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perlelune · 24 days

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Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | viii.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The rest of the morning flies by in a befuddling blur. Coriolanus takes you to the heart of the Capitol’s busiest street to have breakfast in a fancy tea house, one you’ve never set foot in before. For a while you ogle every item on the menu, brows furrowing at the prices.

Coriolanus smiles at your expression.

“It’s my treat, angel,” he assures you.

The scent of fresh coffee and food hangs in the air.

Your eyes roam about. Colorful flowers decorate the door frames. Mouth-watering pastries are exposed behind the glass under the front desk. The waitress comes over. She is nice. Her red curls bounce above her shoulders as she raves about the menu for the day. It’s clear the blond is a regular here.

He orders for you as you can’t bring yourself to decide, even after perusing the dizzying list of choices. You offer no resistance, glad to be relieved of your predicament. None of the dishes described particularly excite you. You’d rather let him pick. After all, he’s familiar with the place and you’re not.

He pays the waitress a compliment in that smooth, easy way of his and her cheeks glow pink as she tucks a strand of her behind her ear. It’s clear even the sweet waitress isn’t immune to his boyish charm.

Food is brought to the table and you stare at your plate for a while.

Your stomach stirs but you’re bereft of appetite. You’re distracted, the events of the night before still whirling through your brain in a hazy succession. Coriolanus’ soft reassurances collide with your unease. You fuss with your syrup-coated toast and strawberries, slicing little pieces you set aside but don’t touch.

“You don’t like it?”

His deep voice startles you. You’re yanked from your numb haze, your head snapping up. A concerned frown mars his brow.

“What?”

“You’re not eating, angel.” He glances at your plate. The whipped cream has long since melted, forming a snowy pool around the strawberries and toast. “I can have it sent back if you want.”

Bristling, you shake your head. You’ve never been too fond of wasting food. While it’s a luxury the elite allow themselves since the rebellion was quelled, those horrid days of despair and rationing have never parted from your mind. Just a decade ago, gaunt children roamed the streets begging for scraps.

“No, I’ll eat.” You shove a forkful in your mouth, forcing your expression to be more cheerful.

He admires you, a subtle smile tugging his lips. His gaze does not waver until you finish your plate. Your skin prickles beneath the sharpness of his scrutiny. Despite the tightness of your stomach, you force each bite down your throat. A thought appears to cross his mind, his head slanting.

He reaches over the table to cup your cheek.

“You look beautiful when the sun hits you like that,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. Your heart skips a beat.

You duck your head, mumbling below your breath, “I…thank you.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you fidget in your seat.

It sounds exactly like a line from the romance books you cherish. The kind that would have the girl melt. The same way you’re melting now.

You lift bashful eyes to Coriolanus as he fondles the side of your face.

After breakfast, he drags you along a path you don’t know. You trail behind him, hesitant when the front of a clothing boutique comes into view. He tries to pull you inside but you plant your feet into the concrete ground.

He casts you a puzzled look. Anxiously chewing on your lip, you explain,

“Coriolanus…my monthly allowance is only for school supplies and food. It’s barely enough for me and Walter to eat.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re overfeeding that cat,” he jests.

“Well, he doesn’t like it whenever I try to give him less,” you say with a shrug.

His lips quirk upward.

“You really don’t know how to say ‘no’ to anything, do you, angel?”

Your gaze finds the floor.

He lifts your chin, his mesmerizing gaze drawing yours like a magnet.

“What’s the harm in looking?” he inquires. “You could still try on some dresses. You don’t even have to purchase anything.”

Your feet contort as your brows draw together.

“I don’t know. I probably should be home by now anyway.”

You can’t afford to fall behind. A mountain of studying awaits you at home. Between Saturday with Clemensia and the girls, the party and now…this is the longest you’ve gone without going over your notes.

His expression dims, his fingers loosening around yours. You find yourself almost missing the contact, the warm, gentle pressure you’ve slowly grown familiar with.

“Well, I suppose I could take you back home if you really wanted. I was just looking forward to us spending the day together.”

Your insides twist as you take in the glimmer of disappointment in his eyes. The thought of letting Coriolanus down makes your stomach ache. He’s gone through so much trouble to be nice and make you a part of his friend group. He’s spending time with you even if he’s always so busy.

“I guess there’s no harm in looking,” you belatedly relent.

He beams at you.

You let Coriolanus escort you inside. The high ceilings and gold accents of the place make your mind spin.

He goes through every rack in the shop, running a critical eye over every garment that catches his attention. The saleswoman makes suggestions at his side, informing him of the current trends and which colors would compliment your complexion the best. You don’t utter a word. Their conversation fades as your focus bounces around the boutique. The feminine flair of the clothes you flip through are a sharp contrast to the contents of your wardrobe.

You don’t see a single piece of you reflected here. You feel like an alien as you drag your feet across the soft carpeting.

Rare items appeal to your scarce fashion sense but when you show them to him, Coriolanus hums his disapproval.

“I know more about these things, angel. Trust me,” he whispers, his thumb caressing the back of your hand before he disposes of all your choices

You deflate but don’t argue. You’re only here to window-shop anyways, at his behest at that. It’s not like you’re craving new clothes. Or even need them. Still, a pang of regret lingers as the saleswoman strolls away with every piece of clothing that caught your eye.

Once Coriolanus is done with his selection, you head to the fitting room.

You end up trying a bunch of dresses while he watches you. His intense gaze is glued to your frame as you pose and walk across the room per his demands. Every outfit draws a slightly different reaction from him, ranging from appreciative hum to skeptical groan. One in particular has his lips stretching in a wide smile. He beckons you to come to him with two of his fingers. You take shaky steps forward.

“I really like that one,” he says, hands rubbing up and down your waist.

You fidget awkwardly.

“It’s not really my style.”

He cocks his head.

“How can you say that when you don’t have a style yet?”

You gape at him. Clemmie said similar words to you. But he gives you no time to ponder on that, grabbing your hand to make you twirl.

“I think you look very pretty in it, angel.” He leans closer to mutter in your ear. “In fact…I’m getting hard just watching you prance around in it.” To emphasize his lewd admission, he wiggles his hips against yours. The thick protrusion inside his pants carves a sizzling dent into your belly. Your breath snags, heat rushing to your face. You gawk at him, bewildered by his boldness. The saleswoman could walk in at any time. But this seems to be the last of his concerns, his blue eyes alight with lust as he drinks you in.

“I-I should go change,” you mumble.

When you try to shuffle away, Coriolanus’ hands tighten around your waist. Your chest grazes his as he murmurs, his deep voice riddled with desire, “You’re really gonna leave me like this, angel?” His half-lidded gaze drops to the bulge in his pants before landing on your face. “It won’t come down on its own.”

At a loss for words, a weak apology trickles through your lips.

“S-Sorry.”

His rich chuckle penetrates through your skin.

“No need to apologize.” He angles up your chin, mischief dancing in his eyes. “How about you help me…take care of it?”

Shock rounds your gaze. “I-I don’t know,” you stammer, your skin growing hot all over.

“Come on, angel. It’s the least you could do for making me like this.”

Your mouth opens but before any word can pour from it, the blond’s lips slot over yours. His hand sweeps over your back until he finds the swell of your behind. He gives your ass a firm squeeze. You squeal against his mouth. His tongue slips between your lips. Eager digits relentlessly wander over your curves as he explores your mouth.

He nudges you inside one of the fitting cabins, drawing the velvet curtain to hide the two of you from sight. When your hands push at his chest, his fingers clasp around your wrists, shoving them against the cushioned wall of the cabin.

“Coryo, please…Not here,” you implore.

“We’ll just be quiet,” he insists while reaching under your dress. He gropes you as you squirm. A triumphant smile blooms on his lips when he finds the waistband of your panties. He’s impatient, swiftly dragging the pesky material down your thighs until it pools limply at your ankles. He makes quick work of his pants’ buttons, freeing his hard cock with hurried motions. While holding your hands above your head, he grabs his length and guides it to your entrance. “I’ll be quick, I promise. You’ll barely feel it.” He buries himself inside you to the brim. You keen sharply, your eyes flying open.

You definitely feel it. Feel him. His large girth tearing you apart, warring to fit between your tight walls.

Coriolanus begins to fuck you at a steady peace. His cock splits you apart, dragging torturously against your sensitive walls. Fog forms on the nearby mirror as heat swells in the cabin.

Your mind spirals. Your thoughts become white noise. White dots flicker in your sight every time he thrusts inside you.

A little whimper spills from your throat.

“You gotta be quiet for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, teeth nipping at your throat. His hand covers your mouth, stifling the helpless sounds you produce. His other hand grips under your thigh, the only thing keeping you upright as you sag against the wall.

He swallows his own moan, teeth sinking in his plump bottom lip when your walls squeeze his cock. After a few deep, languid thrusts, he goes still against you. He nuzzles the crook of your neck, thumb stroking your thigh. His cock twitches between your walls. He plays with your swollen clit, dragging wet, sloppy circles and pressing until you come apart too. A wave of heat crashes over you. Your walls flutter, milking his cock as he spills inside you.

Coriolanus unleashes a muffled groan against your shoulder. His eyes roll back as he finds his release. He takes a deep breath before letting you go.

He steps back and fixes the stray blonde lock hanging over his forehead. He buttons back his pants as you slump against the wall, struggling to catch your breath. He pulls a pristine white square from his breast pocket and approaches you. Gingerly, he wipes the milky rivulets leaking from your spasming core and sliding along your trembling thighs.

He does it until no trace of what he’s done is left. Except your shame, and a vague sense of pain and discomfort.

He drops a quick peck on your cheek.

“Pull yourself together, angel. I’ll wait for you outside.”

You give a feeble nod. A great emptiness fills you as you watch him disappear behind the velvet curtain.

The second he’s gone, you sink to the floor. You take a few minutes to bask in how numb you feel, how sore and spent. Slowly, even breaths return to you. Hands shaking, you pick up your underwear and gather the clothes you came in with from the hooks on the opposite wall.

You fumble with your clothes as you get dressed, your clammy hands catching into the material. Your chest burns with a feeling, one that sears through your bones and drops in your gut like a hot stone. One you can’t give a proper shape or name to. You just know you’re a bit nauseous and eager to go home.

You unleash a drawn out exhale as you step out of the cabin. You arrange your messy hair in the floor length mirror nearby. The sight that greets you is doleful. Your chest seizes as you note the darkening bruises over your neck, where Coriolanus scattered rough bites and kisses. A burst of warmth invades your face. You pinch your cheeks and force a benign smile onto your lips.

When you leave the fitting room, you're flabbergasted to see every single dress he insisted you try piled up on the front desk. Your eyes collide with the saleswoman’s. She takes a fleeting look at you before lowering her head. Embarrassment floods your insides as you realize she must have heard you and Coriolanus.

Fleeing her gaze, you clear your throat and whirl to him.

“Coriolanus. What are you doing?”

The saleswoman places all the items in boxes and bags, pointedly avoiding looking at both you and Coriolanus.

A disarming smile unfurls on his lips.

“Like I said today’s my treat, angel.”

“But…”

He approaches you, cupping your cheek.

“It’s a gift. Am I not allowed to spoil my sweet girl?”

Stumped, you stare at him. His thumb skims over your lips.

“How about ‘thank you, Coriolanus’?”

“Thank you, Coriolanus,” you echo instantly.

“That’s my girl,” he lauds, bending to plant a kiss on your forehead.

On the way back to your place, you can’t help but steal nervous glances at Coriolanus. It’s not that you’re not grateful. The time and attention he lavishes upon you. His caring gestures.

It doesn’t entirely bother you, being the center of someone’s attention for once. Mattering. In a strange way, it’s new and exhilarating.

Perhaps what happened in the fitting room wasn’t... entirely comfortable, didn’t feel too nice at times. Hurt even. A lot. In fact you’re so sore, you can barely sit straight. But somehow you can’t bring yourself to dedicate an excessive amount of thought to the matter. It’s not a big deal, is it? You lost your virginity last night and it was weird. And this morning’s even weirder. Weird in its striking normalcy.

Your fingers twiddle in your lap. You swallow a deep breath.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. So you let the morsels of doubt sink in the hollow space inside your chest. Until your hands stop shaking.

“Walter?” you call. Coriolanus slams the door closed behind you. You dart across the apartment, combing every corner in search of your furred companion. Every spot he favors is inspected. Under the sink. Below the bed. The duskiest, dustiest corners of your wardrobe. Even the drawers.

The blond is relaxed as you frantically unleash a storm upon your place, uncaring of the mess you trail in your wake.

“That’s strange. He always greets me when I come home.”

“He must be around here somewhere,” he casually replies.

You call his name again and again. Still, there’s no sign of the orange ball of fur. No familiar purr or meow. No big yellow orbs staring up at you curiously. A sinking feeling grips your insides.

Tears rush to your eyes.

“Coryo…”

His concerned gaze settles on you.

“What’s wrong?”

You draw a sharp breath that you slowly release, panic swelling within you. “I don’t think he’s in the apartment.”

“Did you check the windows?” he offers.

Your eyes bulge. It didn’t cross your mind. You heed his advice, checking every window in the apartment. When you inch towards the one in your room, your stomach coils. Your bedroom’s noticeably colder than the other rooms, which you didn’t linger on before.

As you find a crack in the window, your hand covers your mouth.

“Oh my god.”

Coriolanus wraps his arms around you as you sob.

“He can’t be too far if he jumped through the window,” he says gently. “He’s likely nearby playing or chasing after mice. The city’s crawling with them.” He cradles your face, eyes diving into yours. “Don’t cry, angel. We’ll find him, okay?”

Your chest grows tight, too many emotions surging through it at once.

“What if he doesn’t come home?” you mumble quietly.

“Don’t worry. He will.”

“I…” Your voice falters.

The blonde tilts up your face, urging you to go on.

“What is it?”

You sniffle and chew on your lip.

“I know I’m asking for a lot but can you help me look for him?”

That tight-lipped smile you know too well spreads on his lips.

“Of course.” He pauses, seeming to ponder something. His expression lights up. “Maybe bring a treat. If he smells it, it might lead him to you.”

You acquiesce and fetch one from one of the drawers in the kitchen.

As promised, Coriolanus spends the rest of his day helping you look for Walter. The both of you shout his name in the streets but his drooping little head never peeks from a dank alley as you keep hoping. He even drives around the area to see if perhaps he’s stuck on a roof somewhere, to no avail.

As the evening veers to its end, the sky coming aflame above you, hope dwindles inside you.

You lost Walter. Of all the things in the world, it had to be him. Your only friend. Your only light in the darkness. You want to climb into bed and never leave the cocoon of your warm blanket.

In fact, you do just that the minute you return home. You toss your key and wearily plod to your bedroom. Even that simple act has you aching at the loss. Usually at a time like this, his little form would be curled somewhere near your head, his eyes closed and his tail whipping against the headboard.

Your chest threatens to burst from your quivering sobs.

A lot of things are slipping away from you these days. Things you’re losing quickly. Too quickly. You’re not sure how to cope with any of it.

Your body weighs a ton. Your mind throbs, the onset of a headache pressing insistently at your temples.

Coriolanus is sitting beside you. Caressing the top of your head, he says, “We could put up missing posters, in case someone sees him.”

“No,” you answer, gulping down yet another sob.

“Why not?”

You wipe your tears with your elbow.

“I’m…I’m not really supposed to have him,” you confess. He slants his head, his expression inquisitive. You suck a wide breath and say, “Remember that day at the Academy when we were small? The thing she did to that poor creature in front of us?”

It says a lot that you don’t even have to specify that you’re talking about your mother, immediate understanding creeping on his face.

He nods, displaying no emotion besides a subtle flicker in his eyes. “It does ring a bell indeed.”

You fiddle with the frayed edge of your pillow.

“I didn’t want the same thing to happen to him, so I took him home.”

Perhaps that was your true offense, your original sin…Interfering with your mother’s work. And now you’re paying the price.

Weariness settles over you, bone-deep.

“It’s all my fault.”

His knuckles drag over your cheek.

“You just forgot to close a window. It happens.” He smiles down at you, his tone soft as a caress. “We’re all a little careless sometimes.”

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction

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lqfiles · 5 months

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SCORE THAT GOAL! — 28. winter wonders with you

(wc: 1.701)

perhaps, jisung should've considered your offer a few more times. maybe he shouldn't have given into your insisting pleas so easily, because the 4 sets of eyes that were watching his every move since he arrived in front of the festival entrance made him want to escape right then and there. it was.. awkward for sure. why was no one saying anything?

"okay! enough of this awkwardness. jisung, you've met chenle before." you interjected from beside jisung and he thanked the heavens that you were here to break the ice between everyone. had it not been for your presence, he was convinced the whole night would've been a staring contest between all of them. you motioned your hand towards chenle who stood across the both of you, before your pointed to left.

"that is ningning, next to her is sungchan, and that's mark on chenle's right. should we go have fun now?" your attempt at breaking the ice between your friends and jisung was met with a few murmurs and an excited ningning. "did everyone bring their money?" she asked the group and all of you hummed back in response, following her as you finally entered the fest after minutes.

you gasped at your surrounding. all your thoughts could form at that moment was the word stunning. bright colourful lightings were decorated everywhere, warm-cozy food stands stood at all corners of the place with it’s aromas spreading everywhere. different attractions were luring you towards them with the sound of ecstatic people as loud music blared in the background. snow was covering the concrete you stood on, and for a second you wondered if this was the definition of winter.

you felt a nudge on your upper arm and snapped your head to your right. “are you sure this is.. okay?” jisung’s soft and deep voice was muffled by the scarf placed around his neck. you could barely understand him, but the look of unease displayed on his face said enough. you reached your hand up, patting his shoulder. “don’t worry too much about them, aren’t they the ones who agreed to let you join?” you spoke loudly and the two of you had slowed your pace, walking a few steps behind the rest.

“i guess you’re right.” jisung smiled at you, though you couldn’t see it. “let’s go and enjoy our holiday then!” you exclaimed in excitement, walking ahead of him towards the rest.

as expected, the afternoon was fun and lively. “i heard there is a ice rink somewhere, let’s go?” ningning suggested, looking between all of you for confirmation. no one protested, which made her smile widely as she guided you to the spot that supposedly had the ice rink. much to your luck, you were able to immediately get in as the next batch of people were entering. “have you ever done this?” you aimed the question at jisung while simultaneously putting on your skates. he nodded.

“yeah, as a child.” he laughed and finished tightening his own skates. “me too, only once.” you smiled his way and stood on your skates before walking towards the entrance of the rink. the vibes were perfect you thought. fairy lights were hung everywhere, lighting up the pink sky you stood under. the sound of screaming and joy filled the air, sending a warm feeling to your body. or maybe the warm feeling came from how close you stood next to jisung.

“wait mark! help me.” ningning pleaded while she desperately held onto the rails. mark’s laugh was loud and genuine as he turned on his skates and made his way back towards the girl. sungchan and chenle on the other hand were racing their way through the rink, a sincere smile plastered on their face. you couldn’t remember the last time you saw sungchan so happy.

“be careful!” jisung warned from behind you, placing a hand on the small of your back. you didn’t even notice that you had stoped moving, totally oblivious to jisung who was moving right behind you. you snapped right out of it, sucking in a breath as jisung’s hand lingered there for a few more seconds until he passed you. “you okay there?” he turned and asked. you nodded, scared that you’d make a fool out of yourself if you used words.

“chenle, you’re the basketball player here. please win that for me?” the five of you found yourself stood in front of a basketball rim stand. ningning’s finger pointed towards a pokémon plushy, and chenle chuckled. “30 scores in a minute? light work.” he boasted, handing the worker a few coins before the timer went off.

the worker scoffed lowly at chenle’s cocky behaviour, pressing the timer for a minute. lo and behold, chenle did manage to get 30 in a minute, baffling the worker who stared wide eyed. what surprised the rest of you was the score of 47 he managed to get. even jisung stared in awe. “he gets serious about basketball.” you explained with a chuckle. chenle handed ningning the plushie and she thanked him with a hug.

“can i try?” jisung placed out a few coins on the counter, waiting for his turn and all of you exchanged a shocked look. the worker nodded and let jisung prepare before pressing the timer again.

jisung wasn’t too sure why he was doing this, but the plushies looked cute and if he could win at least one he’d be more than happy. much to everyone’s surprise , jisung managed to score an amount of 32 in under a minute. his shy smile was hidden under his scarf as he took ahold of the duck plushie and turned to look at all of you.

“watch out sungchan, he might take your spot.” ningning joked, and jisung felt relieved to see all of you laugh. heaving out a sigh of relief, he decided to stand next to you. “you never told me you could play basketball.” you grinned at him and he shook his head. “not really, just pure luck.”

the evening had turned into night, and the pinkish sky had darkened. all of you had decided to grab something to eat before heading back home. the awkwardness had been taken over by a comfortable and fun conversation as all of you shared your hot food. a content smile was present on your face while you looked all around the table. everyone looked happy. you were happy.

“your food will get cold.” jisung spoke from beside you. you flinched out of your thoughts, turning to look to your left. jisung’s scarf was loosened from his neck and you could finally see the rest of his hidden face. he had a soft smile placed on his lips, nudging your elbow with his own. “are you not going to eat?” he whispered this time. “o-oh, yeah of course.” you stammered. his gaze stayed on you for a few more seconds before he turned to his own food.

“you’re shivering.” jisung noted. you weren’t even aware yourself that you were, too occupied admiring everything around you to care. you looked back at jisung, ready to respond, but swallowed your words back immediately as you felt a woollen texture wrap around you. it happened so quick that you weren’t even sure it was real. jisung had retracted himself already, not sparing you another glance.

“don’t get sick.” he smiled to himself and your heart was ready to jump out of your rib cage. you could hear giggling from beside you and quickly moved your head, looking at mark and ningning who had a wide grin on both their faces. even sungchan scoffed, a hint of a smile on his face while chenle made a gagging noise.

“did you have fun today?” was the question that occupied your mind the whole day. once again, you and jisung were walking far behind everyone, in your own conversation. you don’t exactly know when, but halfway through your meal it had started to snow. the white flakes that dazzled on the ground made you smile. jisung hadn’t asked for his scarf back, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to give it back.

“i did. thank you for letting me join all of you.” jisung’s voice boomed from besides like it had the whole day. you realised that the two of you had stuck near each other almost every minute and wondered if it was intentional on his behalf. “your friends are.. nice.” jisung admitted. his perception of them before hadn’t been anything negative, but he underestimated how welcoming all of them would be. even chenle had made small talk with him.

“do you want your scarf back?” you asked before you could even register what you said. regret formed inside of you and you hoped jisung didn’t hear you. “you can keep it. i still got your jacket, now you have something of mine too.” if you had turned to look jisung’s way you would’ve caught onto the small hint of a blush that was threatening to grow on his face.

you did eventually look, and found yourself struck in awe. the snow had puddled onto the top of his dark hair, and his eyes glimmered as they stared back at you. a small trail of smoke escaped his lips as he blew air out and you wondered if the pink hue on his cheeks was from the cold or something else.

just like you, jisung couldn’t help but think you looked abnormally pretty under the lanterns. the snow had covered you too and you had hidden your face into the material of his scarf- though, a trail of smoke went through it and it made jisung awe silently. were you always this pretty or was it this particular setting that made you look so ethereal?

“are you two coming or what?” ningning shouted at the two of you, snapping you out of your moment of admiration. you could see the teasing smile on her face from afar and rolled your eyes back. you turned back to jisung and sent him a warm smile before running off to the rest.

jisung went home thinking of how nice of a smile you had.

previous — master list — next

notes ; this is the start of jisung realising that MAYYYBEEEE he likes her sorta kinda (he does 🤫)

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macfrog · 9 months

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ace sex on fire chapter six

this entire chapter is me making up for 1. the golfing line in chapter two, and 2. joel's entire experience of tlou2. naughty dog i'm waiting for ur response. 24 hours to reply

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel takes you on a day trip to go golfing. it turns out to be more fun than you expected

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) golf. idk what else to say. age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, more sugardaddy!joel, discussions of pregnancy + reader perhaps not wanting children, sort of possessive!joel?, praise kink, unprotected piv car sex, daddy kink, exhibitionist fantasy, creampie, more teasing + flirting, angst + pining, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 9.7k

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“Good girl. He there?” The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare. “Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel. “He watching?” “Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily. “Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

The cab squeaks to a halt right outside the office, dropping you at the bottom of the concrete steps leading up to the revolving door. There are already bodies filtering in and out of the building, despite how early it is.

