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comfortless · 3 months

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Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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disneyprincemuke · 4 months

Text

invisible string * ms47

unbeknownst to you, there was a force that was pulling you and mick together your entire lives

pairings: mick schumacher x fem!reader

word count: 5.4k

notes: hi guys i missed mick so here's a mick fic pls ignore the fuck ass ending, i didn't know how to end it ok

(f1 masterlist)

21 years ago

you sigh tiredly, cheeks pressed against your father’s shoulder as he weaves through the busy crowd moving in several directions. and you must have dozed off for a bit, letting the stuffed bunny you held in your hands fall off in your slumber.

because when your father had buckled you into your car seat, the fluffy white stuffy was missing from all the action.

“where’s bunbun?” you ask softly, rubbing your eyes as he buckles you up.

“honey,” your father says softly in confusion. he takes a step back and looks around his feet if you had dropped it. “you were holding bunbun while i carried you back.”

you whimper as the sleepiness wears off. have you really lost your best friend in a stuffed animal? “what?”

tears quickly well in your eyes, lips quivering as you feel a sob bubbling from your gut. “i lost bunbun?”

“aw, i’m sorry,” your father sighs, sitting on the floor of the car. he cups your cheeks and wipes away the tears now falling excessively. “but, honey…”

you’ve lost your favourite toys before, one time even leaving behind a doll at the airport cafeteria when your mother was in a rush to head to the boarding gate. you’ve even lost a toy phone once.

none of that is ever as serious as losing your stuffed bunny.

“we need to find her, daddy,” you cry, rubbing your eyes roughly. “i’ll miss her! she’s my best friend!” you kick your feet in frustration. “let’s go back!”

your father sighs, looking back at the crowd pouring out of the grandstand exit. he looks back at you. “maybe bunbun will have a new best friend to make memories with?”

“no! she’s my best friend for life!”

is there even a way to console a four-year-old when she loses her favourite stuffy at a formula one race? he doesn’t even know he knows where you’d dropped it.

“you know, you’ll make new best friends,” your father hums with a small and hopeful smile. he brushes the hair out of your face as you cry. “i’m sure you will reconnect with bunbun if you’re really meant to be best friends.”

you stifle a sniffle, folding your arms over your chest. your father didn’t make any sense to you. but you’re tired of explaining yourself over a stuffed bunny.

so you just nod and turn your head, grabbing the stray blanket on the backseat of the car. you’d spend the entire night — and the next two entire days — mourning the loss of your best friend, bunbun.

on the other side of the grandstand, there’s a small boy running around as his older sister chases him around with a giggle and her hands in the air.

“i’m coming for you, mick!” she giggles, slowing herself down when she finds herself eventually catching up to the little legs that were trying their best to keep him away.

he screeches as he tries to get away from her, their mother in the far back craning her neck to see where her children are running off to before resuming her conversation.

he comes to a slow stop when his eyes are able to make out the small bundle of white on the ground. his sister bumps into him lightly, not expecting him to suddenly stop.

“what’s this?” he asks, bending down carefully to pick up the soft toy. he turns around to his sister. “cat?”

“no, silly,” she laughs, dusting off the stuffy lightly. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the animal, but her brother is still young. “it’s a bunny. look at its ears.” she takes it into her hands and holds it by its long ears to show her brother. “see? long ears.”

“cool.” he takes it back into his hands, wrapping his arms around it. he holds it against his chest and grabs his older sister’s hand. “mama will let me keep?”

“maybe! let’s go ask her!”

he tries to follow his older sister’s pace as they run back to where their mother stood.

“hey!” she greets them, immediately dropping into a squat and her arms wrapping around them. she notices the object in her son’s arms, knowing well that he had not left her running with that. “what do you have here?”

he points to where he had picked it up from. “gina and i found this over there,” he explains, nuzzling himself into his mother’s arms. “can i keep it?”

she presses her lips together, contemplating the safety and cleanliness of it altogether. “are you sure? papa and i can just get you a new one.”

he pouts his bottom lip out and bends slightly. “please, mama? it’s a bunny,” he whines, holding it in his hands to show her. “please, please?”

“okay, fine,” she laughs, rubbing his back gently. “give it to me first, okay? we’ll wash it when we get back.”

“yay!”

mick would wind up bringing that stuffed animal everywhere he went for the next couple of years, refusing to fall asleep without the softness of its fur by his side. he ended up naming it ‘stitches’, inspired by the off-white stitching it has right between its legs.

14 years ago

“hi!” you look up from your book, finding a girl towering over you with a smile. you’re about 10 now, sitting on a bench in the backyard of your school during recess. you’re newly transferred after moving into another town. and well, you didn’t really have any friends yet. “we’re playing tag and we need one more person — would you like to join us?”

your eyebrows shoot up in shock, looking around you to make sure that she’d been talking to you in the first place. you don’t want to be one of those people. “um, are you sure? i’m not really a runner.”

“that’s okay. neither are we,” she smiles. “i’m shannen. you’re the new kid, right?”

you nod shyly and say your name. you slot your bookmark between the pages before closing the book. “yeah, i came from a few towns over. this school’s closer to our new house, so i transferred.”

“oh, cool!” she beckons you over to join the rest of the kids gathered at the school playground. “come on and join us! i’ll introduce you to my friends.”

“alright.” you follow her hesitantly, hanging your head low as she introduces you to her friends. you were never great at approaching people by yourself, which is why you’re typically by yourself. you’re typically adopted by the extroverts and you didn’t mind that one bit.

you would spend the next two or three years, up until graduation, attached to the hip with shannen. she spends time in your house, and you go over to hers to swim in her pool with her friends outside of school. you’re best friends, even, up until you were in secondary school.

but for some reason, life had gotten too busy to keep the friendship. eventually, you drifted apart, as you had with several other friends. at some point, you’re just social media mutuals who don’t talk anymore. but the times you spent together still make you smile.

10 years ago

mick snorts, throwing his head back. “mate, let’s go! we’re the last ones there!”

“i can’t find my phone! hold on!” the girl shrieks, digging through her bag for her phone. there’s a fire alarm drill, and they had to stay back because she couldn’t find her phone. “go ahead!”

“your phone really shouldn’t be your priority in a fire!”

“it’s not even real!”

“what if it was?”

“i don’t care! i’m not standing in the sun for an hour without anything to do,” she grumbles under her breath. she throws a notebook out of her bag and digs some more. “i found it!”

she holds her phone triumphantly in her hand and waves it at mick. “see? i found it. it didn’t even take me long.”

“shannen, mate,” mick laughs, shaking his head. he yanks her into the hallway, blending in with the mass majority of the student body on their way to the stairwell. the fire alarm bounces around, prompting both mick and shannen to cover their ears.

“if this was a real fire, we would both have burned to death, you know,” mick points out as he rolls his eyes jokingly. he bumps into shannen lightly with his shoulder. “good thing this is just a drill.”

“you are so dramatic.”

mick and shannen spend the rest of their secondary school years together. while they’re not necessarily friends outside of school, they keep a casual friendship — often hitting each other up on social media every couple of months years after their graduation.

they swear to each other that if they were to ever get married, an invitation would definitely be sent.

7 years ago

you hum with a small smile, picking up the grey kitten into your hands. you coo as it purrs against your chest. “oh, i love her. thank you so much,” you grin, nuzzling your cheek on the kitten’s head. “i’m sorry it took me forever to get back to you. i’ve just finished settling into my new apartment.”

“oh, it’s absolutely no problem,” the woman smiles, watching you bend down and put the kitten into the carriage you’d gotten just for the kitten. “just remember to give her plenty of fluids. you don’t want her getting a uti.”

“of course,” you smile, picking up the carrier from the bag. “thank you again for waiting for me. i’ve been looking for a kitten forever, and when i saw your listing on instagram, i immediately fell in love.”

the woman shrugs, walking with you to the door of her home. “well, you seemed very determined to adopt a cat. i had to reserve one for you.”

you drive home with the grey cat in your passenger seat. you name it ‘concrete’ because it’s grey, giggling as she hesitantly comes out of the carrier to venture into her forever home. concrete falls asleep on your chest that night after dinner.

you wake up the next morning with a text message from the woman you’d gotten concrete from, telling you that she’s accidentally given you the wrong cat. she had only realised because the guy looking to adopt the last cat of the litter arrived and noticed that the cat he’s bringing back didn’t have the white patch of fur in the shape of a heart above its tail.

you sigh and ask her if you can just keep concrete since you’d already bonded in the day that you had her. much to your surprise, she agrees and says she’ll find a way to convince the other adopter otherwise. then you hang up and get up, preparing concrete’s breakfast.

meanwhile, mick sighs, holding the phone up to his ear. “well, they already gave the kitten to someone else, gina,” he explains softly, looking over his shoulder at the woman also on the phone. “the kitten really looks identical to the one you wanted. it’s not really anybody’s fault.”

“what?” gina says softly, as if she’s in the room with mick. “but that’s what really drew me to the kitten — the heart in its fur. is there really no other way?”

“the cat was taken home like yesterday… do you really wanna ask for a kitten back from somebody like that?” mick raises an eyebrow. he looks down at the kitten that’s walked up to his feet, dropping on its belly above his toes. “this one’s just as cute as the one you showed me.”

truthfully, he’s never really been a cat person. he very much preferred dogs over them, but the light grey kitten that’s plopped over his toes is convincing him otherwise. the kitten’s green eyes look up at him with a soft mew, making his heart skip a beat.

“ah, forget it, mick,” gina sighs over the phone. “you’re right. but i don’t think i want the cat anymore.”

she quickly hangs up. he puts the phone into his back pocket as he squats down to pet the kitten on its head.

“you’re very cute, aren’t you?” mick coos, smiling widely when the kitten purrs against his finger. “you know, i’m not a cat person.”

the kitten simply blinks at him, before closing its eyes as he scratches its chin.

“um.” he turns around, smiling at the older woman now walking towards him. she has worry written all over her face, and it only tells him that his sister will never get the cat that she had spent weeks swooning about. “i really tried convincing the other person…”

“it’s no problem,” mick grins. he stands up with a soft huff. “i’ll adopt it nonetheless.”

that’s how mick schumacher ended up with a cat instead of a dog.

5 years ago

“where do you reckon we should go for dinner?” mick asks, tapping on his phone. he looks over to his side, his smile dropping when he sees arthur holding up his phone with the front camera open. “arthur, hello?”

“quiet for one second,” arthur mutters, moving the phone around and sporting different smiles to try and get a good picture. “charles is asking where i’ve gone without him.”

mick raises an eyebrow. “charles or your secret girlfriend?”

“my brother, of course!” arthur scoffs, snapping a quick picture. he slows down his pace slightly and sends the picture. he looks up and turns to mick. “what were you saying about dinner?”

“where to eat, mate.” mick shoves his hands into his pockets and presses his lips together. “remember? robert asked us to choose where to eat tonight.”

arthur looks around, lips pursed together with a small smile. “i mean… we are in silverstone... what’s there to eat here?”

“i don’t know! that’s why i am asking you for help with the thinking.”

arthur momentarily turns away from mick as a pair of girls walk past him. his face lights up as he turns back to his friend.

mick, noticing that the distraction was caused by girls, smacks arthur on the shoulder. “focus! on dinner! not girls!”

“no, mate! you’ve got me wrong!” arthur laughs. “i know where to eat!”

but what mick hadn’t noticed, is that you had been the pair to walk past them, your arms linked with your best friend’s.

“oh, i heard there’s this really good restaurant up ahead. it’s got 4 stars on google — bar and grill or something?” you had said to your best friend as you looked down at your phone for options to dine in. “are you up for that?”

“sounds like a great idea!”

that night, mick would spend dinner in silverstone bar and grill in the far back of the restaurant with arthur and robert. all the while, you’re by the booth by the front doors of the restaurant with your best friend.

you would catch arthur’s eye as they flood into the restaurant, but by the time mick looked in your direction, you’d returned your attention to the menu for something to eat.

4 years ago

“ah, you look so pretty!” you shriek, holding yourself up on the sink in the toilet of the club. you put a hand on the shoulder of the new friend you had made. “you’ve got to tell me what lip product you’re using!”

“oh,” the woman laughs. ”it’s the too faced melted matte lipstick.” she reaches into her purse. “do you want to try it? i’m sure it looks good on you!”

you shake your head with a giggle. “no, don’t be silly! we can’t just share lip products like that anymore.”

you squeeze her shoulder endearingly before you step back at an attempt to pull yourself together. getting shit faced drunk was never part of the plan, yet here you are, four cocktails and three shots in, befriending the unassuming girl in the toilet.

she just wanted to wash her hands. it’s just unlucky, in your opinion, that she ended up next to you while you’re in a chatty mood.

“what are you in the club for?” you ask, reaching into your own pocket for your lip gloss. “celebrating something?”

“yeah, actually,” she laughs. “my brother won a championship earlier tonight. it’s a big thing — formula 2, if you’re asking.”

you stare blankly at her through the mirror, halting your application of your lip gloss. you don’t follow racing as much as you did when you were younger. in fact, you kinda despise it after you’d lost that damned stuffed bunny at one of the races you attended with your father.

or maybe it’s the alcohol, because you had no idea that something like formula 2 existed.

“oh, that’s cool…”

she laughs, patting you on the back. “it’s okay if you don’t know what that is.”

you hurriedly apply your lipgloss, recapping it then turning to her. “i’m sure it’s cool! i mean, congrats to your brother! you must be very proud of him!”

“i am, thank you,” she laughs. she taps you, her eyes shining bright. “can i follow you on instagram?”

you shriek again, stumbling back as you fish for your phone. “that’s genius!”

you give her your phone and watch her type her name into it. though you’re sure you wouldn’t remember her name — or the fact that you even followed her in the first place — in the morning.

she puts the phone back into your hand, squeezing it gently. “i’ve got to run, my brother’s waiting for me outside. it’s nice meeting you! and, my name’s gina.”

you wave at her giddily, watching her exit the toilet. you look down at your phone and hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the account that’s on the screen.

it doesn’t have a profile picture, or many followers. but you’re intoxicated. so you shrug and shove your phone back into your purse, returning to giggling giddily as your best friend stumbles out of the cubicle she’d been stuck in, puking her dinner out.

gina steps out of the bathroom, met by a stoic expression from her brother. “what took you so long?” mick grunts, guiding her through the crowd back to the table that his friends had gotten. “i waited almost 10 minutes for you.”

“i met the cutest girl inside,” gina laughs. she grunts and rolls her eyes when mick shoots her an unimpressed stare. “you wouldn’t get it.”

you have no recollection of meeting gina schumacher, and she never really posted anything on that empty account she gave you. she deactivates that account eventually, erasing the only evidence of the friend you made in the bathroom on a night out in abu dhabi for one of your friend’s bachelorette party.

2 years ago

mick follows the girl into the apartment, shaking his jacket off his shoulders. “cool apartment.”

“thank you,” cindy grins. “just give me a second, okay?”

mick nods politely, watching as cindy disappears into the apartment. he scans the apartment, overwhelmed by the vast differences between his and the one he stands in.

is this how drastic apartments are between guys and girls?

there’s several decorations, magazines on the coffee table, vases of flowers and pots of plants on shelves and–

interesting. a ferrari cap sits on the third level of the glass cabinet by the tv.

he walks over to it with a small smile. he hears footsteps behind him, prompting him to turn and glance at her momentarily. “i didn’t know you were a ferrari fan.”

cindy presses her lips together. “i’m… i don’t follow racing,” she says softly, pointing at the cap. “that’s my roommate’s.”

“oh, i’m sorry,” mick hisses to himself, taking a step away from the glass cabinet. “i didn’t… i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine,” she laughs, shaking her head. “um, so, here’s an umbrella you need to get home. be safe.”

“thank you,” mick smiles, receiving the umbrella with a grin. “i will… text you so i can return this to you.”

“good — it’s good investment to make sure you talk to me again.”

mick looks down at the umbrella tilting his head. “aw, it’s got cats on it. i love cats.”

cindy presses her lips together. “it actually belongs to my roommate. she’s got a cat,” she explains with a small smile. “i prefer dogs.”

“oh,” mick trails off. he’s not saying he’s so shallow to judge someone just because they don’t really like cats, but it’s really starting to sound like that in his head. “that’s okay.”

cindy takes a deep breath. “just… that’s my roommate’s,” she laughs, pointing at the umbrella. “i’ll need that back soon.”

“i’ll return it to you, i promise,” mick smiles. he raises his eyebrows as she leads him to the door. “on our second date? friday night?”

downstairs, you’re pulling up into the the street where your apartment complex is. you hum to yourself as you drive down the street, squinting your eyes as you try and see through the droplets falling on your windshield.

while you’re waiting for somebody to open the gates of the parkling lot of the building, you glance outside the window. there’s mick, leaving your apartment complex with a familiar looking umbrella.

you would walk into your apartment and sigh, asking your roommate if she had taken your umbrella with the cat prints again.

she would apologise for lending it to the man she’d gone on a date with, but swears she will get back for you. and she does — thank you, mick — and she briefly moves out about 4 months later to start her new life elsewhere with her boyfriend.

her boyfriend that doesn’t end up being mick, simply because she can tell that they’ve not got much in common. she breaks up with mick about a month later.

3 months ago

you squeak, hands on your cheeks as you look down the hallway. “concrete,” you say out loud, trying to make out the shape of your cat through the tears flooding into your eyes.

you had left your door open too long, according to a cat owner, as you struggled to bring your bags of groceries in. in the short three minutes that you struggled, your cat must have slipped out.

the worst is that you’d only realised about 10 minutes after you shut the door behind you that the house is suspiciously peaceful.

“you wouldn’t survive as a stray — you need to come back,” you frown, starting to walk down the hallway. “i don’t wanna get another cat.”

you have her bag of kibble in your hand, shaking it occasionally. as if your cat would reappear out of an non-existent nook out in the hallway.

you had never thought to get concrete chipped, of course. the cat had only started getting curious about the bigger world on the other side of the door recently when someone else with a cat moved in two weeks ago.

there’s a ding that echoes in the hallway, completely unbeknownst to you as you’re hunched over and still trying to lure your cat out with treats. the doors slide open, mick appearing with a grey cat in his arms.

“i don’t suppose this is your cat, right?”

you shoot up and whirl around, coming eye-to-eye with your green eyed cat. “you fuck ass feline! where have you been?” you scold, scowling as she comes into your sight.

you feel yourself soften up at the reunion with your car, relief washing over you. “why did you run away like that?”

you drop the bag of kibble to your side and step forward to take concrete into your arms. “thank you so much! where did you find her?”

“i saw her outside the apartment complex, meowing at people,” mick laughs, stepping back to watch concrete nuzzle her face into your chest and purr. “i was gonna house her for a bit until i find the owner — i didn’t know she lived right on the floor my friend lives at.”

“oh, thank you thank you,” you sigh, bending down to pick up the bag. “i really don’t know what i would have done if i lost her. i’m not a bad cat mum, i swear, she slipped out as i was bringing groceries in!”

“i don’t doubt that,” mick laughs. “i have a cat of my own at home. sneaky little devil, that one.”

you glance down at concrete and sigh in relief. a weight feels like it’d been lifted right off your chest. “is there any way i repay you? money?”

mick raises an eyebrow. “coffee?”

you stop dead in your tracks, a small smile playing on your lips. “are you hitting on me?”

“yeah? is that okay?”

you smile, nodding. “yeah, that’s okay.”

mick pretends he doesn’t notice the blush creeping up your cheeks as you continue to walk slowly. “how does wednesday night sound?”

you and mick would wind up getting coffee immediately after he’s done meeting his friend. your neighbour, dino, whom you actually are on greeting terms with when you come across one another out in the hallway.

you would spend the rest of the evening in that small coffee shop right at the corner of your street, talking about everything. this eventually leads to a second date, then a third, and then a fourth.

suddenly he’s telling you his full name, sending you into a shock as his name registers against the list of famous people in your head.

“ah, don’t mind the mess,” mick mutters, holding the door open for you as you slip off your shoes. “i wasn’t expecting to have anyone over so soon.”

you laugh under your breath as you put your shoes on the rack. “it’s not your fault there’s a storm bad enough to strand me,” you hum as you start taking off your jacket. “i’m sorry to be a bother when you weren’t expecting company.”

“no, no!” mick shakes his head quickly. he shuts the door behind you with a hand behind your back to guide you inside his apartment. “i mean, i was gonna invite you over soon anyway. we’ve just been so busy.”

“well thank you for offering me to stay the night anyway.”

he takes your jacket from your hands, disappearing momentarily into a room and comes back out emptyhanded. he jogs around his living room, picking up stray pieces of clothing and trash from the ground. “i’m really really sorry. i swear i’m not this messy. my schedule has been a little tight since i got back.”

you shrug and hunch over, picking trash from the ground with him. “i understand. if you look at the state of my apartment, i’d be the one apologising.”

mick does a double take when he glances up at you, noticing you helping him clean his living room. he shrieks softly, jumping over to you. he wraps his arms around you and drags you over to his couch. “what are you doing?” he screams, sitting you down on the couch and then taking the trash from your hands.

you look up with your head tilted. “i’m helping you clean!”

“don’t do that! make yourself comfortable,” he cries before walking away from you again. “don’t get up from that couch unless it’s to do something a normal person would do in someone’s home!”

“don’t be ridiculous. cleaning is fun to an extent,” you giggle, watching him walk back towards you with a small smile. “don’t worry about it.”

he huffs, looking around the objectively cleaner area. “do you want something to drink?”

“sure! just some water,” you smile politely. you look around the small apartment. it’s fairly clean, actually, even before mick had started picking stuff up from the ground.

you get to your feet and start navigating through the living room, admiring the picture frames right by the entryway with a small smile. mick has always been cute, it seems.

one picture catches your attention in particular, making you tilt your head in confusion. you lean forward slightly and squint your eyes.

“hey, mick?” you call out, eyes still scanning the picture of a toddler mick with his family in the paddocks. “you had a stuffed bunny as a kid?”

mick walks over to you, handing you the glass of water you requested. he puts a hand on your back and looks at the same picture. “yeah! he’s my favourite,” he says. “i have him in my bedroom, let me show you.”

you turn around with a grin, waddling after him. “i used to have one too! exactly like the one in the picture, actually. i lost it when i was like 4, but i loved that stuffed bunny like my best friend.”

“really?” mick asks from inside the bedroom.

you stop right by the door and lean against the door frame. “yeah, she had this stitching right between the legs. my cat tore it apart when i was 3. so there’s this really poorly done job of stitching it up where it tore.”

