tell you every day if you give me a chance.”

You return his smile before resting your cheek against his chest and close your eyes, fighting the unease that tries to creep in.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Two hours later your feet need a break from all the dancing you’ve done. You press a cold beer to your heated cheeks as you take a breather under the stars.

“Hey! I need you and Bradley to leave now so you can go to our house and decorate for when we get home,” Charlie says as she walks up behind you with a beer also in hand.

You look at her confused before your eyes widen. “Oh shit, Charlie. I never even thought of that! I didn’t realize you’d want-“ you start but she interrupts.

“No, I don’t actually want you to”, she laughs at your puzzled expression. “I’m just giving you and Bradley an excuse to leave soon. That’s what I’m going to say if anyone asks where the two of you went.”

“I can’t leave now,” you argue, even though it does sound like a good plan.

“You can and you will. I’m the bride and what I say goes,” she says, clinking her bottle to yours. “Now finish your beer with me and go…if you want,” she adds, ultimately giving you the choice.

“That does sound nice,” you agree before taking a long pull.

“Thought so,” she smiles, taking a drink too.

You give her a big hug before you head back into the tent to find Bradley. “Have fun on your honeymoon, I don’t want to hear about it when you get back,” you laugh, giving her one more squeeze before pulling back to look at her. “Love you, Char. I’m so happy to call you my sister.”

“Love you too,” she sniffs, pulling back to look you in the eye. “Text me tomorrow. I gotta know if those mustache rides are really what they’re cracked up to be.”

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“So, my place or yours?” Bradley asks, quirking a brow as he starts your truck. He’d offered to drive since he’d only had water for a few hours now.

“Mine, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, I’d like to see where you call home,” he replies, reaching for your hand in the seat between you.

“It’s small, but it’s just me so I don’t mind,” you say, weaving your fingers through his.

“Do you like living in the country?” He asks as he turns down your road.

“Mhmm. I enjoy the quiet,” you nod your chin to the little white ranch-style home. “It’s this one.”

“Cute,” he observes as he pulls into your drive.

“Thanks. I figure I can always add on if I need more room,” you muse, hopping out. He picks up your bag and his from the backseat before you get a chance to reach for it. “I’d rather do that than move.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to move. It’s beautiful out here. I’ve never seen the moon so big, or so many stars. Wow,” he says softly as he takes in the endless sky.

“If you look long enough you’ll probably see a shooting star. We can sit out here on the swing if you want?” You offer as you unlock your front door.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he murmurs, still looking up.

“Not sure what you all have in your bag, but I’m sure I’ve got some sweats here of Jake’s if you want to change,” you say, pushing the door open.

He nods, loosening his tie. “I’m ready to get out of this suit.”

You find him something of Jake’s to wear that you stole when he was deployed before heading back to your bedroom to change.

You groan in relief when you take off your tight strapless bra after slipping off your dress, putting on silky shorts and a sweatshirt after.

You can’t hide your smirk when Bradley's eyes drop to your bare legs when you come out of your room.

“Beer?” You ask as you open your fridge and bend over to reach them on the bottom shelf, knowing your shorts are riding up.

His gulp is audible before he responds.

“Please.”

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

A few minutes later you find yourself tucked into Bradley’s side on the porch swing with his arm around you.

You see a streak across the sky at the same time he does.

“There! There was a shooting star! Did you see it?” He asks excitedly.

“I did. I’ve seen thousands but it never gets old,” you say, finishing your beer and setting the bottle on the ground.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen one,” he says, still smiling.

Your fingers find his jaw and you turn him towards you before you lean in to press your lips to his.

Crickets chirp in the background as you kiss him slowly, sweetly beneath the light of the moon.

“Cold? Do you want to go inside?” Bradley murmurs as his hand runs over your leg, feeling your goosebumps.

You’re not, but your bed is much more comfortable than the wood swing beneath you.

“Let’s go,” you say, rising before reaching for his hand.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

He spins you into his chest once you pass the threshold of your room, kissing you with more intent than moments before.

He stops only to shuck his borrowed tee but you stop him before he can pull you back in for another kiss. Your eyes hungrily taking in his sculpted chest and stomach.

“Holy shit, Bradley,” you murmur, reaching out to trace the muscles that tense under your touch.

“Tickles,” he breathes, inhaling sharply when your fingers dip lower to the top of his sweatpants.

Your eyes flit back up to his. “You’re gorgeous,” you whisper, kissing the scars on his neck and face before returning to his lips.

Your hands push his pants down and you groan in unison against each other’s mouths when you palm his erection through the thin material of his boxer-briefs.

“That is never gonna fit inside me,” you say pulling back with wide eyes.

He chuckles and steps out of his pants that are pooled at his ankles and backs you up until your legs hit the bed. “I’ll make sure you’re good and ready first,” he says lowly and full of promise as he pulls up your sweatshirt.

Your eyes close after it’s off, revealing your bare chest to him.

“I knew they’d be perfect,” he whispers in awe, immediately cupping a breast in each hand. “I’ve been wondering what they’d look like since I first saw you.”

“Yeah. Wednesday was a long time ago,” you laugh, rolling your eyes.

“No,” he shakes his head before he meets your eyes. “Since I saw you at our graduation.”