You thank the driver – Mick, you’ve come to learn. He seems to run this route on weekday mornings; it’s always him who shows up at your apartment when you can’t be bothered to walk to work, or miss the damn bus. Mick tosses a thumbs up over his shoulder and you swing out into the brilliant sun.

It’s Thursday. You’ve been home sixty-five hours, by your count. Joel gave you a couple days after landing stateside to catch up on sleep, readjust. He’d gone back to work Tuesday morning, though, 8AM sharp. Martha had text to ask where you were, and had sent six laughing emojis back when you replied with, How the fuck is he back already?

You make the climb up the steps, back to work, back to normality. It drags like a weight at your heels, the thought of returning to that gray office after three days wandering around picture-perfect, painted-pink Paris. After three days of Joel.

That split-open feeling, the cavity between your ribs – it’s sewn itself up since you got back to your own apartment, your own space. Since you showered a couple times, washed your clothes, started smelling like yourself again instead of Joel. Its sutures are made from the sound of the subway squealing to a halt, the smell of Chinese takeout from the place across the street.

But there’s a tiny piece of you, small enough to stay hidden from even yourself sometimes, that you know misses it. Misses…him. It only hurts when you touch it – the sewn-up scar, messy in your frantic attempts to close it up – it aches when you remember his hands on your waist whenever you wanted them there, his lips below your ear whenever you needed him.

As you approach the glass doors, you hear a whistle from behind, and turn to watch Joel slip out of his Rolls and jog up the steps. There’s a sports bag hanging from his left hand.

“Am I a dog?” you ask when he reaches you.

“It was an endearin’ whistle.”

“Very endearing. Don’t do it again.”

He nods once. “Yes, ma’am. Feelin’ awake yet?”

“Almost.” You follow him into the building, clicking along the polished marble floor at his side. “You didn’t waste any time getting back into the swing of things, I hear.”

You both nod good morning to the receptionists, and Joel hits the button to call the elevator.

“I’m an important man, baby,” he says, shrugging. “My job ain’t just answerin’ the phone ‘n making coffee.”

You scoff, slapping his back as he leads you through the sliding doors, which closer over and shut you both into your first moment of privacy in almost seventy hours. Joel immediately turns to face you, words behind his eyes that he can’t seem to sort into a coherent sentence.

In what you hear as an attempt to summarize, he says: “Back to reality.”

You brush the shoulders of his blazer, tug on his tie to straighten it. It’s the most you can bring yourself to do that doesn’t involve throwing yourself at him. There’s a throbbing right below your chest, like a magnet tugging you towards the man stood in front of you. Touching the padded shoulder of his suit will have to do. For now.

You lift your eyebrows, staring at the knot of his tie. “Yep.”

It’s pretty reductive, Back to reality. But then, what else is there to say? What else that wasn’t said between your bodies in Paris? A line was crossed there – you both went somewhere you can’t come back from so easily. And moving forward the way you had been before, seems equally as impossible.

There are eyes on you here. There are people who care to know what might be going on – whether they like it or not doesn’t matter. No more strutting out onto the terrace, running your hands all over one another, connecting skin and tongue in ways you wouldn’t have dreamt up two weeks ago.

No. This stays secret. A secret between you, Joel, and the French skies.

Joel places a hand on the small of your back as the elevator doors whip open. He ushers you out, and then, once in view of Martha’s desk, sidesteps to an appropriate distance.

“Welcome back,” your colleague greets you as you approach her desk. “Missed you, kid.”

You smile coyly. “Thanks,” you mumble. Guilt isn’t the easiest of emotions to hide.

Joel taps your arm gently and then nods towards his office. “Catch-up,” he says, and Martha rounds her desk to follow after him.

You drop your jacket and purse over the back of your chair and slip in behind them, leaning back on one of Joel’s leather couches with your arms crossed.

“Alright,” Martha sighs, “few things needing done this morning. First…”

You take a deep breath and slump down until your ass sits comfortably on the couch cushion, your knees draped over the arm, cradled inside your elbows.

Joel notices, and smirks to himself. He dials into his voicemail, hits a button, and a familiar voice echoes from his desk.

“Hey, Joel,” Drew’s voice says, “hope you enjoyed Paris ‘n aren’t still too hungover. I know what Jean-Marc’s like…”

Martha moves to the next bullet point, tilting her pad and tapping the tip of her pen to some messy scrawling you can’t read. You nod, eyes flitting up to watch Joel.

“Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still good for later. S’posed to be a good day for it. Let me know if you need any help with directions. Alright. Looking forward to seeing you two soon. Cool.”

The machine cuts. Joel sits back in his chair, rests his heels on the wood in front of him. Black, shiny, ridiculously expensive shoes crossed over on top of a black, shiny, ridiculously expensive desk.

“…now, Ken needs to receive this as soon as possible, alright? I said I’d have it done by end of day yesterday – I did not, so I need you to –”

“Who’s you two?” you ask Joel, peering over Martha’s notepad.

He looks up, tossing a rubber band ball in his hands. “You ‘n me, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha declares, “am I talking to myself–?”

You push her notepad out of your view, still staring at Joel. “What do you mean, you ‘n me?”

Martha drops her hands with a sigh. You repeat your question.

“Us,” Joel says, hint of irritation in his voice like you’re supposed to be in on something. “We’re goin’ golfing with him.”

“We’re going golfing?”

Martha, now exasperated, swings the pad under her bicep and crosses her arms over her chest, makes something of a growling noise. “You two are unbeliev…Are you listening to me?” she demands, clicking her fingers in front of you.

“No,” you reply simply, eyes locked on Joel’s.

His lips curve with a soft laugh. “You ain’t read your emails?” he asks.

Your head darts between him and Martha. Bewildered. “I was catching up on sleep, thank you very much,” you assert, nodding with finality at the blonde updo hovering over you.

You know she cares about you – at least enough to water your monstera deliciosa while you were gone – but Martha can be sharp; her outspokenness is something to admire and to fear, in one small five-foot-three frame.

She snorts, glancing over to Joel with a disbelieving shake of her head, but he doesn’t take her up on it. Just looks at her blankly and then turns back to you.

“We’re meeting Drew up at Aspen Heights. Few of his buddies are in town, he wanted to introduce ‘em to me.”

“And I’m coming – why?”

“Because he met you last week, musta liked you, ‘n he invited you.”

Your mouth opens to reply, some retort to bring into question the need for your presence at a fucking round of golf, when Joel and his words cut yours short in your throat.

“And I want you there with me.”

Martha raises her eyebrows when you look up at her. The thing is: this all seems very normal, from her perspective. You did such a good job at keeping Joel right in Paris, didn’t you? He made his flight there on time, he met with Jean-Marc without a hitch, and he was actually an hour early for his flight home.

That last part was because you’d woken up with the sun and couldn’t get back to sleep, so you woke him, too and…well. Kept each other busy until you physically couldn’t anymore. There wasn’t much point hanging around in the hotel suite when your cases were packed and your bodies were…fragile, so you left for the airport.

To her ignorant eyes – and bless her – this is all just networking. It’s you building work relationships, Joel at the helm overseeing everything and setting it all up for you. This is clear – that that’s all she thinks – when she says:

“He’s doin’ you a favor, sweetheart. You should go.”

“I don’t even have any golfing gear. I’m in suit trousers.” Your eyes trail down your black pinstripe pants, legs dangling from the arm of the couch.

“And you look fantastic,” Joel quips, though you know he’s half-serious, “but you do gotta find somethin’ more…” he waves a hand, “…golf.”

“Something more golf. That’s helpful.”

“Here,” he says, stretching into his back pocket. His hips lift from the seat of his chair, and your eyes land on the space just south of his belt buckle. He pulls his credit card from his wallet – the same one you could probably recite the numbers of by heart at this point – and holds it out. “Go grab somethin’ nice. My treat.”

My treat. Like he didn’t treat you all damn weekend.

You pull yourself up and take the card from his fingers.

“’n what about my list?” Martha asks.

Joel shrugs. “Ken can wait one more day. You got two hours,” he tells you, and then sits up straight, rubber band ball placed safely next to his Newton’s cradle. “I’ll have Rand take you.”

You follow Martha out of Joel’s office when his phone starts ringing and his head falls into his hands, letting you both know it’s not a call you want to be around to hear. As he lifts the handset, he lightly calls your name, and you exchange a sly smirk as you slip out the door.

Martha wanders off behind her own desk as you pull your purse over your shoulder. She loads her computer back up, chin lifting as she squints through her glasses at the screen.

“There’s a golf shop downtown,” she tells you, two index fingers tapping away on the keys. “Alan uses ‘em. Don’t think they’re too expensive, either. Wouldn’t know for sure, though, he spends so damn much anytime he’s in there.”

You watch her for a moment, nodding along. “Thanks, Martha.”

She holds up a finger as you walk past her desk toward the elevator. “Remember you still got my to-do list to tackle, so don’t be long!”

----------

Rand drops you on a quiet side street. He gives you his number, tells you to text him once you’re done, and the sleek black car rolls off.

On the corner sits Ace’s Pro Golf, a small, charming store, peeling wooden front painted fern green with golf-themed decals decorating the windows. You set off inside, passing under two transparent putters crossed over one another on the window above the door. An old brass bell rings out from overhead when you enter.

Its exterior is misleading. This store is huge. Overwhelmingly huge. Walls stacked with bags, clubs dangling from pegs. Baskets of balls and tees and other accessories dotted all over the creaky wooden floors, which are lined with racks upon racks of golfing clothes – shirts, trousers, dresses, skirts.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, edging towards the rails.

You slip between them, hand running along the multicolored choices, when your phone starts to ring, vibrating somewhere deep in your purse.

“Hey, Mom,” you mutter, slipping your cell between your cheek and your shoulder as you begin to search through the shirts in front of you.

“Hey, baby,” her voice sings to you. “Wasn’t expecting to catch you, thought you’d already be at work. Where you at?”

You sigh. “I’m shopping. Joel’s taking me golfing later.”

She almost chokes down the line. “Golfing?”

“Yeah. It’s this friend he went to school with, I met him at lunch last week. There’s a few of ‘em going, so he asked me along, too.”

“Nice guy. So, you’re shopping for an outfit?”

“Mhm.”

“Any…dress code?”

“Dress code?” You straighten up, switching the phone to your other ear. “Like, golfing gear? I dunno.”

She laughs. “Alright.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing, baby.”

“Meant something, Mom. Tell me.”

“No, I just…” She sighs. “You’re sure this isn’t, like…It sounds an awful lot like a date. Like, you’re going on Joel’s arm.”

You’re silent. You suck in a deep breath, fixing an order of words in reply, when your mom cuts in again.

“I bet I’m way off. Forget I said anything.”

“Yeah, gross,” you refute, metal hangers squealing against the rail when you unfreeze. “No. Not a date. It’s, like, networking, or whatever.”

Mom snorts. “Right. Exactly.”

“Not – a date,” you repeat.

You’re relieved when she changes the subject. “Show me what you’re looking at.”

You huff, pulling the phone down and switching to FaceTime. In a second, your mom’s bright, swollen cheeks and ringlet curled hair are on the screen, and she flashes you a pearly smile.

“Was thinking maybe this…?” You angle the phone to show her a navy-blue polo shirt. “And then a white skirt?”

“Nah,” she cuts, and you flip your camera back to your face.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too blue. You look better in neutrals. Try beige or brown. Boring colors, y’know? Blend into the walls.”

You hiss something she doesn’t need to hear under your breath and then follow it up with a slightly more polite, “Screw you.”

Her image on your screen shakes violently with how hard she laughs at herself. “I’m messing with you. You know you’ll look beautiful no matter what you choose. Wait a second, though – can you even golf?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a golf club in my life.”

“Thought as much. Does Joel know you’re about to embarrass him like this?”

“He’s aware.”

“Please get him to take some videos. I gotta see this.”

“You know what,” you grumble, holding back your own laughter now, “I’m hanging up. You just solidified your place in the nursing home, you know that?”

She’s still laughing, words pushing through her cackles in desperate punches. “Wait, wait! I gotta tell you why I called you.”

“Alright, go. Thirty seconds.”

“Riley’s pregnant.”

Your face screws up. Lips curl upside down into a grimace. “Oof. Good…good for her…?”

Your mom throws her head back with a roar of laughter. “Be more enthusiastic about it. A little niece or nephew for you!”

“’s more like a…second cousin, or whatever. I bet Aunt Rose is over the moon.”

“She called me screaming this morning. I just thought you’d like to hear, being that you’re in a permanent state of baby fever.”

“Ha,” you state, blank expression never changing. It causes her to erupt into another fit of giggles. “That’s nice, I guess. For Riley. Tell her I said congrats.”

“I will. And I’ll leave out the part where you almost threw up. Alright, I’ll let you go. Good luck golfing. Come back with a hot millionaire boyfriend, maybe! Love you!”

“Yep. ‘kay. Love you. Love you, too – ‘kay – bye – bye, Mom.”

You hang up mid-laugh and her caramel cheeks disappear from the screen. You drop your phone back into your purse and slot the navy-blue polo under your arm, spinning to the rail behind you to find a skirt to go with it.

Riley, pregnant. That’s fucking insane. You two used to spend entire summers riding your bikes around your hometown, spending all of your allowance down at the mall. You swear you’re not old enough to have babies yet. Swear you’re not even old enough to be out of Mom’s house, living on your own in the city.

But then here you are, five years in, making a mental note to buy a baby gift for your cousin, on top of the pre-existing ones reminding you to message that girl who lived across the street when you were kids to say, Congrats on your engagement, and pick up a new home card for your two friends who are on their third mortgage.

Your mom finds it funny – always has. The instant repulsion you feel, the way you recoil whenever you’re asked about kids, about a partner, about a three-bed-two-bath in the suburbs with a big yard and good school nearby.

You don't think any of it's for you. And that’s fine, and every time you skate over the topic, your mom tells you it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s –

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Oh,” you snap out of your daydream, clutching a white skirt in your hands, “sorry. I’m sorry. No, I’m good, thanks. Sorry.”

The assistant smiles kindly and nods. Then he spins on his heel and waltzes off, disappearing behind a cardboard cutout of a golfer mid-swing.

It’s not lost on you, by the way – what your mom said. Sounds an awful lot like a date. You’d be lying if you said it hadn’t also crossed your mind. Joel, wanting you there with him. Giving you his card to buy somethin’ nice, which, after the last week, you translate roughly as: something I’ll like. Something he’ll see, and his second thought will be ripping it off your body.

His first thought will be what you’d look like taking it off for him.

And for that reason, you slip the short skirt under your arm beside the polo, and head across the store to find some more stuff to waste Joel’s money on.

----------

Rand pulls up by the curb a few yards down from Ace’s, where you’re sat on a bench enjoying an ice cream. He rolls the window down and lowers his black sunglasses.

“You bein’ paid for this?” he asks, grinning.

You nod, gleeful. “By the hour. Want an ice cream?”

He snorts when you hold Joel’s black card up between two fingers, tilting it in the sunlight. And then he puts the car in park, climbs out, and jaunts over to the ice cream cart by your bench.

He orders a three-scoop cone, and you nod in approval when he sits down alongside you, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Respect it,” you say, cheersing your own half-finished cone against his.

----------

When you get back to work, Joel’s already changed into a crisp, clean golfing outfit. It weakens your knees a little when you saunter into his office.

A long-sleeved, dark polo shirt that shows off every curve and flex of his toned arms, paired with gray, just-tight-enough trousers. And pristine white shoes so sharp and clean you’d swear he’d had them polished just for the occasion.

You ignore the way your head lightens at the sight of him and throw yourself into the chair to his right, white back from Ace’s falling between your ankles.

“Alright, Tom, thanks for lettin’ me know,” he says, arms folded, sat back against his desk. He leans back, places the phone back in its cradle, and looks you up and down. “Have fun?”

You shrug, leaning forward to pick a piece of lint from his thigh. “Didn’t know what to get for the most part, so there’s probably stuff I don’t need in there.”

He squints down at his cell phone. “Like, uh…Duke’s Scoops?”

You stare back at him, mirroring his cheeky smirk. Your leg swings, arms cross over your chest, covering the way your breath falters. He’s seen the transactions.

“You gonna grudge me three dollars on an ice cream, Miller?”

“Six fifty,” he mutters, glancing down at his phone again to double check. His tongue runs across his top lip. You want to replace it with yours. “So…that’s at least two ice creams, pretty girl.”

“It’s a hot day. Rand deserved something to cool down. We sat on a bench in the shade ‘n had a nice chat. He taught me how to swing. Verbally,” you add, when Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“Taught you how to swing,” he echoes, and you nod.

“Did you know he used to compete? Junior league?”

He pouts his bottom lip. “Mighta come up in the, what, fifteen years since I met him?”

You beam in reply, standing up and hooking your fingers through the string handles of your shopping bag. “I’m gonna go get changed now.”

“Could just get changed in the car on the way, ‘s a thirty-minute drive.”

You lean in close, eyes flitting over to Martha’s desk to make sure she’s not watching. Your lips brush softly against his ear. “I don’t wanna take any time away from other stuff we could get up to,” you murmur, and Joel’s hand locks around yours, attempting to pull you back as you skip off.

“Be right back,” you call, letting the door fall shut on his suggestive smirk, his tight trousers, and the hard bulge beneath them.

You return five minutes later in your getup. Joel has much the same reaction as you did with him, though he’s not half as good at hiding it. He sits upright in his chair, fingers tight around the armrests.

“Uhuh,” he says, eyes diving to your legs and then resurfacing somewhere around your chest. “Let me just –” he leans over to his phone, “– call Drew, let ‘im know we ain’t comin’…”

“Shut up,” you scoff. “Looks good, though, right?”

Joel’s eyes are still trained on your bare thighs, one crossed over the other. “Looks…better than good.”

You bat your eyelashes. “Still mad about the ice cream?”

“No, ma’am. Not mad at all.”

He stands, slinging both his bag and yours over his shoulder, and walks around his desk to meet you. You give him one final warning.

“You know I’ve never played golf before, right?”

“I know,” he affirms.

“So…bringing me is kinda pointless. I am not gonna bring anything worthwhile.”

“You in that outfit,” Joel mutters – and as he passes by, he makes sure to brush his swollen crotch up against your ass – “makes it worthwhile already.”

----------

Aspen Heights is a hundred and fifty-acre course, vibrant green fairways rolling over hilly land laid out like crinkles in a sheet of green felt. Rand drives slowly up to the clubhouse, gravel crackling under the tires of the Rolls as you and Joel lean over to stare at the landscape – the unkempt, sprawling wild plants guarding the pristine course, the bunkers like giant splotches of white paint on the grass.

You turn back and look to Joel, brows knitting in an expression which could be translated as amazement, could be intrigue, or could simply be: What the fuck are we doing here?

He mirrors it, shaking his head. And it makes you laugh.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You could buy this place, easy. Don’t act like you don’t fit in.”

“If you think I fit in here,” he grunts, getting out of the now parked car, “you think very highly of me, angel.”

He doesn’t deny that he could afford to buy it.

The clubhouse is…much the same. Huge, grand, surrounded by a wide-open porch and fronted by a dome-shaped room, paneled by windows that reflect the scene before them.

You follow Joel’s lead, climbing the steps to the double doors by his side, staying close enough that he can guide you with a bump of his arm against yours, but far enough apart that it doesn’t look like you’re showing up together.

Inside, you follow two smartly-dressed attendants through to a room finished in dark oak, shining wooden floors under bare-bulb light figures, a solid marble bar in the center and six perfectly symmetrical high tables surrounding it.

You glance nervously around the room. Drew’s stood over by the windows with three other men – a tan guy with a white baseball cap on, fluorescent orange polo buttoned up to his neck, a shorter guy with tight black curls, fiddling with the cap of a bottle of water, and finally, a guy with dark hair combed within an inch of its life into perfect place, shoulders almost ripping through his blue polo. He looks like he’s been copy-pasted straight from a magazine called Golf Weekly, or something.

Joel takes one step across a patterned rug and Drew notices you both. He breaks off from the group.

“Hey, man.” He grins at Joel and leans over to shake his hand – well, it’s more of that slap-hand thing. They slap each other’s palms, fingers lock, one quick shake of the wrists together, and then a nod of the head. You know?

Then he leans over to you, kisses your cheek. “Sorry it’s just us guys,” he says, hand on your arm. He looks over to the three men by the window, now looking out over the course and pointing. “My girlfriend was supposed to be joining us, but she got called in to work. You two woulda gotten along, you ‘n Rach.”

You smile warmly. “That’s okay. Thanks for asking me.”

“You play much?” Drew asks, leading you both over to the windows.

You shake your head and Joel breathes a laugh.

“Total beginner,” you admit.

Drew bats a hand. “We’ll show you the ropes. This is, uh, this is Steve,” he points to Fluorescent Orange, “Caleb,” Water Bottle holds his hand out to shake yours, “and that’s Daniel.”

Up close, Daniel’s handsome. Sharp jawline, shadowed by the beginnings of stubble, a dimple in the center of his chin. He steps forward, holding a hand out, and you take it. His palm engulfs yours and squeezes – soft but sure. And then you pull away.

The men all nod to Joel, who probably nods back from behind you, and then catches you gently in his arm, cradling it around your back out of view of the others.

“We’ll be getting started soon,” Drew says, “they’re just fixing up a few buggies for us.”

Joel nods, lets go of you, and crosses his arms. You knot your hands awkwardly at your waist. He stays right by your side, though, which you’re grateful for. The last thing you need is another Jean-Marc, some cloaked assistant swooping you off away from the comfort of Joel.

“How’s business, Joel? Drew was tellin’ us about some deal you’re tryna nail.”

Daniel’s eyes are sharp, cerulean blue drilling deep into the warm brown of Joel’s, which calmly stare back. He looks a little younger than Joel, maybe on the cusp of forty, only a few light strands of grey through his deep brown fringe. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. You don’t know why you’re even looking at that.

Joel doesn’t reveal much in the way of answers. Typical of him – or typical of the Joel he is to the rest of the world. “Yeah, ‘s good. Just takin’ my time, we’re workin’ on it.”

Daniel nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and then rounds on you.

“You gotta be run off your feet, chasing after him all day, huh?”

You tilt your head toward Joel. “He keeps me busy, yeah.”

Daniel leans into you, laughter crooning from his lips. It wobbles you a little, forces you one step nearer Joel’s side. You smile back, as pleasant as you can muster the courage, and he eventually leans away.

Before he can ask another question, Drew’s calling you all over to the sliding patio doors. Daniel hops back a step, nods to you, and says, “After you.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Joel cuts, stepping into the space the blue-eyed man had left specifically for you, sweeping you off as he goes.

----------

There isn’t anything about golf that intrigues you. Not even remotely. You’ve never watched it, never wanted to play it – the most you’ve dabbled in it is minigolf, and even that became a fucking bore after two anniversary dates in a row there with Blake.

Still, you watch patiently and politely as the men take their shots one by one, starting with Drew, all the way through to Daniel, who gives his driver a quick shine with a gloved hand before stepping up. On your left, Joel scoffs quietly to himself.

Daniel swings back, and his biceps swell under the tight sleeves of his shirt. You watch as his arms follow through, sending the ball hurtling through the air and well past its three predecessors.

Joel nudges your elbow.

“Ow,” you mumble, running a hand over the skin.

He gives you a perplexed look. “I said, you can use my clubs. You in there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little too defensively. “Just…paying attention.”

“Hm.”

The men on your right groan as Daniel strides back over to join them, a satisfied grin across his face. Your eyes trace him as he leans on his driver, one white pant leg crossing over the other.

When you turn back to the tee box, Joel’s lifting his own club from his bag. His broad, muscled shoulders flex under the dark material of his shirt; his tall figure walks over to the tee, delicate fingers dancing along the handle of the club, and he clears his throat.

And suddenly, the memory of Daniel and his stupid biceps is dust in the wind.

Joel takes, like, half a practice swing. Doesn’t even have to aim, not really. Just pulls his arms back, sucks his waist in, and goes for it.