“that’s weird,” mick presses his lips together, appearing with a bunny in his hands. he flops it around in his hands, its ears flopping around as he shows it to you. he pulls the legs apart, showing the off-white stitching. “mine’s got that too.”

“oh, my god!” you shriek, taking it into your hands. you trace over the stitching, counting exactly 10 — the number you had known to be how many times your mother sewed it up for your impatient toddler self. you lift your head to look at him again. “this is weird. did you get this from somewhere?”

he laughs airily, towering over you. he puts a hand over yours and presses his lips together. “yeah, gina told me that i picked it up at one of my dad’s races in the paddocks when we were playing.”

you perk up. “i lost my bunbun at this one race my dad and i attended when i was 4.”

“oh, what a coincidence?” mick smiles with a soft laugh. “do you reckon this is the one you dropped?”

you puff your cheeks, tears welling in your eyes as you fight back a smile. “absolutely. the cracked eye… the ten stitches… this is bunbun!”

the world has a mysterious way of bringing you together with people you’re meant to be with.

you would spend the rest of the night, after taking a shower and cozying up in one of mick’s shirts, talking about your past. you joked that there’s clearly someone in the universe that thought you’re meant to be together.

to you, it’s the only way that bunbun would have ended up with mick in the first place. cause here you are, lying back on his couch with the first best friend you’d made in your life, all thanks to mick.

you spend the rest of the night, until sunrise, giggling over the invisible string that seemed to tie you together your whole lives.

“wait. i thought you said you had a cat?”

“oh, she’s at my sister’s,” mick explains. “i’ve been pretty busy — i haven’t had the time to pick her up yet.”

“you should pick her up soon! let’s set our cats together for a potential play date!”

@cashtons-wife @darleneslane

honourable mention: @localwhoore

#mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1

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bitchimasnake-sss · 1 month

Text

just a distraction ft. choso kamo!

academic rivals, academic rivals, academic rivals, academic rivals- set-up: in which, choso and you are academic rivals. in every exam, the raven-haired cunt always seems to be just a negligible percent ahead of you. maybe you've had enough of his bullshit. maybe you should find better ways to get him off that first rank? (both the reader and choso are in second year of college)

warnings: PORN WITH (A LITTLE) PLOT. nsfw babes. contains blowjob, cunnilingus, dirty talking, pet names (baby, darling, etc.), banter (lots and lots). yeah mdni <3

you didn't know much about choso kamo. not really, no.

i mean you knew the basics. you knew his name, his voice. you knew that he always was dressed in black and that he had that weird (somewhat hot) tattoo cutting a horizontal across his pretty face. you knew he had two younger brothers (the pink-haired twin underclassmen) and how he doted on them outside of these wretched lecture rooms.

oh, and what else? you knew he was a fucking bastard.

you knew how smug he was. how absolutely insufferable. you knew the way he scoffed when the professor asked you for the answer instead of him. you knew the way he rolled his eyes when you told him he was wrong. and you knew his full lips always curled up when all the students would gather around the notice board after the exams.

you knew he would always scan his gaze over the crowd, meet your eyes and mouth, "maybe next time, sweetheart." and then walk away.

there's no way an arrogant asshole like him should ever come first in anything! but here you stood in front of the fucking notice board, seeing his name next to the first rank. again.

you had tried everything, really. you had been studying everyday in the library until the staff physically pushed you out of the gates and asked you to go home. you had practiced every question paper in existence, really. then how was he still sitting on top with that stupid fucking smirk of his?

"ugh, don't tell me you're going to the library today." nobara groaned, sprawled out on your dorm bed. "exams literally ended two days ago. you should take some time off!! you promised me you would shop with me once the break came-"

"that was before that bastard beat me again." you mumbled, stuffing a thick notebook into your bag haphazardly.

"are you gonna ditch me for that guy? again? nobody even cares about coming first in uni!! it's a miracle we're all passing, even."

"it matters to me."

"sure does..." nobara pouted. then she sat up and tucked her legs one under the other. she eyed you cautiously and uncannily slow, then grinned like a devil, "what are you doing?"

"what? packing my bag to go to the library?"

"why are you trying so hard to impress him?"

if your body was not a human body, you were sure your eyes would have fallen off and onto the ground. you spluttered, "excuse me? i- i am not trying to impress anybody!"

"uh huh, uh huh." she rested her face on her open palm as if oblivious to the accusations she had placed upon you and your character.

"don't uh huh, uh huh me."

"i am just saying that there are more ways to get a first rank than just studying your ass off you know?" she followed with a cashmere smile, "maybe you should take up another strategy. distract your opponent a little?"

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

this was stupid. really, really stupid.

but nonetheless, you knocked on his dorm room and awaited an answer.

the rest of the floor was empty, most people on vacation or back home for the spring break but not him. he was holed up in his room doing god knows what (studying, probably.)

you subconsciously pulled down the hem of your short denim skirt while awaiting his answer. it's not like you dressed too modest or something. but knowing that you had purposely put on a white, almost see-through long sleeve with a mini, mini denim skirt for all the wrong purposes felt embarrassing.

he would probably see through your act so quickly.

the door finally swung open and there stood an annoyed man in a black, fitted tee and black sweats. his long, choppy hair had been put up in a half-up and his annoyed expression morphed into a sadistic, half-satisfied smile when he saw you. his lips tugged upwards as he took you in, up and down.

"want something?" he asked slowly, leaning against the door frame and towering over you.

you held the books flush against your chest, as if hiding yourself from his scrutinizing gaze. "i-" you swallowed thickly, the words going sour on your tongue, "i just was wondering if you would help me out."

"awh, finally asking for me help, sweetheart?"

the urge to flip him off and walk away was big. but the urge to defeat him and see his crying face was bigger.

"are you gonna invite me in or are we supposed to do this in the middle of the hallway?" you snapped.

god, your self esteem was taking brutal hits right now.

he stepped to his right and mockingly invited you in. you stepped inside into his dark, disheveled dorm room. only purple LED lights had been turned on and from the looks of it, his roommate was gone. possibly on vacation. the raven-head's laptop lay forgotten on his bed and the dimly lit screen had some pop-up game menu asking if he wanted to exit the game.

you looked back at him as he locked off the door. you swallowed yet again, "uhm, so what were you doing?"

"playing." he remarked nonchalantly, nodding towards his laptop. he sat on his roommate's clean bed and you mirrored his actions by sitting on choso's messed bed.

"so?" he quipped again, and the purple led lights casted ghostly shadows across his face, "what does the princess need help with?"

"first, she needs you to drop that cocky, bitchy attitude." you chewed on the inside on your cheek to bite back insults, "second, i- uhm, needed help with the integral problems."

"ah, really? which part?" he stood up, walking over to where you were sitting. looking down, he casted a dubious look as your fingers pulled his tshirt downwards as if nudging him to sit down besides you.

he sat down, uncomfortably close to you on that small bed. he refused to meet your gaze, choosing to pick up the book you had brought with you and flipping through it.

you leaned forward, purposely brushing your perked chest against his biceps. you pointed towards a random problem and whispered, "that one, please."

and just like that, choso kamo was fucked.

you could feel the man's composure was evaporating when he nodded dryly and swallowed in vain. he tried to put distance between you two but you felt confident in your teasing. deciding to press himself closer to his side, molding your curves against his sculpted body, you noticed how he shifted his pants ever so subtly.

"so, you know this needs to be integrated separately first-" his breath hitched as your light fingers skimmed over his arm and you nodded enthusiastically to continue. "right- so. so, you know then you take the numerator okay? and you should- hey w-what?"

he stopped confused as you lightly skimmed over his thighs. your fingers barely brushed over his hard-on. you flashed him a smile, "you look a bit tensed up. i feel like i can't study if you'd be so stiff around me."

"yn." choso breathed as you brushed your soft fingers past the growing tent again. his rough hands held your wrist still as he gave you a pleading look, "what are you doing?"

you took the book out of his hands, placing it somewhere on the bed. then you gave him a reassuring smile, "choso, relax."

and then you sat down on the floor. your hands separated his thighs gingerly and you looked up at him one more time. he had closed his eyes, as if looking at you would make him cum.

you dragged your fingers to the waistband of his pants and tugged them down slowly. his erect dick sprung up, slightly hitting his clothed abdomen. hiding your amusement at his apparent shyness, you slowly pumped his dick.

"look at me." you whispered and he exhaled softly. when his eyes met yours, you took off your shirt, presenting him with your bare torso.

"fuck-" he choked up, eyes transfixed on your perked nipples and the slight goosebumps on your supple skin.

your fingers pumped him languidly and you finally placed wet, kitten licks on the mushroom tip. tasting his salty pre, you swirled your tongue around it, relishing in his breathless whimpers. then, in one go, you took him in. you sucked on it while your hands worked his base.

you looked up at him through fluttering eyelashes and something in his demeanor broke. as if he had finally let lose.

his rough palm pressed against the back of your head, pushing you to take in more. you momentarily gagged around his cock and he moaned as your helpless voice reverberated against his shaft. he pushed you in slowly, looking at the way your eyes started tearing up.

fighting off a feral grin, he whispered, "you have no idea how long i've waited to do this."

then his hands guided you up and down, using your face as a toy for his pleasure. your manicured nails dug into the fabric as he abused your mouth for his pleasures.

"fuck- fuck. fuck. look at you, on your fucking knees. you're so fuckin' pretty, god." he threw his head back and strings of curses and moans left him as you worked in tandem with him. sucking him in pacing with the way he moved your head up and down. you eyes were getting watery and your throat feeling sore but you kept going, sucking harder till you felt him tremble under your strained touches and spit-soaked, red lips.

"i think im gonna cum- f-fuck i-" his voice broke and suddenly your mouth was full of a salty liquid. you swallowed down and ignored the sting that his dick had left behind in your throat.

still struggling to breath, he looked down at you. his calloused fingers softly wiped off the drool on your chin and he pulled you back up to sit you on his lap.

"pretty sure that wasn't a part of calculus." he whispered, almost laughing at his own joke but you were having none of it.

"choso." you breathed, desperation etched into your voice as you rut your hot, wet core against his clothed thigh. your eyes were watery, voice hoarse, "cho-"

"what do you want?" he pulled you in and pressed a kiss on your throat, his hands running over your smooth back, "ask me 'n ill give you the fuckin' world."

you leaned into his soft kisses. his clothed chest rubbed against your perked buds as you grinded yourself harder on him, "i dont know- you. i want you."

"you already have me." he insisted.

turning you around and laying you on his bed as softly as he could, he gave you a last hesitant gaze. his lips pressed chaste kisses down your body till he reached the swell of your breasts. his hand roughly pressed against one while his mouth latched onto the other.

he hummed, too drunk to say anything other than the feeling on your skin on his tongue. his fingers pulled at your hard nipple and you jolted under him, fighting off a moan. he let go with a pop, his eyes trained on your face as he licked a stripe down on your skin before focusing on the previously ignored side.

your hands tangled in his hair and you pressed down his face harder against yourself, insisting him to go rougher on you. as in on cue, he bit you slightly. grazing his sharp canine against your soft tits, he smirked when you shuddered under him.

moving even downwards, he kissed down on the soft fat on your stomach. his hands slowly played with the soft skin and he looked up at you, mumbling against your skin, "you're so fucking beautiful."

he undid the skirt, pulling it past your hips and thighs and throwing it somewhere on the floor. then, he took off his shirt, leaving him bare to be ogled at. you propped up, eyes running over every taut muscle rippling under his skin. mindlessly, you mumbled, "i hate you, you know?"

he gave you an easy smile, "maybe if you focused as much on integrals as you do on my abs, you would have been first."

"excuse me?" you sat up haughtily, "are you fucking stupid? asshole!"

his hands gently guided you back, laying you down. he gave you a teasing smile, "you run your mouth too much. that's your issue, yk."

"did i ask for your opinion or he-lp-" you closed your eyes as the pad of his thumb rubbed your clit through your slick-drenched panties.

he slowly traced circles on the sensitive nub, kissing the inner side of your plush thighs, "i thought that's why you came here?" he pressed an open-mouthed kiss close to where you wanted him. then he looked up and mumbled through a hooded gaze, "i thought you needed my help?"

he pulled the translucent fabric aside, he kissed the bundle of nerves before licking down a patient stripe down to your entrance, "fuc- choso ngh-"

"or is this it?" he spread your thighs apart more, looking at the glistening core, "did you want my help to fuck you as dumb as you are?"

before you could argue, he dipped his tongue in your entrance. his tongue lapping up the juices. he dragged his tongue up, focusing on your clit and the way you squirmed under him when he sucked on the puffy bud harshly.

looking over at your flushed face and being guided by your desperate hands, he pushed in two fingers inside. dragging them in and out, he marveled in the way your body responded to his touches.

your walls spasmed every time he entered and refused to let him go. you bit your lip to quiet yourself down. your thighs were shaking ever so slightly, your mouth agape, lips stained red. your back arched off the bed when he increased the pace and you tugged on his hair and cried out a moan when he used his thumb on your clit and pressed a kiss to your thigh.

"oh my god-" your back arched off as he sucked at your clit again, "fuck fuck fuck, choso. i'm gon'- cum, im gonna cum."

he pressed one last, fleeting kiss to your flushed clit. and he stayed there, drinking up any wayward nectar till you stilled under him. once he was sure you were through your orgasm, he stood up on his knees. wiping his face off, he asked, "you okay?"

you gave him a lazy, unenthusiastic thumbs up and he laughed at the gesture. climbing up, he came up and kissed your nose. you were sure he could taste the salt on your skin.

well, not like it wasn't his fault you were like this anyways.

laying next to you, he stared up at the ceiling and you fidgeted with your hair because it felt as if there was nothing else to do. you chewed on your lips, mulling your words over, "i don't run my mouth too much."

now that the sexual tension was gone. it was awkward, "sorry i said it like that."

"yeah, i guess it's okay."

well there were other things he had said aswell. like "i have been waiting so long for this" or "you have me"... but you didn't feel like raising such important questions when your limbs ached with fatigue and your mind was clouded over with thoughts of choso in your veins.

he gave you a tight-lipped smile and after a minute, he climbed off the bed.

"uh, hey?" you got up too, "do you want me to like... leave?"

"what? no no. i figured you'd get cold." he shook his head and grabbed a plain, blue t-shirt from his closet. he handed it over to you and climbed back in bed, dragging the covers up to cover you both. hesitantly, he draped his hand over your waist and no sooner was he asleep. his soft snores rang through the room and now you lay confused next to him.

nobara had given you some ideas and you followed it. now what? choso barely seem distracted. if anything, it seemed like it had taken off some sort of load off of his chest. he was sleeping so peacefully that you resisted the urge to sock him in the face and run back to your dorm.

while choso lay unaffected, it seems as though this escapade is gonna be rough on you.

well, this is your sign to never take nobara's advice again.

a/n: i actually have a part two written out already. let me know if anyone wants to see it lol. part two is now up! hope you liked it <3

#jjk smut #choso smut #choso #choso kamo #choso kamo smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk choso #choso x reader

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alexinyell0w · 2 years

Text

bold of you to assume the byler kiss is on that white board. it probably isn't. they'll just give finn the script and the only thing it says is "kiss will" and finn will know exactly what to do. he'll write his own improv scene and it will be lovely.

#byler #mike wheeler #white board gate #stranger things 4 #stranger things 5

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sanguineterrain · 1 year

Text

it's a feeling that's fine - s.h.

Summary: You accidentally climb the wrong fence on the hottest day of May. It turns out to be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings/tags: no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, etc. reader is in a toxic friendship; she's slightly bullied in that indirect mean girl way, but the toxic friendship ends. reader cuts her finger by accident. drinking and drug mentions. fluff, humor, strangers to friends to lovers, summer vibes, so many princess bride references. steve is super duper sweet!!! post s4 volume 2.

A/N: so if you wondered where i've been for the last two months.... it was in a cave writing this fic. i'm really proud of this one; the reader is a little different than how i usually write, but i hope you'll like her all the same :) if you enjoy this fic, please please let me know through comments/reblogs!

divider by firefly-graphics

Today is hot.

Weatherman Dale had said this morning that today is a record high for May. It’s so hot, in fact, that Debbie Wellerman had called you this morning asking if you wanted to come swim in her pool.

You’d asked if you could dig for worms in her yard. She’d sighed and hung up. You hope that means yes. Joan has been in need of some company. Worms would be good for her.

You go around Debbie’s house and stop at the back gate. The Wellermans are kind of mean and they don’t like it when you take too many cucumber sandwiches. To avoid them, you’ve taken to going through the back gate whenever Debbie invites you over. It works pretty well.

Except today, the gate is locked. Which is weird, because Debbie usually leaves it open. It’s how her boyfriend, Brett, sneaks in during the day, and how Brett’s brother, Chet, sneaks in at night.

You’d asked once why the brothers come over separately. Debbie had gotten mad and kicked you out without giving you any ice cream. You don’t ask about Brett and Chet anymore.

The problem is that you’re wearing flip flops, which are not ideal for climbing fences. Or anything, really. You once climbed a jungle gym in flip flops and skinned both knees.

You slip off your flip flops and fling them over the fence. They land a second later, clapping against the ground. The fence is covered in climbing ivy and tiny red flowers you’ve never seen before. You wonder how Debbie made them grow so fast.

The street is empty, which is nice. Sometimes people in Loch Nora like to yell at people who don’t also live in Loch Nora.

The fence wood is hot but not so hot that you can’t touch it. You stick your feet in the little grooves and start to climb. It’s not too high of a fence, but it’s high enough to warn people who don’t belong here.

That’s never stopped you, though.

Getting over is trickier. You expect Debbie to see you by now, but there’s no sound. She must be inside, or maybe she’s out and forgot she’s invited you. She does that sometimes.

Wood dust clings to your fingers and the soles of your feet. When you’re a foot from the ground, you hop down. Then you turn.

There’s no sign of Debbie. There is, however, a boy.

He’s reclined on an inflatable blue ring floaty in the middle of the pool. He wears sunglasses and red board shorts with little white anchors on them.

He has very pretty hair, both on his head and chest. He also has pretty lips. And arms. All of him is pretty, really. You wish you could see his face properly. He probably has a nice face too. Symmetrical and kind.

The area around the pool is paved just like at Debbie’s—only it’s a lot larger than you remember. There's a patch of dirt next to the gate. You go and crouch at the edge. You don't see any worms. Probably because it's so hot. You'd stay underground too if you were a worm.

You stand and turn to look at the boy again. He looks like he might be asleep.

“Did Debbie invite you?” you ask.

The boy shoots up from the floaty. The shift in weight makes him lose his balance and he topples into the water a moment later. The floaty flips with him.

He resurfaces almost immediately, spitting water and rubbing chlorine from his eyes. You squint.

Yes, you were right. He does have a very nice face.

The water comes up to his waist. He pushes his hair back in handfuls, blinking. Then he fishes his sunglasses out with his foot and sets them on his head.

“Can you swim?” you ask.

He stares at you, blinking.

“What?” he says after a beat.

“Can you swim?” you repeat.

“Uh, yeah? Yes, of course I can swim.”

"It would be bad luck if you couldn’t.”

His brows furrow.

“Because I can't swim,” you clarify.

“I wouldn’t be in the pool if I couldn’t swim,” he says.

“That’s good thinking.”

You sit at the edge of the pool and dip your calves in. He wades closer until he’s about three feet away.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“I walked.”

“I mean, how did you get in my backyard?”

“Oh. I climbed the fence.”

You peer closer. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him.

“Are you Brett and Chet’s triplet?” you ask. “You’re a lot prettier than them. Did their mother feed you extra vitamins?"

His eyes go wide. “Uh�� Brett and Chet Kingsley?”

“Uh-huh. Debbie invites both of them over, but never at the same time.”

“Who's—they don’t have a triplet.”

“That’s good. Three’s bad luck.”

“My house number has a three in it,” he says.

“Don’t step on any sidewalk cracks,” you warn.

He tilts his head, tongue poking out like he’s sizing you up. You let him, focusing on his face instead. He has dark, warm eyes the color of black tea. His shoulders are toned with lots of freckles on them. He looks like a boy who’d like Debbie, not you.

“Is Debbie going to be back soon?” you ask. You don’t want to get attached to a boy who’ll just end up wanting Debbie instead. You've made that mistake before.

“Um… if you’re talking about Debbie Wellerman, she lives on the next block over. I’m Steve Harrington.”

“Oh. You’re the guy who fought the monsters.”

He eyes you warily. “Wh—how do you know about the monsters?”

"Who doesn't?"

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You can’t tell anyone," he finally says.

You shrug and kick at the water gently.

“I have no one to tell. Debbie doesn’t believe in monsters.”

“She doesn’t believe in giving you a key either, huh?”

“She doesn’t usually lock her gate,” you say.

“Well, this isn’t her gate.”

“Yeah. I like your shorts.”

Steve’s cheeks flush pink.

“Are you getting sunstroke?” you ask.

That turns his cheeks pinker.

“No, no." He coughs. "I’m fine.”

“It’s a record high temperature for May,” you say. “That’s what Weatherman Dale said. The highest it's ever been since 1923."

“Yeah, I heard." He nods. "I didn’t wanna run the AC the whole day so, here I am. My friend Robin was supposed to come over, but I guess she bailed.”

“Robin is a nice name. Is she a bird?”

Steve smiles. “No, she’s a girl.”

“Oh. I thought maybe she was a bird you’d made friends with while fighting monsters.”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. “I did sort of make friends with her while fighting monsters.”

“Robins are good omens. They bring luck."

“Huh.”

You swallow. You’re probably talking too much. That’s what Debbie would say. That’s why boys sneak into her yard and not yours.

"So." Steve puts a hand over his forehead to block the sun. "Debbie Wellerman, huh? You don't seem like the type to be her friend."

"Friends can come from the most unusual places," you say. "Like under a tree or at the bottom of the ocean."

"Have you made many friends at the bottom of the ocean?" Steve asks with a smile.

You hesitate. Is he making fun of you? Sometimes, you can't tell. The people in Loch Nora are good at making fun of you without you knowing.

Steve’s hair has already begun to dry, a little crunchy from the chlorine. He doesn’t look like he’s making fun of you.

"Not many. But that's where I found Joan," you say.

"Joan was at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Kind of. I found her in a pond. Then I found her sister, but I lost her at sea and I couldn't swim out to rescue her. It was a sad day. Joan didn't handle it well."

Steve's brows rise. "Wow. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Joan has been on the incline. I think she's finally ready to get back out there. I wanted to find her company, but I didn't want to disturb your dirt."

“My dirt?”

“Mmhm. I'm trying to make a social club for her."

"Out of dirt?"

"Out of worms."

"Huh."

Steve rests his chin on his arm that's perched on the ledge.