“3 years ago?” You ask in disbelief.

“Yeah. You were stunning in that yellow dress. I wanted so badly to talk to you but Jake and I weren’t exactly friends.”

“You hated each other,” you agree. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“You’re hard to forget,” he replies, kissing you again as he lays you back on the bed.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Your back arches and your hands fly in Bradley’s hair with a gasp when Bradley sucks a nipple into his mouth, teasing the other with his fingers; alternating back and forth until you’re panting beneath him, rubbing your thighs together for some friction.

That earlier unease rears its ugly head when he goes lower, kissing a path down your stomach.

Chet never did that.

“What are-oh. You don’t have to do that,” you say, propping up on your elbows as he begins to untie your shorts.

“Want to,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your thigh, pausing when he sees the hesitant on your face. “Unless you don’t like it?”

You flop back down and cover your eyes with your arm. “I uh, wouldn’t know.”

“What?”

“My ex…no one’s ever done that before,” you reply, still hiding your face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bradley says, coming up to lay beside you. He gently moves your arm away so he can look you in the eye. “He should be the one embarrassed, not you.”

“Well, we were only 17,” you reply with a sigh.

Bradley’s brow furrows.

“Maybe we should talk,” you sigh, reaching for your sweatshirt, feeling suddenly exposed in more ways than one.

“Sure,” Bradley replies, pulling his sweatpants back on before he lays down at your side.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“I’m sure Jake, or Charlie, or my mom…someone’s told you that I have no interest in relationships, right?” You ask, turning on your back to look at the ceiling.

“Yeah, Charlie mentioned something,” he replies, surprising you by moving closer and placing his hand on yours.

“Well, it’s not true. I am…interested in being in a relationship, but I am absolutely terrified,” you say with a heavy sigh.

“I was a senior when I started dating Chet. He was popular, funny cute, the star running back…everything a 17-year-old girl wanted. He asked me to homecoming and we were inseparable after that. I fell fast and I fell hard; so did he. I know we were young, but it felt like l more than puppy love. He was my first kiss, my first love and he took my virginity the night we graduated. It was awkward and painful, like most first times are,” you say, turning on your back to look at the ceiling.

“We only had sex a few more times before he had to leave for school; he had a scholarship playing football. A few weeks went by and I missed my period,” you take a deep breath before you continue.

“I called Charlie’s mom-Lisa had gotten pregnant with Charlie when she was in high school, so I felt like she’d understand. I was too scared to tell my mom yet. Lisa brought over a test, told me the directions through the bathroom door, hugged me while I sobbed when it was positive, and held my hand when I told my parents. My mom and dad were so supportive and didn’t try to persuade my decision, which was to keep it. My dad even cried at the ultrasound,” you smile at the memory.

“And Chet? Was he supportive?” Bradley asks softly, already knowing the answer.

“No, he wasn’t,” you shake your head. “He was so angry. It scared me, he’d never yelled at me like that before. He told me to get rid of it before he accused me of cheating on him since there was no way it was his because we’d used a condom. Then he stopped returning my calls and texts; just ghosted me. To say I was devastated is an understatement. I was going to be a mom at 18, I lost the love of my life and I could see my dreams of becoming a veterinarian circling the drain.”

“Whatever you say next…it’s not going to change anything,” Bradley tells you, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

You nod before your eyes fall closed. This part hurts the most. “I was so stressed out; I couldn’t eat, I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. A few weeks later I started cramping, and then the bleeding started. I lost the baby.”

“Oh Em,” he whispers. It kills you to hear tears in his voice.

“I was such a mess. The doctor told me it wasn’t my fault but I still find myself wondering if it was. I felt so guilty, but relieved; and guilty that I felt relieved. I became a shell of the girl I’d been. I decided to go to school, to pretend I was okay. I still remember Chet’s face when he saw me in the courtyard; the way he did a double take. He smiled; fucking smiled when I told him I miscarried. I slapped him across the face so hard it echoed,” you say, lip twitching in satisfaction to that memory.

“I haven’t dated or been with anyone since, I haven’t even wanted to until I met you,” you say, turning your head towards him finally, but still unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind when I asked you to leave with me.”

“I didn’t have any expectations for tonight. I was just excited to spend more time with you,” he tilts your chin up. “I really like you too, Em. I’m a patient man and you’re worth waiting for.”

You give him a small smile as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Hours go by as the two of you talk about anything and everything; what it was like growing up with Jake, the way Lisa became your second mom, how you still think about your baby; if they would’ve been a boy or a girl. In return, he tells you what it was like losing his parents so young, the crazy antics his adopted uncles got up to, and the paralyzing fear he felt before Jake saved his life.

“Oh God, what time is it? We talked all night,” You say through a yawn when you notice light starting to filter through the curtains.

“5:53,” Bradley replies, failing to stifle his own yawn as he checks his phone.

“Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?” You ask, exhaustion catching up to you quickly.

“I’m pretty comfy here,” he says eyes already closing, but he fights it to look at you to ask, “If that’s okay?”

You nod before snuggling into his side, still smiling when sleep pulls you under.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

A/N: Well…now you know why Emma is the way she is. What do you think?

As always, any interaction is appreciated but I love hearing what you think in comments/reblogs.

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