His ball lands a couple meters ahead of Daniel’s. And you wonder when the fuck golf became this sexy.

He turns back and runs his tongue over his top lip, breathing a little heavy. The sight drives you fucking insane for the second time today. And then he’s smiling at you, jerking his head in a gesture for you to join him.

You step forward, a little shy, a little hot, and wander mutely over to him.

“I got you,” he says, and reaches for your wrist.

You move to take the driver from his hand and Joel clicks his teeth, shaking his head.

“Said I got you,” he utters, and pulls your body into his, shelling around you. His beard scratches lightly against your ear.

“Joel,” you whisper, laughing nervously and tossing a quick glance back over to the men standing just feet away. Drew just said something apparently hilarious. Caleb gives him a solid whack on the shoulder and doubles over laughing. Steve’s watching a butterfly float by.

“They ain’t watchin’,” Joel says, curving his arms around yours and fixing your hands on the handle of the club. “s just you ‘n me.”

You wriggle under his grasp and feel the hum of laughter from his chest between your shoulders, the weight of his belt riding on your ass. Your cheeks heat when his chin rests on your collarbone.

“Alright,” he says, hands tightening around your own. “You’re gonna line it up, stand with your legs a little apart, little more…”

The toe of his shoe taps your heel and you widen your stance.

“Good girl,” he whispers. A pulse shakes through your body. “Now, on your backswing, you’re gonna want your left shoulder under your chin, ‘n your hands above your right shoulder. Yeah?”

“Got it,” you mumble, so unconvincing that it makes you laugh after you’ve said it.

He gives your waist a tiny squeeze and steps back, watching as you carefully lift the club and curve it around your shoulders. You hear him from behind.

“’attagirl. Keep your knees bent, you got it.”

You take one good swing, and hit the ball on your first try, but it’s…it’s bad, for sure. It’s pretty terrible. The ball lands on this side of the fairway, muddled in amongst the longer grass of the rough. But it’s your first ever shot – least not with colored balls and spinning windmills in the way – and so when you turn back to Joel with a huge beam across your lips, your expression is reflected in his.

“Good job!” he chuckles, stalking back over to you.

“Good job,” you echo with a laugh, handing him the club. You twist and hold your hand up to shield your eyes, staring down the course. “Look where it is, ‘n look where yours are.”

He glances back over to where your sad little ball sits. “We’ll get a few drinks down those guys,” he whispers, hand on your back. “See how good they are in a few holes’ time.”

----------

You’re back in the clubhouse after finishing the eighteenth hole on something of a high. Joel managed to worsen the accuracy of your competitors only so much – your end of the deal was to improve as the round went on, which you try to argue you technically did, given that you began to land your shots on the fairway around hole seven, but your argument is let down by Joel’s reminder that, on hole thirteen, he had to dig your ball out of the bunker for you.

“And I am eternally grateful to you for agreeing to never fucking talk about it again,” you say through gritted teeth, and he laughs.

“Last time, promise.”

Drew joins the pair of you at your table and slaps an arm down on Joel’s shoulder.

“Your round, asshole.”

Joel grumbles, gives your elbow a cursory tap, and slides off to the bar. Drew takes his seat, nudges your arm.

“I am impressed,” he tells you, slurring his words a little.

“Yeah?” you ask, and he nods. “I didn’t think I was so good.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “you weren’t. I meant I’m impressed you stuck it out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss.

He snorts, head bobbing with the alcohol bubbling in his blood. “I’m kidding. You were great, for your first time. I’m really glad you came.”

“Me, too,” you admit.

Drew opens his mouth to say something else when a clatter from across the clubhouse interrupts him. You turn at the same time to see a waiter on his ass at the other side of the room. His metal tray rattles against the wooden floor, flutes smashed in a pool of champagne by his side.

“Oh, shoot,” Drew mumbles, setting his glass down on the table.

You push off your stool, sliding your drink alongside his, but he motions for you to stay.

“I got it,” he says, palm lightly tapping your wrist. “I got it.”

He shuffles off to the waiter, now being helped to his feet by Caleb. The last you see is Drew bending to grab the silver tray, before he’s swept out of your view by –

“Poor guy,” Daniel muses, fist locked tight around a lager. He pulls Joel’s stool out and slips onto the cushion, elbow brushing against yours.

You readjust awkwardly in your own chair and pull on the hem of your skirt.

“So,” Daniel clears his throat, the bottom of his glass scraping along the wooden tabletop, “how’d you find your first round of golf?”

You smile politely. “Uh, good. Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to be much, but it wasn’t too scary.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? Think you’ll be back?”

Your shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

He nods and dives headfirst into some long ramble about golf – something about the time he brought his sister and her kids here and how much worse they were than you, so you should really be proud of yourself, and he’d love to see you around here again sometime – but you’re only half listening. You’re stealing glances over at the bar, hunting for a chiseled jawline and monochrome beard.

You spot him locked between Steve and some other guy in all black, waiting for the bartender to draw up his order of drinks. He’s nodding, saying words back to the pair, but keeping his eyes locked on you.

You give him half a smile, half a, There you are, what the hell’s taking you so long? Can you come the fuck back? and hope he reads the words across your face.

“…so, as long as you stick with what you know, it’s actually a really enjoyable game.”

Daniel stares at you blankly, waiting for a response.

“Sure, sure,” you answer, after too long a pause to convince him that you were listening. “Sorry,” you close your eyes and give your head a shake, “was just checking on that waiter.”

Daniel nods. Follows the trail of your eyeline across the room, and looks back to you. “So, uh,” he clears his throat nervously, “I know this place downtown – Italian, has this big open rooftop seating area. If you’re interested, I’d, uh…I’d love to take you, sometime.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, frozen. Like, actually convinced the air in your lungs has turned to ice, frozen. Your eyes probably look like they’re about to burst out of your head, your mouth stuck in a dumb O-shape as you search frantically for the words to form a reply.

He smiles awkwardly. Watches as you blink straight back at him.

“I…” you manage, after what feels like fucking hours. “…That’s – so nice, Daniel, I – really – I’m flattered. Um…”

He interrupts, and it’s like a cold flannel on an acid burn. “Oh, Jesus. I – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shake your head, suddenly animated, “no, listen. It’s – you’re –”

Daniel’s still apologizing. “Are you – sorry, I don’t mean to assume – are you and – you and Joel…?”

His head jerks. One eyebrow cocked. His fingers press into the table, making counter-rotating circles across the gleaming surface.

You stare from his hands to his face, open-mouthed. “N-no,” you tell him, with a single shake of your head. And then you realize he’s being serious. “No, no, we’re not – no, absolutely not. We’re just – friends.”

“Right,” he says, brows knitting. “It’s just – the guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time I’ve been sat here, so I just figured…maybe…”

You follow Daniel’s gaze across to the bar again, where Joel’s still standing, this time with Drew at his side. He’s mouthing Yeah, in reply to whatever Steve’s gabbing about, but not fucking listening to a word of it.

“No,” you say again, looking Joel dead in the eye. “We’re just friends.”

You turn to look back at the slick-haired man by your side, and he nods.

“But, uh,” you look into your glass, the ice suddenly more interesting than Daniel’s hopeful expression, “you’re a really nice guy, and I appreciate you asking, but I’m…not…exactly looking for anything right now. I’m – yeah.”

“Right – no, absolutely,” he says again, flustered. His fingers wrap tight around his glass and he shifts as if to stand. “That’s absolutely fine. I just thought I’d ask, y’know?”

He laughs nervously. You feel kinda guilty. He’s being so decent about it, and he means well, but you really just wish he would…fuck off.

He isn’t given the option.

Drew comes bounding over like a golden retriever and leans in to Daniel, another freshly poured pint swinging in his fist. “You’ve improved your game, Gilbert,” he sings in your suitor’s ear. “Must be years since the last time you scored an eagle!”

Daniel copies Drew’s guffawing, nodding along. He opens his mouth to say something, but Drew jumps ahead, offering to buy him a drink to celebrate.

“C’mon, my treat,” the blond tells him, and swaggers off towards the bar, a vice grip on the blue polo shirt.

The shadow of Joel slips around your back as soon as the two figures are out of view. He brushes against your shoulders and nudges his stool nearer to yours with his foot, before sitting back into it with a sigh.

You stare at him, smirking behind your hand, elbow resting on the arm of your chair. He catches your eye and watches you for a few seconds.

Sorry, he mouths eventually, and sneaks a hand onto your thigh.

You lean into him, feeling the weight of Daniel and his proposal and his fucking Italian restaurant fall like insignificant grains off sand off your shoulders. You trace a finger along the shape of Joel’s knuckles. “I feel bad,” you whisper.

“The hell for?” his voice asks, a deep rumble by your temple.

You shrug, looking up at him. “He’s a nice guy. He asked me on a date.”

“And did you want to go?”

Your face pulls into a wince, lips flinching. “Not really.”

“Then what’d I tell you about doin’ stuff you don’t want to?”

You don’t reply. Your mind sails back to that boat ride in Paris, when he basically told you off for feeling guilty about rejecting a fucking marriage proposal, never mind a downtown dinner. It doesn’t bear thinking about what fantastic rant he’s currently bottling up where Daniel’s feelings are concerned.

Joel’s a no-nonsense guy, you know this. Known it for as long as you’ve known him. He’s rational, he’s pragmatic. He says what he thinks, and you deal with however you feel about it. He doesn’t waste time making anyone feel better with lies or cushion-soft landings. His yes is yes and his no is no. And sure, maybe there’s something in there that you’d do well to adopt, too.

But there are inconsistencies to him that you can’t work out – yet. Something that makes him break his rules. He still hasn’t shared whatever the hell Jean-Marc said to him that made him sweep you off of that terrace minutes later. He won’t admit why he keeps dragging you along to these so-called ‘work’ events.

Part of you wants to break him open, chip away at him like the sculptures in the Louvre until his beating heart is in your hands, the rhythmic pulses sharing secrets like it’s speaking in Morse code.

And part of you – bigger, stronger, wiser – hopes you never get close.

When you come back to the room, sound of glasses clinking and men’s roaring laughter washing away any thoughts of jilted boyfriends or lonely golfers, Joel lowers his head to look you in the eye.

“You wanna go?”

You nod, scrunching your nose. “That okay?”

He leans in close, as close as he reckons he can get without drawing attention, and smiles softly. “You coulda asked to go home the minute we pulled up ‘n it woulda been okay. Let’s go.” And he takes your hand.

Drew’s slung over the shoulders of some argyle-patterned men who you’re sure have spent more time drinking than they have actually on the course. He’s lifting his glass, about to toast to life, or love, or fucking golf, when Joel sneaks by behind him, never letting go of your hand.

The Rolls Royce is sat in park at the bottom of the stone steps, hazard lights blinking. Joel holds the door open as you hop in under the twinkling ceiling.

“Well?” Rand asks, looking in the mirror. You respond with a toss of your head, squinting. “Did you keep your feet straight like I taught you?” he demands.

“Honestly, I was more focused on making sure I hit the ball, Rand.”

He snorts. “Office, Joel?”

“Office, Rand.”

As the partition closes, Joel’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head. You lean into it, tilting to look at him properly through eyes glazed with tiredness, alcohol, relief to be back in only his company.

And he’s staring back, eyes flitting from yours down to your mouth when you speak.

“Did you…did you send Drew over to get Daniel away from me?”

Joel’s eyes stay fixed on your lips. “You didn’t want me to do that?”

You ignore him. You want him to answer your question. “Did you?”

And then he looks up. Searches your eyes for a second, and then says, “Yeah.”

Your stare falls down into his lap. To his closed fist, resting on his thigh. His fingers are stroking the back of your head in lulling movements. You focus on the shine of his watch. And horror sets in.

“You wanted him to stay?” Joel asks, bringing you up for air for half a second.

You’re quiet when you reply. “…No. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.”

And that’s somehow scarier. That you didn’t want this decent, attractive-enough man around you. That the entire time he sat nipping your ear, your eyes, your hands, your heart was searching all over the room for Joel. Listening for the twang of his voice, looking for him out of your peripheral. Counting every second until he sauntered back to your side.

It’s rolling. The feeling. Like a snowball gaining speed down a mountain. Starts off a twinge, a plucking somewhere buried deep in your heart, and turns and turns and turns until it’s a weight behind your ribcage. Unable to burst free.

You take Joel’s wrist and move his hand to the curve of your thigh, then lock your fingers between his. He lets you. You lift your free hand to the cut of his jawline, training your fingers down his bristled beard, and he lets you do that, too. And when you pull his face down to meet yours, lips warm and wet and starving, he opens his mouth and slips his tongue past your teeth.

Your hands are knotting in his hair. You’re leaning back, trying to pull him down on top of you, but he’s stronger. His hands take a strong grip of your waist and hoist you over the center console and into his lap, your knees pressing into the soft leather either side of his hips.

“You gonna tell me what you’re up to, pretty girl?” he asks, tipping his head back. His shirt smells like his cologne. Fresh, sharp, clean. It sends your head spinning.

Your lips find his jawline and nip kisses and bites along the sharp ridge. He tastes like whiskey, tastes like the sun, tastes like he did four days ago. Sweet and smoky and laced with something intoxicating.

Joel sighs. His hands knead into your hips, and he pushes you down, grinding you into his body.

He’s hard. Already.

“Feels like you already know,” you mutter, still peppering his neck with kisses.

He laughs the cocky way he always does when you’re on this road, heading this way. His hands find your hair again and he pulls your head back, drawing a whine from your lips.

“You gonna take it like a good girl? Take daddy’s cock?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, rubbing your damp panties over the bulge in his pants.

Joel unzips his trousers and shifts the waistband loose. You move his hands and peel back the top of his boxers yourself, and he watches from under heavy lids as you take him in both hands.

“That’s – my girl,” he chokes, eyes following your pumping fists. His head tips back with a quiet groan.

You push yourself up, shuffle nearer to him until your cunt hovers over his cock, and pull your panties to the side. You’re fucking soaked, already wet enough that Joel’s thick head catches on the cusp of your entrance as you line him up, stealing a gasp from your lips.

You sink, slowly, letting him push through into your sex inch by inch, feeling yourself pull open around him. Your brows furrow, jaw falls wide at the white-hot feeling between your legs, and you look up to see your expression reflected in Joel’s.

His hands clutch at your hips. “So – fucking – tight,” he hums, eyes rolling.

You lock your knees and begin bouncing, resting your hands on top of Joel’s. You’re steadily picking up pace, each nudge of his tip against the edge of your pussy sending another spasm of stars across your quickly-blinding vision.

“Off,” Joel mumbles against your lips, fingers pinching the fabric of your shirt.

“Huh?” you ask back, looking down to where he’s already peeling it up your torso.

“Just the skirt,” he pants, desperate, “nothin’ else.”

You lift your arms and let him pull the polo from your body, tossing it onto the carpeted floor. Joel unhooks your bra and pulls the lace down, before he’s angling his hips up again, hitting you somewhere deep enough inside to steal the breath from your lungs.

And then his lips are on your naked chest, sinking into the valley between your breasts, kissing over to your nipple. His tongue flicks over and over until the bud is pointed, enough to take it between his lips and graze over it with his teeth.

Your thighs are burning. Your skirt sits bunched up on your hips, only just covering your ass as Joel’s hands press into the supple skin, lifting you effortlessly up and down. You melt into his touch, let him do the work for a few seconds as he sits back in his seat to watch your body on his.

“My good – girl,” he groans, voice thick with arousal. “You know how pretty you look right now?”

You hook your hand around his neck, draw him in a little nearer. Shake your head with a filthy smile on your lips. “Tell me.”

Joel laughs shakily. “Wanna – fuckin’ – show you off to everyone, babygirl.”

He’s kissing you slowly, his tongue pressed to yours, when you pull back and separate your lips. He’s planted a seed in your mind.

Joel’s hips stop moving immediately. “Y’okay?” he asks, light hand on the side of your head, keeping your eyes on him.

You nod, breathing heavy. “Mhm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, “just…”

You look down to your skirt, your bare thighs spread over Joel’s lap. The thought flips over and over in your head, unsure if it’s brave enough to trot down to your lips and show itself to Joel.

“Baby?”

It’s Joel, though. Same guy who bent you over his desk, same guy who fucked you senseless feet away from his flight attendants. Same guy who, a few days ago, you were in this exact position with: writhing in next to nothing on his lap.

Fuck it. Right?

“…want him to watch,” you say, in a small voice.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change, save for the way his eyes narrow. “Want who to watch?”

You look at him a beat longer, and it sinks in. He gets it.

“Yeah, babygirl? That what you want?”

“Mhm,” you reply, shifting with him when he starts moving his hips again. The car moves forward, pushing you closer into him. “Want him to – watch you fuck me.”

“Dirty girl. You want him to watch you cum for daddy, pretty girl?”

“Ye-ah,” you moan, Joel’s hands now pushing your waist down, the stretch of his cock deep inside you almost burning with pleasure.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispers, watching as your face pulls and your brows knit together.

“Only cum for you, daddy,” you whimper.

“I know, darlin’, I know. Close your eyes.”

By this point, Joel’s assured tone, his strong hands on your hips, his fucking length buried inside you, are enough to convince you. You just do as you’re fucking told – as soon as you’re fucking told.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder and feeling him turn, his lips pressed close to your ear.

“Good girl. He there?”

The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare.

“Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel.

“He watching?”

“Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily.

“Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

You focus on the feeling of Joel, cock fucking deep into you, nuzzling against your walls and splitting you open; the sound of his voice in your ear, gently encouraging, sweetly reassuring; the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his skin, and…the sight of the steel-blue stare behind your eyes. The tight polo shirt. The round biceps. Watching you.

Watching you be fucked by someone else. Watching you come undone for someone else. For the same guy whose stare he couldn’t shake while he so much as talked to you. Watching your face as it twists in filthy pleasure; listening to you make sounds, whisper words, whisper daddy in the ear of your fucking boss; have him whisper words back that make your cunt tighten around him and push the image of Daniel two steps back with shock.

“Tell me again, angel.” Joel’s voice starts to swipe Daniel away.

Your eyes peel open, the backseat of the Rolls a blur as you roll your head back. “What, daddy?” you whimper.

His hand takes your jaw, holds you in line with his own. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You breathe a laugh. It pulls across your mouth two seconds later. “M-me.”

Joel mirrors your grin. His hips buck once. You cry out. “Yeah?”

“Uhuh,” you yelp, getting louder as he snaps up into you deeper, faster, harder.

You’re drawing around him, warm and wet, feeling him deep in your stomach as your movements become sloppy and staggered. Pleasure swirls like a whirlpool between your legs, tightening, tightening, tightening.

Joel’s face sharpens into your vision. His eyes are fixed on yours. You watch his lips shape the words good girl, before he pulls your foreheads together, noses flush against one another.

“’n who fucks it like this?” he asks into your mouth.

You take a deep breath, inhaling his question, and let a satisfied exhale carry your answer back out.

“Just y-you, daddy.”

And you both fall.

You rock back and forth as the feeling drowns you both; open-mouthed, silently screaming, eyes trained on one another as you ride out your high together.

You throw your head back, eyes losing focus just inches under the stars until they blur into little white halos. Your arms lift up to lean against the tiny dotted lights, steadying yourself.

Joel’s hands clamp around your waist, holding you down on his cock as he shoots hot ropes of cum deep inside you, mixing with your own and filling you up. Your name escapes his lips hand in hand with a deep, throaty moan.

You body aches. Your cunt throbs around him, still humming with pleasure as your body curls again, falling forward until your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands run up and down your spine, lips press featherlight kisses to your ear, shhing, whispering praise, bringing you slowly back into the car with him.

“Daddy…” you whisper into the soft cotton of his shirt, and you feel the weight of his cheek on your head.

His hands cup your cheeks and he lifts your face until you’re staring at one another. Your eyes are tired, you can hardly keep them open, but Joel holds you upright.

“We gotta stop this,” he whispers, and your foreheads fall together again as you laugh. “I’m gettin’ too old for it, baby.”

He’s still buried deep inside, slowly softening, but you don’t want him to go. Not yet. He reaches for your bra, helps you slip it back on, and you bend back to take your shirt in two fingers.

When you’re dressed, you sink back into him.

Joel laughs, brushing the wisps of your hair disturbed by pulling your shirt over your head. “That what you were thinkin’ about? While he was talkin’ to you?”

You smile lazily. Shake your head no. “Was thinking…about you taking me to the Italian he was talking about.”

Joel’s smile grows bigger. Biggest you think you’ve ever seen him smile before. It breaks into a laugh, a toothy chuckle, and then he kisses you.

You melt into him, tongue and teeth crashing against one another. Joel’s open palms surf along your thighs, molding around your skin. He squeezes the dimpled skin on your hips between his fingers.

“Tonight work for you?” he asks, and you giggle.

“No,” you tell him, “I got Martha’s to-do list to work through.”

He nods knowingly, eyes closing. “You want a hand with it?”

You smirk. “Can we fool around in your office between items?”

His head tips back against the headrest with an obvious expression. “What do you think?”

The car slows to a stop and Rand’s knuckles rap against the glass of the partition. You slip off of Joel’s lap, fix yourselves quickly, and then amble off back to the top floor, still a little weak in the knees.

“Home time, Martha,” Joel calls almost as soon as the elevator doors pull open.

“Excuse me?” she yells back.

He laughs. “I’m lettin’ you go early. It ain’t fair that we get to go have our fun ‘n you’re stuck here ‘til five. Let us know what needs done, ‘n then you can get goin’.”

“Ain’t that chivalrous?” Martha beams, blinking at you.

You saunter by her with a smile and toss your bag under your desk. You spin around, brace yourself against the arms of your chair, and throw yourself back against the comfortable leather.

“So,” she announces, almost fucking skipping over to you with her trusty notepad back in her clutches. “I whittled it down to just six things, so it shouldn’t keep you much longer than five o’clock…”

You lift your brows and nod along.

“…as long as you don’t find anything to distract yourselves with, that is.”

----------

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sorchathered · 1 month

Text

You’re still the one💙

Pairing- Robert “Bob” Floyd x reader

Warnings- language, a little bit smutty, angst with lots of pining and longing.

Summary- Bob’s come back to his small town in Georgia for his best friends wedding, will their plan to bring him back together with his high school sweetheart work out? Or will it end in more heartache?

When Bob had gotten the wedding invite in the mail he’d been so thrilled, truly. His best friend Sam had done the impossible, made the long distance work through college and grad school and now finally he was marrying his high school sweetheart Millie. He was happy for them, really he was. The only thing that could’ve been better is if he was sharing this with you. This was supposed to be the two of you, conquering your goals and then winding up together, but it hadn’t worked out the way either of you planned and it had been longer than Bob knew since he’d seen your face.

Millie had asked if your old band from high school would reunite for the wedding music and you’d been over the moon, a few of you had continued to play together and occasionally doing a gig or two just for old times sake, knowing that she wanted you involved in her special day made your heart swell.

The closer the date got the more dread seemed to settle in your bones, you’d stalked Bob’s socials and sneakily asked if he was bringing a date, but the look Sam had given you when he said Bob was coming alone let you know he knew exactly what you were hoping. Maybe he didn’t have someone waiting for him in California, maybe he had even asked about you, and for the first time in almost 6 years you let yourself hope.

In his lonely little apartment in Coronado Robert Floyd was doing about as well as you. He’d thought of nothing but you since that invitation showed up in his mail, hell that was a lie; he spent most nights thinking of you if he was truly honest with himself. He was sure Sam and Millie were already plotting some elaborate scheme to push the two of you together over the wedding celebration and he had to laugh at their dedication. He still wasn’t sure how things had gotten so screwed up. Long distance had been hard, deployments, work schedules and midterms seemed to keep the two of you from ever being able to make concrete plans and eventually it felt like you two had just grown apart too much for repair.

He should’ve fought harder, any attempts to move on over the years had been a complete disaster because how was he supposed to find someone new when he was still hung up on you? Natasha always loved to pick on him about it, that one day he’d have to move on or would have to have his “rom com moment” as she called it and sweep you back off your feet but Bob figured you’d long forgotten about him by now. If he only knew that you’d been just as hung up as he was, but neither of you had been brave enough to reach out.