"Your hair is wavy," you observe.

"What? Oh, yeah. I didn't put anything in it."

"Like what? Secrets?"

"No, like, gel. Product."

You nod in realization. "Your hair was so big in school.”

Steve winces. "Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't the best guy back then."

"You were in your chrysalis. You needed time to grow. But then you turned into a butterfly. Or a moth, if you prefer."

"Moths are spooky," says Steve. "They look like they have eyes on their wings."

"Yes. But they're actually friendly. Unless you eat them. Some are poisonous." You lean in, deadly serious. "Don't eat moths."

"Will do."

"No, don't. And warn your Robin too. She might think one looks delicious and meet her doom."

A smile creeps onto Steve's face.

"You're kind of strange," he says. "In the best way possible."

"Thank you."

"Do you want some lemonade?"

"Is it poisoned?"

"What?" Steve startles. "No, of course not."

"No, I suppose not," you say thoughtfully. "You hadn't expected me to climb over your gate, so you wouldn't have had time to poison the lemonade."

Steve stacks one arm atop his other, looking up at you. The ends of his hair have begun to curl. You like it so much.

"What if I pour from the pitcher right in front of you? Will that make you feel better?" he asks.

"You can still put something in my glass," you say. "Or you might have built a tolerance to the poison for this exact moment. Like in The Princess Bride."

"I'm only twenty-one. I would've had to start very young to build a tolerance. Besides, what would be my motivation to poison you?"

You shake your head. "There's no need for motivation. Violent delights. But you've fought monsters, and Lucas Sinclair says you're a good guy. So, yes, I will have some lemonade."

Steve pushes himself out of the pool with ease, dripping water all over the concrete. You stare at the rivulets that hurry down his legs and chest. He has a lot of hair everywhere. You like that too.

He offers his hand and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. Your shoulder bumps his. Steve's skin is warm. He smells like chlorine and something sweeter. Pineapple, maybe.

"You would do very well as a knight," you say. "If I were a princess, I'd want you to commit yourself to me."

Steve makes a weird noise in his throat.

"Uh, th-thanks," he says.

"You're welcome."

"So you, uh, know Lucas?"

"Yes. He lives on my block. His mom gives me rides sometimes."

You step in through the sliding glass door, which puts you directly in the kitchen. The house is at least twenty degrees cooler. You shiver at the sudden temperature change.

"You don't have a car?" Steve asks.

"No."

"You walked from your house to Loch Nora?"

"I took the bus part of the way. Then I walked."

Steve takes two glasses down from the shelf. Then he opens the refrigerator. You sit at the large kitchen island while he pours.

"Debbie Wellerman has a car," Steve says.

"Uh-huh. A Porsche."

A money car, she'd called it when she got it for her sixteenth birthday. Boys love girls with money cars. Maybe that's why boys don't love you.

Steve hands you a glass. You take a long sip. Your mouth puckers and you scrunch your eyes shut as the acid coats your tongue.

"Shit. Not enough sugar?"

You swallow and open your eyes.

"It's wonderful, Steve," you say earnestly.

"You don't have to lie. I saw your mouth screw up."

"I'm not lying. It's the right amount of sour."

Steve takes his own sip. His lips pucker, and he shakes his head.

"Nope. Definitely needs more sugar."

You cradle your glass in your hands. "Don't take mine. She's perfect."

Steve breathes a laugh, returning the pitcher to the fridge. He sits beside you on the island. He's already developing a slight tan. You wonder if more freckles appear the longer he's in the sun.

"Why doesn't Debbie pick you up?" he asks.

"Why would she pick me up?"

"Because that's what nice friends do. And it's unfair to expect you to come all the way here when the buses don't go through Loch Nora."

"Debbie always expects me to come over," you say. "So I do. She doesn't like my house."

Steve frowns deeply.

"I don't mind the walk," you offer, trying to make him smile again.

It doesn't work. Steve takes another sip. His lips purse, red like cherry candy and shiny with lemonade.

"She should meet you halfway more often," he says, dumping his lemonade into the sink.

You trace shapes into the condensation of your glass.

"I wanted to go rollerblading," you say. "But…"

"But what?" he prompts.

"She didn't. Neither did Brett. They wanted to make out in the pool.”

Steve grimaces. “Sounds like a drag.”

“They make weird noises. Like goats at the zoo.”

Steve snorts. You smile and kick your legs, pleased.

“My friends go rollerblading,” he says. “The kids love to skate at the park. You could come with us one day.”

“You have kids?”

“No, I—” Steve shakes his head, chuckling. “Definitely not. No, they’re only a few years younger than me, but me and the other people our age call them kids. They’re part of our little monster-fighting group. Anyway, uh, y'know. Open invite. If you're ever tired of goat noises."

You stare at him for a minute. He seems nervous, and you can't make out why. Nobody's ever nervous around you.

"Okay," you say. "I'd like to meet your kids."

"Cool. Well, um, I can give you my number. We usually meet up on weekends, but once school ends, any day is game."

Your heart rate picks up. You know this part. Only from a distance, of course. But you know what it means when a boy gives a girl his number.

“You want me to call you?” you ask.

“Yeah. I mean, if you want to. I feel like it’s a little forward for me to ask the girl who climbed my fence for her number. So, um, you can call me. Is that cool?”

Steve looks at you and waits. You chew your lip and nod.

“That’s okay.”

He smiles. “Great! I think I have a pen around here somewhere…”

Steve walks around the table to a stationary caddy on the counter and takes out a blue Sharpie. You stick out your arm, palm up.

"Uh…" He looks at you. "I can find a notepad."

"This helps me memorize things better," you say and wiggle your fingers.

"I don't wanna give you ink poisoning."

"You didn't poison me before. You're not very good at it."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

You shrug. "Depends on your aspirations."

Steve hesitates for another second. Then he takes the top of your forearm and begins to write on the soft underside. He writes slowly, which tickles, but you remain still.

He's so close. You're reminded all over again of his hands and warmth and pineapple scent.

Steve caps the marker. You inspect the writing.

"Good penmanship," you say.

"Think so? Robin says it's chicken scratch. But she can't talk—hers is ten times worse."

"It's neat," you say. "But not serial-killer neat. If I were a graphologist, I would give you the all clear."

"Graphologist?"

"A handwriting expert. I would write in my report, 'not a murderer.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Steve says. "I try to keep the murdering to a minimum."

You hum and finish your lemonade in one gulp.

“Thank you for not poisoning me."

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Steve replies through a smile.

His smile makes you nervous. A good nervous, though, like you're about to sled down a big hill.

You push yourself off the stool. Steve gets up with you and opens the sliding glass door for you.

“A very stalwart knight,” you say, and walk over to where your flip flops are.

You throw them back over the gate. They land with a clack on the sidewalk.

You find your footholds on the gate and turn to look at Steve.

“It was nice to meet you, Steve Harrington. Don’t fight any monsters by yourself.”

“Whoa, hang on!” He jogs over and lightly touches your arm. It sears your skin like you've been kissed by the sun himself. “I’ll unlock the gate. You don’t need to… climb again.”

Steve pulls the latch next to you. The gate creaks open. You hop off and walk through.

Steve leans against the gate, elbow bent. His bicep bulges. You've never been this close to a shirtless boy. Your stomach flips.

“Are you sure you know where Debbie lives?” he asks.

Your eyes dart from his chest to his face.

“Yes.”

“Really? ‘Cause you didn’t exactly find it the first time.”

“Second time’s the charm,” you say.

“I thought it was the third time.”

“No. Three’s bad luck, remember?”

Steve runs his tongue under his molars, once again staring at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. You slip into your sandals while he figures you out.

“Well, um. You can come back if you get lost. Or you need help. Or you wanna look for rocks."

You tilt your head. “You’d look for rocks with me?”

“I don’t know how helpful I’d be—all rocks look the same to me. My friends would probably be better at it than me. But, yeah, I would.”

“Okay. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He grins. “Sure thing.”

You take his hand and shake it. It’s warm and slightly calloused. You wonder if he holds girls’ hands often.

"I hope Robin finds your house," you say. "Goodbye, Steve Harrington."

Then you go.

You do find Debbie’s house on the second try. You hide your Sharpie'd arm behind your back when you enter. Debbie doesn’t ask why you’re late. Brett doesn’t acknowledge you, and you wonder how you mistook Steve for his brother.

“There’s lemonade,” Debbie says as she heads in, Brett at her heels.

You don’t drink any. You know it won’t be the right amount of sour.

Movies are better in the summer. This is a fact you've learned to accept.

There's no dread of the cold after you finish a movie in the summer. The tape ends and you can go outside and still love the real world.

Sorry, we're on a break! the sign on the store window reads in loopy script. You sit on the hot curb in front of Family Video, your yellow shorts bunched around your thighs. Sweat sticks to the back of your neck, and you drag a hand across, then wipe your fingers on your shirt.

From here, you can just see the cement-filled cracks in the asphalt, where the earthquake split the main road two years ago. Because of the cracks, the bus stops three blocks from the plaza, so you'd walked three blocks in the heat.

You hadn't been lying to Steve, though. You really don't mind the walk.

Beads of sweat drip down your forehead. One slips into your eye and burns. You make a fist and press it into your eyelid.

Okay. Maybe you mind a little.

"Hey, neighbor!"

You look up, squinting through the sun. Lucas Sinclair waves at you. You wave back. A girl with two red braids is next to him.

"Hi, Lucas," you say, standing as they approach you on the curb.

"This is my girlfriend, Max," he introduces proudly.

"My congratulations. Getting a girlfriend is no easy feat."

Max studies you for a moment. "I think I should get the credit, considering I said yes."

"Undoubtedly," you say.

"Are you his neighbor?" she asks.

"Yes. Lucas is an outstanding neighbor. You should be very proud of him."

"I believe it," says Max.

"What are you doing?" Lucas asks.

"Lots of things," you say. "Breathing, digesting. But presently, I'm waiting for the video store to reopen. I want to rent The Princess Bride.”

Max snorts. "Good luck with that. Those two take five hour lunch breaks now, ever since Keith moved away. It's barely a business anymore."

"There must be a lot of courses in their lunch," you muse.

"Yeah… uh, we're going to get ice cream. Wanna join?" asks Lucas.

"Okay." You turn to Max. "Will my presence impede your special plans?"

Max squints. "Special plans? Like what?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you've written Lucas a series of sonnets to profess your love."

"A series of what?"

"Poems."

"Love poems are corny," she says.

You wonder if Steve would agree.

"Sometimes corny things are good. When they come from the right person," you say.

Max acquiesces with a hum.

"No love poems today," she says. "You should join us."

So you follow a couple steps behind them to the Baskin-Robbins down the block.

The AC whooshes as you step inside, drying your sweat to your forehead.

“Wow,” Max says with a scoff. “It’s like Starcourt all over again.”

You follow her gaze and spot Steve.

Oh. Steve.

He's in a green Family Video vest. A girl sits across from him, wearing a matching vest. She has cropped hair and a bandaid on one knee.

“Hey, losers!” Max calls. “This isn’t a lunch break.”

The girl flips her off. “The sign says we’re taking a break. It doesn’t specify how long of a break.”

Lucas orders a scoop of strawberry ice cream for himself and a scoop of cookies and cream for Max.

“Yeah, plus, we’ve had a grand total of one customer today,” Steve adds.

“Well, you would’ve had two if you hadn’t been here on your seventeen hour break,” Max shoots back.

He scoffs. “Oh, really? Who?”

“Can I get one scoop of rocky road ice cream with oreo crumble and gummy worms in a cup?” you ask the cashier.

She goes to scoop the ice cream. Max proudly points at you.

“Her,” she says with a smirk. “She wanted to rent The Princess Bride, and now she’s not gonna be a paying customer ‘cause you two are lazy.”

“I would still be a paying customer,” you say.

Max shakes her head at you.

“I’m trying to make a point,” she whispers.

“Oh. You’re doing great."

“Your total is three twenty-four,” the cashier says, sticking a spoon into your cup.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor draws your attention. Steve is up, trying to free his leg from under the table. He finally wiggles free and jogs to the counter, wallet in hand.

"Hi,” he says. "I can pay."

“But I have money,” you say, brows knitting.

“No, I know. I—now you can save your money. Do you–do you mind if I pay for you?”

“Will I have to pay you back?” you ask.

“Oh my God,” the cashier mutters under her breath.

You shrink at her tone. You've missed something, evidently. You have no clue what.

Steve glances at her, mouth pinching.

“No,” he says gently, turning back to you. “You don’t have to pay me back. It’s a gesture. As a friend.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Steve gives her the money. You take your ice cream.

“Smooth,” you hear Max say to Steve. He bumps her arm with his elbow.

Steve pulls a chair from another table for you. You all sit down.

"This is, uh…" Steve trails off, turning to you. "I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"You kept calling her Buttercup," the girl says.

Steve whips his head around to hiss at her.

"Robin."

"She's my neighbor," Lucas says.

"We know," Max tells him.

"I don't." Robin raises her hand briefly, shooing Steve away. "I'm Robin Buckley."

"Hi, Robin. Watch out for moths," you say.

She tilts her head and smiles. You look at Steve, who's already looking at you.

"Princess Buttercup?" you ask.

"Well." He rubs the back of his neck. "Y-Yeah, kinda. You mentioned The Princess Bride and, uh, I don’t know your name, so…”

You mull that over.

"If I'm Buttercup, you must be Westley."

Steve's eyes widen. "Uh…"

Robin snickers. Max smirks.

"Interesting shade of red you're turning, Westley," Robin says.

"Shut—"

He kicks her chair leg. She yelps and shoves him in retaliation. Max rolls her eyes.

"Have some class, will you?" she says.

"I'm classy!" Steve insists.

"Not anymore," Lucas says gravely. "Now you're a glorified babysitter."

"Childcare is dutiful work," you say.

Steve grins at you. Your stomach flutters.

“Is that a mud pie?” he asks.

You nod.

“Gummy worms?”

You tilt your head. “How did you know?”

Steve chuckles. “Lucky guess.”

Across the table, the others argue about the classiest ice cream flavors.

“It’s obviously mango sorbet.”

“Sorbet isn’t ice cream!”

“Are they your kids?” you ask.

Steve leans in so you can talk in his ear. His arm is on the back of your chair. If you shift the slightest inch, you’d feel him.

“Minus Robin. Though, sometimes…” He rolls his eyes playfully. “But, um, yeah. Two of them.”

“How many kids do you have?” you ask.

“Let’s see…” Steve counts on his fingers. “Six?”

“Wow. You must be some babysitter.”

“I’m alright.”

You lean in. Steve blinks.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“You have an eyelash.”

You swipe the hair off his cheek and hold your finger in front of his mouth.

“You have to make a wish.”

Steve’s eyes slide to you. He gently holds your hand in place. Your heart beats faster.

“‘Kay.” He blows the eyelash away, but doesn't release your hand. “Let’s see if it comes true.”

The numbers stare at you. Taunt you, really.

You practically have them memorized. You’d written them thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. Then you’d shoved that under your bed.

Now you have it taped to your dresser mirror.

You wish you could talk to Joan about it, but she’s bathing in the sink after an unfortunate encounter with a paint can.

The Sharpie is gone from your arm, has been gone for several days now. But if you concentrate, you can see its silhouette on your skin.

You get up and peel the paper off the mirror. Then you go down the hall to your phone.

Carefully, you dial, making sure not to press any wrong buttons.

The phone rings. You rock on your toes.

“Hello?” Steve says.

You freeze.

“Hellooo…?”

“Hi,” you finally say. “It’s Buttercup.”

“Oh!” He sounds so happy. “Hey! Hey, how are you?”

“Good.” You chew on a cuticle. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, right! Did you wanna go rollerblading?”

Relief floods you. He remembers.

“Yes. If you’re planning it.”

“I haven’t talked to the kids, but I’m sure they’d be down.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “I can pick you up in twenty?"

“I can walk.”

“C’mon, in the sun? You live on the same street as Lucas anyway, don’t worry about it.”

“Well.” You twirl the telephone cord around your finger so tightly, it threatens to cut off your circulation. “Okay… if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Steve promises. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

You hang up and run to your room to dig for your skates. They’re stuffed under your bed next to a mini gumball machine. You shove two green gumballs in your mouth and race to the bathroom to check on Joan, nearly slipping on the wood.

“I’m going out, Joan. I think he might… he might like me.” You crunch on the gumball shells and shudder. “What a terrifying thought.”

You pull out the drain stopper and set Joan on a washcloth to dry. Then you go down the hall to put on your sneakers.

Steve arrives five minutes early. You only know that because you spend the whole time watching the road from your curtained window. You shake your hands out, overwhelmed with nerves.

It’s just a boy. He’s only a boy.

The two of you meet halfway. Steve jogs backwards, unusually skillful, and opens the passenger door for you.

“Hey. Does Joan want to come?” Steve asks.

You shake your head. “She’s having a spa day. It’s just me.”

“Well, I’m happy to have you,” he says, sweet and earnest.

You duck inside the car and shake your hands a little, trying to fend off the returning nerves. Just a boy.

“So, that’s El,” Steve says as he gets into the driver’s seat, pointing to a girl with short curls. “And you know Max and Lucas.”

Max nods at you with a smile. Lucas waves.

“Hi, El,” you say. “Cool hair.”

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. “I like your skates.”

“I found them at a yard sale. You can find anything in a yard.”

"Okay," Steve says. "Everybody buckled?"

“Yes, Mom,” Max mumbles.

Steve catches your gaze and rolls his eyes. You smile.

Briefly, you worry you’ll have to fill the silence and talk about yourself, like people expect you to. But Steve and the kids hold conversation easily. They talk about anything and everything.

They're more energetic than you're used to; Debbie always prefers it to be quiet.

But you don't mind it. You don’t feel lonely like you do when you’re with Debbie.

“Alright, please stay within this area,” Steve says when he parks and everyone gets out. “Within—”

“Shouting distance!” Max yells. “Yeah, we know!”

The park isn't crowded. Most of the paths are clear, so skating will be no problem.

Max gets out two skateboards from the trunk.

“Max is going to teach me how to do an ollie,” El informs you. “Would you like to join us?”

“Maybe later,” you say. “I want to master my yard skates.”

She nods and follows the others to the small skate park on the other side of the trees.

You bring your skates to a bench and sit, lacing them up your feet. Steve is a few feet away, swinging his arms slightly.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” you ask.

“Oh, uh, no. I brought my own skates… I thought maybe we could skate together, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, I would like that,” you say.

Steve beams. “Alright, cool. I’ll go get mine.”

You stand, about to take a step forward—and immediately slip.

Steve reacts instantly, lunging to catch you. One hand grabs your elbow, the other on your stomach. You squeal and cling to his shirt.

“Are you okay?” he asks, helping you stand upright.

“I’m okay,” you say, breath caught in your throat.

You take a step but your foot wobbles. Steve grabs you again. You don’t try to take another step.

“I thought skating would be intuitive,” you say, rolling one skate to test.

“What?”

You look up. Steve’s face is inches from yours. His hair is golden in the sunshine. His eyes lock on your own; his focus sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“You know, like how babies are able to swim for the first six months of their lives?”

“Uh…” Steve tilts his head. “No?”

“Oh. Because they were in the womb, they have that ability. ‘Cause they float around in there for nine months, you know? But then they lose it. That’s why we have to learn how to swim.”

“Wow. That’s a cool fact.”

Nobody ever thinks your facts are cool. But Steve does.

“Well, I thought skating would be similar,” you say. “I’ve watched other people skate, so I thought I’d just… do it. I guess I lost that at six months too.”

Steve’s smiling. It’s a gentle smile, though. Not a teasing smile.

“I see,” he says. “I’m sorry for your disappointment.”

“It’s alright. Life is far more than disappointment. No use getting hung up on it.”

“Do you want me to teach you how to skate?” he asks. “I promise I’m good at it. Coach Collins said I could’ve seriously pursued it.”

“So skating for you is like avoiding death for Westley,” you say.

“Actually, I’m pretty good at avoiding death too,” Steve says. “And making grilled cheeses.”

“Triple threat.”

He ducks his head with a laugh, and you feel the warmth of it flow through your own body.

“Sure. Can’t make lemonade for shit, though.”

“I think your lemonade is perfect, Steve Harrington.”

His cheeks are scarlet again. It’s quickly becoming your favorite color.

“I would like it if you taught me,” you say.

“Okay. I’ll get my skates after you get the hang of it. Put your hand on my arm, right here.”

Steve pats his forearm. Carefully, you do as he says.

“I’m nervous,” you confess.

“I got you,” Steve says, cheek brushing your head. “I won’t let you fall, Buttercup.”

Saint Aloysius’ parking lot has the best rocks.

You've never told anybody as much because you imagine the lot would get busy, and you like it empty.

Today, you're searching for a brother for Joan. Ever since that tragic day at Macinaw Island, Joan's been very lonely. It‘s hard being a sisterless sister.

Joan is smooth and round, so you look for an equally smooth and round brother. Commonality is important.

Your knees hurt from squatting, so you sit. The rocks poke your butt.

You hear a car rolling up the hill, engine a soft purr. You stop and turn.

The car is maroon and shiny, with only a couple slight scratches you can't notice unless you look really hard. You don't recognize the license plate, although you have yet to start your record of Hawkins plates.

It putters to a stop in front of Giovanni's Bakery across the street. The car doors open.

"I'm losing my edge, Robs! I made a damn fool of myself. I can't even—"

"Okay, first of all, I feel like we're glossing over the fact that you don't even know this girl. And what she did was technically trespassing."

"Do you know her name?" another voice pipes up.

"No, Dustin, I don't know her name. I don't even know if she lives in Hawkins!"

Their voices disappear as they go inside the bakery. You find Joan a brother, Jack, and Jack finds a wife named Gwen. Gwen isn't smooth and round; she's sharp-edged and will be harder to clean, but she's a muted salmon color and you think she's pretty. You hope Jack will find her pretty too.

As you dig through the pile of rocks, your finger catches on the edge of a broken bottle. It slices your finger. Blood swells immediately.

You put your new rocks in your plastic red pail with your other hand. Then you stand, joints popping as you do so. You stick your ribs out and bend your spine in a stretch.

You cross the street to the bakery, pail in hand. The bell jingles as you enter. You hum the ding-dong under your breath.

"Can I help you?" the man behind the counter asks.

"Hello. Can I have five baci di dama and five of the raspberry sandwich cookies?"

He goes to the display case with a paper bag. You rest your elbows on the counter, pail handles over your arm.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Do you have a bandaid? I'm bleeding."

The man purses his lips. "No bandaid, sorry."

"That's okay. Just the cookies, then."

"Buttercup?"