The wedding festivities were in full swing this week, Millie had sent you the final list of songs she wanted for the wedding and you had added a few crowd favorites as well. You missed the days of jamming with your friends, being a music teacher was so rewarding and it had been everything you’d dreamed it would be, but you couldn’t deny that you were looking forward to getting to let loose with old friends.

You were in full nostalgia mode by the time the weekend of the wedding, thinking of all the things you’d had planned for yourself way back when. You’d had your whole wedding planned out, you knew it had been silly but you’d dreamed of a party with all your friends and at the center of it the boy you’d loved since you were a little girl. Deep in the recesses of your parents attic was a hot pink sparkly notebook from senior year with a list of songs you wanted for your own wedding day, gel pen rainbow font with little cursive scribbles of Mrs. Robert Floyd and hearts doodled all over the page. But that had been another lifetime ago, and just the thought of how much time had changed you both brought tears to your eyes.

Bob was so glad to be back home, it had been ages, his mother was already fussing about how he needed to eat more and catching him up on all the town gossip. He wanted to ask about you, but she beat him to the punch; gushing about the musical the middle school was putting on and how hard you were working to make it a success. It looked like all your dreams had come true, you were doing what you loved, but his mama could see the far off look in his eyes as she spoke, she knew all too well what he was feeling.

“You should call her you know, I have her number if you want it.” She’d said softly as she touched his hand but he couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Oh Mama, too much time has passed, I’m sure she’s got someone who could treat her way better than me.” She patted his hand lovingly and shook her head, “Sweet boy, there were never two people better suited for one another than the two of you. I don’t think she ever moved on, I know you didn’t. You know…she lives in the old Macon house on Water Road, not too far if you wanted to take a walk.”

“Mama! “ he said harshly but his features didn’t match his tone at all, he was trying his best not to laugh at her persistence.

She put her hands up and laughed, “I’m just saying, the night air might do you some good. After all life is too short sweetheart.” He thought of his father, taken from them too soon and how his mother had never found anyone else. He’s been her everything, Bob had always thought that would be the same with the two of you.

She heads up for the evening and he’s left alone with his thoughts again. Her house isn’t that far, maybe 5 minutes, and it’s only 8 pm on a Friday she would probably still be awake…

Before he can really mull it over he’s slipping on his shoes and heading out the door, feet carrying him down the sidewalks and past the quaint antebellum style houses illuminated in the orange glow of the street lights until he finds himself at your door. He’s warring with himself about knocking, what the hell was he doing? He’d barely spoken to you in almost 6 years, this was stupid he should’ve never done this. As he turns away to walk down the porch steps he hears the lock click and turning of the door handle, light illuminating the porch as you poke your head out into the night.

“Robby? Is that you?” You say quietly, a small smile on your lips as you look him over with eager eyes. Time had been good to you, he’d always thought you were the most beautiful girl on earth and that certainly hadn’t changed. You weren’t a young girl anymore, your figure was all curves, he couldn’t help but tighten his fists thinking about running his hands over your voluptuous body. Snap out of it Floyd, get your shit together, he thought as you looked at him with confusion evident on your face.

“Well? You gonna come in? Your mama told me you were coming by, I’ve just been sitting by the window listening out for you.” You said as you opened the door a little wider for him to step through. “Of course she did” he muttered, shaking his head with a dark chuckle, leave it to Susan Floyd to take things into her own hands.

You raised an eyebrow at him as he continued to stand awkwardly in the doorway, “I can’t really read your faces anymore Floyd, do you want to come in or are we gonna let all the bugs into my house tonight?” Hands on your hips, sassy remark, yep you were still every bit the spitfire he remembered, that take no shit attitude clearly hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Yeah, yeah y/n I was coming by, sorry I just…I had an idea in my head of what I was gonna say and now here I am and I’ve got nothing.” He said sheepishly as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. You reached for the hand at his side and pulled him through the doorway, closing the door and scooting him in the direction of the couch. Bossy. As always.

“How about I get you a glass of sweet tea and we get all the awkward small talk out of the way, or we could just skip it if you want? I’ve been keeping up with your life through your mom but if you’ve got questions I’m happy to answer them.” You said as you shuffled down the hall to the little kitchen, Bob plopping himself down on your ridiculously comfy velvet couch. “You keep up with me?” He said in shock, he never would’ve thought you’d give him a second thought after he let everything crash and burn, maybe his mama had been right to push him this way.

“Of course I do, it’s not every day you get to be in the top 1% in your field, especially with a job like yours. I’ve always cheered you on, just didn’t think you’d ever show up here, kinda figured you’d forgotten all about me.” You said as you placed down a Mason jar of sweet tea and a tin of shortbread cookies, you’d said it so nonchalantly but he could see in your eyes the hurt was still there.

“I’ve kept up with you too, I- uh I’ve looked at your instagram, and Millie of course updates me when I ask, even if she is still pissed at me about how things ended. You uh- you look like you got everything you wanted in your career too. Mama said the school play is gonna be a big success. I know you’ve gotta be thrilled.”

You nodded, just bringing up your students brought the light back into your eyes. “They are the best, I thought it’d be weird teaching at our old school but truly it is such a joy. These kids love music, it’s so much fun watching them show off their creativity. And as for Millie…Well I’m pretty sure she and Sam have some elaborate plan to “accidentally” trap us in a closet together tomorrow until we work everything out. They’ve been oddly sneaky lately.” You laugh out, and Bob can’t help but join in, they definitely weren’t subtle but you could both agree they were damn good friends.

You both laughed and talked for hours, going through the whole tin of cookies as you caught up on each other’s lives, somewhere in the early morning hours you had fallen asleep with your head on his shoulder and Bob felt his heart stutter in his chest as he looked down at you. He’d missed this, just being with you.

You had been his favorite person for his entire childhood, how did he let things get so out of hand? It couldn’t be comfortable being propped up like that, so Bob carefully pulled you into his arms and carried you to your room. It was nearly 4 am, he would just crash on your couch like a gentleman should and make an excuse to bail when he woke up. Laying you on the bed he made to step away but you curled your fist into his shirt, murmuring “stay with me” as you pulled him closer, and how could he possibly tell you no? He toed off his shoes and slid in next to you, falling asleep to the sounds of your breathing and warm body pressed to his.

He couldn’t place where he was when he woke up, just that it smelled like coffee and pancakes and somehow he’d slept in. Upon opening his eyes it all came back to him, how you’d asked him to stay and he’d fallen asleep in your arms, he felt hot all over just thinking about it, anxiety filling his chest as he worried about how to navigate the sure to be awkward morning after conversation. Again he wondered how they’d gotten so far from where they’d begun; but one thing hadn’t changed, holding you had simply brought it all back. The feelings he had never wavered, and he was fairly sure he was even more smitten with you now after catching up than he had been before.

You were dancing around in the kitchen as you cooked, spatula acting as a microphone while Fleetwood Mac played from your phone. Clad in a tattered t-shirt and pajama shorts from the night before with your hair messily piled on your head. There was that feeling again, the heat blooming in his chest and the butterflies he’d never felt for anyone but you. It nearly knocked the wind out of him. You couldn’t be more beautiful to him than you were in this moment, he wished he could burn it into his brain forever.

You spun around to the beat but jumped almost a foot in the air when you noticed him, clutching your chest as giggles erupted from you both. “Oh! Oh my god Robby you scared the hell out of me! Did’ya sleep ok? Want breakfast?” You said gesturing behind you to the steaming pile of pancakes and bacon, he wanted breakfast for sure but he knew one thing he wanted more than that.

He crowded you up against the stove, leaning behind you to cut the burner off as he looked down at you with a small smile. “Breakfast sounds good, sweet girl, but we need to talk first.”

“Uh huh” you said and he could tell he had the same dizzying effect on you, that was good, he was hoping this wasn’t one sided.

“I had more fun with you last night than I’ve had in years, and I can’t think of why we ever stopped doing this in the first place. Well a reason that actually counts anyways. I know it’s sudden, hell you probably have a line out the door hoping for a date but-“

“Yes!” You blurted out, nodding your head as you abandoned the spatula and gripped the back of his neck to pull his lips to yours.

You’d meant it to be sweet, just a peck to let him know you wanted the same things he did, but it had been so long, and no one had ever made you feel like he did. It got heated fast, muscular arms wrapped around your waist pulling you in so tight that nothing to get between you, hands in his hair as his kisses became more urgent, opening his mouth to you as you moaned softly into his, and the noise seemed to flip a switch as he hoisted you up in his arms and carried you back down the hall to your bedroom.

It was as sweet and smooth as molasses, he unwrapped you like a present as you tugged at his clothes, you wanted him as bare as you were. He eagerly obliged, tossing his shirt and jeans somewhere across your room as he climbed back into bed and pressed you into the mattress.

“Y/n I-“

“I know baby, I feel it too. Make love to me Robby.”

And so he did, again and again until the two of you felt boneless, breakfast long forgotten and morning seeping into early afternoon.

You’d fallen asleep in his arms around one, and he knew he’d have to wake you up soon to get ready for the wedding and go home to get his suit. He just wanted to stay wrapped up in this a little longer, as much as he needed this to be real again he also knew there was so much red tape. You lived on the opposite coast from him, your career was thriving and you’d never moved away from home. He couldn’t ask you to pack away your life and move every 3-4 years with him. Distance had been what broke you apart last time, he didn’t know if he could bear losing you a second time.

When you finally stirred around 2 you popped up in a panic, you were alone in bed and it was clearly later in the day than you had expected it to be. A sick feeling washed over you, had you interpreted everything wrong? Where was he? Did he regret it and bail?

The sound of a door opening broke you from your thoughts, heavy footfalls down the hallway let you know he hadn’t actually left. He caught your watery eyes looking at him from the doorway and rushed forward to cradle you in his arms, swiping at the tears before they could fall.

“What’s going on it that head of yours? You ok?” He said as he rubbed soothing hands against your back.

“It’s stupid, I woke up alone and I thought..” you stopped and then looked up at him sheepishly. “I thought you’d left” you said with a whisper, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment.

“Oh. Aw Shit. I mean I did leave, but for just a minute to grab us some lunch and my suit for tonight, I’m sorry baby I should’ve left a note.” He looked a little embarrassed as well, he was very clearly out of practice when it came to having a partner.

“Ugh, we’re a mess aren’t we?” You chuckled out as you buried your head in his neck, he just nodded as he continued to hold you, he still didn’t know what this was but god he didn’t want to lose it.

“We probably need to figure all of this out y/n, I don’t want to pop the bubble but I can’t shut my brain off. I want this, all of it with you. I’m scared I’m gonna ruin it again.” He was grateful that you couldn’t see his face, he didn’t know if he could keep himself from falling apart if you could.

“We’ll do whatever it takes.” You pulled back to cup his cheeks so he was looking in your eyes. “We were young and stupid back then, but we can do this now. I know we can. If I have to pack up and head to California I will, I’m not saying it won’t be hard but it’s worth it.”

He fucked you slow and steady under the hot spray of the shower after that, worshipping every bit of you and definitely making you both late.

The two of you scrambled to get to the venue, making it right on time, Sam giving Bob a knowing look at his disheveled appearance when he burst into the groom's suite. When you stopped into the bridal suite to check on Millie, she made sure to pick on you for the hickey you’d tried to hide under your ear. Clearly the plan had worked, maybe not how they’d thought but the result was what they were after. You’d have to send his Mama flowers on Monday for her meddling, she’d known what was best even when the two of you didn’t.

The ceremony was beautiful, full of tears and love and Bob couldn’t help but let his eyes drift over to you, he already had plans swirling in his head of wedding rings and a future he’d thought was long lost. After you sang for the reception the band took over and Bob twirled you around the dance floor for much of the evening, he would hold these moments close until he could get you back in his arms again. It had been the perfect weekend.

A few months later you both were carrying moving boxes into his little townhouse, a new job all lined up at the local middle school and the entire summer to spend by the beach with your boyfriend. Everything had fallen into place, and if the little ring box in Bob’s back pocket had anything to do with it, he’d soon be calling you Mrs. Floyd.

🏷️ Tagging- @mamamaystbr @mamachasesmayhem @attapullman @bobgasm @sailor-aviator @roosterforme @sebsxphia @floydsglasses @sarahsmi13s @bradshawssugarbaby @hangmansgbaby

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd x you #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x you #bob floyd x you

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bryngmemoney · 4 months

Text

✁FASHION FLIRT✃

Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

⭑story masterlist link

tw: death joke, worms (maybe?)

lots of Writing between Messages!!

🪡Chapter Twenty-seven: Fixing him

“Megumi,”

“hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you didn’t notice it , but he tightened his grip on the wheel, his other hand that was by his side he used to pinch the fabric of his pants.

“You just seem quiet, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, but you never told me where we were going.”

“Oh right!” to be honest you had completely forgotten you hadn’t told him, and you did promise you’d say where the morning of. “It’s a little book cafe! My friend recommended it to me, I thought it seemed fitting.”

“So, you’ve been here before with them?” he questioned. “Nope, we can try it out together.” He smiled a little, and you did notice that, happy to at least get a little more emotion out of him.

“Hi! Welcome in,” A girl with a short brown bob looked up to you and Megumi walking in, adjusting herself at the front of the counter next to a bakery display waiting for you to approach.

“Hi,” you greeted back.

“Do you two need help with anything?”

“Not looking for anything particular, thank you though,” you answered, turning to look at Megumi only to see him already looking around the place, specifically staring off towards a shelf of books.

“Ok, well let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded as the girl went back to her previous task. There were only a couple of other people inside the place, probably less than ten. It was larger than you expected it to be from the outside exterior, but still very homey. You had just begun to take a few steps in, only for Megumi to grab your hand and lead the way.

“Look,” he said once stopping in front of a shelf, picking a book out and handing it to you. “One of my favorites.” You were a little taken aback, but just smiled looking at it, front and back, trying to figure out what it was. “How is your eyesight that good you saw this from the entrance?”

“Can you do that again?” You looked up, only to see him pull out a smaller camera from his jacket’s pocket. Smaller than the one you had seen him with before. How did you not notice he was carrying that?

“Uhm, okay,” and you repeated your action, feeling slightly strange, but at least he seemed more alive now.

“Thank you.” His smile at that moment was contagious, seeming genuinely happy.

“Was that just for you or for your project?” you asked, mirroring his expression.

“Do you want your hint for the day?”

“Yes please.” He leaned his camera towards you, showing you the four photos he took, “They are for the project,” he informed.

“What’s wrong with your loaf?”

“What?” Megumi looked up from his page, eyes wide full of confusion.

“The pastry you ordered, you took two bites and haven’t touched it since.” You had been watching Megumi for the past thirty minutes he’s been sitting across from you. Although you both originally started with conversation that had slowly filed down into you guys reading what you had chosen. You thought back to what Nobara had said over text and couldn’t help but think maybe she was right. He’d probably be happy if you had just taken him outside then given him a book.

“Oh,” he looked down next to him, starring at the piece of bread on the small plate, “It’s just.. too sweet.”

“Too sweet?”

He looked back up at you, shrugging before picking up his mug taking a sip of his dark coffee. “I’m not really a fan of sweets.” He placed the cup back down, then went back to reading.

“You’re such an interesting man Megumi.”

“Really?” he questioned looking back up to you.

“You’re interesting to me.” He just looked at you, both of you making eye contact for a few seconds, and he failed to look away on time so you wouldn’t see the pink dusting his face. “Thanks I guess.”

Author’s Note: concrete🎀

um so complications irl, am not able to finish the next chapter today, will post two chapters for tomorrows update promise 😊🤞

hope you guys enjoyed!!

Taglist below, feel free to comment or dm me to be added!!

TAGLIST

@iridescentrays @gumimegz @maya-maya-56 @mamafly @lunavixia @swissy23 @coltsgf @m00nglad3-mp3 @etsukis @xosren @qtnfer @oengleli @harek89 @y-sabell-a @morgyyyyyyy @getolvr @liliumaraneae @k3lbade @aiieera @dancedancey @get0sfav @chuyasthighs0 @hyssoplampflickers @kpopanimen @sad-darksoul @vivi-loves-penguins @kasumitenbaz @talkingsperm @nymphsdomain @inlovewithlondonn @rzcnlb @enchantingkitty @fuyuzemi @lysaray @ni-ki-ismyluv @renemy @frumira @mixzimi @miralunaela @dreamxiing @p3achiee @anianurst @nishii28 @arguendo @samutoru @hallothankmas @invisible-mori @aiserex @all-in-the-fandoms @milza12 @nyxlai @daintyminho @tokyodarlng @molovs

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thesturniolos · 3 months

Text

guilty pleasures pt 3- m.sturniolo x reader

summary: i don't think you hoes gonna like it! childhood best friends are head over heels in love until a new person comes along.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of sex.

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

guilty pleasure, but what does that really mean?

for matt, it was the girl he'd called his best friend forever. the girl who had been on his mind every hour of every day from the age of 9.

he'd curse himself for thinking about the way her hips moved and what those lips could possibly do. she belonged in a museum, no girl had ever looked so ethereal to him and it would forever stay that way.

she was whimsical, matt being wrapped around her small pinky finger, twisting him round and round. he was careless, she could have him anywhere, he didn't mind that he was completely and utterly smitten for his childhood best friend.

deep down he had always known that the tiny sweet spot, that was more like a heart shaped crater in his chest, would eventually turn into something more, something that would infect his dreams and his every thought. he would take everything she gave him and never ask for more, as much as he wanted to. if it meant a one-time, heated, oh so heated, moment of weakness was all he'd get and nothing more- he would take it no matter what.

those few moments were everything to him, regardless if it was only a matter of ten blissful minutes.

it wasn't the sex that had made him so enchanted by her unearthly figure, he'd always been aware of the glistening of her skin in the sunlight and the creases in her smile lines that poked at her cheeks when he made a joke.

it was the simplest things that made him fall even the slightest bit harder. however, since that day, the tensions between the two were high, so high that walking past one another without rushing to rip their clothes off one another, was the biggest struggle of the day.

the idea of friends with benefits didn't sit right with matt, friends with benefits felt like a lame excuse, a symbol of pointless sex and the pinnacle of using so called 'friends'.

he didn't just want those desperate, lust-filled instances, he wanted the sweetest parts of relationships. aftercare, shopping trips, baking together and all those picture-perfect, stereotypical couple things.

it wasn't just a small crush to him, it was now a craving. he needed her in more ways than one, in ways he thought she would never understand.

unbeknownst to matt, he was everything and more to her and had been for years. that time at the pool wasn't just the reality of heaven for one of them. it was a memory that they would both cherish.

maybe she did wear that bikini because it was his favourite colour and maybe she did realise how riled up he got when she shook her head free of water and forced her weight onto the sides of the pool. the curves of her body perfectly silhouetted against the cold concrete, a quintessential shadow made.

to her, the shadow was imperfect as she imagined the man's outline mirrored on the floor, caressing the hips of her own one, her hands slipping up to his hair, back to his chest, a fast pace-

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

"hey, matt!" she walks in, a smile spreading across her face. she was holding a bag of groceries in one hand and her phone in the other.

you know what, just keep it cool. that's the approach we're taking from now on.

"hey! where you been?" that was normal, not a single voice crack. 1-0 to me.

"just, you know, catching up with some friends and running some errands." she looks down at her phone, swiping a little and then laughing. a rosy pink begins to dust her cheeks as she turns around and walks towards the kitchen.

"what's got you all flustered, hey?"

"uh- nothing. what are you even talking about?" she rolls her eyes but never takes them off her phone. i frown and look away, whatever.

i grab my phone too, as if it would have an answer because for some reason, her not telling me, really affected me.

i hear her rustling through her grocery bag, rummaging for something and then, yet again, another laugh.

what could be so funny that i can't know?

i look over again, she's not even looking at what she's picking out from the bag, she's fucking fixated on that phone. a grin so wide it makes me ache, a perfect smile.

"no, seriously, what is it? i wanna know!" i pester, leaning over the arm of the couch to face her.

her glance finally breaking away from the device and she stares into my eyes, shrugging. "i don't know, its just a funny joke my friend made," she looks down again, " he just uh- texted me it."

oh. a friend. a he friend, specifically.

the problem i have with this situation is that i know that smile, that one i just saw. that's a purposeful smile. a smile to get me provoked, to get me out of my seat, to make me remind her of exactly what we are.

"oh yeah?" i push myself off the couch, my feet slowly dragging my body towards my girl. yeah, she was my girl. well- for now she was.

"yeah, he just sent me it. see?" she flips her phone to show me and my face twists.

"where'd you find this funny man, eh?"

"i met him a couple weeks ago" and didn't tell me.

and all of a sudden, like that, a quick glance of a phone, a twitch of an eyelid, i realised that the smile wasn't fake and there was indeed a funny man behind that phone.

her eyes weren't on me and they weren't on my fading smile, they were fixated on that screen and i think that was the beginning of the end.

tags!: @sturniolosstar @sturnioloshacker @mattsgirlfriendlol @mattsfaked @mattsturnioloslut @mattsturnioloarchive @noellesturniolo @chrattenthusiast @bernardenjoyer @byechristopher @jupitersturniolos @sturniolopepsi @sturniolo-conspiracy @gamermattsgf @whor3ing @estelleswrld @evieolo @recklessmatt @recklesssturniolo @realuvrrr @thematthewlover @therealestrae @urfavstromboli @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @inlovewchris @ihateeveryone357474 @ilovemattsturn @imlidewwallyhittingdagwiddy @lilasturns @lovingmattysposts @lemonadeloverr @oversturn @plasticferal @poopydroopt @strniohoeee @deatthmatch @fruitglazed @flowerxbunnie @hearts4sturniolo @hawaiihasmyheart @heartsforchrisandmatt @hoesformatt @justangelheree @kqyslyho3 @klarasmith @kirby0strombolli @zooweemamas @m4ttslvr @mattsturniolox

#matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolo #matt sturniolo fan fiction #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fluff #c #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagines

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concretevampire · 7 months

Text

Building Holes

Part One

mike schmidt x afab!reader ☆ 8.9k ☆ no use of y/n and no reader description ☆ meeting for the first time; people being humans; adult themes; no serious warnings

A/N: I’ve been a FNAF and Josh Hutcherson fan since I was in middle school so this feels necessary. updates for this story will be (mostly) regular. English is not my first language.

You can see the panic in his eyes before he probably even thinks about it.

You don’t know him. Of course you don’t, he’s just a guy who happened to be standing in front of you at the check-out line.

But you feel bad. Really bad.

The cashier: they look disgruntled. Annoyed too. You can hardly blame them though– crying children irritate people– but you can’t help but be irked. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously trying his best.

And what can you really do when something like this happens?

Some glittery, pink, thingamajig was right in the little girl’s line of sight and kids don’t like the word “no”. It didn’t help that he barely glanced at her when he told her off mundanely; quietly, eyes trained on the scan of item after item.

So, she’s throwing a fit. A torrential, hysterical, fit.

She can’t be older than nine, you think. And him, maybe a college student. An odd pair, but the world is filled with those. They’re so human it almost hurts; a gasp for air, a vase that’s older than you are; autumn leaves on concrete, the curve of a dandelion.

He’s processed his panic now, going pale as he spins to look between the girl and the cashier. Bag the groceries or calm her down?

The cashier looks more exasperated than anything else now. Impatience billows like drying laundry in their chest, wafting dew toward you.

A particularly pitiful sound shrieks from the girl and the thought that you want to go home enters your mind. It’s selfish, especially as you watch this guy bend down onto one knee, his thumbs wiping away the tears that muck the girl’s cheeks; muttering apologies and gentle pleas to quiet.

The fluorescent lighting of the store deepens the shadows underneath his eyes.

You decide then that your groceries aren’t really an emergency but the only thing you’ve got in the fridge is pickles and frozen pizza. You could make do but you don't want to.

“Do you want me to bag your groceries for you?” You ask, side-stepping past your cart and to The Guy, who’s precariously offering hushed solutions to the girl’s self-imposed grief.

He looks up; between you, his girl, the cashier, then the box of cereal on the counter that sits soundly.

Blue and unbothered.

Back to you. His eyes shine so brightly, you find yourself convinced he’s on the verge of tears. That’s just how he looks, you realize. Dark, dark eyes– condors and tarmac– and the twinkle of artificial light in them.

He nods weakly. “If you don’t mind.”

You shrug and walk past him, to the end of the cash register.