You turn. Steve stands before you, wearing his Family Video vest. Robin is beside him, her hair piled into a windblown bun on her head. Another boy, shorter than both, younger, is with them. He waves at you, curls bouncing.

You wave back. Robin squeals.

"Oh my God, what happened to your finger?" she asks, horrified.

"There was a broken bottle in the parking lot."

"Jesus," Steve says. He takes your hand and inspects it. He's so close and warm. All you can do is stare at the freckles on his neck.

“Why were you in the parking lot?” he asks.

“I was looking for rocks. This is the best rock spot in all of Hawkins. Well, after Lover’s Lake. But the pH has been abnormally high there. Probably because of the monsters. So I came here.”

"Hi, I'm Dustin," the boy introduces. “Is your finger okay?”

"Hi, Dustin. I think I’ll survive,” you say. “Dustin means brave warrior in Norse.”

Dustin beams. “Yup. I was named after my grandfather. He served in World War Two.”

"Names are important,” you say. “Joan agonized for days deciding what I should call her. Eventually, I decided for her. A name says a lot about a person. Steve has a warrior and good luck at his side."

"Yep, Steve-o here is pretty blessed to have us. And," he gestures to you, "You are?"

"Hungry," you say, taking your bag of cookies with your free hand.

The bag crinkles as you open it. You hold it out to Steve.

"Do you want one? I promise they’re blood-free.”

"Uh…” He glances at your hand. “Are you sure your finger is okay?”

“She’s a trooper. Survived ink poisoning and everything.” You wave the bag again. “Cookie?”

Steve takes a baci di dama out and pops it into his mouth. He hums as he chews, nodding.

"'S good," he says after he swallows.

"Baci di dama means lady's kisses in Italian," you say.

His cheeks turn pink again.

"You should drink more water," you add. "You turn pink easily."

Robin snorts. Steve holds a hand to his cheek.

"Uh, thanks."

“You’re welcome. Robin, would you like a cookie?"

"No, thanks,” she says. “I'm picking up a tiramisu for my mom's birthday."

"I want a cookie!" Dustin says.

"Dude," Steve hisses.

You hold the bag open to Dustin. He takes a raspberry sandwich cookie.

"So," Dustin says, mouth full. "Are you Steve’s girlfriend or something?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you say.

“Du-ude!” Steve says too loudly, voice climbing in pitch.

“What? You talk about her all the freakin’ time. I needed to know.”

You look at Steve. He rubs the back of his neck and half-smiles.

“Anyway,” continues Dustin. “How do you know Steve?”

"I climbed over his gate by accident on the hottest day of May,” you say.

"By accident?"

"Yes. All the gates in Loch Nora look the same. Except Steve's gate has climbing ivy and little red flowers. It's much nicer than the other houses. It looks like a person lives there. I mistook it for Debbie's gate."

Robin tilts her head at you. You don't care what Steve says; she's a one hundred percent bonafide bird.

Dustin points to your pail, crumbs all over his chin. "Why do you have rocks?"

"They're for Joan," you say.

"Joan? Is she your friend?"

"She's more like my confidante. She doesn't talk much, so I think it'd be presumptuous of me to call her a friend when I have no idea where we stand."

"Navigating friendships can be hard," Steve offers.

"Yes," you say. "They can be."

"Being straightforward can help a lot," he continues. "It, uh, at least helped me. That way the other person knows what you mean. No room for miscommunication."

You nod. "That's good advice. I'll have to try that with Joan. Sometimes she can be kind of hard-headed."

You roll up your bag of cookies and reposition your pail on your arm so the metal doesn't dig into your skin.

"It was nice to meet you, Dustin," you say. "Goodbye, Steve and Robin."

"Wait!"

Steve holds the door for you and follows you out. He still smells sweet, like pineapple, and also a little woody. He touches the small of your back, sending a bolt of electricity down your spine.

"I have a first aid kit in my car. Let me wrap your cut."

"Oh." You'd forgotten about it. "Okay."

You follow Steve to his car. He pops the trunk and rummages. You spot a bat with nails.

"Very inventive," you say, pointing at the bat.

Steve laughs shyly. "Yeah, uh, the monsters."

"I definitely wouldn't want to fight you if I were a multi-dimensional monster."

He smiles and takes out a small spray bottle of disinfectant.

"This is gonna sting, okay? But we need to make sure nothing gets infected."

"An infection would be unfortunate," you say. "I'm quite attached to this finger."

He sprays and cleans your finger. You wince and Steve squeezes your wrist in apology. Then he pulls out bandaids.

"Any preference? I have rainbow, Star Wars, 'cause they're all a bunch of nerds, cats… oh, I have flowers! ‘Cause you’re, uh, Buttercup, you know?"

"Flowers," you say, because Steve's so excited about it.

He nods and opens the bandaid. You hold out your finger and Steve carefully wraps it. He rubs your knuckle.

"Thank you," you say.

"You're welcome. Be careful, okay?"

"I will."

He closes the trunk, swinging his keys on his finger.

"Sorry if that was awkward, by the way," he says. "Dustin, I mean. He can be… blunt."

"It wasn't awkward."

“It wasn’t?”

“No,” you say. “I’m happy you tell people about me. I tell Joan about you all the time.”

"Oh." He nods. "That—that’s good. So… we’re both… uh—”

"Do you want another lady's kiss?"

"What? Oh—" Steve clears his throat. "N-no, that's okay. Thanks."

You take out a raspberry cookie and bite into it.

"Your hair has product," you observe.

"Yeah. No secrets, though."

"Everybody's hair has secrets."

"Even yours?" he asks.

"Especially mine."

Steve rubs the back of his neck. You open your bag and take out another cookie. He looks like he's trying to find the right words to say. You don't mind waiting.

"Hey, do you like barbecue?" he asks.

"I like it as well as anybody else."

"Well, um, I'm having a barbecue this Saturday. Lucas won a big championship game and so we're celebrating his win."

"That's nice," you say. "Congratulations to Lucas."

"Yeah! So, um, did you maybe want to come too? It'll be at my house. You could bring a friend if you wanted. Like Joan."

"Joan is a vegetarian," you say. "But I'm sure she'd enjoy the company."

Steve smiles. He has such a pretty smile.

"We're ordering pizza too, so Joan can have some of that."

"You're a very thoughtful host.”

Then you have a terrible thought. But you have to ask it because if you don't, you might be breaking some kind of invisible expectation. You do that a lot.

"Does Debbie have to come?" you ask.

Steve blinks. "Uh, no? It's not a requirement."

"Some people ask me to parties because they want Debbie to come."

Steve frowns. "That's rude. I wouldn't do that."

"Okay. What time does the barbecue begin?"

"You can stop by anytime. But we'll probably start eating around six."

You nod. "Joan and I will be there at five thirty."

Steve's answering grin is blinding. He must be really excited to meet Joan. You get it; Joan's the life of any party she attends.

"Great, that's great. I'll see you then."

"Bye, Steve," you say.

"Bye," he answers like he's out of breath.

Even the way he breathes is pretty.

Every month, Miles Stanwick throws a party.

Miles is a celebrity in Hawkins, his father being a state senator, and Miles is, according to a drunk Debbie, “the Gatsby to her Daisy.”

You're pretty sure Debbie hasn't read the book. Or maybe she's a living tragedy. Either is possible.

It had been just you two in her room, without the Other Debbie she pretends to be to impress the people of Loch Nora, when she'd told you what it meant to be in love.

"You just know," she'd said, her breath reeking of tequila.

You'd turned your head. Tequila made your nose itch.

"But you love Brett," you'd said.

"Brett is who I'll marry," she'd corrected. She’d sounded so sad. "Miles is all I've got."

Then she'd thrown up all over her carpet. You'd helped her into bed and made a mental note to find her a friend like Joan to keep her company, for when you weren't around.

You don't like parties. They're loud and smelly and usually filled with people you don't like or don't know. And at a party, people you don't like and people you don't know are one and the same.

You would leave, but Debbie is your ride tonight. So you're stuck here until midnight, maybe even later.

Someone plugs in a karaoke machine and that gets most of the party's attention. The music is horribly loud and is the kind that’s just a lot of synthesizer.

A guy jumps onto the Stanwicks' coffee table and knocks over the potpourri dish. Dried petals and orange peels scatter across the carpet.

Debbie appears in front of you, a red Solo cup in her hand.

"What did I bring you here for?" she asks, mouth curled. "To slump on the couch?"

"No one here wants to talk," you say.

Debbie rolls her eyes. "Parties aren't for talking. They're for drinking and making out. Someone's rolling a blunt in the den. Go suck on that, will you?"

The people in Loch Nora are so good at making you feel two inches tall. You wish you'd brought Joan. She'd know what to do.

You've tried alcohol before. Champagne at a wedding. A sip of rum from the Wellermans' liquor cabinet, back when Debbie wasn't so caught up in being just like everyone else.

Maybe it's your fault, too. Maybe you're too good at standing out.

You go to the kitchen. It's already trashed. You step over a spill on the floor. Then you turn around and lay down some paper towels so no one will slip.

There are various bottles of strong liquor strewn across the counters. You decide to try the punch and fill your cup to the top. You sniff it and your nose wrinkles at the whiff of alcohol.

You so badly want to have fun. You want to know what makes all of this worth it. You want your friendship with Debbie to be worth it.

You down the punch in one go. It makes you cough and you scramble for water at the sink. You wonder if the punch is poisoned.

You wobble out of the kitchen a couple minutes later, head already woozy. A girl stands with a drink, one arm folded.

"Where's Debbie?" you ask. The girl winces and steps away from you.

"She went with Miles and some other people to the lake."

Your eyes widen. "No, they can't. There's monsters."

She looks at you like you might be an insect splattered on her dashboard.

"You're Debbie's weird friend, aren't you?"

Weird doesn't make you feel good, like Steve calling you strange did. Weird makes you feel like when a boy in sixth grade stepped on your heels while going up the stairs because he thought it was funny.

"Debbie would've told me," you say.

The girl shrugs. "Guess she ditched you. She can't score with Miles if you're killing the vibe."

Weird tastes like poison in your mouth.

"Debbie was my ride," you say, but she’s already gone.

Your head aches. You try to think on what to do next. It's nearly midnight. No one is awake, and you have no idea how to call a cab.

You find the Stanwicks' phone in the hall and dial the only number you know, besides your own, and the local pizzeria.

"Hello?"

You lean against the wall, phone in both hands.

"Uh, hello? Who is this?"

"H-hi, Westley." Your voice cracks.

"Hey," Steve says, unbearably gentle. "My favorite rock girl. Jesus, it's… midnight."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm just—is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"Debbie ditched me."

Silence. For a moment, you panic that the line's dropped.

"Steve?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm, um, at Miles Stanwick's. The address is… well, I don't remember, but I'll go outside and look for the house number—"

"I know it," Steve says. "Stay right there. I'm coming to get you. Don't drink any more."

Your lip wobbles. "'Kay."

"It's okay," he soothes. "Drink some water. Don't take anything from anybody."

"I just wanted to be fun," you blurt.

"You are fun, Buttercup. Way more fun than anybody at that house, I guarantee it. I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Steve," you say, no longer feeling so small.

You hang up and go to the kitchen to get more water from the sink. Then you return to the hallway and sit, back against the wall, knees tucked into your chest.

You doze, lids heavy from the alcohol. The next thing you know are two hands on your arms.

You jolt awake. One hand cradles the back of your head so you don't thump it against the wall.

"Hey, hey." Steve kneels in front of you. He brushes your cheek with a cool knuckle. "It's me, it's Steve. Are you okay?"

His hands are cool against your overheated skin. He smells like lemon shampoo.

"My knight," you say.

"I thought Westley was a pirate."

“He was only pretending."

You let Steve ease you up. His car keys dig into your hip.

"Ow," you say dazedly.

"What? What hurts?"

"Keys."

"Oh." Steve shifts you to his opposite side, hand on your back. "Sorry, honey."

"Honey never spoils," you say. "Did you know that? You could dig up honey from a tomb that's thousands of years old and as long as it was stored in an airtight container, it's good to eat."

"I love that you know that."

"Do you really?"

"I really do," Steve says. "C’mon, let's get you home."

Outside, the moon is a dot of cream in the purple sky. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the houses are also dark.

"I'm sorry for calling you so late," you say.

"Don't be. I'm glad you called me. These parties can get out of hand."

"Debbie left. She went to Lover's Lake with Miles—"

The panic returns, flooding your body. You squirm and Steve tries to keep you steady.

"Whoa, what's—"

"The monsters! There's monsters down there, Steve. I don't like Miles, but I don't want him to be eaten!"

"No, no, no more monsters," Steve assures you. "They can't come through there anymore."

You still. "Promise?"

"I promise."

He helps you into the passenger seat of his car. Steve leans in and pulls the seat belt over you.

"Comfy?" he asks.

"I like you so much, Steve Harrington."

It's too dark to tell, but you suspect he's got another case of sunstroke.

"I, um, like you too, Buttercup. You're really cool."

"Me?" You wave your hand. "No."

"Really," he insists. "You are. The coolest."

If you were Debbie, if you weren't weird in the wrong way, if you didn't go to parties to talk, and if you fit a million other criteria you never will, Steve would kiss you right now. Or maybe you'd kiss him.

But you don't know how to go about that. You don't think it's your right to do such a thing.

So Steve shuts the door and walks around to the driver's seat. You stare at your flower bandaid.

"Four three's," Steve says as he turns the ignition.

You turn your head. "Hmm?"

"The house number. Four three's. That's gotta be, like, astronomically bad luck, right?"

"Without a doubt."

Except you're here with Steve Harrington, and he calls you honey and thinks you're cool. And that doesn't seem like bad luck at all.

"I'm going to a barbecue," you call out.

There's no reply. You close the door behind you.

Joan sits in your pocket. You've tied a purple ribbon around her head, right above her googly eyes. You don't know what the dress code is for a barbecue, but you hope she's not underdressed.

You haven’t spoken to Steve since Miles’ party. You’re not sure what you should say, and you can’t bear the thought of calling him to hear silence.

Even if he doesn’t like you the way you like him, you hope he’ll still be friends with you. Steve and his kids have grown on you. You don’t know if you can go back to who you were before the hottest day of May.

“Material Girl” plays from inside Steve's backyard. You mouth the words as you fling your flip flops over the gate.

"What the fuck?" someone says from the other side.

You climb the gate and shimmy down. It's a good thing you're wearing shorts under your dress.

A boy, lanky and tall but probably Lucas's age, holds one of your flip flops. He stares at you and shakes the shoe.

"Is this yours?"

"Both of them are," you say. "Does Steve like Madonna?"

He grimaces. "Unfortunately."

"Cool."

You spot Steve sitting on one of the deck chairs with Robin and a boy your age with big, curly hair and a Led Zeppelin shirt with cropped sleeves.

"Venus" plays next and you wobble in time with the music as you walk over to Steve.

"Her weapons were her crystal eyes," you whisper. The pavement is warm under your toes.

"Making every man mad."

Steve turns just as you reach him. He stands so fast he shakes the chair.

"Hey!" he says. He sounds out of breath again. "Hey, you came."

"You invited me," you say.

"Yeah, yes." Steve nods. "I did. I'm glad you're here."

"You play good music."

"Ha!" Steve whips his head to look at the curly haired boy. "Suck it, Munson."

"She's obviously biased."

"Munson," you say. "Eddie Munson?"

Eddie freezes under your gaze. Robin and Steve glance at you.

"Yeah, uh, that's me." Eddie smiles weakly. "Look, you might've heard some stuff abou—"

"You helped fight the monsters," you interrupt. "You're very brave."

Eddie's eyes widen. "I—"

"Most people just like to ignore monsters. It takes a really good person to fight them." You turn to Steve. "Do you have orange Fanta?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll get you a can. Feel free to sit… where are your shoes?"

You point behind you. "Your bodyguard had to screen them after I climbed your gate. You have very tight security."

"After you climbed my… wait, Mike? God, I’m sorry about him. I'll get your shoes back."

"It's okay. Flip flops are dangerous weapons. It's only a matter of time before the airport bans them."

Steve tilts his head, eyes warm. "Right. I'll be back. That's Eddie and Robin… you know them."

"I know their names, and that's about all you can know about anybody."

Eddie giggles. You look at him. He doesn't seem to be laughing at you, so you sit where Steve was sitting, across from Eddie's chair. You point at his shirt.

"I like Kashmir."

"Thank God! Somebody with decent tastes."

"I'll listen to anything," you say. "It's important to be a good listener."

Eddie grins. "Words of the wise."

"Where's Joan?" Robin asks.

"Right here." You take Joan out of your pocket and set her down on the edge of the pool chair.

"Sick," Eddie says.

You nod. "The ribbon was my pick."

"I like it," Robin says.

"Thank you."

Steve returns with an orange Fanta for you and a root beer for Robin.

Robin points to Joan. "Steve, this is the famous Joan we've heard so much about."

"That's a rock," says Steve.

"Yep."

"Oh." He nods in understanding. "Joan is your pet rock?"

"Confidante," you correct. "’Pet’ is demeaning."

"Got it. And was Joan's sister also your confidante?"

"No. Joan's sister didn't like me much. She thought I was a bad influence on Joan. But we shouldn't talk about it now. Joan gets very sad when I bring it up."

You open your can. The carbonation hisses. It's itchy and sweet on your tongue.

"I like your hair," you say. "It's fluffy. Like it was on the hottest day of May."

Steve pushes a couple strands behind his ear.

"Thanks. The gel is too much on hot days like these. Weighs me down."

"At least you won't float away." You look at Eddie. "Is your hair full of secrets too?"

Eddie ruffles his hair. "Not as many as Steve's, but I've got a couple in here. 'S what gives my curls volume."

"Hm. Just as I suspected," you say.

"Ste-eve!" Dustin whines from across the yard. "You promised burgers!"

Steve rolls his eyes. "You'd think he's never been fed in his life."

Eddie pats his shoulder. "You've got this, Harrington."

"Oh, no. You wanna eat, you've gotta earn your keep. Come on."

Eddie groans, flinging himself off the chair. "Save me, Buckley!"

"Already did that," she says, pulling her sunglasses onto her eyes. "Never again."

"You should tie up your hair so it doesn't catch fire," you suggest.

"Well, at least somebody cares about me," Eddie declares, pulling his hair into a ponytail.

Steve turns to you and smiles softly.

"Are you hungry? You can have the first pick of the burgers."

"Won't Dustin be annoyed?"

Steve shrugs. "Kid could use some manners. Besides, pretty girls always get the first pick. It's the law."

You follow Steve and Eddie to the grill, pretty girl echoing in your brain the whole time.

Eddie's hair doesn't catch on fire and Steve makes you a perfect burger. The sun sparkles on the pool surface. The kids come out to eat and, predictably, Dustin complains about not getting the first burger.

"Not fair. Just 'cause she's your girlfriend," he mumbles as he goes off to search for the mustard.

You check to see if Steve had heard the comment. He doesn't seem to have; you can't decide if you're relieved or not.

The chairs are all taken by the time you finish fixing up your burger. Steve stands immediately as you approach.

“Here, take my seat,” he says.

“We can share,” you offer.

Steve lets you take the back of the chair, settling at the foot. “You Make My Dreams Come True” plays on the speakers.

“Whoever made this mixtape is a genius,” you announce.

“You like it?” says Steve. “I actually made this one. Robin and Eddie think my taste sucks, but—”

“It’s spectacular.”

He hums, ducking his head shyly. “Well, speaking of spectacular: I made more lemonade, if you want to test it before I unleash it upon the masses.”

“I’ll happily drink your lemonade,” you say. “It’ll build my iocane tolerance.”

Steve grins. “I rented The Princess Bride, by the way. I know you meant to get it a few weeks ago. We can watch it tonight, if you want.”

“You remembered I wanted to watch it,” you say.

He nods. “Well, uh, yeah. Do you still want to? If you don’t, I can—”

“I do,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve stands, hand outstretched so you’ll give him your empty plate. “I’m going inside. Anybody want anything?”

“Doritos!” Robin shouts.

“Napkins, please,” El says.

“Cherry Coke!” Mike calls.

“Beer!” Eddie whoops.

“Doritos, napkins, got it. The cooler is right there, Wheeler, and are you kidding, Eddie? No drinking by the pool. Have we not learned our lesson from the last four years?”

“Bold of you to assume I’ve learned anything, Steven.”

“Can you bring us popsicles?” Max asks. “Lemon and grape.”

“Ooh, popsicles sound good,” says Robin. “Bring me one too. Fruit punch.”

Steve sighs, lifting his arms.

“Two hands, guys. Only got two.”

“I can help,” you offer.

“Now that’s a great idea,” Robin says. “The two of you in the kitchen, alone. Really brilliant, don’t you think, Steve?”

Steve glares at her. Then he turns to you, expression softening.

“That’d be great, thank you.”

You follow him into the kitchen. It looks exactly like the last time you were here, except for the food. Steve opens the freezer and digs through the box of popsicles. Then he takes the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and sets it on the counter.

“Can you get the Doritos?” he asks. “They’re up there.”

You open a shelf over the stove. The chips are at the very top. You try jumping; all that does is bang your ribs into the counter.

"Whoa, whoa.”

Steve’s hand rests on your back. Your stomach swoops.

"Easy, Buttercup. I’ll get it, sorry ‘bout that."

You frown. "The Doritos have eluded me."

"They’re a tricky bunch," he says, reaching and successfully grabbing the chips.

"I knew you’d best me and succeed."

"Best you?"

"Yes," you say. "Like in a duel."

Steve tilts his head, a tiny crinkle forming in the center of his brows.

"Are we going to duel? Like Inigo and Westley?"

"Not if I can help it," you say. "I'm terrible with a sword."

"I would never try to sword fight you."

"I appreciate that."

His hand slips from your back. You watch it fall to his side.

“Feel free to help yourself to whatever you want,” Steve says as he takes a glass out of the cupboard. “You can also take food home.”

You exhale through your nose and wiggle your fingers a little, trying to stave off the nerves. You wish Joan was in your pocket right now, but you left her on the deck chair.

“Buttercup?”

You look up. Steve has a glass of lemonade in one hand. The top button of his polo shirt is undone. Was it always undone? You can’t remember.

Anyway, he’s beautiful. And you’re so damn strange.

“Yes, Westley?”

Steve smiles. You don’t think anyone has ever smiled at you as much as Steve does.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

He puts the glass in front of you. You glance at it, then back at him.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I won’t force you to drink my crappy lemonade if you don’t want to, y’know.”

“You called me strange,” you blurt. “When we first met.”

Steve’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he says softly. “But I won’t call you that anymore if you don’t like it.”

“No, I–I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way. But…”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m not like Debbie,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’ll probably never be like Debbie.”

“I much prefer you as yourself,” he says.

“Oh.”

You sip your lemonade. Your lips pucker but you smile all the same.

“Damn,” Steve says with a chuckle. “I really can’t nail that lemonade, huh?”

“It’s wonderful,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward. You set the glass on the counter.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“I would very much like that.”

Steve’s lips are slightly chapped. You taste like lemonade and he tastes like Coke and God, you like it so much.

You loop your arms around his neck like you’ve wanted to do for weeks. He returns in kind, both hands slipping to your waist.

It’s not just a boy kissing you. It’s Steve.

The sliding glass door whooshes open and you jerk your head back in surprise. Max and Dustin trod in.

Dustin shrieks.

“Seriously? This is what was taking you so long?”

“If you were gonna do that, we would’ve gotten the popsicles ourselves,” Max says with a huff, grabbing the popsicles and chips from the counter.

“Told ya they were making out!” comes Eddie’s voice from outside. “I warned you, kiddies!”

They clear out, with one last stink eye from Dustin. Steve shakes his head, nose pressed to your cheek.

“Again, very sorry about them.”

“They wanted to check in on their favorite babysitter,” you say.

Steve lifts his head and rolls his eyes. “I need a padlock or something.”

You hum and lean over to unwrap a popsicle.

“Oh,” you say. “Three left.”

“Three popsicles?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well, that explains it. Astronomical bad luck, right?”

“Actually,” you say, leaning in for another kiss. “I think my theory was wrong.”

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x yn #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things

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tiyoin · 4 months

Text

so i just watched hazbin hotel ep 7 preview...

(this is a continuation of heaven reader)

alastor using angel reader for a larger, grander scheme than vaggie thought.

maybe he didn't give a shit about you at all? what if he was using you as a rook piece.

or maybe...

he was willing to flip the scales just to have you in his maleficent grasps.. maybe you were important for another reason she'd never be able to imagine. not even in her most wildest dreams.

there's a primal fear that claws at the back of veggies brain, before it quickly chills and numbs the front of her brain whenever she thought about you.

she scrapped her mind to try and remember you: yet you were no where to be found.

that has to do with alastor somehow.

and alastor....

he doesn't care to decipher his feelings. doesn't bother to answer any questions about you in detail. instead he sang a song about how in 'love' you two were in when alive.

of course vaggie spoke up, always there to pop whatever bubble he put into everyone's, (not like they fully believed him) especially charlie's mind

"even so, you have your own problems to worry about. isn't that right, miss vag"

"vagg" she sneered turning away to go tend to her problem.

and yet, whenever alastor is seated at the chess board, pieces already at war. his hand always seems to linger on one of the white rooks.

eyeing it eerily with one of his infamous smiles, he takes the black's rook and strikes down the white's. this left a hole in the white's strategy as he moved his piece away from danger.

clenching the dead rook in his hand, he tightened his grip and his smile before discarding the piece with the other dead soldiers into the fire pit. all alastor knew is that he wanted everything to slip, crumble, and fall into chaos.

he wants to see friends betrayed, families die, lives get ruined. and as much carnage that it would take centuries to clean up.

he wants complete and utter pandemonium.

he laughed viciously at the fire. and with a wave of his hand all the pieces were in starting positions brand spanking new. yet he made sure the rook was burnt on its crown.

alastor mused to himself "what's the best kind of chaos?"

picking up the burnt rook again, alastor moved it first.

his jaw clenched and his eyes grinned as he heard a commotion downstairs, charlies voice on top.

the best kind is when you're able to physically kneel into the ground and plant its invasive seed yourself.

right into heavens impenetrable gates.

and right in your graceful, little, hands

he thought, grabbing his cane before standing up. he gave one last look to the chess board, to the rook, before he and his shadow vanished.

not edited, hell, not even proofread. I literally wrote this, then posted

if I write more of angel reader x shithead alastor then ill make a tag el oh el

alastor's such a little shit I LOVE him

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gretavangroupie · 1 month

Text

The Ripe and The Ruin - (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Reader, OC x Reader

Word Count: 14.3k

Warnings: Language, Alcohol, Smoking, Angst, Unwelcome Advances, Kissing.

Find the Playlist Here: Apple Music | Spotify

A new series in collaboration with my talented co-writer @gretavanmoon.

"Like all good fruit, the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin."

JAKE POV

You absentmindedly swirl the skinny black straw around in your glass, scoffing to yourself as you wonder why the bartender put a stirrer into your Whiskey in the first place. It didn’t need to be stirred. You took it straight. It was fine on its own. Regardless, you sipped around the straw, letting the oaky liquor trickle down the back of your throat.

It wasn’t that you hated flying. It was more that you hated being alone with your thoughts for extended periods of time. Only your phone or a book to occupy your brain, but you knew that only worked for so long. Eventually you’d be left alone to tumble down into those dark, dusty memories that would torment you until you touched down in whatever city you were slated to be in that day.

You hear Josh’s voice, instinctively causing you to turn your head, watching as he and Daniel stand in front of the camera recording whatever video the social media team planned for the day. You gracefully bowed out of that process all together, the team knowing not to approach you about an idea unless they knew it was something you would agree to. Usually though, it wasn’t. You turn to look at Sam on your right, seeing his gaze fixed upon the two of them. Both of you were now watching them as they played along with the skit, a huff of secondhand embarrassment sizzling through you as you sip from your glass. You’d never be caught dead doing that.

Fools. How is anyone ever supposed to take us seriously if all we show them is this?

“You ready for another few months of this shit?” you mumble, your lips barely parting from the edge of your glass.

Sam snickers as he turns back to you. “No. But that’s the job isn’t it?” he answers, swallowing down a gulp of beer, turning to look at you.

“I’m hitting that wall, too.” you answer, meeting the eyes of his girlfriend, Lyla. She sends you a sympathetic look as she squeezes Sam’s arm, giving him the little bit of reassurance he needs. “S’been a shit few weeks.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, instead pursing his lips together and slowly nodding his head as he peers down into his empty glass. Everyone knows better than to indulge you in your misery at this point, vowing not to pick at the festering wound. It’s still fresh and you’re still too volatile.

“Well, we’re going to your happy place, right?” Lyla asks with a hopeful smile.

“Yeah, yeah we are,” you answer, taking another long pull of Whiskey. It was clear she didn’t know the reason it made you happy in the first place was because of the memories you made there with the person no longer around.

You turn your head ready to fall into those memories you’ve been pushing away for weeks, but fate has other plans as you spot your production team walking towards the boarding gate. They look frantic as they talk to each other, their eyes flicking up and down from their phones in their hands. Paul, your band Manager leads the group, finally slipping his phone into his pocket as he spots the gate. Next to him is Corrine, the Production Manager talking on the phone, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she follows Paul. Wes, the Tour Manager continues to talk to Paul as they step into the waiting area, but behind him is someone you don’t recognize.

She’s looking down at her phone, unaware that Wes has come to an abrupt stop in front of her. She runs into him just enough that it gets his attention, a profuse apology falling from her mouth. You laugh a little at the exchange, wondering who this girl is, and why she is with your team. She’s dressed like the rest of them, casual, but still comfortable for a day of travel. A slouchy white long sleeve shirt, a little too thin for the cold January weather, a brown leather backpack, worn and well loved, and a pair of olive green pants that hug her ass just a little too well for 10AM on a Thursday morning. You find yourself unable to pull your eyes away from her, a magnetizing feeling sucking you in the longer you look at her. She laughs with Wes, a bright smile lighting up her face causing an unwelcome twinge in your chest. It’s when she fully turns though, allowing you to see her whole face through the curtain of tousled waves, that you find yourself needing to know who she is.

You swallow nervously, licking your bottom lip as you turn to Sam. “Who uh, who’s that?” you ask, nodding towards the group. “With Paul, Wes, and Corri?”

Sam turns around in his barstool, looking across the busy walkway to the group standing at the gate. “Oh, um…” he pauses, assessing the situation. “She’s with Paul, so that must be our new runner.”

“What happened to Lucy?” you ask, letting your eyes drift back to the mystery girl.

“She got engaged and moved to Scotland or some shit, I don’t remember. Ask Josh,” he laughs.

You hum, trying to remember the email thread where Paul’s new assistant was approved. What was her name…

“You know her name?” Lyla asks, looking at Sam.

Yes, Lyla. Yes.

“Um, I think it’s….Y/N. Yeah, yeah, Y/N,” he answers confidently, snapping his fingers as he speaks.

“So she’s the new Lucy…” you hum, flipping your sunglasses down over your eyes.

“Guess so. We’ll see if she can hack it,” he laughs, sliding his card to the bartender.

You turn back to look at her, this time your eyes concealed. She is rocking back and forth on her feet, looking around as she hugs her arms across her chest. She seems nervous, pushing her hair behind her ears every few minutes. You’re positively taken by her, unable to peel your eyes away from her every move. You can’t help but study her, and you briefly wonder if it's the alcohol rushing through your brain that has you so focused on her.

The gate agents’ voice blaring through the intercom system snaps you from your thoughts, announcing that your flight was ready to begin boarding. You look to Sam, who is signing the check, and nod your head in silent agreement that you should head over. You toss back the rest of your Whiskey, letting out a sigh as it warms your chest. You grab your black leather backpack and sling it over your shoulders, straightening out your shirt before following Sam across the walkway to the gate. With your glasses still down, you step into the waiting area, watching people line up around you.

Josh, Ty, Mia, and Daniel appear behind you, startling you a bit as you fumble around in your pocket for your boarding pass. Their conversation is loud and grating, but you tune them out. You check your seat assignment as you move forward in the line, repeating it in your head over and over so you don’t forget it. You try not to pay attention to the pretty mystery girl five people ahead of you, but you just can’t seem to take your eyes off of her. You watch her disappear down the jet bridge as she talks to Paul, and before you can even register it, it’s your turn and the gate agent is scanning your ticket. She sends you on your way with a smile, and as you make the long walk to the plane you wonder if the girl in the green pants is going to make this tour just a little bit more interesting.

—

HER POV

3E. 3E. 3E.

Your eyes scan the row of numbers at the top of the cabin, finally catching sight of your assigned seat. You slide into the aisle seat, tossing your backpack to the floor as you let out a sigh of relief. You made it in one piece. You weren’t late, and everyone seemed to like you so far.

You take a look around you, admiring the plush seats and ample legroom. You’d never flown first class before. You felt a little out of place as you looked at the people around you. Thankfully it was filled with team members you knew, and the band members and their partners, but still you knew you didn’t belong up here. You kicked your bag beneath the seat in front of you, pulling your shirt sleeves over your hands before reaching up to adjust the air vents that were blowing far too hard. A small shiver left your body as you spun the vents closed, sitting back comfortably in your seat as you waited to see who your seat partner would be.

Your phone buzzed on your lap, a text from your best friend lighting up your screen.

Ruth

10:57am: How many hours is the flight again?

You smile as you quickly text back, running the numbers in your head.

You

10:58am: I don’t know, like 7 or 8 hours? You’ll be fine. Read a book or something. I’ll text you when I get there. But it will be late…or early? I think? There is a big time difference.

Ruth

10:59am: Ok, be careful.

You lock your phone and shove it under your leg, your eyes darting to the aisle as more people pass you on their way to their seats. You couldn’t believe your first leg of tour with them was taking you across Europe, allowing you to see places you’d only dreamed about. It wasn’t the job you were worried about, you could do that in your sleep. It was the uncertainty of being in another country with people you didn’t really know.

Getting to know the bands you worked for was a precarious thing. Always walking the thin line between friend and employee. You knew your place though, and you knew where that boundary lied. Your eyes refocus as someone stops in front of you, dropping their hands. As you look up you see Jake, one of the band members staring back at you.

“I’m…right there,” he says, gently pointing to the seat next to you.

“Oh, right here?” you ask, genuinely curious how you were seated next to a band member and not with a crew member.

“3F? That’s what this says…” he asks, checking his boarding pass. You nod and stand, letting him slide into the seat. He drops his leather backpack to the ground with a thud, letting out a sigh of relief, much in the same way you had.

You resettle in your own seat, buckling your seatbelt and pulling it tight across your lap. Your heart is still pounding as you try to calm your nerves, suddenly feeling put on the spot next to your boss. Or– your boss's boss. Shit.

You realize that you know practically nothing about this band, about its members, and really even much of their music beyond their hits. You planned to spend most of this flight acquainting yourself with them, learning their likes and dislikes before making a fool out of yourself in front of them in the green room. You don’t know if you should speak to him, and truthfully you’re a little hesitant since that day at the office, catching him and Josh in an argument.

You didn’t even know they would be there as you went in to sign your paperwork, but to your surprise they were, standing in the middle of the office playing around on instruments and talking. You made a beeline straight for the management office, mostly unseen, and quickly signed your paperwork. Paul went over some of the timelines and the things you would be responsible for as you took detailed notes on your phone, not wanting to miss a single thing.

Though, all of that came to a screeching halt as the sound of a chair skidding forcefully across the concrete floors pulled you both from your conversation. From your seat you watched through the small office door as two men moved towards each other, while two more intervened to break up whatever was about to happen.

You then learned from Paul that the two people that were arguing were the twins, Jake and Josh, and that the other two were their younger brother Sam, and their honorary brother Daniel. You observed in shock as the two of them shouted profanities at each other from either side of the piano, both red faced and worked up over something.

Paul quickly walked you out the front door with an apology and a laugh, and that was the last you saw of the band and its members, until today.

Out of the corner of your eye, you try to get a good look at him without him noticing. First impressions have always been a big deal to you, and since your first impression of him was nothing short of off-putting, you decide to try again. Give him the benefit of the doubt.

Worn-in black pants, cuffed at the ankle, a wrinkled beige button up that only conceals half his torso, a thick dark navy overcoat, and a stack of heavy silver necklaces. Oh, and blue-tinted sunglasses. His cologne… now that will be sticking around in your mind for a while. Clean, woodsy, a hint of musk but still kind of sweet.

You hear him clear his throat as he fidgets with his things, putting them all in their places as he finally settles into his seat. He reaches down into his black leather bag that appears to be well-loved, and pulls out a set of wired earbuds. They’re tangled and bunched, and you can’t help but smirk as you watch him try to untangle them. His fingers pull through the twisted white wires, and before you can offer your help, he reluctantly tosses them back down on top of his unzipped bag. “Fuck it,” you hear him mumble under his breath. He huffs again and leans back, tapping his fingers anxiously on his arm rests.

You let yourself drift back into your own thought as the plane takes off, going over the hundreds of miniscule things you know you’ll have to accomplish as soon as the plane lands. It’s quiet in first class, something you aren't used to with flying on the regular. The peacefulness that comes along with the drone of the plane and the light conversation between everyone is almost enough to help you relax a little, if not for the damned cool air still blowing through the vent above you.

You shiver a little, cuffing your hands over the ends of your shirt to pull it in more closely to your body. Why you had chosen to forgo a heavier jacket in the middle of winter, you truly don’t know. You decide to distract yourself a little, pulling up the string of endless emails that lie in waiting on your phone, getting a nice head-start on your duties before you have to hit the ground running.

Jake has been sitting beside you quietly for about an hour now, alternating scrolling his phone every few minutes and looking out his window. The cloud cover is heavy, so being able to see even a glimpse of the ocean below you is a lost cause. You listen as he sighs, crossing one of his legs over the other and folding his hands in his lap.

Should you strike up conversation? No, he probably doesn’t care to speak to you. But is it rude not to? You’ve already been sitting here for over an hour…

Just as you decide to open your mouth to speak, the plane hits turbulence. The cabin shakes and rumbles, and you can feel your stomach fall. Your hands grip the arm rests with white knuckles as the plane passes through, your eyes gripping shut as tightly as your palms on the arm rests.

Finally, after what feels like forever the plane evens out again, and you hear the pilot come over the intercom to apologize. You finally let the breath you were holding free from your lungs, and you open your eyes to see Jake with his head leaned low in front of you.

“You okay?” he asks, an eyebrow cocked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just…don’t really enjoy this part much.” you admit, running your sweaty palms over your pants.

He sits back in his seat once he notices your calmness return. “Me neither, to be honest. No matter how many times you hit turbulence on a plane, you never get used to it. I don’t care what people say.” he says with a sweet smile. You can tell that he was coming down from an anxious episode just the same as you.

“No joke…” you agree, suddenly wanting a drink even if it was before noon. You push the tiny hairs away from your face as you regain a hold on your bearings, picking up right where you had left off before the turbulent air sent you into a spiral of doom. “I–I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before, my name’s–”

“Y/N.” he cut in, extending the tips of his fingers out to offer you a friendly handshake.

You let your hand slowly come up to meet his, suddenly uncaring that it was probably still clammy. “Yeah, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you.”

For the five seconds your bodies connect, and the even shorter few seconds that his honey brown eyes meet yours, you feel like you were worried for nothing. This guy is nice. Maybe he’ll be easier to talk to than you thought…

His hand disconnects and flies to his chest. “I’m Jake.”

You nod. Of course you already know his name. “Yeah, um…guitar. Right?”

He smiles harder this time. “Yup. That’s my forte, at least. Have you um, ever been to Europe?” He brushes his hand over his nose a few times as his eyes dart back and forth from the seat behind you and back to your face, unable to hold eye contact. Is he nervous?

You turn your body a little more toward him. “No, actually. This is my first time. But I hear good things…”

“Oh shit, you’re gonna love it. Especially this time of year. Things move pretty fast when we get there, but we always try to explore as much as possible. See some sights.” You can tell that he’s truly excited about this excursion, and to be completely honest, you found yourself wanting to hang on his every word.

“Anything in particular?” you press, wanting to hear the gritty rich sound of his voice again.

You let him talk on and on about the places he wants to see, and the places that they had already been, even bringing up a few older photos on his phone as he describes their past trips. You try not to look as he scrolls, but his camera roll is full of tons of scenic photos and videos, landscapes, mountains, waterfronts… and of course a few rogue photos of guitars and guitar parts. You wonder if he’s planning to make little vlogs.

“Italy is my favorite, I think. So much history there. I could’ve stayed for six months if they’d have let me.” Your shoulders are pressed up against each others’ now as you watch his thumb glide over the multitude of media, speeding through the less important ones to get to his favorites. Strange of him to trust a stranger this much to watch him scroll his personal camera roll. He obviously doesn’t have much to hide, even if this is crossing that boundary line…

“The people are great, the food is great, the wine, oh god, don’t get me started on the wine…” he chuckles, and you feel yourself bumping your shoulder against his a little as you laugh along with him. “The terroir is fuckin’ phenomenal, obviously. It’s like a different world.”

“I like a moscato every now and then.” You add, trying to throw in your two cents on your crumbs of wine knowledge.

He returns with a scrunched nose. “Hmm, a bit sweet for my taste…So, Y/N. What’s your story, how’d you end up with us?” he asks, switching to cross his other leg over, now.

You swallow, unsure of how to explain years’ worth of ups and downs you’d gone through to a rockstar. Your boss. You decide to keep it short and sweet, he didn’t need to know everything.

“Well, I spent my entire youth attending a small private school and private high school, so I came up quite the determined and disciplined kid. Kinda sheltered.” You turn again in your seat, tucking one leg up underneath you. “But, I ended up moving away from home and away from family, been in this business for almost, eh, six years now?” You go on, and he listens intently. “Guess you could say I’m a pro at making things happen out of thin air.” You give him a long wink as you snap your fingers together.

His eyebrows shoot up, and he finally gives you a hundred-watt smile. My god, he’s…

“A-ha, so you got all the good hookups, huh?” He asks, running his fingers over his chin as his cheeks turn the palest shade of pink.

“S’what the runner does, isn’t it?” You pull your eyes back down to your lap. “Get you everything you need, right when you need it?”

You bring your eyes back up to his and watch as he swallows hard, his mouth hanging open for just a split second before he catches himself. “Yeah, ehm, I suppose it is. We’re not too bossy, though. Josh can be, but.”

“So I’ve heard, he’s kind of a…diva?” You hadn’t done too much research on them, honestly. You hadn’t had the time. But, what few tiktoks and musics videos you had managed to see were fairly telling of their personalities.

“He is. He is.” Jake laughs. “Don't let him fool you, though. He’s a big softie with an attitude problem. We all kind of are, honestly.”

“You’re a softie?” You press with a teasing tone. “From the few videos I’ve seen of you playing guitar, you look a little intimidating…”

“Me? Intimidating?” He clicks his tongue. “Don’t believe everything you see on the internet, Y/N. It’s dangerous…” he growls the last word, and you can feel your insides ripping themselves apart just at the sound of his voice. You have to pull back, now.

“All the runners we’ve ever had did extensive research on us before they came on tour, did you not do that?” he inquires, throwing you off a bit.

You don’t really know how to answer, so you tell the truth. “Honestly Jake, no, I didn’t. I’ve toured with a few other bands in my career, and I did that. I researched them, learned all things I thought I needed to know so I didn’t go in blind. And, this time around, I did a little bit, but I kind of wanted to meet you all for myself. Get my own versions of you.”

“Hm.” He responds with an understanding nod. “Well, you’ll be the first.”

“Speaking of,” you go on, candidly glancing around the cabin and deciding to go ahead and ask the question that’s been nagging you. “Everyone else is seated with someone, wonder why I’m not with the rest of the team.”

“What, you don’t wanna sit by me, Y/N?” he asks with a shred of a grin.

“No no, it’s not that.” you laugh. “Just—“

“Normally I have someone with me, but…we’ve recently…gone our separate ways, I suppose.” He trips over the words a little, stammering through them like it was the first time he’d admitted it.

“Oh… I see.” you pause, “That’s…never an easy thing.”

I wonder if that was why he was so snippy that day at the office when you saw him fall off his rocker?

“Eh, s’alright. Win some, lose some. We had a good run.” He says as he waves off the question. “So, you say you’ve been doing this awhile, you must really miss whoever you’re leaving at home.”

Skating around the question, aren’t you, Jake?

“No, I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.” You bite your lip as he doesn’t stop you from elaborating further. “I’m pretty independent, I like structure and uniformity. Growing up I wasn’t allowed much time on my own to have hobbies outside of school and practice. Strict parents. The job has kept me pretty adhered to that mindset, even in my personal life, so.”

His eyes flick to yours and he squints them a little, as if he’s collecting every single one of your words and hanging them in a closet in his mind. He’s trying his best to figure you out, you can see it on his face. But why? He shouldn’t care…you don’t matter.