There’s Chef Boyardee, Donettes, Yummy Dino Buddies; they all get bagged– one by one– together. The Guy comes to stand next to you, now holding his girl; her ruddy, sobbing face tucked warmly into the crook of his neck. She’s clinging to his OMSI: Pacific Marine Camps t-shirt, snot getting on the printed Spicebush Swallowtail.

His dark eyes follow your hands as you set aside the eggs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you’re barely halfway done. He’s earnest about it though; gaze on your jaw as one of his warm palms rubs firm circles into the girl’s back.

You shake your head half-heartedly. “It’s okay,” you tell him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I offered.”

He goes quiet, glancing towards the cashier a couple of times nervously. “Most people wouldn’t.”

“I dunno,” you set the eggs on top of the Donettes and whip open a new bag to place milk and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese in. “Stuff like this happens all the time.”

The little girl’s sobs have receded into hiccups and sniffles, still crying, but quiet.

The cashier picks at their nails.

When you finish bagging The Guy’s groceries, you give him a smile. Something that you hope is reassuring. Warm: the apple cider you had a week ago bubbling up on your cheeks.

Then, you return to your cart and the cashier begins scanning your items.

The Guy lingers.

A minute later he’s offering to pay for your groceries.

“You’re acting like you’re in debt,” you tease with a bewildered smile, borderline grimace.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

When you exit, he follows; pushing his cart with one hand, holding the girl up with the other. She’s not crying anymore.

The pair follow as you step over a mess of expired coupons that have been trodden into a fine paste over the parking lot’s concrete. Baby wipes: two for one.

“You’ve gotta let me repay you,” he implores.

You shrug a shoulder.

He opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find the right words. And there probably aren’t any, but you can’t tell him that. That’s something he’s gotta figure out on his own. You throw the back of your car open and shove groceries in.

He watches quietly.

“Thank you,” he then says, stubbornly. Like you’re a tornado; flightless fog and feathered ozone, a nightmare, something so earnestly destructive.

He has no clue how to approach it. You.

You turn to him fully, the air turning more yellow between the two of you as the evening deepens. The sun, a molten yolk melting and dipping into the bread of the Earth’s foundation.

He’s handsome— strong arms, broad shoulders, sharp jaw— and entirely constructed by hard-headed exhaustion.

Awfully young to be taking care of a girl like that, you think, but shit happens.

Shit always happens.

You close the trunk of your car.

“Good luck,” you tell The Guy, waving softly.

He’s quiet but he begins to step away, and the girl finally looks up– still clutching onto his shirt. Her dark, dark eyes glue stickily to yours: a gooey, feathered, glittery, arts n’ crafts project.

You smile at her, something you hope is reassuring. She sniffles.

“Thanks,” he says, moving further away, “you too.”

•---------•

“Happy Birthday.” You present the manilla folder lazily to David. He raises a brow.

“Those aren’t the divorce papers, are they?”

“Um,” you bring the folder back to your chest– an evil, rectangular teddy bear– and flip it open, “‘Complaint for Divorce’ in parentheses, ‘No Children’,” you look back at him. “I dunno, could be.”

He groans and reorganizes the staplers on his desk that have already been neatly placed at the corner. Twenty-degree angles on top of ninety-degree angles. All aligned in minimalist, careful, simplicity.

Perfect.

“I’m glad someone’s getting some amusement out of my divorce,” David groans, flipping drawers open and closed. Looking for something imaginary, something that will keep him busy. An object that will be an excuse in the future for his own failures.

“Our divorce,” you plea sarcastically, “You’re not gonna be my brother-in-law any more.” As if it ever mattered.

“Why are you here anyway?” He asks, finally straightening. One of his thick brows raises. “And not her assistant?”

“She wanted the personal touch.” You joke, setting the folder down on his desk. It feels incriminating when you hold it yourself as if you’re the one holding the gun up to their marriage, pulling the trigger. David eyes the folder warily. He reaches a skinny hand out, flipping through the papers tentatively.

His tendons swing and swell like frantic waves under his tan skin.

“I guess one nice thing about marrying a lawyer is that paperwork’s never a problem,” he mutters.

“And there are copies.”

“Oh, joy!” He exclaims, but then slumps in his chair, temples balanced in his palms. He’s awfully small like this. Crumpled at his desk. His blue and green argyle tie, a ruined knot at his neck. Gray suit, a poor stitch of used paper towels surrounding his frame.

Something about seeing a man so weak feels sacrilegous. Feels like a taunt. Feels like God is sitting on your shoulder and giggling.

It doesn’t help that his desk is so pristine. Neat where David is fucked. A nameplate sits perfectly in the center: DAVID CASTILLO VICE PRINCIPAL, it screams, confident.

“I should go,” you say when he doesn’t twitch from his hunched position for sixty seconds.

He nods, then shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose as if a spider’s unfurled its legs in the cave of it. “No,” he starts, “No, um,” he glances at the divorce papers and looks away just as quickly. There’s a picture of him and your sister hanging on the wall to his left. He stares at the frame. “How about I take you out to dinner? Or something?”

“Sure,” you shrug.

“Okay.” David inhales deeply.

It’s quiet. A clock on his wall ticks, again and again, impending itself into your skin and his soul. “Do you want me to wait outside?” You ask, pointing a thumb at the door.

“Please,” he mutters.

The school is empty. The ‘Welcome Back to School!’ display is still up in the lobby, even though it’s mid-September and a chill is starting to ghost the air every few days. A janitor scoops up a leaking trash bag, throws it over his shoulder, and rolls the bin into the hallway.

You stroll past a wall absolutely littered with papers; drawings hung up like samara fruit in waxy colors. Lots of suns with smiley faces and brown, pea-bodied dogs. Theres a family of rainbow turtles and a wonky drawing of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. You recognize a dragon and a field of camels too. It’s endearing.

David wanted kids. Your sister didn’t.

That’s not the reason they’re getting a divorce but it’s one of those little microcosms that sums up why.

One little minute passed but it changed the hour. Changed the day too, maybe. Or the week. The month. For all you know, even the year. That’s what happened with them.

Just one minute. That’s all it takes.

You expect the cafeteria to be empty like everything else but it isn’t. There’s a woman sitting near the entrance with barrel hips and kinky, salt-and-pepper hair that's clipped back viciously in a bun. She smells warm, like peaches and laundry detergent; shea butter too.

A spice you only dream about.

The woman looks up at you from her book– something by Toni Morrison– and her brown and pink lips purse at you.

For a second she looks mean, but her hands seem so soft; so, so soft; the color of warm, brown egg shells. Her nails are lacquered in a hazy shade of lavender that reminds you of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the taste of milk with honey.

Sweet potato pie.

“Are you here for Abby Schmidt?” She asks, her voice low and smooth like the afterthought of a lullaby. Her eyes then turn to a girl sitting at one of the cafeteria tables. She sits alone, her dark hair hanging in rivulets around her ears and jaw, and she scribbles mindlessly with crayons on paper.

“No,” you tell her, adjusting your messenger bag a little. “I was just dropping something off for Mr. Castillo.”

The woman closes her book. Her eyebrows are thin. Neat stitches arched above wrinkles. “Are you a friend of David’s?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay,” she relents and opens her book again. You smile fractionally and nod, even though she doesn’t see.

Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you walk deeper into the heart of the cafeteria. The girl doesn’t look up from her work, even as you approach, and you find yourself standing behind her. You’re looking over her shoulder at her art, arms clasped behind your back.

“I like your drawing,” you utter. The girl— Abby— turns to look up at you. Her eyes stick to yours.

“Thank you,” she says, trading a green crayon for a pink one. Then she looks back up, assessing you like you’re a division problem she hasn’t quite learned yet. “I like your jacket.” She settles.

“Thanks,” you say genuinely, shifting on your feet, “Can I sit with you?”

Abby nods and scoots over as you join her. She keeps coloring. Your eyes scan her drawing some more.

Two scribbled figures. Both with dark hair, and dark eyes, and smiles. One is taller than the other, and you can tell that the shorter one is herself: she’s wearing the red overalls in her drawing. The taller figure sports a green sweater— deep green.

Evergreens, ferns; huckleberries falling off the branch.

“Is that your dad?” You ask, hand waving towards the taller figure. She shakes her head.

“That’s Mike. He’s my brother.”

You nod. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

“Mhm. But he’ll be here soon.” She checks the little purple watch on her wrist like she’s the president of the United States. “He’s usually late.” She turns to you. “Are you waiting for someone too?”

You guess you are. “Yeah.”

“Are they late?”

You shrug. “Sorta.”

Abby then narrows her eyes at your face. “I know you,” she says resolutely.

“Do you?” You ask, propping your head up with a palm as you rest your elbow on the cafeteria table.

“Yeah. You’re that lady who helped Mike at the grocery store.”

Your brows twitch upward, an interested leer wide on your lips. Abby looks suddenly familiar. Dark, dark eyes and fluorescents catching on them.

You’re surprised she remembers that at all; not only because it happened back during the tail-end of July, but because she was sobbing through the whole situation. She only saw your face for a solid five seconds and still recognized you as That Lady.

Smart girl.

“Yeah, that was me.”

She assesses you again; but more like a bird on a tree. “I’m Abby.”

“Nice to meet you, Abby.” You introduce yourself too. She beams and turns back to coloring. You watch and then ask, “Can I draw with you?” and Abby is quick to shove a paper and brown crayon in your hand.

She seems very pleased about the development.

Ten minutes later she’s frowning at your purple cow-dog-unicorn-thing and shaking her head. “I don’t think it looks like a cow.”

You look down at your work with her.

“Maybe if you squint? It’s abstract.” You narrow your eyes and bite the flesh of your cheek, doing what you think the high masters did when they made shit too.

She tries a squint and then frowns harder. “No.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe it’s my own animal.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Hmm. Wanna help me think of one?”

“Umm,” Abby tilts her head this way and that, the curls of her hair springing as she does. “I can’t think of anything.”

Before you can reply with something funny, someone runs into the cafeteria, panting. It’s The Guy. Mike. Her brother.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris, I-“

The woman ignores him, flipping another page in her book. He sighs and swallows, turning towards Abby. Then he looks flatly at you.

Abby stares– unwavering– as he walks over, hands crossed neatly over one another on the table. Mike takes her scrutiny like it’s orange juice with pulp while glancing strangely between her face and yours.

“Mike,” she starts. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, I know, um,” he looks vaguely towards you. This feels like a routine and it feels like you're breaking it.

Abby introduces you. “This is the nice lady from the grocery store.” She supplies. His eyes widen momentarily, suddenly putting all the pieces of the past and the present together, a jigsaw falling into place. His eyes trace the slant of your nose, the curve of your eyes; linger on the pocket above your lips and the eve of your jaw.

Mike clears his throat and straightens his back. “I didn’t know you worked here?”

“I don’t,” you say, and look at your purple abomination. “A family member does.”

Mike nods and momentarily loses interest, walking around the table and grabbing Abby’s backpack. He slings it across his shoulder. It’s phenomenally tiny on his sback and you realize just how small Abby is. And the little pack is so bright against him too; shining in reds, and yellows, and deep blue cerulean against the gray-green of his jacket.

Abby stands, gathers her drawings (yours too), and grabs Mike’s hand when he offers it. There are bandaids on his thumb and pointer finger, bruises like nightshade crawling from underneath the torn brown.

But Abby doesn’t look away from you when Mike makes it for the exit. She makes an annoyed, high-pitched sound from the back of her throat and glues her eyes to yours desperately.

He stops, head knocking back to stare at the ceiling tiredly, before dropping to look at her. “What’s wrong?” He asks her gently.

“Wanna go to Sparky’s with us?” Abby asks you, with no regard towards Mike. Like he’s an imaginary presence. His eyes go wide though, catching the light like moths as he stares tight-lipped and in utter horror at the back of Abby’s head.

And then he comes to terms with it, frowning between you and her.

“Um,” you start, then scoot closer to Abby in your seat. Your eyes level with hers. “I think that’s something you need to ask Mike about,” you settle gently, hoping its the right thing to say.

She whips her head to look up at him. “Can they go to Sparky’s with us?”

Mike clears his throat; shifts his stance like it’ll suddenly root the words into his mind; adjusts the strap of Abby’s bag on his shoulder.

“Maybe later,” he decides.

“When?”

“Abby. C’mon.”

“When, Mike?”

You rise from your seat. “Are you free Friday?” You ask him, head tilting. He purses his lips at you, jaw working, and then seemingly gives up.

“After four, yeah.”

“Great. Me too.”

“Okay.”

“Friday at five then?” You beam down at Abby. “Sparky’s right?” Back at Mike. “That’s on 65th and Jefferson?”

“Yeah. Sure, sounds good.” He says, but you don’t believe him. He’s got this barely-there wince on his face like there’s a nail in his shoe.

He’s sorry, you realize. Sorry about Abby; sorry that he’s supposedly forced you into this. You shake your head at him with an easy smile.

It’s okay. But he doesn’t believe you either.

You feel like he’s the type of person who’s always on his own page. Not because he wants to be but because he’s worried that other people can’t read between the lines. Can’t look deeper, past the words and into the real meat of it all.

Or maybe Mike’s more comfortable ripping the book apart than letting anybody settle down into it with him.

He leaves.

Abby waves at you, a flutter of little fingers as she walks out the door too, trailing behind Mike.

David shows up five minutes later.

His tie is situated perfectly around his neck; firm and rigid into the confines of his freshly buttoned suit. He smiles at Mrs. Harris and she asks him how he is. David says he’s fine. You wish he didn’t have to lie but he waves you over like his life is a dream and you accept that this is the reality he wants. And that you’re, in some way, a part of it.

Dinner with him is a blur. The week is a blur.

On Friday, you almost forget that you’ve committed to go to Sparky’s but one of your coworkers mentions how her daughter has a ballet recital; and you’re suddenly reminded of Abby.

Reminded of the fact that there’s now apparently a child in your life that is affected by your actions.

You think for a moment to talk about Abby but remember suddenly that you don’t really know a thing about her. You don’t know whether she prefers apple juice or orange juice: what her favorite cartoon is: or if she’s still using kid’s toothpaste.

Abby’s not your kid or your little sister, and that fact doesn’t change even if you think she’s cute and funny.

You wonder what she’s drawn today.

Maybe she’ll show you. You think about how small she is and if her little eyes will stare into yours, hop-scotching across the strange adult sadness you can’t seem to shake off on warm, overcast days like today.

You drown out thoughts with the radio while you drive to Sparky’s.

It’s a hard place to miss.

It’s just outside the center of town, and the flat-topped building sits under a large neon sign that says “SPAKY’S GIL & DINR” because the owner can’t really afford to fix the letters that don’t light up anymore. The smiling, cartoon dog– Sparky— doesn’t light up anymore either.

He’s got bird shit on his left eye.

You’re five minutes early when you open the glass door to the diner. A bell tinkles, signaling your arrival.

Mike and Abby have already situated themselves in one of the gray laminate booths. They sit on one side together. Abby’s got her head down, already scribbling at a paper with a green, broken crayon. Mike’s looking out the window, an arm across the back of the booth behind her. Calm, reserved.

A little, yellow teddy bear is propped up between them.

Mike only turns your way when you sit down across from him. Abby looks up from her drawing immediately, her head jolting up. Her grin is palpable, like strawberry shortcake, when you say hi.

“You came!” She exclaims, grip tightening on the crayon. It might snap.

You smile. “Of course I did. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Abby nods and returns to drawing; her arm moving twice as fast as it was before you came.

Mike makes eye contact with you. His eyes then drop to linger on the collar of your shirt, reading the hem like an instruction manual, before raising again.

You’re not sure what he learned from the stitching.

Something by The Doors is droning on the speaker; fuzzy, blurry, like fog. Jim Morrison moans out “Let it roll, baby, roll~” and your foot taps along.

“Did you just get back from work?” You ask him, shrugging your jacket off.

“Yep.”

“What do you do?”

“Construction.” Something you could’ve guessed, judging by the Carhartt pants and steel-toed boots.

“Nice,” you say, authentically.

He nods, then says, “How about you?” like the words are gumming to his teeth.

“Boring stuff,” you wave Mike off and watch Abby trade for a blue crayon. She’s humming along to the music. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face and turn your head back to sit eye-to-eye. He raises a quizzical brow. “Seriously,” you implore.

“You don’t have a job,” He says simply. He’s not really bothered by the notion that you’re unemployed.

“I do,” you huff, “I just,” so you tell him about it. He looks tired while you talk, occasionally eyeing the ketchup and continuously rereading the label while actively pretending not to. But he’s an honest, good sport about it; at the very least trying to seem interested. Mike nods in all the right places, giving “yeahs” and “mhms” when he should.

In the middle of your drone, the waitress comes.

She’s fifty-something, with chalky eyeliner bleeding under her eyes; her ginger-dyed hair is pulled back in an impressively messy beehive. You easily imagine royal honey dripping from the split ends. She smells like stevia and tobacco. The name tag on her chest says “Susie”.

Susie blinks at you warmly and tiredly. “What can I get for you?”

Mike orders first, orders for Abby– who barely flinches at the mention of her name– and then you order.

Susie leaves without writing any of it down.

Mike turns back to you, tense. “You don’t mind paying for yourself, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you joke, but he doesn’t really smile. Abby suddenly looks up from her art and leans in your direction, a little valence electron swarming into a new orbital. Her small shoulder pushes into Mike’s bicep. He stills her with a soft look like he wants to pillow her in peach fuzz and call it a night.

“Do you like your job?” She asks, sitting up on her knees. The hand Mike has resting on the booth moves to fix her sweater to her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch.

You shrug a little. “It’s okay.”

She seems troubled. “Why do grown-ups never like their jobs?”

You stifle a laugh but shake your head. “I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of grown-ups who like their jobs.”

“I don’t know any.”

You glance at Mike.

He’s wincing at her words– scratching at the skin behind his ear– looking properly embarrassed. They’re a funny pair; like pickle relish and peanut butter. Weird fishes swimming and circling together because they have nowhere else to go. They know this routine; know the angle of each other’s currents.

“There are,” you assure her. Your eyes drift toward the drawing she abandoned. “What do you wanna be when you’re grown-up?”

She shrugs and tells you “I dunno,” like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “This boy, Jesse, in my class, he wants to be an astronaut.”

“Do you want to be an astronaut?”

“Sure. Space is cool. And the moon is pretty.” Abby looks towards the ceiling as if it’ll break apart and reveal Mars.

Your fingers reach tentatively for her art and when she doesn’t protest, you take it fully. You hold her work up with two hands in front of your face like a mask. “You don’t wanna be an artist?” You ask with a sly smile, peeking around the drawing. She shrugs again and Mike rubs her back a little.

You face the paper.

It’s a grassy scene; blue sky, yellow sun wearing sunglasses. Five figures are the subject; Abby in the middle and then two other children on each side of her. On her left; a redhead boy with a hook for a hand and another boy in a top hat. On her right; a blonde girl in a pink dress and finally, a boy in blue with bunny ears.

You put down the paper to look at Abby. Her eyes are wide, expectant. Mike’s are the same.

“Are these your friends?”

“Yes!” Abby exclaims and leans on the table to look at you closer. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” you grin, pleased.

Mike shifts awkwardly. “Imaginary,” he clarifies. “Imaginary friends.”

You give him a private, amused smile. He relaxes a little.

Abby hands you a blank paper. “You should draw your friends.”

You obey, picking up a crayon, starting with yourself. Mike watches you carefully, eyes on your hands, sometimes trailing the curve of your eyebrows and the fall of your lashes.

“You’re good,” he says as Abby hands you a pink crayon– which you take dutifully. You draw a flower while sending him a wry smile, shaking your head. “I’m serious,” he implores, but you can hear the joke behind it.

“Sure.”

Then you finish coloring your jeans in and lean back to think.

Friends. You could draw your sister. But she’s not a friend. She’s your sister, and a lawyer, and a now ex-wife, but she’s not a friend.

David isn’t a friend either.

Dinner with him was quiet and he’d broke down into tears (again) by the end of it. You paid for the bill out of pity. You think that’s probably the last time you’re ever going to see him.

The waitress drops your food off as you start to outline the shape of red overalls.

Abby chews deftly on her chicken nuggets and leans into Mike’s shoulder while he dips his burger into a heaping pool of ketchup: the two of them eye your drawing together. You’re reminded of this photo you saw once in a Nat Geo magazine of two dark-eyed owls burrowed together.

You bite a smile.

When you’re done coloring a green sweater, you straighten and pop a self-satisfied fry into your mouth.

Abby wipes her hands off with a napkin that Mike hands her and takes your drawing. She gasps when she sees. Mike’s brows raise and you reflexively hope he doesn’t hate it.

“It’s us!” Abby says excitedly, vibrating with joy. You take a bite of your food and nod. She turns to Mike, huffing, and very seriously tells, “This is for the fridge.”

And finally, Mike smiles, almost snorting. But all he does is nod and say “Sure is,” between his bite

“You even drew my overalls.”

“I did,” you say. “They’re totally cute.”

“I like the flowers you drew around us.”

“Pretty, right?”

Abby looks so happy you could scream.

By the time both Mike and you are done with your food, her eyes haven’t left the drawing. And you must be doing something right because at some point Mike smiles at you.

Quietly. Mostly unseen.

Mike is comfortably out of your reach but he flutters in and out of your grasp fleetingly; a moth seeking light, heat, maybe something more. When he lands, you don’t close your fingers; only hang your palm open and let him decide if he wants to stay.

Maybe you are on the same page but you’re not sure if he knows it.

When the check comes Mike suddenly offers to pay. You refuse, waving him off and sticking your card in with his.

Susie comes to pick it up and then returns five seconds later, wishing you a nice day. You walk out of the diner as one big group– Mike holding the door open for you and Abby– and you find yourselves stuck under neon signs.

Mike looks at Abby carefully. “Can you wait in the car for a second?” He asks. She looks immediately offended, wanting to say no.

He looks exhausted.

Abby glares at him, then looks sadly at you before walking away and clambering into the back seat of his Honda Accord.

You turn to Mike and he turns to you when the door slams shut.

“Thank you,” he says immediately like he’s been holding it in his lungs the entire time.

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” he urges, “seriously. Abby, she,” he glances at the car, “she has a really hard time with people. Shit, I have a hard time with her too and I’m her brother.” Mike takes a deep breath. “She really likes you.”

You’re quiet for a second, letting the shadow in your eyes escape and mingle with his. “I get it.” You tell him. “Kids are…” you scuff your shoe against the pavement, “hard. Big emotions, little bodies, ya know?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re good with her.”

“I was a weird kid too.” You tell Mike with a grin.

Something like a smile is offered as he shakes his head. “You, uh,” he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glues his eyes to the ground. “You wouldn’t mind meeting up again?”

You take a deep breath. This is a lot.

You should say, “Yes, I do mind,” but honestly, you really don’t. You’re not bothered by their company. You like both of them. Mike’s got something sad about him though; constantly in the eye of a storm, waiting for the hazard to hit again. And Abby’s Abby: sweet.

“It’s just, she doesn’t really,, click. But she did with you. And I know she’s gonna wanna see you again.” He elaborates.

“Sure,” you breathe, blinking. “Do you want my phone number or something?”

Mike nods. “Yeah, that’d be good.” He gives you his phone and sniffs when you enter your digits and hand it back.

You step away, steeping yourself deeper into the night. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he nods and turns to his car. Abby rolls the window down, thin arms circling quickly, and peaks her head out.

“Bye!” She calls desperately as the engine starts. She probably thinks she’ll never see you again.

“Later, alligator!” You call back, waving.

She grins toothily and Mike asks her to roll the window up as they pull slowly out of the parking lot.

•---------•

Mike doesn’t contact you for the next two weeks. You expect it.

By the third week, you’ve settled that he’s realized just how odd this situation is and won’t call you ever. Something like disappointment aches awfully in your chest but you brush it off as a human reaction to the departure of warm summer evenings.

October is right around the corner and you’re starting to feel it.

The days are getting crisper; dirt turning to mud, dew on the grass, leaves turning orange. There’s also a bug going around at work and you’re not spared of its spread.

You wake up one morning with a scratch in your throat, an ache in your head, and a clog in your left nostril. You’re not really that sick; after a cup of coffee, you feel better. But your psyche still feels like it’s made from popsicle sticks and cotton balls.