“I can respect that.” He nods again. “My brothers and I, we grew up in a fairly religious household. Was great, don’t get me wrong. Really formed our roots but, as we got older and started to see the world, we kinda got away from it. Began to start seeing things in a different perspective.” He sucks his teeth, as if he’s recounting a hard memory. “Kinda why we moved to Nashville. We knew we had to break away if we wanted the band to be successful.”

You nod in understanding. “I mean, it worked, didn’t it?”

His laugh fills the cabin as it bounces off the walls, a sweet chuckle that makes your heart rate pick up. You could listen to him laugh all day long.

“S’pose it did.”

“The fuck are you two over here laughing at, huh?” Suddenly Josh’s curls are squished between your seats, his cheeks pinched together as he speaks. “I’m trying to get some shut-eye but I can’t from all the babbling—”

Jake places his hand over entirety of his twin’s face, pressing him through and back into his own seat. “None of your business, fuck off.”

You laugh at their antics, knowing in the back of your mind that you had better get used to it. You feel the air kick on again, fiercely blowing the freezing cold air directly onto you. You shiver a little, balling yourself up and pulling your sleeves closely in toward you again.

“You want my jacket?” Jake asks, already starting to pull it from his shoulders.

“No! No no no, thank you, but I’m fine, really.” The last thing you need is that right off that bat. A bad look. Day one. Nope.

“Seriously, I run naturally hot. Take it.” He replies.

“Oh yeah? Hence all your layers?” You tease, repositioning in your seat.

“It’s a fashion statement, thank you very much.” He bites. “All about comfort for me.”

Gotta change the subject.

“So tell me something I should know about your brothers. Something that would give me brownie points if I wanted to say…impress them with my craft service skills…” you press, giving him a new challenge.

“Wow um, let’s see…” he brings his fingers to his chin and thinks hard, and you can’t help but feel endeared by the fact that he truly wants to help you out. “Josh stays away from chocolate and dairy and sweets and all that, but his guilty pleasure is those cotton candy flavored grapes. Weird, I know.”

“Oh my god, those are so nasty!” you laugh, but still take note.

“Danny would be over the moon if you surprised him with salsa verde Doritos, and Sam drinks kombucha more than the normal human should.” he finishes with a stern nod.

“Got it. I think I can make most of that happen, aside from the grapes…”

“He would kiss you right on the lips, I’m telling you.” Jake giggles again, and you notice how he lights up when he talks about them.

“So Josh is the dramatic softie, what about the other two?” you ask.

“Sam’s kinda serious but he’s playful when he wants to be. Sneaky, too. Daniel’s always into something, always busy. Man doesn’t like to sit still,” he concludes, and you commit it all.

“And what about you?” you ask, feeling your stomach flip for some reason.

“I thought you said you wanted to get your own versions of us,” he quipped back, parroting your words from earlier. Damn, you had said that.

You toss your hair behind your shoulder. “I did but…You’ll tell me all about them, but not about yourself?”

He crunches his lips together as his eyes scan your face. It makes you a little uncomfortable, how hard he’s really looking at you, but you let him. Stopping him would be a sin you weren’t ready to commit just yet.

“That’s right.”

The two of you drift off into silence again as the minutes tick by, thankfully not being embarrassingly interrupted by Josh anymore. You decide that you want to listen to some music, so you reach into the pocket of your bag and pull out your AirPods, slipping the left one in first followed by the right. You pull up your music and begin flipping through your playlists, searching for something to match the relaxed tone of the hour. Truly, you feel like you could easily drift off to sleep.

You find a nice quiet playlist and curl up in your seat, halfway reluctant you didn’t take Jake’s jacket, but also proud of yourself for saying no. You’re fucking freezing.

You turn your head to the side and close your eyes, ready to drift off into another world.

You’re jolted awake by turbulence, the plane shaking again as you wake up and get your bearings. “Shit,” you breathe as you sit up straighter, remembering exactly where you are. You notice that in your slumber, your head had fallen against Jake’s shoulder. Fuck. Fuck fuck.

The turbulence only lasts a few seconds before it evens out again, and the calmness returns to your body. You glance at Jake, seeing him looking a little drowsy and shaken, too.

“Jake, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, why didn’t you wake me? I—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I kinda dozed off, too,” he replies, stretching his arms high above his head without a care…not like he didn’t just have a stranger asleep with her head on his shoulder.

You look down, noticing that in the time you had drifted off, Jake had covered you with his coat.

You panic, scrambling a little as you work to pull it from your body before anyone notices.

His hands are quickly on yours, stopping your action. “Leave it, Y/N. You were shivering in your sleep…you can’t tell me you aren’t cozy right now…” his voice is barely a whisper, and the warmth of his hands grazing overtop of yours, even for a second, is enough to give you a whole other type of chill.

“Yeah, I—I am warm…” you can’t deny that your body temperature has increased by at least a couple of degrees, and your fingers don’t feel like they’re going to get frostbite anymore. The jacket is heavy, heavier than it looks, and it smells like fresh pine needles and woodsy body soap. Just like…him?

“See?” he growls, backing away. “Just stay put.”

Stay put? You want to bite back with something that will put him in his place; you explicitly told him you didn’t want his jacket, and he covered you anyway. While you were unconscious. While you couldn’t turn down the offer.

…But you’re so warm, now. Your tense muscles are finally relaxing. The frigidity of the space has suddenly turned into a toasty furnace with a crackling fire.

Okay, but just until we land…

“What are you listening to?” Jake asks as he stretches again. You turn your phone for him to see, showing a generic playlist of Peaceful Sleep Songs lighting up your lock screen.

“Agh, no, what is that shit?” Jake snatches your phone from your hand, quickly flipping the screen to unlock with your face before he begins shuffling through your playlists.

“What are you doing?!” you yelp, reaching for your phone back. He raises his free hand to the air, stopping you from taking it.

“Aht aht… I’m finding you something better to listen to. Don’t worry about it.” You suddenly hear the quiet music in your ears switch to something else, something you knew for a fact you hadn’t ever heard before. You give it a second as he turns the volume up a few notches, and you realize that it is most definitely brand new to you.

It’s a solemn, tense-feeling piano beat, followed in by guitar. Lyrics only come in after a minute and a half or so. It sounds like growling, deep and hollow and a bit scary, but beautiful nonetheless. He’s watching your face as you experience it, quickly pressing pause as the song comes to a close.

“What was that?” you ask, realizing you had really enjoyed it.

“That was a song called Intro, by Alt-J. I know you’ve heard of Alt-J.” he says as he goes back to work on the phone.

You slowly shake your head from side to side. “Can’t say I have, actually.”

His jaw goes slack as his eyebrows raise in disbelief. “What? Like, never?”

You feel your cheeks turning pink at the thought of a literal rockstar calling you out on your lack of music knowledge.

“I don’t think so! That’s not what I normally listen to…don’t judge me,” you laugh, reaching for your phone again.

He swats your hand away. “Ohh no, little fledgling. You’re listening to this. This is the good shit…” he presses play again as a twinkling high-pitched voice comes through your ears. It’s just jumbled words, no backing music or tune. The acapella strikes you as strange at first, until the end when it changes tone a bit, and it’s almost as if the lyrics are giving you advice you didn’t ask for. Warning you of something new and exhilarating, or better yet, dangerous and foreboding. It almost feels as if a black cloud has overcome you, only for a split second, letting you feel the nonexistent pokes and pinches that come along with the emotion of worry.

The song flows directly into another now, one layered with a lot more sound, and it pulls you from that odd headspace the previous had put you in. You lean over the armrest, looking at the screen to see the title Tessellate. You’ve never heard anything like this kind of music before, and you wonder why Jake chose this particular artist.

“This is one of their more popular ones, like radio popular, but it’s still one of my favorites on this album. Here in a second you’ll hear it slow down—”

You stop him by pulling your right earbud out, shoving it in his hand. “Shh, you can talk me through the songs later. Let me listen.”

He shuts his mouth, giving you a sweet grin as he takes the bud, placing it in his own ear and pressing play again. You continue on through the album, each song something brand new to you, a genre you’d really never delved into but wish you had, now. It’s enthralling, different, and full of sounds that make your mind sway and swim through mixtures of color and gray.

You watch as Jake’s fingers tap along exactly with the beat of each song perfectly, down to a tee. The words don’t make much sense to you, and you can hardly distinguish what the singer is saying, but you know that Jake will give you a rundown of it all as soon as time allows him. You don’t know much about him, but his persistence is already apparent. You glance to see his eyelashes hitting his cheeks, his head barely bobbing side to side as he feels the music. You find yourself envious that he can draw inspiration and act on it, turning it into art of his own, whereas all you can do is sit back and listen to it.

Every couple of minutes he perks up from his meditation and adds new songs from their other albums onto the little playlist he’s started for you. You can’t quite make out what he’s titled it, but you can tell it's an emoji of some sort. His thumb flips and flies with precision across your screen as he scrolls and adds songs, and you have to admit, you’re a little excited to get your phone back and learn just what he’s creating for you. Especially for you.

You take a quick deep breath as you recenter yourself, catching your eyes drifting over his hand as he grips your phone. The veins in his hand roll over his knuckles, and you can just barely see the scuffed and calloused ends of his fingertips. Dial it the fuck back Y/N, remember the rules.

“Oooh, this is another one of my favorites,” he remarks, his mouth fairly close to your ear as he tries not to raise his voice over the volume of the music. He turns the screen a little so you can see the title, Taro. “You haven’t— You didn’t come to any of our shows last year by chance, did you?”

You feel a big pang of guilt shoot through your chest, remembering that you had actually been invited by some friends to see them way back when, but you’d turned the invitation down, not knowing who they even were at the time. You shake your head from side to side. “No, I didn’t.”

“This is one of the ones we play to the crowd before we go on. We all love it, it’s a sad, sad love tale based on true events. That’s the cool thing about this group, their lyrics are never really about what you think they are. They’re storytellers, a bit like Josh is, if you think about it. Their themes and over arcs are just…mind blowing sometimes.” Jake’s voice is a tiny murmur in your ear as your shoulders lean on one another’s again, still very taken with the music flowing through your ear. “We grab a lot of inspo from them, sonically and melodically…” You can feel his breath on your cheek, and you find yourself wondering what it would taste like…

“Here, read along with the lyrics. Try not to cry.” He hands your phone back, letting you keep up with the words floating down your screen. And he’s right, it’s heartbreaking without even knowing the context.

“Wow…That was really beautiful,” you choke, realizing the depth of the story of the song.

“Yep. Good shit, I told you.” He whips his hand around and takes the phone back as the next song comes in and warms your bones up again. You can feel the bare skin of his elbow brushing against yours, realizing that he was telling the truth about being naturally warm-bodied. Suddenly you don’t feel so bad about cuddling up under his coat.

He opens your contacts app and adds himself, placing the sword emoji beside his name. He smirks as he hands the phone back.

“Added your phone number, huh?” you ask rhetorically.

He sucks his teeth as he cracks his fingers. “Yep. How else will I let you know what I might need? Plus, never know when you might need to call me.”

—

You watch the signs overhead illuminate, a gentle tone ringing through the cabin as the Captain starts to make an announcement. You pause the song and pull your AirPod out, watching Jake do the same.

“Hey folks, this is your Captain speaking. Just want to let you know we will be landing in Hamburg shortly. I’d expect to be on the ground in the next ten minutes or so, putting us about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, so sit tight and we’ll have you on the ground in a few. Attendants please prepare for arrival.”

You turn to look at Jake, shrugging as you slide your AirPod back into the case. He raises his eyebrows and drops his jaw. “But we aren’t done! Wait! Hold on!”

He grabs your phone again, and from what you can see he is adding more songs to your playlist. You watch as he scrolls through various different albums by different artists, adding songs as quickly as he can. You smirk as you catch sight of the emoji he’s chosen, the chick icon, a playful nod at his earlier fledgling comment. He peeks over at you every few seconds, trying his best to hurry so you can pack up your things, but in a last effort you watch as he adds himself as a collaborator to the playlist.

You raise an eyebrow to him as he hands your phone back to you, shrugging with a soft laugh. You feel your insides swirl at the sight of his smile, and you turn your eyes to your phone scrolling through the songs on the playlist. You turn back to him and nod, a silent agreement that you will listen just as you feel the plane starting to land.

“I wanna keep adding songs for you to listen to, fledgling. If you want me to, of course…”

You nod. “Of course I do. School away, Jake,” you reply with an air of playful annoyance.

He chuckles. “I plan to.”

As you brace for the landing you grip your hands into the arm rests, letting go of the soft worn in corduroy fabric you’d been playing with for the last hour. Your eyes squint closed as the plane touches down, jolting everyone forward in their seats. Jake grabs his phone as the plane slows down, flashing his screen at you to show a local time of 12:13AM.

“I see some jet lag in our future,” you smile, sliding his jacket off of your arms. You fold it the best you can and hand it back to him, almost sad you have to give it back to him. “Thanks again for that.”

“Oh yeah, no problem.” He accepts it graciously from you, letting out a soft breath as he unfolds it and slides it back over his shoulders. It fits his personality well, soft and sturdy, worn in and weathered. He flips his hair out from beneath the collar, a barely there smell of peppermint passing through the air. You pull your gaze away from him just as you see his cheeks start to blush from your gaze. You lock your phone and stick it into your backpack at your feet, wondering how in such a short amount of time Jake has managed to infiltrate your thoughts so completely.

JAKE POV

As she turns to grab her bag you open your phone, tapping on the notification that she has added you to her playlist. You accept the invitation with a sly smile before sliding your phone back into your coat pocket. It smells like her now, soft and floral, very different than anything you were used to. Your mind was already circling with things you wanted to add to that playlist when you got a minute, finding it was harder than you thought to think of songs on the fly.

The first few rows begin to file out of the plane and you watch as Paul stands and turns to look at Y/N, motioning to her to meet up with him after she got off the plane. She nods her head and slides her backpack straps over her shoulders, waiting for her turn to stand.

“For jet lag…You know…Um, Benadryl,” you offer, your voice a little soft and unsure.

She turns to look at you, pinching her brows together in question.

“When you get to your room tonight, take a Benadryl. Should knock you out until the morning and help you get on a normal schedule. Works for me, at least.” you finish, nodding to her as the people in front of you stand to leave.

“Thanks, Jake.” She smiles and nods, sliding out of her seat to walk down the aisle.

You watch her as she walks up the jet bridge towards the gate, seeing Paul waiting for her in the doorway. The two walk together through the airport, finding it fairly quiet at this hour as most of the flights have landed for the night. You push your sunglasses down onto your nose just as you feel Josh walking up behind you.

He gives you a gentle nudge in the side to get your attention. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. Easy flight,” you answer, still listening and catching bits and pieces of whatever Paul is saying to Y/N, prepping her for the hotel check in and details for the morning. She is typing notes on her phone as she walks, barely looking where she is going, clearly trusting Paul to look out for her more than she should.

You tune out Josh as he rambles on about the flight, Ty jumping in every few words with a retort or a laugh. Your eyes don’t seem to leave her though, watching her talk, watching her walk, shit, just watching her. You can’t seem to shake it. You’d never met anyone like her before. Someone you were so instantly taken with. You wanted to know every single detail about her.

You feel Josh’s hand as it comes up to your chin, pressing it upward and forcing your jaw shut. “There, you seemed to have dropped that.”

You turn to him angrily, knowing what he’s insinuating, giving him a hard elbow to the arm. “Fuck off, Josh.”

He laughs and pushes you with his shoulder, readjusting his backpack on his other shoulder. “Just an observation, that’s all. Can’t say I blame you, though.”

“Oh are you talking about Jake and Y/N?” Sam interjects, stepping up on your right side in a lanky stride.

Josh nods, laughing slightly, wanting to keep this banter going. Asshole.

“Can you two knock it off, fuck,” you growl, hoping she can’t hear them. Your eyes are locked in on her again, and much to your relief she is talking to Paul and can’t hear a word they’re saying.

“He didn’t shut up the entire flight. Lots of whispering and giggles from up there. I didn’t sleep at all. But I did hear his monologue about the genius of Alt-J for the fourth time this year.” Josh quips, earning a laugh from everyone around you.

“Fuck you again, Josh,” you spit, annoyed at his lack of respect.

“Damn, so you’re trying to scare her away, then?” Sam teases, giving you a sideways grin.

You shake your head and push past them forcefully as you step off the escalator into baggage claim, not wanting to engage in this conversation a second longer. Especially because you were afraid they might be right.

—

“Shit, not again,” Danny mumbles as you all approach the baggage claim area, immediately noticing a group of fans obviously waiting for your arrival. You take a deep, preparational breath as you can’t help but run into them on your path to the carousel.

“Let’s just get it over with,” you hear Josh complain as he puts on his faux-happy face. You all love meeting fans. Truly, watching their faces light up when they see you is something that is unparalleled. But coming off of a long flight and already feeling the effects of the time difference, starving, and ready for a drink usually puts all of you in a mood that is generally irked overall. But you always suck it up; this is the life you signed up for.

This time though, unlike most encounters with fans, is enough to make your general irritation quickly turn into intense aggravation. They swarm you, hugging and pulling and invading your spaces in an extremely unwelcome attempt at meeting each of you. You feel surrounded, and unable to get to your luggage in time before it rounds the carousel again. You keep your cool, just as you always do, curtly smiling and pulling away as your body instructs you to. You pause for quick photos as your eyes search the spinning luggage again. You see your brothers out of the corners of your eyes doing the same… quick ‘hellos’ and ‘nice to meet you’s’ as the crowd just seems to get bigger and bigger.

Just as your eyes finally fall on your suitcase, you hear a loud clack as you turn and notice someone has knocked Sam’s phone out of his hand. It lands face down on the tile floor, likely cracked and scuffed from the people crowding around you all. You watch as Sam’s face turns up in annoyance, his eyes closed as he composes himself.

“Okay, that’ll be enough!” You hear Dean, your security, bellow across the crowd. “Please step away, no more photos, no more photos…” Dean makes his way into the center of group, quickly dispersing them. You give Sam a quick look that says, ‘get your phone, let’s go’, and soon enough you’re rolling your suitcase through the middle of the crowded room.

You see Y/N in the crowd, finding her to be a little flustered from the encounters, but alright nonetheless. You lock eyes with her as she mouths, ‘Are you okay?’, and you nod her off with a look of, ‘Yeah, this happens all the time.’

Your team is surrounding you as you quickly walk through the hallway toward the exit, ready to hop into an unmarked van and zip away to your hotel. You’re still being followed as you make it through the back exit doors.

When you’re finally safe outside the pickup area, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. “Fuck, that was a bad one.” Danny says. “Sam, how's your phone?”

“It’s ok, just a little scuff in the corner but it’ll be fine,” he answers, scanning his eyes over it.

“Guys, keep your phones on, Wes will be texting you tomorrow with where we’re headed next. Get some sleep and something to eat.” Paul instructs as everyone loads their things into the vans. Y/N is standing nearby, and you can tell that she feels a little out of place as she awkwardly crosses one ankle over the other. You take a quick opportunity to knock your elbow into her side, feeling comfortable enough to do that now that you’d sat together so long on the plane, but she’s avoiding eye contact. You hope she doesn’t feel uncomfortable around you.

“Hey, thanks for letting me jam a little with you on the plane,” you say sheepishly. “Sorry if I overstepped any, but I really think you’ll like the music I added for you.”

Finally her composure opens a little. “No, no! You didn’t… overstep. I’m actually excited to hop in my big cozy hotel bed and listen again.” Her words make your stomach fall with nerves, but you quickly suppress it.

“Y/N, you ready?” you hear Wes ask her as he passes by, heading toward another van.

“Yep, all set!” she answers as she follows him through the dwindling group. She hops into another van, and you worry she’ll be staying at another hotel. For a second you think you won’t see her as much if she is. You climb inside the van and slam the door closed behind you, seeing the group of fans with their phones pressed to the windows of the airport. You plop back down into the middle seat beside Josh, and finally take a full breath of relief.

“Fuck! I swear to god if I’m getting sick again…” Josh says as he bangs his head against the headrest behind him. You scoot sideways on the van’s bench seat, staying as far away from him as you can.

“Are you serious?!” Danny says from the seat behind you. “You need a mythical medicine man or some shit.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, just feel a little congested. I’ll send Y/N out on her first mission for some meds after we get settled in the hotel.” Josh answers, and you keep yourself pressed against the van’s window, purposefully turning your back to him. Can’t have that again. You realize, though, that of course she’ll be in the same hotel as you, management always is.

The vision of a worried Y/N replays in your mind, seeing her face full of concern as the fans did all but ambush you earlier. You shake the thought, suddenly having a realization that, most likely, everyone else is having, too.

“I think we should amp up security,” you blurt. “No offense to Dean, but he’s only one guy. There are more than ten of us…” you’re met with a little bit of silence, so you press on. “Just while we’re over here, at least. We’re going to be separated a lot, and I think it would be a good idea if Dean wasn’t being pulled in all different directions.”

“Don’t you think we should have thought of that before we got over here, Jake?” Josh counters.

“I’ve actually been thinking it for a while. Today just…made me feel like it’s necessary, now,” you respond quietly. What could it hurt? You have the funds, and a few extra eyes on you and your team couldn’t be a bad thing.

You hear a collective sigh from your brothers, until Sam finally speaks. “Yeah, I kinda felt a little overwhelmed when I dropped my phone and it got kicked away from me. First world problems, I know, but—”

“But someone could have picked it up, and ran off with it. Gotten access to your private information. Stepped on it and shattered it. We’re probably just paranoid, but I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a bad idea…” you suggest.

“I like the idea.” Josh adds. “Wish we would have talked about it sooner, but I’m sure Paul could get something arranged for us. Those security companies are always looking for overseas gigs.”

“Daniel, you agree?” you ask, twisting your body to the backseat.

“Yeah, I do, actually,” he decides.

“Good. It’s settled, then. We’ll talk to Paul first thing in the morning,” you say, happy with your decision of bringing it up. All you can see is a memory of Y/N’s scared face replaying over and over in your mind, and you just can’t seem to shake it.

You quickly curse yourself, you’re in no headspace to be worrying about a woman right now. You’ve gotta keep your head on straight. Tour hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already letting a new girl give you butterflies. You audibly scoff at yourself as you lean your elbow on the window, looking out at the bustling streets outside. You throw your earbuds in, letting the tangle of cords just be what it is, and you pull your phone out to switch the volume up. Of course, Alt-J pops onto your screen the second you look at it, and you wonder if she’s already listening to them, too.

The city lights are twinkling through the light drizzle of rain, and you finally feel your bones starting to settle into tiredness. Though your mind is racing with excitement to play shows, you let yourself ignore the thoughts and relax into the music blessing your ears. Some room service and a down comforter is calling your name.

—--

HER POV

The shrill sound of your hotel room telephone wakes you from a half-sleep. What the hell? What time is it? You don’t remember falling asleep, but the loud TV and the lights still illuminating the room signify you must have accidentally dozed off.

“Hello?” you answer, realizing that no matter the time, duty calls.

“Hey, Y/N. It’s Paul. Sorry if I woke you…”

“No, you’re fine. I’m awake,” you lie.

“Cool. Um, Josh was wondering if you’d run to the pharmacy down the street and pick up the meds I just texted you. He said he would go get them himself, but he’s doing a lung steaming treatment or… something. I dunno. But if you don’t care, here’s your first assignment! I know it’s late, but the pharmacy is apparently open all night.”

You glance at your watch and see that it’s already nearing 1:00AM. “Sure! I don’t care at all. Tell him I’ll have them to him ASAP.”

“Will do. Hey, turn your location on for me and Wes, okay? Be safe, thanks again,” Paul hangs up the phone before you can say goodbye, and within seconds you’re crawling out of bed and putting your pants back on. Your stomach growls as you realize you fell asleep without eating anything. You make a plan to make a quick trip to the pharmacy, deliver Josh his medicine, then go back out to find something to eat before you end up eating the bag of peanuts you stuffed in your bag on the plane.

You take a second to check your messages, finding you have three unread messages from Ruth. In the mess and confusion of the day, and the time difference, you’ve been thrown for a loop. You shoot her a quick few texts to let her know you’re alive and well, but you leave out the sweet little detail that you’d shared AirPods with the guitarist of the band you’re touring with. You’d get into that part later.

The walk to the pharmacy is short, thankfully, and you find the things Josh needs without much of an issue at all. The city is still fairly crowded with people at this hour, and you make sure to track your steps backward just the way you came to get back to the hotel. Your stomach rumbles again, and the smells coming from the various restaurants around you have your head spinning with hunger.

A few quiet knocks on Josh’s hotel room door bring him to answer it within seconds, and his warm composure instantly makes you feel welcome. “Y/N! Thank you so much, seriously. I need to knock this shit out before it gets any worse, and I think you just saved the day,’ he gushes as you see clouds of steam pouring out of his cracked bathroom door, and smell the sweet scent of herbal fragrances as they waft through your nose. “You have any trouble finding the place? Google said it was close by…”

“Anytime, Josh. And no, actually. It was right around the corner,” you answer, handing him the bag of meds.

“Good. Well I won’t bother you again, you heading to sleep?” he asks with a warm tone.

You bite the inside of your lip as your stomach screams at you again. “No, I passed a little pub on my walk, and it smelled amazing as I walked by. Think I’m gonna go have a drink and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

“Go feed yourself, love. Enjoy the city. We’ve got a long day tomorrow!”

“Will do, see you tomorrow!” you say as he closes the door.

“Thanks again! See ya!”

You make your way to the elevator and down to the bottom floor, digging your phone out of your pocket to check your location and make sure the pub is still going to be open at this hour. A quick search for Le Marmitone tells you the kitchen doesn’t close for another hour, so you pick up your pace and head straight for the pub.

The wind and rain have picked up a little bit, and you thank yourself for adding a few layers on before you left your hotel room earlier. The cold air bites at your cheeks as you meander through the people still out walking the streets, and the smell of the food drifting on the wind draws you straight back to the pub. Upon entering the double doors, you find that it is actually a nice restaurant with a bar.

You grab a seat at the corner of the bar, glancing to the coolers and shelves to see what your drink options are.

“Evening madame, here is a menu. Can I get you a beverage?” a man in a sport coat asks as he hands you the shiny white menu. His accent is thick, but you can understand him fairly easily.

“Hello. Could I have a whiskey soda and a water, please?” you ask as you remove your heavy jacket and hang it over the back of the stool. You look over the menu choices and decide on a bowl of soup and a sandwich, more of a lunch option, but a steaming hot bowl of soup sounds exactly like what you need right now.

There are a few people still scattered throughout the restaurant, most closing their tabs and leaving for the night. There are a few patrons still at the bar, stuck in conversations with one another or watching whatever game is playing on the big screen.

The bartender sets your drinks in front of you as you tell him your food order, and you pull out your phone to begin fishing through emails and making your daily checklists. The Whiskey drink is strong, but not too strong, and you let yourself enjoy the immediate warmth it sends coursing through your veins.

You fill your stomach up as far as it will allow you, and you decide that one more drink probably won’t hurt, as the place doesn’t close up for another hour. You’re enjoying yourself, basking in the calm before the storm that is going to hit promptly at 10AM tomorrow.

“‘Scuse me, sir. I’ll take one more drink and my check, please,” you alert the bartender. He nods and turns to concoct your drink and print your tab. When he returns, he plops a bright red maraschino cherry onto the top.

“Gentleman at the end of the bar says this one is on him, ma’am.” He places the white slip of paper in front of you as he removes your dishes, and disappears. Your eyes slowly drift to the left, landing on an older gentleman who had been lingering at the end of the bar since you’d gotten here. His friends have since left, leaving him to finish off a few more rounds by himself.

He smiles hard when you notice him, and slides off his stool, stumbling his way toward you. You feel your heart rate pick up as he approaches you, and you remember that you do have mace in your purse, should you need it, Ruth’s one request.

“Hello, lovely. Enjoy that drink on me this evening,” he slurs with a heavy accent. He sits down in the stool beside you, and suddenly you’d rather not have that second drink, after all. You glance at the drink, and back to him, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in his presence.

“Um, thank you, really. But I—I’ve actually got to go. It’s getting to be later than I thought…” you lie, pulling out some cash from your purse to pay the bill.

“Nonsense! Have the drink, beautiful. Tell me, where are you from? Your accent tells me it’s somewhere far away from here…” he presses, pushing the drink toward you. His hands are giant, and covered in dark hair. He has a beard of the same color that reaches almost down to his stomach, and you can smell the alcohol radiating from his breath.

“The States,” you say bluntly, avoiding eye contact with him as the bartender is nowhere to be found. You immediately kick yourself for not telling Dean where you had run off to, all by yourself. You know better than this.

“Obviously, sweetheart. But where?” he asks.

“Um, a small town, you’ve probably never heard of it,” you go on, beginning to pull your jacket on and leave the money on the bar top. Suddenly the man’s hand is on the back of the stool, holding it steady as you try to turn it.

“I’d like to hear all about it, love,” he growls, and you suddenly feel very intimidated. There is no one else around, no other patrons at the bar, you couldn’t feel the presence of another human or employee running about, and you contemplated making a run for it.

“I promise I’m not here to scare you, just talk. That’s all I’d like to do…” he goes on, backing his hand away from the chair as he notices your panic. Finally, the bartender makes his way back, but instead of taking your check, he continues cleaning and re-stocking for the night. You’re alone, and uncomfortable. Why did you do this to yourself?

Suddenly you remember that Jake put his number in your phone. You know you can’t get a hold of Dean at this hour, especially since you didn’t tell him you were going anywhere. You can’t make that bad of a first impression before your first day even really happens.

You quickly turn your attention to your phone, trying to figure out what to do, but then it hits you. You type in the name, taking a deep breath before sending Jake a risky text as a last ditch effort.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here alone, hmm?” the man asks as you turn away from him to type as quickly as you can.

You

1:47AM: Jake, are you awake?

Your foot taps nervously on the floor, the man next to you doing everything in his power to corner you into this seat. A text bounces back after a minute, and you feel your shoulders relax just a touch.

Jake 🗡

1:49AM: How did you get this number?

You

1:50AM: You put it in my phone today on the plane. Are you busy?

Jake 🗡

1:51AM: Oh, hey. No, I’m just getting ready to go to bed, why what’s up? You okay?

You

1:52AM: No. I don’t think so. I hate to ask this, I know it’s late. Is there any way you could come meet me? I left to get something to eat and didn't tell anyone and this guy here has me cornered into my seat and I don't think he is gonna let me leave alone.

Jake 🗡

1:53AM: Share your location, I’m leaving now.

You

1:54AM: Thank you. I owe you.

“Did you hear me sweetheart? I said, are you expecting someone?” the man asks, a sly grin on his face as he leans closer to you.

You quickly glance back down at your phone, sharing your location with Jake and hoping he can find you. You lock your phone and put it in your purse, pretending you’re a lot less anxious than you actually are.

“Actually, yes, I am. My…boyfriend is on his way. He’ll be here in just a second.” you lie, doing your best to speak confidently. “I should probably step outside to meet him.”

“No, no, stay, you haven’t touched your drink,” he says, gesturing to the glass of alcohol. “I know a place down the street, stays open late, too.”

You feel your skin start to grow clammy, the man's intentions suddenly becoming very clear. Your heart is pounding as you try to talk your way out of the situation. You clear your throat, and just as you start to speak you see the front door of the restaurant open. Jake steps inside, looking side to side, his eyes quickly scanning the entirety of the restaurant until he locks eyes with you.

He nods to the host at the door as he walks toward you, wearing the same clothes from earlier but now his hair is a little messier. You know he got out of bed to do this.

You instantly stand from your seat as Jake steps up, reaching towards him as he settles himself between you and the man.

“Hey baby, you finally made it,” you coo, your pleading eyes locked on Jake’s as he wraps his arm around your shoulder in a welcoming hug. You can smell him, the cologne lingering on his coat. The same coat that was wrapped around you only hours ago.

He pulls away and drops his arms to his side as you turn to him. You stare at him just a second longer, hoping he can hear the words you are screaming in your mind. He blinks and turns to look at the man before letting his eyes flick back to you.

“Yeah, yeah, of course babe, sorry I was late,” he pauses, turning to face the drunk man beside him. “Who is this?”

You let out a small breath of relief as he silently agrees to play along with you. “Oh, he came over from the bar. He sent this drink over, but I just can’t drink it. I already had one and you know I work in the morning,” you answer, hoping he is understanding what you’re trying to say. “Do you want it?”

He looks so effortless standing there with a hand in his jacket pocket. He tilts his head and scrunches his nose just a bit before answering, “Ahh, nah…It looks like a watered down well pour and I just had one myself before I got here. I’m alright. We should probably get going though, we have an early day tomorrow and it’s fairly late already.”

Yes.

“Oh, you two are terrible liars. He isn’t your boyfriend, is he sweetheart?” the man asks, scoffing at Jake. “You should come with me, I can show you the city better than this fool.”

“That’s an awfully brazen assumption, sir, I must say.” Jake argues, pulling his hand from his coat pocket and grabbing yours. You suck in a harsh breath feeling his fingers lace with yours. Fake or not, there was definitely a new feeling swirling through your veins.

“Look at her, she’s flustered. This woman hasn’t ever been touched by you. It’s written all over her face.” he continues, looking Jake over.

“Your boyfriend, your husband, he isn’t any of those things. I don’t see a ring on your finger, and I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but in this country, you my dear, are fair game.”

You want to snap back. The audacity is astounding. You start to step forward, ready to lay into him, but you feel Jake’s hand squeeze yours and you know he’s telling you to follow his lead this time.

“She is with me, sir,” Jake spits. “And it would be in your best interest to back off.”

“Oh, is that right?” the man counters, standing up from his seat, giving him a few good inches over Jake. Jake didn’t falter though. Of course he didn’t. He knew that didn’t matter.

“Kiss her, then. If she’s yours, kiss her,” he quips.

“Absolutely not, I don’t have to prove anything to you, and quite frankly sir, it’s none of your business,” Jake snaps, you can tell he’s starting to get mad, his hand gripping yours a little harder. “Let’s go, babe.”

You stand firm next to him, not letting your face show a single waiver of emotion as the man waits to see if you’ll crack. Jake starts to walk away pulling you behind him, but before you can move the man grabs your other arm, taking both of you by surprise.

“Stay, sugar. Let a real man take you home.”

Jake snaps his head around, hearing the words fall from the man's drunken mouth. For a minute you’re scared. You don’t know how Jake is going to react, his jaw is hard set and his nostrils flared in anger. You hear him curse under his breath as he shakes his head.

“You know what? Fuckin’ fine…” he challenges, looking at the man then to you, nodding just enough for you to notice.

Just as you feel the anxiety of what he is about to do bloom in your chest, he reads your body language, letting a sweet and quiet ‘S’okay’ slip from his lips.

Your eyes widen a little as you realize what’s about to happen, but take solace in the fact that he’s likely just as nervous as you are. He stops, pulling you in towards him as his hand grabs at your waist.

His fingers grip into your hairline as he tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss. His tongue swipes over your lips, hot and wet as your hands slide up his body to rest on his chest. You kiss him back, you’re trying to sell this as the real thing, but also partly because you just want to. You try not to think about that part too much as you let your tongue flick against his just for a second before pulling it back. You feel the vibration on your lips as the softest groan leaves his mouth just as he pulls away from you.

Your lips are wet with the taste of him and your chest is heaving as Jake rubs his lips together and clears his throat. He turns to the man who is standing there staring at the two of you, a bit of challenge in his tone as he speaks. “You good now?”

The man scoffs, mumbling a curse as he bats at the air between you. You feel yourself relax in Jake’s grip as the man turns to walk back to his original place at the bar. A quiet ‘fuck’ leaves Jake’s mouth as he turns his attention back to you, stepping back and releasing his grip on you.

His eyes search yours just as yours search his, both of you unsure what to say. Instead he looks over to the man again, nodding his head to him as he grabs your hand again and guides you towards the door.

“You okay?” he asks, opening the door and letting you walk out into the drizzle. You pull your jacket closed across your front, the cold air chilling your skin.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Thank you– for that,” you murmur as he steps up next to you. He grabs your hand again, lacing his warm fingers with your cold ones, taking you by surprise.

“Oh, it’s okay now Jake, he isn’t following us,” you offer, looking over your shoulder to check. He doesn’t drop your hand though, in fact you feel his fingertips brush across your knuckles, sending a whole different kind of chill through your body.

“I know,” he answers, smiling shyly as he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re positive he can see the blush that has taken over your cheeks, your mouth suddenly dry, and your mind unable to form a response. You feel the butterflies swirling around in your stomach as you walk towards the hotel, the rain starting to taper off finally.

“You can trust me, you know,” he says, his voice sincere as he guides you around puddles.

“I barely know you, Jake,” you smile, bumping your shoulder into his.

“For now,” he answers, squeezing your hand in his.

He opens the door to the hotel lobby, the warm air instantly hitting you. Jake drops your hand, your fingertips brushing against his. You kind of miss it, in a way you definitely shouldn’t be.

“Thank you again, for doing all of that. I’m really sorry. I fucked up, I won’t make that mistake again,” you say, watching him press the button for the elevator. Your eyes linger on his lips, a little pink from the cold air outside.

“It was no problem, I promise. Stop apologizing,” he pauses, motioning for you to step into the elevator. “Let me walk you to your room, what floor?” he asks, his finger hovering over the buttons.

“Oh, no it’s really okay, you don’t have to do that. I promise I’m good now,” you stammer, watching his lips turn up in a huff of laughter.

“Y/N, what floor?”

“Nine,” you squeak, your eyes fixated on the dimple in his cheek. You feel your skin growing warm just from looking at him, you feel like you might burst into flames just at the thought of how his lips felt on yours. Did you imagine that whole encounter? No way all of that just happened.

“Me as well,” he says, pressing the button as the doors close.

The two of you ride up in silence, casting each other the occasional glance every few seconds. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you're positive you stopped breathing. The elevator chimes as it reaches the ninth floor, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound.

He smiles at you again as the doors open, gesturing for you to walk ahead of him. “Your room number?”

“Um, I think I'm 924, all the way down,” you answer, your heart jumping in your chest.

He nods his head and puts a hand into his pocket. “Alright, I’m just up here in 915, but I’ll walk you down.”

“Jake you really don’t have to, you can just–”

He turns to you and laughs, shaking his head again. “Just let me.”

“Fine.” You huff a breath, pulling your own keycard from your purse. He walks only a step behind you, both hands in his pockets now as you step up to your door. You tap your key to the lock and hear it beep, signaling for you to enter. You turn to look at Jake, seeing a softness to his face you hadn’t noticed until now.

“Thank you, for…being such a gentleman,” you say playfully, smiling at him.

“My pleasure, Miss Y/N. There is some chivalry left in the world…” he answers, bringing his hand up to rub at his lips.

You start to enter your room, and hear him speak again, this time very quietly. “We’re not all bad.”

You turn around to see him shifting his weight still rubbing his fingers over his chin as if he expected you not to hear him.

“What?”

He hesitates as he makes eye contact with you, clearly shocked you heard him. You can tell he wants to say something but he’s holding back. Maybe you’ve spooked him.

He shakes his head with a smile, as if telling himself whatever he wanted to say was stupid. He pulls his phone and his keycard from his pocket and grips them in his hand. “Nothing, nothing, um, have a good evening. I will see you in the morning, I suppose.”

You nod once, giving him a sweet and appreciative smile, “See you in the morning.”

He lingers for just a moment, eyes locked on yours before flicking down to your lips. He catches himself and looks back at you before turning to head down the hallway. You shut the hotel room door and twist the lock, letting out the breath you had been holding with a gasp.

You spin around, letting your back press against the door as you sink down to the floor with a barely audible squeal. Holy. Shit. What the hell was that?

Pull yourself together Y/N.

You grab your purse and stand up, digging through it as fast as you can in search of your phone. You have no earthly idea what time it is in Nashville but you don’t care as you pull up your texts with Ruth, and begin furiously typing.

You

2:34AM: Without going into detail I definitely just kissed the guitarist 🫢

You toss your bag onto the chair and change into your pajamas, your blood still rushing around in your body as you try to calm your nervous system. A text bounces back, and you know it’s her.

Ruth

2:40AM: WITHOUT GOING INTO DETAIL???? KISSED? I just got to my desk!!!! I’m here. I’m sat. I’m listening. I want every single detail in a five paragraph essay with MLA formatting.

You

2:42AM: Lol it is 2:40 in the morning. I will call you tomorrow, which is really still today for you, but kinda tomorrow for me? I don’t know this is confusing but I will call you and give you the full run down because we also shared airpods on the plane and he made me a playlist? Love you goodnight!

Ruth

2:44AM: AIRPODS? A PLAYLIST??????

2:45AM: Y/N NO! GET BACK HERE

2:45AM: Okay. Hang on, I’m googling him. I need to see this man’s face

2:46AM: Wait there’s two guitarists

2:46AM: Ok one is the bassist HELLO?? You kissed HIM?! Aldjsfklsk

2:48AM: It’s totally fine and I am being so normal about this. Talk to you later, if I haven’t pulled all my hair out by then! I’ll be creeping his insta all day! Goodnight!

You laugh as you read her onslaught of messages, knowing that she is likely going out of her mind with possible scenarios. You make your way into the bathroom, washing your face and brushing your teeth so that you can positively melt into the bed and sleep until your alarm forces you awake. You’re patting your face dry as your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, but the noise it makes isn’t one you’re familiar with. You hang the towel on the ring and pick up your phone, seeing a notification come through that is brand new to you.

‘Jake Added A Song to Your Shared Playlist: 🐥’

He what?

Now?

Your blood runs cold just seeing his name on your phone after…well…whatever that was.

You turn off the bathroom light, hesitantly sliding your finger across the notification, and letting it bring up the playlist. There at the very bottom you see that a new song was added two minutes ago. But not just any song, no. You know this one. You know this one well. You tap on the song hearing the familiar and haunting guitar riff of ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence None the Richer start to play through your phone speakers.

You can’t help but to laugh, a smile of shock has your jaw hanging wide open as you stand in your giant fancy hotel room, listening to what you consider to be a fairly romantic song sent straight to you from none other than your knight in shining, well, corduroy, armor. You couldn’t even picture him listening to this song, and somehow that almost made it a little better.

As the chorus plays you fall backwards onto your bed, the fluffy white sheets enveloping you as a giddy feeling swirls through your chest. He’s thinking about me. He’s thinking about that kiss. You felt guilty for thinking about it, but now? Now you weren’t feeling so guilty. He liked it just as much as you did, clearly.

Jake Kiszka liked kissing you.

You.

What?

You couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off of your face if you had to. You didn’t want to. This was quite possibly the most thrilling thing that has happened to you in months. Years! You had all but forgotten about creepy bar man at this point, but god you have half a mind to walk right back into that bar and shake his hand.

But, you knew you had to calm down. Take a breath. The song came to a close, leaving the hotel room silent. Your mind was still swimming in bliss, replaying the feeling of his lips on yours, the way his hands held yours, the way he smelled, the way his lips tasted, oh god… He was thinking about your kiss. He all but told you so.

You were also thinking about that kiss. He wanted you to know he was thinking about it. How can you– Oh. A sly grin spreads across your face as you type into the search bar.

You find the song you’re looking for, your thumb hovering over the add button as you try to talk yourself out of doing this. It could end badly, terribly, really. He is technically your boss, and you know you shouldn’t be doing this, but. Hey, you’re just the runner. You smile as you watch the little box pop up reading ‘Added’.

Your heart starts to pound. Did he get a notification? Is he asleep? Did he see it? Will he understand? Since when did you start communicating with people through song titles?

You rush back to the playlist scrolling to the bottom and smiling as you press play on the new addition to your shared playlist. It's mere seconds before ‘Do It Again’ by Steely Dan starts to play and you laugh, knowing you are absolutely crazy. Do it again, of course you wanted to do it again. God he probably thinks you’re such a loser. Plot twist, you are, but he doesn't have to know that yet.

You listen to the song, plugging your phone into the charger and turning off the lamp. You’ve always loved Steely Dan, it reminds you of your dad, but then again who doesn’t it remind of their dad? The song comes to a close, your giddy feeling finally starting to wear off as the exhaustion starts to step into its place. Your eyes feel heavy as you roll towards the nightstand to set your alarm, groaning at how soon it’s coming. You lock your phone and settle into the pillows, letting out a content sigh as you recap the day in all of its insane glory.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, the glow illuminating the room for just a brief second. You freeze as you stare up at the ceiling, almost too scared to look. Did he add another song? What if he changed his mind? What if you overstepped? Oh god. You should not have done that. What were you thinking?

You suck in a breath as you grab your phone, nervously tapping the screen that shows no new songs added, but a text from Jake.

Jake 🗡

3:04AM: I fully intend to.

Oh, he definitely saw it.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 month

Text

This 1928 Spanish Revival in Long Beach, CA has so many wonderful retro features that are preserved. 3bds, 2ba, $1.02M.

Small foyer with a fancy carved arch and sconces sculpted into the wall. I've never seen anything like that.

But, look, there're more. Beautiful Spanish style fireplace and a recessed built-in bar.