You take it to the pharmacy before work.

There’s Nyquil and a row of untouched Dayquil next to it. Concentrated Tylenol and Cepacol. Zyrtec and Claritin. Dimetapp. You take the Aspirin and Nyquil and shlump towards the counter.

Mike is there, looking casually fatigued in front of the check-out counter, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” you say, the inflection of a question in your voice; the hesitance that maybe Mike wants to be ignored. Remain unseen. Unperceived. He jolts a little at your greeting and doesn’t relax when he turns to face you.

“Hey,” he says back. He takes a glance at your hand. “Sick?”

“Just a runny nose.”

He nods, takes a nervous look towards the empty counter, and then scratches at the growing stubble on his jaw.

“How ‘bout you?” You ask.

His eyes won’t meet yours. “Just some medication.”

You nod and look slowly toward the rack of non-prescription reading glasses. There’s a glittery, red pair at the very top– so small they could probably fit in the palm of your hand. “How’s Abby?”

Mike relents a little, shoulders going from concrete to rubble. “She’s doing alright. She asks about you sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, that drawing you did? She loves it.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s a quiet spell– the two of you looking in your own directions– and when the pharmacist finally shows up, paper bag in hand, Mike nabs it and leaves.

Then you step forward to pay, a polite smile on your lips, eyes flicking to your watch to take a mental note that you need to get to work soon.

Mike’s waiting for you outside the pharmacy; awkward and dark against the white overcast. It’s foggy this morning. You don’t know how he isn’t cold, only wearing a pair of jeans and a Foo-Fighters t-shirt that’s a little tight around the arms and chest. That makes you swallow.

You slow to a stop in front of him.

“I was gonna call you,” he sighs. “I got busy.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you wanna,” he raises a hand, then drops it uselessly, “do something with Abby soon?”

“Sure.”

“She’s got a half-day on Wednesday. We could take her to the park?”

It’s a good plan. You don’t know why he sounds so unsure. “Get her outside before it gets too cold to?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing a little easier.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Mike straightens his back a degree. “You know Marylheights Park? It’s close to the school.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Is one okay? Or are you working?” He suddenly realizes.

You shake your head. “I can come by on my lunch break.”

“Alright. Great. See you there.”

You smile, nod, step away a little, and then leave– abandoning Mike under the eave of the pharmacy.

True to your word, you show up at one o’clock in the afternoon at Marylheights Park. Mike and Abby are already there– he’s sitting on a bench, wearing a flimsy black hoodie and she’s bundled up in a pink and red jacket, a beanie knitted in a cacophony of colors on her head.

She runs over when she sees you, a heap of colors on the breeze, a smile bright on her face.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” She exclaims, tripping a little on the bark-chip. You see Mike twitch and then falter when she catches herself.

“You okay?” You ask, reaching a hand out for support if she needs it. She grabs your fingers, tight, as she leads you toward the playground. There’s a couple of other kids with their parents playing too.

“Do you like my hat?” She asks, stopping in front of you to show off.

“I love it.”

“Mike made it for me.”

You glance at him. He’s slouched lazily on the bench, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Really?”

“Mhm.” She dawdles around you, skipping and humming as she climbs the monkey bars. “I saw a turtle today.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was really cute.” She hangs off one of the bars, letting herself swing back and forth. “Lauren brought it for show-and-tell today.”

“What did you bring for show-and-tell?” You ask, leaning against a post with your arms crossed.

“My friend.”

“Your friend?”

“He’s in my backpack right now.”

You nod like it makes perfect sense. “When I did show-and-tell I brought my big sister.” It’s not true but it's funny to think about.

Abby looks at you wide-eyed and a flock of Canadian Geese honk above you; black and white, obnoxious angels. “You can do that?”

“Duh.”

Abby drops from the bar and stares at you. “You’re lying to me.”

You grin. “Maybeeee.”

She rolls her eyes the same way that people do it on TV and suddenly walks away when she sees a round of Lava Monster is starting up. It’s a weird, convoluted game you used to play all the time. You’re suddenly upset that you forgot the rules; as if it didn’t used to be one of your favorite things in the whole world.

You sigh and meander over to Mike, sitting next to him.

Your eyes stay on Abby as she toddles along the play-structure in the middle, unsteadier than you like. Mike hands you a brown, paper bag wordlessly. You raise a brow and take it.

Inside is a white-bread sandwich in a ziploc bag, a juice box, and a folded note.

“What-”

Mike cuts you off. “You came on your lunch break.” You raise your head to look him in the eye. He’s so hard to read sometimes. ”Hope you like turkey and cheese.”

You beam, flushing between joy and embarrassment, and grab the juice box. There’s a cool guy surfing on it. “Thanks,” you say, stabbing the straw into the top. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs and turns to watch Abby. She clambers across the slides to avoid being tagged. Some of the other kids yelp and scream wordlessly.

“I owed it to you,” he breathes, his words turning to a puff of vapor in front of his nose.

The two of you split the sandwich in half and you don’t miss the way Mike watches you pick at the crust. When you eat it anyway you hear him puff a sharp exhale of laughter through his nose, shaking his head.

The game filters out and Abby makes her way to the swings, shoes toeing the ground as she sits.

Your fingers lift the note from the bag when you finish eating— unfolding to find a small, crayon drawing, no bigger than your hand.

A purple cow, better than yours, and actually tangible as a cow. Impressive.

“Abby did that,” Mike says, chewing. “She said you need it.”

You close your eyes, amused and overjoyed. Your fingers fold the little piece of paper back up and place it carefully in your bag, in a place you know it won’t be ruined. “God, she’s so sweet,” you huff, hand clenching. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

You feel like husked corn; chipping paint in a parking lot. Like the curl of peeled apple skin.

“She has her moments,” Mike says gently, almost smiling.

Abby starts spinning herself on the swing, twisting and knotting the chains together and then letting them unravel to leave her in spirals. He frowns at that.

“Abby,” he calls, fixing his slouch on the bench, “quit it! You’ll make yourself sick!”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He grunts. She grins at you and waves. You wave back. She goes back to swinging normally; progressively higher and higher. Another kid ambles over to join her wordlessly.

Mike frowns and shakes his head, first at Abby, then at you. “I’m starting to think she likes you more than me.”

You snort at him. “I’m an adult who isn’t an authority figure in her life.”

“Still.”

“She adores you.” You tell him. You don’t really know either of them well enough to say that but you’re sure of it. You’re sure of it not only because you said it but because Abby’s a sweet, smart kid. She’s got her problems but she’s generally well-behaved. More importantly, she seems happy.

Unbothered, by whatever situation she and Mike are in. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing pretty good.

And maybe she doesn’t look at Mike like he hung the stars but she certainly treats him like it. The thing about kids is that they’re brutally honest:

If she didn't like Mike, you’d know.

He stares at you for a second longer than you’d expect him to and turns back to watch her.

The two of you stay like that for a while. Side by side. Almost shoulder to shoulder. Abby sometimes comes over to take a break, or ask what you thought of her drawing, or tell Mike what she wants for dinner. It’s peaceful. Quiet.

Okay.

Some parents leave. Some new parents show up. The two of you stay.

At some point, you glance down at your watch and panic floods your synapses.

“Shit,” you mutter, standing up. Mike raises a brow. “I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta get back now. I’m gonna be late and-“

“Don’t worry.” He tells you easily, fixing his posture so he isn’t slouched under your eye. You smile apologetically. Abby runs over from the slides, panting, her wide eyes expectant on yours.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to get to work now.”

“But you’ll come back right?”

You bend down to her level, fix the hat on her head so that it sits evenly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” She sighs, seemingly relieved, but the trace shadows of upset are still visible in the gleam of her eyes.

“Have fun with Mike?” You tell her, rising. You linger despite yourself.

“Later alligator?” She asks like a wet mutt as you start the walk to your car.

“In a while crocodile.”

You wave and she waves back. Mike keeps his eyes trained on you, raising a hand too. Your smile widens.

•---------•

Your older sister is the prettier, smarter, more put-together version of you. The version of you that you pretend to be.

She doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t smile, and you can’t tell if it’s because she genuinely can’t feel joy or is afraid of getting wrinkles. You’re sure it’s a mix of both. She lives in this big, minimalist penthouse suite that you’ve only been in twice; her heels have red bottoms. She has avocado toast for most her meals and the hoops on her ears are real gold.

In short summary; your sister has got it good. You’re pretty sure she’s miserable.

She tells her assistant, Christa, to get her a coffee and Chrsita offers to get you one too with a sweet smile. You want to say “Yes,” but she looks awfully close to having a mental breakdown. You tell Christa, “No, thanks,” smiling gently back.

When she leaves, you turn and stare at your sister’s pursed lips.

You drove into the city for once and your sister could only make time for you to come and sit in one of the stiff chairs she has placed in front of her cocobolo desk; the chairs for clients. You look around her office.

It’s neater than David’s and ten times bigger.

Vast and white. A tundra of dreams scotch-taped together.

“You were almost late.” She says, annoyed, eyes stuck to the papers in front of her.

“Sorry, I had to get cough drops at the pharmacy.”

“You’re sick?”

“Just a sore throat.”

You lean forward to poke her cheek. She squawks and slaps your hand away, scandalized and disgusted.

“That’s disgusting!”

You laugh and she steels you with a hard glare, a scoff caught in the back of her throat. “I do wash my hands,” you tell her.

She shakes her head and drums her perfectly manicured French tips against the heavy table. You tuck your own hands under your thighs. You like her nails; you want yours to look like hers but they’re inconvenient for people like you. Real people, with real lives and realistic, boring jobs.

But it's nice to look at them, especially on your sister.

“Heard from David?” She asks as if she isn’t divorcing him. Like he’s a houseplant that you’re taking care of while she takes a quick business trip.

New York. London. Shanghai. Amsterdam. Seoul. You’ve seen the photos.

“Nope.” You bite your lip and Christa comes with the coffee. A cappuccino that she places in front of your sister. Black. Tiny, little cup. Christa gives you a dazzling smile that has you grinning back at her fully, like an indulged schoolgirl. And then she’s gone; clicking off to document review in her little black heels.

Your sister glares at that.

You look her over.

Look at the way she’s curled her lashes and glossed her lips. Her shirt is buttoned straight– stiff and crisp around her neck. There’s a little permanent divot between her eyebrows and the white light of the office washes her out.

“You look tired,” you say flatly, a fairly normal thing to say to a woman who’s a criminal lawyer for an inner-city law firm.

She barely looks at you. “Thanks.”

And then it’s her turn to look you over. You’re sure she doesn’t like what she sees. She rarely does. “Have you been eating?”

“Of course I have.”

She stares for a moment longer before saying, “Just checking.”

Someone knocks on the door and peaks their head in– a young man with dark hair. Bright hazel eyes. She glares at him wordlessly and he makes eye contact with you before shutting the door quickly. You watch her scoff and then carefully pick up a pen before signing the papers gently; like hemlock and hummingbirds.

Your sister. Elegant.

You tilt your head.

She starts. “So, any luck-“

“Oh, can we please go five minutes-“

“I was going to ask-“

“-without talking about-“

“-about your job!”

“-things I know you don’t care about!” You stare at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. We won’t talk about it.

You smile. “I like your shirt.”

“Fuck off.” She flips open a stack of papers with a fit of impressive anger, scribbling something hotly in the margins.

You know she doesn’t hate you but sometimes you have to wonder.

She’s mean and a bitch; but she constantly worries— and she worries more about you than anyone else. More than she ever worried about David. Which says quite a bit about what the two of you have done and put up with for one another.

Your sister: less of a counterpart, more of a weird black shadow of a half-twin. Not the moon and the sun; but a tree and the ferns that grow underneath.

Your sister stares at her cooling cup of coffee and looks into your eyes like they’re blurry. “Do you need money?”

Her solution to everything. A pretty good one, you won’t lie. “No.” You say quickly, waving her off.

“So everything’s good then?”

“Yeah. Good. It’s all good.”

She raises a brow but looks away to read something.

“How about you?” You ask.

She sighs heavily and stares at the wall. “Well,” and for a moment she doesn’t look like your sister. More like any other woman– any other person experiencing life for the first time. She’s thinking about her job and her home; the wonders and horrors of burnt toast and manilla folders. Of sending people to jail or keeping them out of it. Of going to bed in her 1200 thread count, Egyptian-cotton bed set.

Then she blinks, as if remembering who she is, and suddenly your sister’s sitting in front of you again.

“It’s alright. Fine. Boring.”

“Makes sense.” You tell her with a nod.

“How’s Mac?” She asks off-handedly, eyes on her work. Mac. Full name Tarmac. The stray cat that’s been haunting your house for the past couple of years. A dumb, skinny little cat who loved you with all of his heart.

“Dead.”

“What?” Your sister exclaims, wrist dropping to the edge of the table, pen still in hand. “How are you not,, a wreck?”

“It happened a few months ago.”

“God.” She finally takes a sip of her cappuccino and clears her throat. “Well, just don’t get upset one night and, I dunno, drink yourself into a sobbing mess.”

You grimace. “Says you.”

She sends you a hard glare. “Don’t.”

“I’m not the one who had to be bailed out of-“

“When are you going to stop bringing that up?” She groans. You laugh a bit now, dropping your head towards your lap and your sister looks properly embarrassed. “I passed the bar, have a Porsche, and have a personal trainer, ya know!”

You laugh harder. You can tell she finds it almost funny too but is raging too hotly to care.

“And then I had to-“

“Stop!” She exclaims.

You leave her alone but still giggle through it, fingers pressing against your lips in a complete failure to contain your amusement.

There’s another beat of silence.

She takes another sip. You watch her. Christa comes by again with a new, impressively thick stack of papers for your sister and walks out.

“Where’s your shirt from?” You ask your sister, eyeing it. “It’s nice.”

“Balenciaga.”

Pricey. The white, simple, button-up shirt she’s wearing probably cost her more than a hundred dollars.

“Is it cotton?” You ask her, leaning forward for a better look.

“Yes.” She side-eyes you warily. You lean back. “You better not steal it.”

“I’m not going to!”

“You’ve done it before.”

You roll your eyes.

Your sister finishes her coffee off in silence. It’s awfully quiet for a law firm. You wonder if her office walls are sound-proofed.

At some point, she tells you she has a meeting and that you need to leave. She’s in a good enough mood to at least walk you out herself.

In the firm’s garage building the two of you wait for the valet to bring your car.

She looks strange, sad, lonely. You love her. But you don’t know what to do about it because she gives you no place to put it. That’s just who she is. Her person. Being in a constant state of distress is part of her identity and really, there’s no escaping it. Self-imposed, mortal limbo.

“You’ll be okay?” She asks gently, like for once she means it.

“Yeah.” You tell her, tender. Human. “You?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry about your divorce.” You finally tell her. You didn’t say it at first when it was too new and too fresh. When she was more concerned with paperwork than emotional damage.

She shakes her head like the mention of it is merely a fly in her face. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to thank you for bringing those papers to David.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s just, you live nearby and it would have been easier for you to do it than Christa, and-“

“Seriously.” You cut her off. “It’s fine.”

She sighs and looks you over. It’s a long, extended look of softness. Mike looked at Abby the same way. But it’s a rarity from her; one that has you giving her a confused smile, hands going into the pockets of your jacket— the nicest, crispest one you own— as she stares.

“What?” You ask.

She steps forward, raising an arm, and you step back. She huffs, annoyed. “I wanted to give you a hug but you ruined the moment.”

You scoff incredulously. “You’re so weird.”

She glares. “Fuck you.”

The valet comes with your car.

Shitty, and old. Reliable and well-loved. Needs an oil change.

You step around to the driver’s side and the valet places your keys warmly in your palm. Your sister stays in the spot you left her in.

“Bye.” She says stiffly.

“See you soon.”

She glances at the valet. “Right.”

“Give me a smile?” You joke. You see her right hand twitch to flip you off but with the audience she contains herself. All she gives you is a deep-seated, disappointed frown and a shake of her head.

You grin and step into your car before driving off.

Even as you pull out of the garage you can see her standing still in that over-priced button-up shirt; arms wrapped around her torso, watching you go.

You tell yourself she’ll be okay but when a song from your childhood plays on the radio you doubt it.

Nostalgia will kill you before she ever does.

#fnaf #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's #mike schmidt #abby schmidt #fnaf x reader #mike schmidt x reader #fnaf fanfic #reader insert

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findmeinasunshower · 7 months

Text

𝑹𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔: 𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊

word-count: 3.1k

summary: shinsou's been seeing you for a few months now, and he's struggling to put into words just how he feels about you. here's how he figures it out.

warnings: weed, mentions of intimate times but nothing explicit, fluff :)

part i

It’s past midnight the first time Shinsou finds himself unable to look away from you.

No matter the season, it never gets quite dark enough in your neighborhood—it’s the reason Shinsou wanted to move here in the first place. He likes how the lights of the city reach like probing fingers even into this inconspicuous corner.

And he finds he likes the view even more when you’re framed in the center of it.

You’re seated on top of a washing machine in the crappiest laundromat he's ever had the displeasure of setting foot in, and yet you're gazing out at the neon lights curling off of the rain-blasted concrete like it's the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

He’s not sure what emotion has strung itself through his body, but he does know it grows larger every time he looks at you.

It started the first time he saw what you look like first thing in the morning, face bathed in gold as you blinked up at him sleepily and placed a chaste kiss on his chin. He hasn’t been able to get rid of the intrepid butterfly ever since. If it has a name, Shinsou’s never known it. And he can’t be the first to say it when it doesn’t have a name.

So it hovers in the air when the two of you find yourselves lounging on his fire escape at sunset, enjoying the last warm rays of autumn; spins a web even larger when you hip-check him as you cook dinner together, and even bigger two months later, legs tangled together on Hitoshi’s too-small couch and your chest moving against his as you simply breathe together, fingers intertwined.

It’s yours—Shinsou knows that much from the way it sticks to the roof of his mouth, unable to escape. It aches under his tongue like a sore, and the mere thought of it and his inability to figure out what the fuck it is makes him slam the washing machine hard enough to topple the detergent bottle on top of it.

“You smoke too much, hero?”

And suddenly, his earlier frustration evaporates like a puddle in the sun. Hitoshi laughs at the comical eyebrow you have raised and nudges your thighs apart so he can stuff his bed sheets into the third washing machine. You squint down at him playfully when he lingers between your legs after straightening up, and Shinsou suddenly decides the crook of your shoulder looks inviting.

The clock on the wall reads 12:13 a.m.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” you gripe teasingly when his hand slides higher on your thigh, but you’re already opening your arms for your boyfriend to slump into you. Hitoshi presses his nose against the hollow of your throat to catch the last fading notes of soap from the shower you took earlier and follows the crease of your hips with his hands until you're held securely in his embrace. He closes his eyes and breathes deep to fight off the yawn he knows is coming.

You loop your arms around his neck and begin to scroll through your phone behind his back. “It was your idea to smoke before coming here, so I’m not dragging you back if you fall asleep.”

“‘m not that high,” Shinsou mumbles into your neck. Your chest vibrates against him when you laugh.

“Sure, hero.”

Hitoshi has a retort at the forefront of his mind when he pulls back just enough to look at you, but it dissolves like sugar on his tongue when his eyes meet yours.

It’s here—looking at the way your eyes reflect the stuttering fluctuations of the laundromat’s eerie light, your half-dried hair, the way you’re biting down on your lip to keep yourself from smiling—that Hitoshi finally feels that indescribable something catch on the tip of his tongue.

There’s a name for this. He knows it.

He’s distracted even further when you pull back to smile at him, teeth tinged pink by the neon sign dangling in the window. “What are you smiling at, jerk?” you whisper, and Shinsou finds himself entranced by the way your nose scrunches with the force of your amused smile. “Busy thinking about how lucky you are to be in this shitty laundromat in the middle of the night?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately.

Your eyes widen at the speed the word drops from Hitoshi’s mouth, and the indescribable feeling deep in his chest regresses slightly again. Maybe he was too blunt. Maybe he's wrong.

But then your smile widens even further, and your fingers are tightening their grip on his shoulder blades. “Good. Because I was thinking the same thing.”

Hitoshi can't help the lazy, self-satisfied smile that spreads across his face before he kisses you and tucks the words into his heart for safekeeping.

~*~

Shinsou knows that the pro-hero lifestyle can strain relationships. He's seen it firsthand and he knows it well, which is probably why he never really cared for seeking out those types of things. His friends have always described him as picky, and he supposes that's true too.

You were the best surprise. You walked into his life and simply took a seat, and the moment you smiled at him, he knew he didn't have a choice but to ask you to stay. To find his own place in your life.

But Hero life takes a toll. And crossing that hurdle with you, the reality of his career…he didn't know what that would look like.

It's autumn again and Shinsou misses you. He's been stuck in Tokyo for a mission, and all the two of you have had for weeks now are texts or hushed and hurried phone calls that make his heart ache. And he was so tired that despite not a hint of disappointment existing in your voice, he couldn't help but feel disappointed in himself, that he was letting you down somehow for letting his job take him away from you for so long.

He bids goodbye to Midoriya the second the threat has passed and his role is fulfilled, and his friend smiles at him in a knowing way Shinsou doesn't know what to do with. He doesn't even retort when Kaminari calls after him, typical shit-eating grin evident in his voice: "In a hurry, huh MindJack?"

All Shinsou can think is that he needs you. Desperately.

It's almost morning by the time he slips in through your living room window. Your cat lifts her head and blinks at him once, sleepily, before deeming him not a threat and curling back up on her tree. He makes sure to give her a good scritch behind the ears before he heads into your room.

A thick wall of rain clouds has enveloped the city for the past week, so your room is still dark when he walks in. He's grateful to see you're still asleep—Shinsou's been awake way too long, even for him, and doubt started to creep into the edges of his mind long before he got here. He needs some time to just hold you before you wake up and have the inevitable conversation. Has he been gone too long? Was this separation and stress too much for you? Would you still want him?

He's tapping your shoulder before he can stop himself. You jerk awake with a start, eyes wide and scanning the room for threats before they land on him. "Hitoshi?"

The way he says your name is like a prayer. "Hey…" His voice catches in his throat. "I missed you."

You're groggy, but clearly awake now, and Shinsou's heart tightens as you scoot over toward the wall and lift your comforter in invitation. "Come to bed. You look exhausted."

He can't help the relieved laugh that punches out of him. "Ever astute, you are," he replies.

You giggle sleepily. It's adorable. "Come here, you. I missed you too."

And then he takes off his gear and accepts the invitation into your embrace and you're warm. You're warm and you smell good and familiar and your bed is so comfortable. And you don't complain that he hasn't showered in a few days, that he's fresh off a battlefield.

Shinsou wraps you tighter until you're practically nose to nose and your sleepy gaze meets his, eyes searching for what, he doesn't know.

You just tuck yourself closer to him and Shinsou wraps you tighter until you're practically nose to nose. Maybe this is when the questions come. But when you do ask a question, it's so unexpected he doesn't know what to doo with it.

You simply ask: "Everything finished?" And Shinsou's heart breaks in the best way possible. You don't ask him any more questions, don't expect anything more from him. You just let him hold you, and hold him in return.

He nods, unable to form words. You smile and nod back, then nestle back into his chest and promptly fall back asleep. Shinsou can't help the chuckle that rumbles through him at the quickness of the movement—for someone who complained consistently of sleep issues, it doesn't seem you've ever had any trouble when he's in bed with you.

He thinks, just before he is taken by the blackness of slumber, that if he doesn’t figure out a way to tell you soon, he might just lose his mind.

~*~

"Saw you on the news today."

Your friend (Boyfriend? Partner? You hadn't really discussed labels yet) stops abruptly, steaming cup halfway to his lips. His violet eyes are carefully blank over the plastic rim. "Did you?"

You hum in affirmation and tuck your arm through Hitoshi's, cuddling closer to him on the cold metal bench. Autumn descended quickly on Japan. Half of the park trees have already dropped their yellow leaves from the sudden burst of cold, and despite his cool exterior, Hitoshi tends to be a walking heater…and he finds he quite likes the feel of you pressed into his side.

Shinsou cups his hand over yours and settles back on the bench, pulling you to relax against him. A comfortable silence washes over the two of you, but he knows you well enough to know you're chewing over what to say next. And although he's nervous, you haven't done him wrong yet—in fact, you've done him right in ways Hitoshi didn't know he deserved. So, he's happy to wait and observe the park around you, one ear on the shrieking children on the playground next to you, and the other on the whirring of your thoughts next to him.

You'd always been curious about Shinsou's quirk, of course—He's a goddamn Pro. His quirk has to be insane in comparison to yours. But he never asked about your own, and that was…unique, to say the least. You met Shinsou as Shinsou first, and you liked being able to provide him that bit of anonymity. A true escape from the reality of his work. You figured his quirk would come up when it was important.

But then, you saw him on the news this morning alongside the numbers one and two heroes. You had nearly dropped your breakfast plate when an absolutely beaming Deku pulled Shinsou in front of the camera and praised him for his help diffusing a rather difficult hostage situation. But, that's all Deku said. No mention of Shinsou's Quirk, or how exactly he guided the crisis toward its end point. Just that there were no casualties and minor injuries. He was successful.

Hitoshi's attention turns back to you when you rest your cheek on his shoulder. He looks down at you, wishing he could see your face, but your eyes (that he swears are all-seeing) remain fixed on the park in front of you. He's just about to break the silence himself when he feels you inhale against him and ask: "The students are all okay?" Even though, you already know the answer.

Shinsou takes a shaky breath. Lets it out slowly, fights down the confused tilt of his mouth. "…Yeah. Everyone's okay."

You lift your head only to drop your chin on his shoulder, and Shinsou surprises even himself when he sputters out a laugh at the goofy grin on your face, the light in your eyes. "Way to go, hero," you whisper and straighten up to press a kiss to his chin. His smile falters at the feather-light touch and your eyes flicker briefly with concern. "What is it?"

"I love you." It comes out in a breath, nearly a wheeze, and the only reason you hear him is because you're so close. It's your turn for your smile to drop, but it comes back just as quickly. And then it's as if the first cold day of autumn doesn't exist because your smile is brighter and warmer than any sun Shinsou Hitoshi will ever hope to see. He smiles widely in return and slides a hand up to cup your neck, the back of your head, laughing in awe at the joy radiating out from you. "I love you," he's unable to stop himself from telling you again.

"I love you too, jerk," you whisper, and your smile clacks against Hitoshi's when he kisses you. One of his gloved hands passes down the length of your arm and you shudder, pressing closer to him on the cold bench. His other arm works around your back, pulling you half onto his lap, and you can tell by the satisfied hum he lets out that he thoroughly enjoys the way you gasp into his mouth.

And the way Shinsou looks at you when he finally pulls back and strokes a thumb reverently down your cheek have you saying: "Let's go home, hero."

~*~

He makes you breakfast in the morning.

You come to slowly, tilting your nose toward the smell of brewing coffee and stretching your beautifully sore muscles. You can't remember the last time you woke up feeling this well-rested, this content. "I love you," Hitoshi had told you yesterday…and he spent the entirety of last night showing you just how much he meant that. The smell of breakfast cooking in the wake of such fantastic events is just the cherry on top of the cake. A giddy smile stretches across your face and you fight the urge to kick your feet in the comforter like an overly-excitable toddler.

When you finally do get up, you head straight to your boyfriend's closet to steal one of his most coveted black sweatshirts—the ones he got from a brand deal about two months ago. You gave him a lot of shit when you opened up the package to see the hero's purple logo snug next to the designer's trademark, and to your surprise, Shinsou had blushed all the way up to his purple hair.

You pull on the sweatshirt with a happy little hum, then make your way slowly into his massive combined kitchen and living space. You hiss quietly when your bare feet make contact with the hardwood floor, and silently mourn not pulling on the ridiculously fluffy slippers Shinsou received from one of his friends (another package you gave him a hard time for receiving).

"Get back in bed."

A smirk forms on your lips at the demand, especially now that you know he could actually send you right back to bed if he wanted to. But, you also know that he never would.

The two of you had returned to his apartment in a flurry of hands and kisses, but Hitoshi had managed to peel you off of him long enough to gain your attention with a serious look. His revealing his quirk to you had been a turning point for you both, but especially for Hitoshi.

He fell in love with you just a little bit more when you simply nodded at his deep dark truth and said: "I trust you, hero. I feel like that should go without saying by now. Now, if you don't finish what you started, I'm going to scream."

You ended up screaming a little bit anyway, not that you complained.

You wrap your arms around Hitoshi's strong, slim waist when you finally meet him at the stove, and nearly topple backwards when he leans his weight back into you. "Hitoshi!" you squeal, desperately trying to tilt his heavily muscled body off of you. "You're gonna crush me."

"I thought I did that last night?" He spins around in your arms with a cheeky smile, just in time to see you blush furiously before landing a solid hit on his shoulder. "This is supposed to be a romantic, breakfast-in-bed type deal," Hitoshi continues, though the way he runs his hands up the length of your arms betrays him. "Now go back to bed."

"Mmmmm no." You smile and roll up onto your toes so you can press a kiss to Hitoshi's cheek before stepping out of his arms. He reaches out to pull you back, but you smoothly evade him and walk back around the counter to take a seat on one of the plush barstools. "I think I'd rather enjoy the view. Plus, I already smelled the coffee."

Shinsou scoffs playfully and turns the stove off. "And what, you think you're gonna get it sitting all the way over there?"

"I thought this was supposed to be a 'romantic, breakfast-in-bed type deal?'"

"That was before you decided to be difficult."

You roll your eyes playfully. "And to think I thought you'd be in a good mood this morning, jerk."

"I'm in a fantastic mood." You gasp when Shinsou's voice is right next to your ear—you had completely missed his approach. His smile is radiant as you sit up a little too eagerly, just barely avoiding smashing your nose against his as you do, and you roll your eyes again at the smug way he's watching you. "Do that again and your eyes will roll out of your head," he warns.

"If that were true, you would have been eyeless a long time ago," you retort. You're so close you can smell the coffee on his breath. "What, so no coffee, and no 'good morning' either?'" you ask.

Shinsou responds by pressing his lips firmly against yours. You relax against him with a sleepy sigh, but he keeps you upright with a hand on your cheek so he can kiss you deeply, thoroughly before slowly pulling away and whispering against your mouth: "Good morning."

You smile and press another quick peck to his lips. "Good morning, Hitoshi."

"Coffee?" he asks, though he still doesn't move away. You giggle as his nose brushes yours.

"It's cold, no?"

"Long cold," Hitoshi confirms, and you giggle again when he sneaks his hands along your waist (underneath his sweatshirt) to lift you easily from the barstool. He whispers the last of your conversation against your lips as he carries you back to the bedroom. "We'll make more later."

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buckymorelikefuckme · 2 years

Text

i ♡ caulk

inspired by a tweet i saw ages ago and have since lost rip.

steve rogers x bimbo reader

words: 2.3k

a/n: there is definitely an overuse of italics in this so i apologize in advance lol. any and all mistakes are my own! header made by me, and yes, graphic design is my passion, thanks for asking :') pls leave some feedback or come chat in my inbox!! ♡

part 2 ❀

The sound of high heels clacking against the concrete floor of the hardware store is more than a little unusual. Steve almost doesn’t register it at first, thinking maybe it’s part of the music playing overhead, but when the song changes and he still hears it, he glances up with a frown. He certainly isn’t expecting the sight that greets him.

The heels make perfect sense now. Steve’s eyes trail up from sparkly pink toenails showcased in strappy heels to, somehow, an even pinker flared mini skirt that is doing a fantastic job of showing off your legs, and a cropped fitted tee that reads MILF IN TRAINING across the front in, you guessed it, pink glittery letters. Everything about you is just… pink.

He doesn’t want to admit it aloud, let alone think it, because he tries not to judge based on appearance, but you look a little lost. Your doe-eyed gaze flits from one end of the store to the other, glossed lips pursed in thought.

Steve doesn’t mean to stare, honest, it’s just that you’re so dainty and bright in a way this dull, musty smelling hardware store isn’t. He doesn’t think he’s seen eyelashes that long before and he briefly wonders if they’re real. The tint to your cheeks definitely isn’t, but he thinks it's pretty regardless.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts; that’s not important. What is important is that he does his actual job and helps a customer who needs it.

He wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his ugly, orange work apron and is about to make his way over to you, but you spot him before he can. A smile spreads across your shiny lips and you quickly walk to where Steve’s been restocking boxes of nails, your perfectly styled hair bouncing with each step. Or, well, he was restocking the nails, until he caught sight of you.

“Hi,” you say in a relieved tone. He opens his mouth to say hello in return, but you continue before he gets a chance. “Could you please show me your caulk?”

Steve chokes on nothing, a startled cough wheezing out of him. “I-I’m sorry, what? My what?”

You tilt your head curiously, brows pinching slightly in a frown. “Your caulk? You know, the like, long thingy with the sticky, white stuff inside? Gets hard as it dries…?”

The hand gestures you’re using do not help the heat from rushing to Steve’s cheeks or his blood pressure that is suddenly skyrocketing.

“I… Ma’am, I-I don’t think—” he starts sputtering until you cut him off again.

“I really need it,” you say, almost whining, cocking your hip as you begin to explain, “because, like—okay, so, my apartment is nice, right? I totally managed to snag one of the better ones, and my friend said that I wouldn’t be able to because it’s, like, impossible to get a good one in the building I’m in, but once I spoke to the landlord he was super sweet and let me choose whichever one I wanted. Isn’t that, like, so cute? But anyway, it could definitely be nicer, especially after I noticed that the caulking around the bathtub needs some serious retouching, so, like, that’s why I’m here.”

Steve blinks a couple times to process the rapid pace of sentences thrown at him, and when it finally registers, he nearly smacks his own forehead.

“Oh!” Relief floods him so quickly he nearly collapses. “Caulk, you need caulk.” He probably over enunciates the word, but Jesus Christ. “Wow, okay, that… that makes much more sense,” he says, shoulders relaxing as he lets out a sigh.

“What did you think I meant?” you ask in confusion.

His cheeks flush anew as he clears his throat. “Uh, nothing, it’s nothing. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the—the caulk.”

“Thank you so much,” you gush, smiling widely.

He checks that you’re still following probably too many times, considering the click-clacking of your heels is prominent behind him, but you only grin happily when you see him looking. He takes note of the stares from other men, even some women, and is curious if you notice them, too, or if you just don’t care. You certainly carry yourself with the utmost confidence, your head held high and shoulders set in a gentle, relaxed slope. Steve admires it and maybe even envies it a little.

Which isn’t to say that he lacks confidence. He just sometimes still feels like that scrawny kid he used to be.

He almost walks past the right section, having let his mind wander, but he’s quick to direct his feet to the shelves that hold what you’re searching for.

“Is there a specific brand you’re wanting, or…?” he trails off, cocking an eyebrow curiously.

“Whichever one is the best,” you say sweetly.

Steve grabs the brand he personally thinks is better than the others and hands it over with a polite smile.

“Do you need a caulk gun, too?” he asks.

You wave a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, I have a pink one at home.”

Somehow, that doesn’t surprise Steve in the slightest, but all he says is, “Great! Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

You get a twinkle in your eyes, your smile turning playful at the corners of your lips. It makes him squirm a little in a way he’s not entirely sure he hates, like the anticipation of your reply could make or break him, and he finds that he wouldn’t mind staying in your presence a little longer. Your response, though, gets cut off by a random man behind you.

“I could do a better job helpin’ you out, baby,” he says suggestively, not even attempting to hide his lust as he leers at you.

You spin on your heel in a flash, hair swishing around your shoulders and sending a rather pleasant waft of what’s either your shampoo or perfume in Steve’s direction. The short skirt you're wearing fans out with your spin as well, riding up almost dangerously high. Your grin is now sharp, edgy, and your eyes are piercing in a way they haven’t been in the brief moments Steve has been around you, and he takes a cautious step back.

“First of all, worry about helping yourself with that receding hairline you’re sporting, big guy. Second of all, we weren’t talking to you, so you should mind your business. And lastly, if you ever speak to me again I’ll have this nice man beside me show me where the chainsaws are and I’ll chop off your fucking dick. M’kay?”

The man scoffs. “Bitch,” he grumbles under his breath.

Steve frowns and is about to tell him off for calling a lady a bitch, but you giggle and he stops in surprise.

“Takes one to know one, baby.” Your tone is mocking yet deceptively sweet as you give him an obvious once over. “I can see that ugly silver band on your left ring finger,” you note with a cute wrinkle of your nose, “so why don’t you get the rest of the shit on your honey-do list and head home to your, undoubtedly, extremely unsatisfied wife and leave other women alone.”

A snort of laughter sneaks out of Steve before he can stop it. The man, now red in the face, huffs before stomping away, wisely choosing not to say anything else.

“Tell her to call me if she ever needs a girl’s day!” you sing-song to his retreating back, smiling in satisfaction when his shoulders hunch higher and his pace picks up.

Steve is biting back his own smile, but his inner old man shoves his way to the forefront of his mind and demands to offer unsolicited advice.

“You know, you ought to be careful,” he advises. “Some guys won’t just walk away like that.”

You seem both amused and touched by his concern. “I can take care of myself,” you assure, flicking your hair, adding, “Plus, I have, like, a gazillion self defense keychains.”

You reach into your purse and pull them out, each one of them pink, sparkly, or leopard print, clinking noisily against each other. You pick out a specific one that looks like a castle, putting your fingers into the holes and holding it up for Steve to see.

“This one is like, super stabby,” you explain.

“The tips definitely look sharp,” he concedes, taking note of all the other defenses held together in your small hand.

Part of him wonders if you’ve ever used any of them, but a larger part of him sincerely hopes you haven’t. He clears his throat.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need help with anything else.”

He pastes on a polite smile and takes one last look at you, sighing wistfully internally, then heads back to finishing restocking boxes of nails. He’s hoping the monotony of the repetitive task will bring him back down to earth after such an interesting altercation.

You’re certainly a bundle of contradictions. Your appearance is all pink and sparkles and ruffles galore. Anyone giving you a passing glance would think like Steve did at first.

I doubt there’s much going on in that pretty, little head.

Of course, Steve feels guilty now. He should know better—not only because his Momma raised him right, but because people also make assumptions about him and his appearance too. Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, big muscles… He’s definitely had to deal with his share of rude people. However, he doubts any of his encounters hold a candle to yours.

He sighs to himself as he grabs the last of the boxes and places them neatly on the shelf. If he’d been braver, he would have asked you out. You’re very beautiful; kind of like a fairy or a princess, or… something. Definitely something like that. Damn. He really screwed the pooch on this one.

“Excuse me?”

Steve stills, heart picking up pace as he turns to see you smiling up at him. You’ve got a plastic bag with the store’s tacky logo on it resting in the crook of your elbow with your purchase inside.

“Yes?” he croaks. He coughs lightly and hopes his ears aren’t as red as they feel. “Did you need something else?”

You cock your hip again, twirling some of your hair around your finger, looking at him through your lashes.

“Yes,” you pout. “I was wondering if you knew where I could find this guy.” Steve’s stomach drops to his toes. “He’s got these like, stupidly pretty blue eyes, a very attractive beard, sandy blonde hair I can’t wait to sink my fingers into, and he’s about this tall.” You bite your lip as you step closer and hold your hand up, measuring Steve’s height with it. He gets another whiff of that tantalizing scent coming off of you and it kicks his heart right back into overdrive.

“What… What did you need him for exactly?” he asks carefully.

You drop your hand as you hum in thought. “Well, I thought we’d start with a date, but I’m open to almost anything,” you say, your smile turning sly.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “I, uh. I think he’d be okay with that.”

You giggle and fuck, he wants to hear that again.

“Good,” you reply as you tuck your hair behind your ear.

“Just for clarification’s sake,” Steve rushes out, “we’re talking about me, right?”

You let out more giggles (oh god) and cover your mouth with your tiny hand and Steve melts. He feels his own lips stretching into a grin, chest fluttering.

“Of course, you silly billy.” You’re still smiling as you reach into your purse, rummaging around and extracting a pen with feathers on the end of it and a tiny, glittery notebook. You scribble something down and rip the piece of paper out. “Call me?” you ask as you hand it over.

“Absolutely,” he replies, not believing his luck, staring at the numbers on the paper.

You reach up to tap on his name tag. “Oh, and Steve?”

His eyes are now glued to where your pink nails have trailed down to teasingly swipe back and forth on his pec. He’s pretty sure he mumbles something back to show he’s listening, but who knows, really. You lean in even closer, pressing up on your tip-toes.

“You can treat me like a lady and still fuck me on the first date,” you whisper, your warm breath fanning out across his ear and sending a shiver down his spine. When you pull back to meet his unfocused gaze, you’re smirking. “M’kay?”

He swallows thickly. “‘Kay,” he replies.

You tilt your head and stare at different parts of his face, biting your lip. Steve lets you, terrified to move, otherwise you might say gotcha! and take off. You sigh dreamily and give him a glossy kiss on the cheek. Then you boop him on the nose and step back.

“Ugh, you’re so cute. This is gonna be like, so much fun. I can tell.” He nods dumbly in agreement. “Don’t forget to call me, okay? I’ll be really, really sad if you don’t.”

With a beaming grin and wave, you spin on your heels and sashay away.

“Bye,” he says to the fading sound of your clacking heels, feeling bowled over and utterly lost, but knowing he’d be a fucking idiot to not call you.

With that thought in mind, he digs his phone out of his pocket, never mind the fact that he’s still on the clock and is technically not supposed to have his phone out, and dials your number. He double checks (and triple checks) he’s put it in right, then hits the call button. You answer on the third ring.

“Hello?”

Steve is pretty sure he can hear how you’re smiling smugly to yourself.

“So… Are you free tonight?”

“For you? I’m free whenever, handsome.”

#steve rogers fic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #bimbo reader #avengers fic #marvel fic

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mystargirl-interlude · 2 months

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑

Sam claflin x fém!reader smut❣️❣️❣️

No use of y/n, oral (male receiving) PnV, unprotected sex, slight handjob??? This is requested! 😘 @jen-parker

hi we are gonna act like I didn’t take over 2 months to make this! I had to go on lockdown cause I almost got canceled on twitter anyway enjoy

Waking up in the morning to an empty bed and the smell of pancakes in the air was definitely a way to start the morning off, getting up and washing up you go in the kitchen to see Sam still in his pajamas cooking breakfast.

“You’re staring” Sam says grinning breaking me out of my thoughts

“sorry I zoned out” you reply smiling as he brings you in for a kiss.

What was supposed to be a short peck turner into 3 pecks turned into a full kiss.

Wrapping his arms around your waist he pulls you in as close as he can get, you can feel his tongue brush against your lips asking for permission which you grant immediately.

Thank god his kids were at summer camp

Your hands go up to his hair tugging slightly making him groan into your mouth, but unfortunately being interrupted by the sound of pancakes burning on the stove

“Shit! dammit!” Swiftly moving the pan over to the other side of the stove to cook off you look down at what use to be the breakfast

“Do you think it’s still edible?” are the first words out of your mouth, looking up at Sam

“I am 99% sure it is not..” he says, swollen lips smiling at you. Realizing he lost your attention he looks at what does and sees that there’s a sun shower outside casting a rainbow through the windows

“Sam, Sam we have to go outside, quick before it’s over!” You say jumping up and down He picks you up throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour taking you outside. Immediately met with the warm sun and cool rain Sam puts you down as you both get soaked in the rain water.

Your pink nightgown begins to stick to your body emphasizing your figure, Sam takes his shirt off once it begins to get wet throwing it off to the side

He picks you up once more placing you onto the pool chair before crawling on top of you.

Coming down to kiss your lips “so” kiss “fucking” kiss “beautiful” he says before fully kissing you knocking the wind out of your lungs

Tongues brushing up against each other you wrap your legs around his waist pulling him in as close as possible, the mixture of the cold rain with warm sun feels like heaven

Thrusting your hips up to grind against his now hard cock a loud whine leaves your swollen lips

“What do you need?” His raspy British tone says while moving his kisses to your neck

“I n-need you inside of me” you say breathlessly

“Well since you asked so nicely..” he says while peeling your nightgown off of you leaving you completely nude underneath him, then proceeding to take his pants off

His fat dick slaps up against his lower stomach making your mouth water

“I want you in my mouth first” you say looking up at him through the rain

You get off of the chair dropping to your knees you quickly grab his cock in your hands spitting on it before slowly jerking it off

You look up at him once more as he lets out a deep sigh of relief

Taking his fat tip in your mouth your eyes roll back slightly at the familiar taste

You moan which sends vibrations through is dick making him moan loudly. Deciding you want more you start taking the rest of his cock in your mouth making his tip hit the back of your throat.

Bobbing your head around his length with spit dripping down onto your breast’s Sam wishes he had his phone of him to capture the moment as you get all the way down to his base, with your nose buried in the short hair

“Fuck, get up I don’t wanna cum yet” he groans out. Standing up your knees are slightly scraped due to the rough concrete, quickly straddling him your lips meet letting him taste himself and a mixture of rain water in your mouth

He lays you down on the chair hovering over you, he grabs his cock and slaps it on your clit rubbing it through your folds, letting out a whine as you wrap your legs around his waist

“Please I can’t wait anymore please please please” letting out words of nonsense at this point Sam finally gives in letting his cock slip through your cunt immediately starting at a fast pace, the sounds of him groaning and skin hitting mix with the sound of rain

“Fuck fuck, your so good” Sam groans into your neck as he pounds into you.

The feeling of the tip of his cock just barely kissing your cervix is ungodly, his hand slips between the both of you rubbing your clit in sync with his thrusts. Pulling your hair back revealing more of your neck he buries his head into in leaving a trail of blood sucking kisses behind.

You’re almost positive you can feel him in your stomach rearranging your guts with how hard he’s pounding into you

“yeah, yeah right there!” You practically scream as you feel him hit that spongy spot

“Found it” he says against your lips

You can feel warmth beginning to spread in your lower stomach the same time as you feel Sam start to twitch in you

“Fuck Sam, sam I’m gonna cum, fuck!” You whine

“Me too baby just let go” he says as he lets out a moan

Clenching hard around him almost completely pushing him out he rubs fast at your swollen clit almost letting out a feminine moan as you gush around him feeling pure white hot pleasure run through your body. Your orgasm almost immediately sets off his as he fills you up to the brim

Sam slows down his pace letting the both of you ride out orgasms letting the rain water cool you both off

“We should do that more often” you say causing the both of you to laugh

See you next time stargirl nation 😘

#sam claflin x reader #finnick odair x oc #finnick x reader #finnick odair fanfic #billy dunne #billy dunne x reader #sam claflin smut #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut

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submissivegayfrenchboy · 1 month

Text

24 / 04 / 2024

FINDING YOUR PLACE AS A WHITEBOY - A BNWO SHORT STORY

A young white man was walking when he saw a large, muscular Black man walking two handsome young men on a leash who were obviously his human dogs. He was so immense that the heads of the slaves barely reached above the giant's navel. They wore only a tiny pink chastity cage and nothing else, and they were completely shaved except for their hair. It was a way of keeping their identity and being able to recognize them.

“Poor unfortunate boys”, he said to himself.

The huge Black man sat on a bench in a park and his human dogs did not reach beyond his knees. On his orders, they licked his very long shoes, only to publicly humiliate them.

The white man thought that these two young men were enslaved since the Debt Act, created to make a person incapable of repaying his debt a human property. In reality, this Law only applied to white people owing money to Black people, in order to discreetly but gradually and concretely begin the slavery of Whites towards Blacks.

Nowadays it was really common to see white girls leashed by Black women, white girls leashed by Black men, whiteboys leashed by Black Women or Men, or a Black family, a Black couple or an interracial (Black man and white woman) couple. They were just dogs. Walking on their knees or hands and feet or standing but behind their Master / Mistress. Nobody looked at it, because most of the living pets were whiteboys and everyone agreed that whiteboys aren't useful to society so they deserves to be enslaved.

These young men leashed by the Black giant were probably students who couldn't pay their rent on time, or something like that, but it didn't matter anymore.

From now on they will remain for the rest of their miserable lives the human dogs of a huge Black man.

They didn't seemed to enjoy their life, and that's why the free whiteboy realized he should tell his opinion to the Black giant.

“He has no right to treat them like his dogs, they are humans after all. I’m going to go tell him what I think”, he naively decided without thinking.