The dining room has a shallow recessed wall niche that's just big enough to highlight a sideboard.

Check out this wonderful original kitchen. Vintage stove, cabinets, tile, everything. I have to appreciate how the owners took such good care of it.

Original backsplash and faucet.

The mirrored door opens to the old milk delivery window. They must've put that little plastic shelf in the wall for steel wool soap pads (when everyone knows that you simply put them back in the box and they're good as new).

Wonderful vintage stove.

What a lovely, sunny kitchen dining space.

And, look, it has 2 corner cabinets.

Check this out- not only does it have a folding ironing board, but it has a little board for sleeves.

And, look at this- a little galvanized metal lined cabinet for the iron. I wonder if the vintage iron will convey.

TV room. (Could they have chosen more uncomfortable chairs?)

Now, here we are in a closet.

A trap door in the floor opens to the basement. Since I only see one step, it must have a ladder.

This bedroom is lovely, but it's not very big since they have the bed on an angle.

The bath! It has a big built-in vanity table.

And, orchid plumbing fixtures. I've seen vintage colored sinks and tubs, but they always have a new white toilet. They may have gotten this toilet from an architectural salvage yard.

In the hall, ahead, there's a built-in desk. On the left is a built-in armoire. And, there's also a phone niche with a folding seat.

The primary bedroom is so royal looking. It looks like Old English around the ceiling border. And, look at the built-in with the pull-out mirrors.

Beautiful vintage shower room.

This home is amazing- gated driveway with porte cochere and 2 car garage.

In the large yard is an addition.

It's a large addition and has this great studio, plus 2 other big rooms that use for storage.

And, look at this detail in the wall outside- a little gnome niche.

The lot is .15 acre.

https://www.compass.com/listing/1985-san-francisco-avenue-long-beach-ca-90806/1532701137276580849/

#spanish revival homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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fulcrvm · 6 months

Text

I am thinking thoughts about airports and flying again. And Dreamling, of course.

So. Human AU. History professor Hob has to fly around a lot for work, perhaps for conferences or smth of the sort so it's always to a small handful of the same nearby cities. He's pretty neutral on the idea of flying in general, though he wishes it was a bit more environmentally friendly, but Hob is a sucker for a nice airport and especially a nice airport lounge during layovers or before boarding.

Hob has begun to frequent a small local airline (White Horse Air, the logo is a coat of arms with a little pegasus, wyvern, and hippogriff on it, haha) when traveling because he likes their service (they've never lost his bags, not even once!) and their flights are never fully booked, which makes them quieter and easier for hob's chronic pains. He always picks seats with no one next to him so he can sprawl out and so it's easier on his knees.

Until, one day, he boards the little plane and there's someone in the seat next to his. Hob's sure that when he booked his seat, the other one was empty. Oh well, whatever, Hob's not going to bother the other man already sitting there for one flight— he'll just have to be a little more mindful booking next time. Hob shuffles into the seat, and notices that the stranger sat beside him is reading Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur! Hob gets excited because! That's a William Caxton publication! And Hob has so much to say about Caxton! He turns to the stranger to strike up conversation about it and... is immediately lost at how pretty the stranger is. Handsome, gorgeous, yes of course, but pretty, with the shell pink lips and focused blue eyes and slight frown at the book in his hands. Hob picks up his metaphorical jaw off the metaphorical ground and strikes up conversation with the stranger. Though the other man starts off apprehensive, somehow the two hours of flying fly by and the two of them end up talking about all sorts of art, history, and everything in between. Hob learns that the stranger works in publishing, thus his interest in Caxton.

Their flight lands, and the two of them disembark at the gate, still attempting to continue their conversation while Hob tries to wrangle his carry-on bags. (The Stranger only has a small laptop bag on one shoulder and a suit jacket folded over his other arm with him.) Then Hob has to check the time and begrudgingly says that he should probably head towards his next gate soon— this is just a layover after all. The Stranger looks ever so slightly disappointed and admits that this is his actual destination and he needs to meet his sister soon. They part ways, and Hob tries to dwell on the strange warmth in his chest. He thinks about the Stranger for his entire work trip afterwards.

This, somehow, happens a couple times. Turns out they both frequent White Horse Air, and though they're never in booked seats next to each other again, the flights are always empty enough that they can shift to sit next to each other once the plane's in the air. They chat the flight away, and then part ways once they disembark, with the Stranger headed to the baggage claim and Hob to his next flight. One time, the Stranger even requests the hostess to bring out a special bottle of Chateau Lafitte 1828 just for the two of them to share. Hob's in awe. He really enjoys their conversations, it's nice to be able to talk about his interests in a non-academia environment. The Stranger always has the most intriguing and eye-opening perspectives on everything, too. It doesn't really help that Hob thinks... maybe he's developing a tiny, teeny, really inconsequential really crush on his Stranger. He's not in grade school anymore, how does he feel like this about someone he doesn't even know the name of yet!

This all comes to a head when Hob mentions to the Stranger that his layover is a bit longer than it usually is, and if the Stranger is in no rush, they can continue their conversation in one of the airport's lounges. White Horse Air is a bit too small an airline to have their own lounge, but Hob's collected enough miles to get into one of the other airline lounges and is fully willing to pay to get in one if it means more time with his Stranger.

The Stranger is extremely enthusiastic about the idea— which shows up physically as a subtle, coy upturning at the corner of his mouth and a little sparkle in his eye. (Hob feels proud that he can read this reaction so well.) He's so enthusiastic, in fact, that the Stranger offers to get them both into a first-class lounge. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes.

Let's just say they get to the lounge, split some cheese and wine, and the proceed to get even more enthusiastic with each other in a private room. Hob's lucky he brought a change of clothes in his carry-on. (Maybe Hob's not so lucky and can't sit comfortably during his next three-hour flight.)

Hob gets a bit emotional when he has to leave for his next flight (already missing being able to hold his Stranger's face so gently, being able to card his fingers through his soft, smokey hair) and gets his guts together to ask if the Stranger wants to exchange phone numbers or something, so they can be in contact more regularly. Perhaps even, meet on purpose maybe? The Stranger smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek when he slips a business card into Hob's hand.

Hob's so caught up in it all that he doesn't check the business card until he's fully boarded and sat on his next flight. And he gawks.

Morpheus Aion The Dreaming Publishing House

As in, one of White Horse Air's biggest shareholders? Aion, as in, probably the sibling of Teleute Aion? As in, Teleute Aion, the CEO of White Horse Air?! Hob almost passes out.

In the end, Morpheus and Hob laugh it out. Morpheus promises he never abused his sibling privileges to invade Hob's privacy, but used the sibling perks to frequent White Horse Air flights a little more than he even needed to just for the chance to see Hob again. They're both happy to not need to keep flying just for that chance anymore, haha. Idiots in love! Turns out, while Teleute lives where Hob keeps having his layovers, Morpheus and Hob actually live just a few hours driving from each other from their shared initial departure location. It all works out perfectly, and Morpheus self-restraint from inviting Hob to move in (so they don't have to keep travelling to see each other, no matter how small) lasts not even a year after they officially start dating. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes :)

(Years down the line, much after they're married, Hob finally has enough miles to get them back into those first-class lounges to have more fun. It's all very lovely.)

#my thought process was “can i get them to fuck in an airport lounge room” and then i never even wrote that part #guess what i am also a sucker for a nice airport and an even nicer airport lounge. i am yearning for a nice flight rn #i genuinely love flying so much. not domestic travel but international travel is what my entire life revolves around and i am allowed to #romanticise it a little bit haha #anyway #(me describing morpheus' lips with a guitar color) ah yes literature #how the hell do i tag this #i dont usually post idea dumps like this but i have no where else to put it haha #i'd love to write it but i dont think i'd know how to approach this lol #if anyone wants to take this as a prompt go ahead!!#the sandman #dreamling #dc #rex speaks #rex writes #(?)#long post

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smutty-ki113r · 8 months

Text

🛩Masky🛩||Toxic

NSFW||~ One shot x afab gn!reader, includes- vouyerism, pleasure dom masky, mirror play, teasing, edging, pilot masky, minors—dni (3.4k)

Inspired by: Britney Spears

(Fun fact I wrote this on the plane 😗)!

Working as a flight attendant was such a hassle, keeping you up at ungodly hours and having you deal with customers that complained about their seat. But it certainly had its perks, learning how to balance 4000 ft in the air and ending up in some incredible places, layovers in Hawaii, Dubai, Spain. Out of all these things you never would have imagined joining the mile high club…

You had an hour to get from terminal 1 to 3, your last flight was to Miami, so you were at MIA, looking around for a bathroom. Fixing up your hair quickly and adjusting your uniform before reaching the gate.

The other attendants were also waiting to the side, you were early. Of course you had to board the plane beforehand to check the seats and restock the drink cart.

There was only a few passengers waiting around too, you swayed against your luggage. Looking around to see the two pilots that would be driving the plane walking towards you, one of them you had flown with before, Brian Thomas.

The other one, particularly, caught your eye- probably because you had caught his first. Your heart skipped a beat and you gave him a friendly smile, then averted your gaze to avoid being awkward.

You had never seen him, he was probably new, laughing at something Brian said, but his sight was on you.

The corner of his lip was raised just slightly, he was practically undressing you with his eyes. You couldn’t even complain, he was hot as fuck, and he was flustering you. But his face remained innocent, nobody noticed but you.

He had this dark brown hair and defined features, he was classy, wearing his white uniform and a tie, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to how it fit him so perfectly. His build so defined- you stopped from staring at his pants.

If there’s one thing you loved it was a man in uniform.

Nobody had ever flirted with you on the job, and while no words were exchanged, you could feel his burning gaze.

You gulped and tried to look ahead, relieved when they called for all the attendants to board, it took the pressure off.

You took your post at the front of the plane and awaited for the passengers to board to then do the safety demonstrations and make sure everybody had their seatbelts on.

Soon enough zone 1 people started coming and you greeted them all, the door to the cockpit opened and you found yourself face to face with the pilot, glancing at his name embroidered in gold.

“Wright” you said softly, meeting his gorgeous eyes.

“yeah like the Wright brothers” he joked, looking you up and down and giving you a subtle smirk.

“That’s fitting” you told him. “Nice to meet you…”

“Tim” he finished, catching your name as well. “We’re about to take off, be a dear and get me some water will you?” He requested.

Nodding obediently and scurrying off to find him some water, he watched you go. Knocking on the door to the pit to alert them of your arrival and handing him the drink.

“Thank you gorgeous” he said, your face turning red at the compliment and instead moving to greet the other pilot, Brian nodded to you and you left.

Your thoughts remained on the beautiful man and you mindlessly did your rounds before the plane took off. Strapping in and listening to the men over the intercom.

“And we are ready for departure, flight 113 from MIA to JFK”

Smiling at yourself at the thought of your one day vacation in New York City. You wanted to go shopping and maybe visit the Statue of Liberty.

It was two hours into the grueling flight, your ears had already popped from the altitude, you never did get used to that.

You sat at the back, passing around the cart once and letting your other fellow flight attendants do the rounds for trash and such. You were all alone, looking out the window, your head in the clouds, and being almost startled as you saw the handsome man approach.

“I thought you were driving this thing” you whisper-hissed.

“Brian’s doing it, I’ve been at the wheel for almost three hours” he said, stressed. Flexing his arms out and stretching, leaning against a wall.

You couldn’t help but stare at his hands, his thick fingers, how you wished he could fill you up and make you pant out his name and-

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts and getting up, “you can have my seat if you want” he was probably exhausted.

“Sit back down” he said, his tone low. You did as he said; a tingle in between your legs at how commanding he was.

“I just came here to get a- snack” he said slowly, smiling as if he wasn’t looking at up and down you when he said that.

“I can make you something if you like” you offered, his tense posture relaxed.

“You’re a godsend, yeah, I’ll take a black coffee” you nodded attentively and got up to make his drink. Focusing on making sure it didn’t spill and stirring it for him.

Turning to him and handing him the drink, he took a sip and set it down on the counter. “Thank you beautiful”

You shook your head, it was nothing, “yeah of course” you laughed nervously, “whatever you need” you told him in a passing tone.

His gaze pierced through you, “whatever I need?” He said, his voice teasing, dripping with desire.

Right then you knew you had made a grave mistake, gulping and looking away. He approached you, his lips so close to your ear, tucking hair behind your ear and letting his fingers brush upon your neck.

God damn turbulence betrayed you, swaying the plane and making you lose your footing and slide right into him. His hand at your waist to keep you upright.

“Now that you mention it” he whispered in your ear. “There was something else…and I’m still hungry” his gentle touches were making you weak at the knees.

You glanced behind him but nobody was watching, you were afraid of what would happen if you were caught, he seemed to notice.

“I’ll be careful” he promised, his head an inch away from being buried in the crook of your neck, and he smelled so good, like this expensive manly cologne.

“We’ll be quick” his words so soothing and convincing you. There was already a feverish throbbing at your clit that you severely needed to attend to. A wave of desperate heat at your lower abdomen that you craved for him to satisfy.

You couldn’t resist this man, he had a mesmerizing effect on you. So you focused on his lustful gaze as he walked you back into one of the bathrooms, locking the door behind him and wasting no time in leaning down to kiss you.

Tim sealed the small space separating the two of you, a knee already in between your legs because of how compact the space was. You let out a few pants at the way he rubbed you, unable to stop yourself even though there might have been people just outside that door.

His kisses passionate and needy, like he had been craving you ever since the moment he laid eyes on you. And everything he did was intoxicating, you were so receptive to him, slick already gathering in your panties as he met your lips in an open kiss and bit down on your lip, nibbling and teasing you,

There was barely any space in that bathroom, moving around and escaping him would be difficult, it almost didn’t give you a choice, but Tim felt so good, you couldnt help but whisper his name in need.

“Oh fuck” he cursed, “your kisses are so delicious” he reached a hand down to your stomach, trailing it down your torso to your most intimate area, replacing his knee and pressuring your cunt gently through your skirt, “I wanna know if the rest of you tastes just as good”

Your breath hitched when he hoisted you on the small counter, your pussy embarrassingly wet at every one of his touches. He spread your knees open and bent down to get to work.

“So this is what you meant by hungry” you said in the middle of the heated moment.

His eyes met yours and you gulped at the mischievous glint swirling his pupils. Feeling a throb at the view of the captain on his knees. “Exactly” He chuckled lowly and pressed his lips to your thighs impatiently, sinking his teeth into your soft skin and leaving marks nobody would know about but him.

You whined, having to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting any lewd noises escape. “Oh god” you whispered, when he finally got to your pussy. It was too much tension, his hot breath lingering where his teeth marks lay, and now- right on your clit.

He hooked his fingers to your panties and brought them down, amused at the wet spot on them. Now there was nothing else below that short skirt. Your body involuntarily bucked forward, and his big hands held you in place. “Impatient are we?”

But he was just as rushed as you, it was supposed to be a quickie in the bathroom not lovemaking. If you wanted to do that later he would gladly lay you down in a proper bed and do so, but for now all he was focused on was your pussy glistening with your juices that he so desired.

Bringing his lips to you and lapping a stripe up your slit before opening you up and tasting you in full. Groaning at the sensation of your sex clenching around his tongue while he fucked you with it.

His fingers digging into your skin to bring you closer to his face and encourage you to ride as wildly as you pleased. You weren’t one to resist, your knuckles white as you held onto a handle on the wall and the roof above you. Praying that the passengers on the plane thought the rough movement was from turbulence and nothing more.

Tim ate like a starved man, in a way you had never felt before. There was no stopping him either, he wouldn’t cease his tongue fuck until he was satisfied, and nothing would please him more than you gushing over him enough to let him know you were ready for something much larger.

Besides, he couldn’t get his eyes off you, he was particularly enjoying making you squirm at the brink of your first release. He liked teasing you this much, it showed him that he held all the power, and you were wrapped around his finger. Technically you were, when he slipped one in and curled it in your soft spot.

His lips sucked at your bundle of nerves hard enough to make you spasm and clench your legs around his head, everything was going according to his plan. “Yeah? Does that feel good?” He asked, taking a breath and dipping another digit inside your dripping pussy.

You struggled to keep your voice bellow a whisper, but he didn’t seem to care about a possible audience. All he was focused on was pulling more of those pretty cries from your swollen lips. “Yes-yes” you repeated.

Your brows furrowing at the pleasure he was providing you with, and Tim himself was getting off at just the taste of you. His cock twitching in his uniform pants, he was painfully hard so he had to take himself out and stroke when you creamed on his tongue.

“You taste so sweet honey” he praised, “I love it when you struggle to speak because I’m making you cum with just my tongue” he smirked. The flat of his tongue once again swirling your swollen clit enough to make you let out a mutter of incoherent nonsense.

Too drunk off the bliss you couldn’t argue back, you didn’t want to. It was like you were in heaven, preforming acts that were so sinful they would have led you to hell.

“T-Tim” you gasped, “I’m close” you warned him, “gonna cum”

Once again he started eating you like you were his las meal on earth, your eyes rolled back in delight. But he wasn’t going to let you get off that easily, you should have known. “Not until you ask for permission”

He pulled his touch away slightly, enough to keep you just at the edge of your orgasm for a bit longer.

“Please” you cried, tears in your eyes. “Can I please cum, captain?”

The man saw the look on your face but just cooed, “you haven’t said my name” he reminded you.

“Captain wright” you babbled “captain wright”, again and again because once you spoke the magic words he just kept going faster. Pumping his thick fingers in and out of your sopping hole hard enough to make you come undone. Crying out for him and gripping onto the edge of the counter to restrain yourself.

“That’s right, just like that” he coaxed, helping you ride down from your climax so perfectly, You were thankful that he was there to hold you steady. Lapping at your release before standing up again and pressing his bare cock to your entrance.

“Gonna need you to beg for this one too” he said, to fuel his ego and also for consent reasons. His lips to your neck now. You had barely managed to come down from such ecstasy before registering what he was asking.

But you were far too gone, your cunt still clenching for him. There was nothing you wanted to do more than to satisfy him like he did you. Nodding and letting a few “please’s” to let him know you craved it too.

“Mhm that’s what I thought”, you could hear the cockiness in his voice, looking down to see if he had the package to back it up but your jaw hug open once you felt it. Prodding at you and letting his precum mix in with your slick.

“‘S not gonna fit” you said in a hiccup, eyes wide and narrowed at his heavy cock that pressed against your slit as you dripped on him. “It’s too big” you squeaked.

“Oh it’ll fit” he panted, mimicking the motions of sex but just grinding himself raw on you. “I’ll make it fit” he hissed. Finally rolling his hips into you in one swift movement. “Fuck” he cursed under his breath, it was quite a tight fit, enough to make him pause because he didn’t want to cum instantly.

A stray groan fell from your mouth but he caught it with his own, meeting you in a heated embrace. His hands on either side of you, pressing prints onto the mirror behind you. He pulled out and thrusted back in, working a good pace. You slowly acclimated to his thick girth with every stroke in your pussy.

Even with the stretch it felt so delicious, your hands clutching his once ironed uniform into wrinkled bunches. There was barely any space in that god forsaken bathroom, but it just gave him the excuse to stay closer to you. That and he just had to give smaller, quicker thrusts.

His big cock splitting you open time and time again, his tip reaching your cervix, thudding against your g spot in a way that made you squeeze him like a vice.

A hand keeping your knee open while he fucked you, practically pounding you. Making you lose your breath and your head go fuzzy. “You’re so tight” he hissed, “practically milking me”

He was panting, pulling out momentarily to turn you around and fuck you doggystyle. Except now, you could see your reflection and his own. The whole image of the captain pounding your pussy till it turned red on full display for you. A grin making its way to his lips, he liked seeing you struggle to fit him fully.

But the look on your face and the way you gripped around him told him that you wanted it, that and those obscene noises you were making every time he hilted. “Thats a good, pretty baby” he rasped, “servicing all your captains’ needs”

You looked at his eyes in the mirror, a pout on your lips from how he was acting. A hand making it’s way to your chin to redirect your gaze to your own body. “Watch yourself” he whispered, his breath hot on your ear.

“Look at yourself while you take all of me” he panted, and you felt yourself melt at the obscenity of his words. “I want you to see how good I’m fucking you”

Doing as he said and feeling his balls clap against your ass, it was almost more unholy to watch your expression and the way he made your body bounce back and forth on his cock.

“Do you see it?” He asked, “that fucked out look on your face from how deep my cock is right now”, a gentle touch at your lower abdomen to press where he was bulging. “Here, all the way inside that slutty little hole of yours” he teased.

It was all too lewd, you felt yourself sizzling with desire, about to burst again if he kept whispering those sweet words in your ear.

“You look so hot when I’m inside of you” he praised. “Mhm with me stretching you out, you’re so hungry for it” he growled. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes sir”, You were struggling to piece together your words, the ones you could were just ‘more- more more more”, so thats exactly what you said.

“Please” you cried “please sir, more”,

Your noises getting a bit too out of control, he had to discipline you. A hand moving to your lips to hold your mouth as he told you to be quiet, but that almost made it worse. Now the sound of the lewd squelch and clapping of balls was the only thing that could be heard along with your muffled groans and pants.

“Shh that’s right” he said, softly. “Just keep taking it, just let me take care of you” you nodded at the finger at your lips telling you to be silent. “stay and let me fuck that pretty pussy just a bit longer.”

You bit your tongue and did as he instructed, trying to hold on but the throbbing at your cunt was aching. “Please captain, let me cum” you whispered.

Meeting his eyes through the mirror and he seemed to relent, it’s not like he would hold on much longer either. You were squeezing him too tight, and he couldn’t pull out too much, there wasn’t any space in that damn little cabin.

His hand gripped the rails to steady himself, the other at your ass to take a handful of. “You’ve been good, go ahead, you can cum” he whispered in your ear.

It felt like such a relief, shivers going down your spine and directly to your pussy. “I’m cumming-“ you warned, fluttering around him as you found your release.

“That’s a good baby just let yourself go” he said in a raspy tone, his fingers digging so deep into your ass there would definitely be marks. “Let your captain take care of you”

Your legs were weak, trembling as he hilted and spilled deep inside of your hole, groaning into your shoulder as he filled you up.

His cock twitching as you squeezed him until his balls were empty. Eventually he pulled out, his release dripping out from your hole and down your legs.

His big hands helped you pull up your panties once again, it wasn’t much help concealing the act, your hair was all disheveled and your cheeks rosy.

His release still inside of you a lewd reminder of what had just transpired on the planes bathroom.

“You did so good for me” he praised, making sure you were good before sending you off.

He put your skirt in place, “welcome to the mile high club” he whispered with a chuckle, “have a safe flight now”

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