The white man shouted : “How dare you treat his two poor boys like dogs? 😡”

The Black man stood up very calmly and the white man realized that his head was reaching under the muscular giant's pectorals.

“Oh my god you are so impressive, I completely forgot what I wanted to say... 😳” said the skinny white guy.

"Yes, I'm much more muscular than you, boy" replied the Black master in a loud voice. "These two white dogs belong to me. But if you were so shocked, you wouldn't be envious of their fate, as it seems to be. To my left is Asslicker and to my right is Dicksucker Would you like to become Feetlicker and worship a Black master?"

Faced with this giant, the boy realized his inferiority and immediately accepted. On the master's orders, he immediately went to buy a leash and a chastity cage, returned to the park, undressed, threw away his clothes and offered his identity papers to the Black giant.

The Black giants put the collar around the slave's neck and pulled the leash: he now had three little white dogs as slaves. One to lick his huge ass, the other to suck his big cock and the other to worship his long feet. The doggies were forbidden to speak without permission from the master, but he was so tall that he could not hear them speak or whisper.

"I can't believe you just asked him to take you as a slave" said Dicksucker, one of the slaves already purchased. "you realize that you have just given up your freedom. Why did you do that?"

"Are you kidding? I'll be able to lick feet for the rest of my life. The beautiful life I dreamed of is finally mine. Yay!", Feetlicker answered.

Asslicker was shocked. "We had no choice, but you did! Why would a white boy want to belong to a Black man as a dog for eternity?"

Feetlicker, the new dog, had never been so happy. Euphoric, he replied: "The better question is why aren't white boys already the property of Black men? They are superior to us in everything! I have never had a girlfriend, a stable job, faithful friends. At least my place in life is assured! I would have preferred to have been born in a kennel and to have been bought by this master since birth to be his dog!"

"You're really crazy, you disgust me 😒🙄" said Dicksucker, who hated his life in the service of a Black giant and hated this law too.

Yet Feetlicker's devotion was rewarded and the ingratitude of others punished: Asslicker became the Master's human toilet and never saw the outside world again, condemned to eating the shit and drinking the piss of the Master's many friends and family members.

As for Dicksucker, he was sold to an African brothel to suck huge black cocks for the rest of his days.

While Feetlicker was the happy dog of a protective black man who made him lick his immense, very muscular body and fucked him to reward him.

The moral is that little white boys who are incapable of managing themselves can only find happiness and usefulness in the service of black men, and that it is the future of humanity to enslave them.

END OF THE STORY

Other story about a whiteboy being a pet

@blacksupremacygoddess @tidodore2 @leftprogrammingroadtripdean @wileyct @awhitegirlspassion @rape-and-raceplay @rainykpoptravelcreator @gayhopefullove @lovefanfiction01 @innerpiratefun @bnwo @blackcockriders @bnwoserverworld @blackmasterdominantforgoodfag @whiteboylovesblack @whiteboyforbbc @bbcaddiction2 @mnwosupporter

#feet #faggot slave #lécher les pieds #slavery #histoire fictive personnelle #feet slave #master #servant #alpha #pieds #Black New World Order #BNWO #White dog #Chien humain #Human pet #Dogtraining

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inkheartedwanderer · 1 year

Text

a tally on the left || s.h.

in which the most embarrassing moment of steve’s life leads him to you.

steve x fem!reader.

content: tacky leotards, steve in a crop-top, a fitness class. summer of ‘85, instant crush, girly reader (kinda). not very good i’m sorry :( more steve-centric than reader-centric

word count: 4.2k

Steve Harrington never thought the most humiliating moment of his life would come at the hands of two fifteen-year-old girls. Pleading doe eyes, empty promises of never ever bothering him ever again and his own goodwill to blame, he agreed with barely a qualm, just a deep sigh followed by El’s skinny arms around his torso and a less vehement than usual pat on the back from Max.

If he had known what he was really getting into, he wouldn’t have acceded so fast.

It’s times like this, when he’s standing in the middle of the Starcourt Mall parking lot in very short shorts and a fucking crop top -courtesy of a very amused Dustin, and that he’s wearing god knows why-, that he deeply regrets having a soft spot for the kids.

Leaning against his car, hands on his hips and duffle gym bag on the concrete by his feet, Steve waits for El and Max to get out of the vehicle with their backpacks. He’s not exactly sure why Max wants to do this in the first place, it seems precisely like the type of activity she would hate, from the outfits down to the music; but El is very excited, has been since they asked the boy to tag along a few days ago, and has apparently talked Hopper’s ear off about it to a point of near madness.

“Okay,” Steve claps his hands and motions for the girls to get closer, “here’s the plan. We walk in fast, get over with this batshit insane idea of yours, and dip. Clear?”

While El is agreeable and nods, Max rolls her eyes, a smug smile gracing her lips. Steve raises a questioning eyebrow and she snorts, “I can’t take you seriously while you’re wearing that.” Her eyes travel up and down his body, settling on the dark hair that covers his abdomen.

It’s remarkably awkward to be ogled by a child. “It was the only clean t-shirt I had left.” Steve tugs at the end of his top, a muted blue monstrosity that he will burn as soon as he gets home, and pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, eyes closed, willing himself to breathe deep and be a supportive friend. Babysitter. Whatever. “Let’s just do this, okay?”

El squeals with joy and laces her arm through Max’s, the girls leading the way towards the mall in their bright, colourful attires and matching leg warmers. They whisper with each other, heads close, their giggles reaching Steve, who’s a few feet behind thanking whoever was in charge of this whole mess for scheduling it so early that the parking lot is virtually empty.

We need an adult, they’d said, no one else is free. He can pinpoint now, as he replays the conversation in his head, all the times he could’ve said no. But he didn’t, because he’s an idiot (a good friend if he says so himself, but an idiot nonetheless); and now he’s crossing the upper level of Starcourt in the dead of summer, peak season in full swing, about to spend his morning doing aerobics.

The name of the small studio glows in pink neon letters, mocking Steve with the promise of cheesy music and cheesier moves. It’s a modest rectangular space that someone painted in bright coloured stripes, painful to the eyes, with wooden panel flooring and a large window wall facing -much to Steve’s dismay- the inside of the mall.

A small crowd of mostly middle-aged women is gathered on the left side of the room, all sporting leotards with tacky prints and tights. The only other man in the room is sitting down on a small bench, fastening his shoelaces. He’s very fit, all defined muscles and shiny hair, and seems delighted to be there.

Max pulls El to the far end of the studio, the designated space for everybody’s bags, and both girls giggle as they stare unabashedly at the others. Steve drops his stuff in the corner and stands next to them, grimacing. “Will you tell me why you really wanted to come here?” He’s beginning to question the girls’ motivations for this early-morning adventure.

El looks at Steve with a mischievous smile and whispers “The inst-” Her face drops and she looks at Max, frustration crossing her eyes, then sighs. “Uhm, the teacher is cute.”

“Instructor.” Max offers her friend, then turns to Steve. “He’s like, the hottest guy ever.”

Steve huffs, ignoring the not-so-hidden dig at him in her words, and crosses his arms. “What about your little boyfriends?”

“Mike is visiting his nana.” El’s hand fiddles with the yellow scrunchie holding her short hair up. She suddenly looks a little bit sad, her brown eyes clouding, eyebrows pinched together in the middle.

“I dumped Lucas last week.” The redhead shrugs nonchalantly at Steve’s bewildered look. “He forgot our seven-month anniversary. He’ll apologise soon. Meanwhile, we will enjoy the view.” She points towards the door, and Steve turns around.

The teacher can’t be much older than he is. He walks across the room with a powerful stride and too bright of a smile for this time of the morning, greeting the older, most likely regular attendees. His eyes land on the girls as he puts his stuff aside and takes his jacket off.

“Hey, you two,” he’s still beaming, a cheery tilt in his voice that makes Steve cringe, “aren’t you too young to be here?”

“We’re with him.” Max points at Steve, who gives the teacher a tight-lipped smile and a wave of acknowledgement, feeling entirely out of place.

That seemed to be enough for the guy, whose smile grew, showing two rows of perfect white teeth. “Well, alright. Some of the moves may be too intense, so just go at your own pace, alright?”

He claps twice, loudly, and motions for everyone to get into place. Like a well-oiled machine, every person knows their spot. Steve follows the girls to the back of the room, feeling all too exposed, and uncharacteristically nervous.

At the press of a button, loud, synth-heavy music starts playing from a brand-new shiny set of speakers. It’s exactly the kind of songs Steve was expecting, the ones he loves to scream in the car when no one’s watching, but not the kind he wants to jump and dance to, surrounded by complete strangers and two teenagers who will never let him live it down.

Maybe, he thinks, he can make a run for it and hide somewhere until the class is over. The backroom of Scoops Ahoy, he thinks, is perfect. If only his new co-worker and personal nightmare Robin Buckley weren’t working the morning shift today… she would pay good money, Steve’s sure, to see him right now. Possibly take a picture and send it to the local newspaper. They’ve only been working together for a little over two weeks and she’s made it her mission to keep track (literally, on her whiteboard, the words you lose earning tally after tally) of every single embarrassing moment of his life. She would have a field day with this.

Now, Steve’s always been athletic. He was a great swimmer, regularly winning races and regional championships as a preteen. Then, in high school, he moved on to basketball, and he was the star player until he graduated. He’s fought monsters with nothing but a bat and adrenaline and made it out alive.

This should be easy, right? Just moving around a little bit. That’s what he thought.

Fifteen minutes later, beads of sweat cover his forehead, light brown strands of hair falling over his eyes. Patches of perspiration stain his shirt, the cotton fabric hot against his clammy skin. To his right, El and Max are definitely going at their own pace, making up their own moves and laughing at each other.

Steve deeply regrets every single decision that’s brought him to this moment.

He doesn’t notice you, at first, too busy trying to follow the steps and not make a fool out of himself. It’s only when the instructor tells the class to grab a mat from the pile at the back of the room and sit down for the flexibility exercises that he finally sees you in his peripheral, to his left.

With your hair tied back in a ponytail that sways behind you every time you move, cascading over your shoulder when you crouch to settle on the floor; you’re a doll dressed in pale lavender and sunshine yellow, soft colours hugging your frame in all the right places as you sit down, legs apart, stretching your body towards your right, towards him.

Steve has to fight the urge to stare, failing miserably when you raise your head and your eyes lock. You smile, pretty pink lips curling upwards, turning your cheeks into round bright apples. He likes the way your nose scrunches, how you unintentionally try to hide behind your shoulder, shy under his gaze.

He can feel his face grow hotter, fire under his skin, a drum inside his ribcage. You’ve got the kind of face that makes him want to melt, the kind of smile that sends his heart into a frenzy; and he almost misses the small hi that leaves your lips. You blink up at him expectantly and stretch over the opposite leg.

Steve is frozen in place, knees bent awkwardly, a sweaty, heaving mess. But he reacts, and he hopes you keep on looking at him the same way. “Hey there.” He reaches out to touch the tip of his right foot unsuccessfully, his muscles protesting the pull, and winces.

You’re leaning forward now, your chest almost touching the floor, and your smile widens at his words. “You doing well over there?”

The boy inhales loudly and nods, a bashful smile across his lips. “I’m not very flexible, apparently.”

A chuckle floats between the two of you. “Here, let me help.” You crawl away from your mat and kneel behind him, placing one small hand on his back and another on his thigh. Your skin is warm as you press your whole body weight against him gently, helping him reach. He would complain about the sharp pain on the back of his legs, but he’s at a loss for words -it has been a long time since he felt the touch of a woman, and what once seemed as natural to him as breathing -chatting up pretty ladies, that is- is now nearly as scary as facing a hungry pack of demodogs ready to pounce at him.

"Hey, what's your name?" You whisper, close, very close to his ear, your breath hot on his nape, igniting his cheeks aflame. How he manages to mumble his answer is a mystery, but he does, and he can hear the smile in your words as you tell him your own name. A pretty one that suits you just right, he thinks.

Steve grunts when you lean back, relief washing over him as he sits up straight. It startles him, how he immediately misses your body on his body, your warmth on his skin. He wonders if you can see the effect you’ve had on him because you immediately place a gentle hand on his shoulder and ask, “Are you alright?”

“I- I think I just broke something.” A god, he wishes he doesn’t sound as profoundly mortified as he feels.

“Is this your first time?” Smiling, you sit back down on your mat and bring your tummy down to your knee. Although there’s genuine curiosity in your words, they come out low and raspy and they make Steve blush -again.

For the first time since the class started, he’s happy to be sweating, thankful for the loud music that conceals the loud thumps of his heart against his eardrums, and he prays that the flush that tints his skin is enough to camouflage his reaction. He swallows the lump in his throat, coughs, and nods. “It might be my last.”

Your giggle makes his breath hitch. "You just have to get used to it. It took me a few weeks."

Steve could tell since he first saw you you're not new to the class. As if it were muscle memory, your motions seem to flow from one to the next. It's methodical and easy; each movement calculated, almost innate. He forces himself to keep his eyes on yours and to answer with what little voice he finds. "I don't think this is my scene."

“And what is your scene, Steve?” You say his name with a lilt and a chuckle, like you’re hiding a secret and daring him to find it out. And maybe it’s the way you’re looking at him, a little bit shy and a little bit daring, or the strands of hair that have fallen out of your ponytail and now frame your face all pretty. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s too overwhelmed and not thinking straight and you’re the only girl who hasn’t looked at him like he’s a complete loser in too long, but he wants to find out.

The class is nearing its end, the music now softer, and the instructor moves on to stretching. He’s running out of time. It’s now or never. So Steve smiles that smile that used to get him both into and out of trouble, the one that’s soft and warm and a little cheeky and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners; and he rejoices in the way a deep pink blush graces your face this time.

“Are you hungry?”

You raise an eyebrow and a wide smile -certainly a little playful, maybe a little smug- stretches across your lips. “Oh, I’m starving! I haven’t had breakfast yet.” You both stand up, mats forgotten on the floor.

That smile and the obvious enthusiasm in your words take Steve by surprise, his brief surge of courage crumbling down like a house of cards. When you get used to rejection, much to his dismay (and he would never admit it), it’s easy to set your expectations low; but your eyes are shining, and all too pretty, and his smirk falters.

Two loud claps from the front of the room signal the end of the session and a collective sigh of relief makes the corners of your mouth twitch in amusement. The instructor turns off the music, and Steve is sure he would feel ecstatic about the silence, finally, if he weren’t so flustered.

“I- Well, I…” The boy can feel his brain freeze and turn into mush. He throws a thumb over his shoulder and clears his throat. “Wanna go? Together? For breakfast?” Well done, Harrington, you dingus.

Cursing Robin mentally for how her jabs have begun to seep into his own vocabulary, Steve braces himself for your rejection because why would you want to hang out with such a babbling idiot?

To his surprise, however, you simply shrug one shoulder and say, “Now?”

Steve blinks once, then twice and, as if in a trance, he finally nods. “Yeah.”

You smile again, this time a wide, pretty smile that lights up your whole face, innocent and sweet. “Sure! Let me go grab my things.”

As you turn around and head towards the back of the class, a spring in your step and your ponytail bouncing behind you, Steve lets out a deep sigh and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. He wants to kick himself silly. His plan was to ask you out on a nice date -breakfast at the diner right outside of town, pancakes and coffee; ideally, after a shower, when he’s not sweaty and, he remembers suddenly, wearing the ugliest outfit known to man.

A cough startles Steve. He turns around to find two sets of eyes fixed on him. Max’s eyebrows are furrowed, but Steve can see the barest hint of an amused smile tugging at her lips. El is giggling, hiding behind her friend’s shoulder, and the boy would buy the coy act if he didn’t know better.

“What?” He says, curtly, tugging at his shirt with a sour face.

“Pretty.” El states, voice soft, stealing glances at you while you stuff a small pink towel into your equally pink bag.

“I know.” Says Steve, still wary about the girls’ intentions. “I-”

Max, never one to not speak her mind, cuts him off way too loudly for his taste. “Are you taking her out or what?”

Steve huffs. He plays with the strands of hair that fall flat on his forehead, too damp to stand up in his usual quiff, then gives the redhead a stern look. “You cannot talk to me like that, alright?” The boy points his index finger at the pair of friends. “Not today.”

“You’re still wearing that,” Max says, waving her hand lazily at his outfit, “and I’m still not taking you seriously.”

“Ungrateful children…” Steve complains, throwing his head back with a whine.

“So, are you taking her out or what?”

“Yes, I am!”

“Then what about us?”

Steve’s head snaps back down and stares at the girls with raised eyebrows. Unbelievable. “What about you?”

“You said you’d drive us back home.” El giggles, her arm wrapped tightly around Max’s.

The boy’s mouth drops. “But… I can’t.”

“Is everything okay?” Your voice makes Steve turn around with a jump, and Max and El chuckle under their breaths. You’ve put on a soft-looking jacket and your bag rests at your feet, and you look lovely.

Steve grimaces. “Everything is fine, I just…”

You raise one eyebrow, eyes jumping from the boy to the two girls who now snicker unabashedly behind him. "I can just go home if you're busy or something-"

"No!" Steve waves his hands frantically in front of your face. "No! I just-"

Steve is certain his poor neurons have never ever worked this fast -not when Nancy pointed a gun right at his face, not when Billy Hargrove beat his ass-, yet so slow.

It feels like a movie reel in motion in his head, Steve travels the mall mentally to find a place to keep the kids entertained, just for an hour or two.

And just like a revelation, a miracle, an oasis in the desert, the light bulb turns on and he's never been so grateful for his job before.

He smiles. You smile back. Max and El take a step back. "Do you ladies like ice cream?"

The way from the studio on the top floor, down the mechanical stairs and across the food court to Scoops Ahoy takes your little group a dreadfully long time. For Steve, it’s never-ending. He’s not used to feeling self-conscious, quite the opposite, actually, but he’s struggling to cover his midriff with his duffel bag.

Steve leads the way, rushing towards the stairs, trying to avoid the families and groups of tweens that arrive early, hiding from the scorching late June sun inside the cool shade of the mall.

He sees Lucas Sinclair’s little sister, Erica, sitting on the steps across the big fountain and tries desperately to cover his face with his hand and stepping up the pace. She can be mean, has been mean before -when Robin refused to give her more free samples of cherry ice cream or whenever Lucas walks by, so Steve doesn’t want to risk being seen.

You’re happily chatting with the girls, who are bombarding you with questions about your outfit (from JCPenney) and your bag (Sears), where you live (on the other side of town, near the library), if you attend this class often (every weekend like clockwork).

It’s almost cute, Steve thinks, how El’s eyes shine with curiosity when you answer, and the genuine smile that has replaced Max’s smirk. Maybe, if his plan doesn’t work, you won’t mind them coming along.

When you finally reach the ice cream parlour, the mall is buzzing with energy. The calmness from earlier this morning has been disturbed by loud voices and laughter, babies crying and kids running around.

There’s a line already at the counter, and Steve can see his co-worker, Robin, a sullen look on her face, handing a chocolate cone to a young girl. He doesn’t really want to do this, because he’s certain her mockery will be endless.

But when he turns around, you’re standing there, so beautiful even after that workout, happy and patient, and he really, really wants to take you out. You’re looking at him with a smile so big your eyelashes touch. There they are again, those red apple cheeks of yours. He could just take a bite.

So Steve Harrington swallows his pride, squares his shoulders and takes one step ahead. "Wait here." He tells you. “You two, follow me. And behave. Please.”

El and Max follow him into the shop, ignoring the line and the objections -and threats- of those waiting.

“No-fucking-way.” Robin Buckley is already bending over laughing when Steve reaches the counter. Her eyes are settled on his top, a hand over her mouth to perfunctorily conceal her amusement. “Is this a dream, Harrington? Please, don’t pinch me. I love it.”

“Don’t say another word.” He pleads, brown eyes wide and desperate, one finger up in weak command. “I need a favour.”

Robin bites her lips, torn between her need to cackle as loudly as her lungs will allow her, and the pity she feels at how utterly hopeless the boy in front of her looks. She coughs, barely hiding her delight. “I’m all ears.”

“See that girl over there?” Steve turns around, waving discreetly at your figure while you look up at the Scoops Ahoy sign, amused. When Robin, who’s leaning on the counter, hums, but remains quiet otherwise, he goes on. “I’m taking her out. Like, right now.”

“Wow. You got a date with her wearing that? Right.” Robin takes a step back and grabs a cone from the glass display case by the cash register. She resumes her duties, scooping ice cream for the unhappy customers behind Steve with an even unhappier expression herself. “Comedy is not your forte, dingus.”

Steve rubs his face, sighs deeply and walks behind the counter. “I’m not joking, we’re having breakfast together.” He waves at you when you make eye contact with him, your smile perennial, your eyes bright. His legs are shaking, willing him to run towards you.

“And what’s this favour you need? Do you want me to go with you? Help you not mess up, Stevie boy?” She snorts, and so does Max from her spot, sitting on a boat-shaped booth.

“Ha-ha, funny, Buckley, really funny. No, I need you to keep an eye on these two.”

His younger friends smile, all fake innocence and girlish charm.

“You want me to babysit.” Robin deadpans, matter-of-factly.

“No.” Steve grimaces. “I mean, yes, kinda. But this is an emergency. Please?”

Robin looks at him, up and down, once, then twice. The boy can see the gears in her brain turning and plotting, and he knows nothing good will come from it. She stays silent as she grabs two cones and places them neatly on the metal holders, and as she takes two big scoops of chocolate brownie ice cream (Steve’s favourite, he notices with a sour look) and sticks a little plastic spoon on each one.

“What’s in it for me?” She finally says, placing a maraschino cherry on top of one of the scoops and looking at her work with a pleased smile.

“Anything.”

“Okay.” Robin takes the cones and hands them over to Steve, who looks at her, bewildered. “You’ll do the weekend morning shift the rest of the summer. Wait here.”

She walks into the backroom, leaving a perplexed Steve behind, and comes back shortly after holding her Polaroid camera and grinning maliciously. She’s too quick for Steve, the camera flashes before he even has time to react. The white paper rolls out from the front, and she snatches it and starts shaking it eagerly.

In any other circumstance, he would fight for that picture, he would tear it to pieces and burn them so nobody could ever see the Steve Harrington wearing a sweaty, ugly blue top.

But this is the nicest Robin’s ever been to him, the first time she’s agreed to help him without complaining, and Steve is not going to wait for her to start, so he shakes his head, still puzzled, and slowly walks back towards the door.

“The rest of the summer, Harrington!” Her voice travels across the store.

Getting up early every day for the next two months to work at an overrated ice cream parlour is almost as bad as getting up early on a Saturday to take two teenagers to an aerobics class. But your face lights up when you see the ice cream, and you thank him earnestly when he gives you the one with the bright red cherry on top that matches your cheeks.

Even though he knows she doesn’t like him, and even though he’s still not sure he likes her that much either, Steve turns around and gives his co-worker a thumbs up in gratitude. He smiles when he sees her take out her blackboard and draw a thin, black tally on the left.

🌷 🌷 🌷

a/n: i’m baaaaaaaaack. this is probably one of my worst stories (i like my original idea, but i’ll admit i wasn’t sure where to go with it) but i am a bit rusty and need to fall back into it.

i’ve missed writing so much, but i needed to get out of the house really badly. i hope you don’t hate this one. as always, likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. much love!

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #fluff #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you

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rnjfy · 5 months

Text

snow ducks — pjs.

in which park jisung loved snow ducks, but he loved you more.

a/n: merry christmas to those who celebrate! i’m back after almost a year (LOL) to drop this jack frost!jisung au that’s been rotting in my drafts ever since he’d dyed his hair for glimo T_T

warning/s: f!reader x jisung, mild profanity (like one or two), not proofread, fluff & angst if you squint, jisung and reader are CLUELESS, insinuations of a rough past, jisung as jack frost (because this is a warning in and of itself)

jisung couldn’t have imagined getting used to a life where no one knew his name. a life where everyone seemed to walk right through his body even when he was standing directly in front of them, his dark blue jacket hanging loosely on his body—bare feet feeling numb despite the cold concrete beneath them.

alas, he didn’t really have a choice. waking up to the man in the moon telling him that he was special? that’s what thrusted him into his new lifestyle.

“jack frost?” the curious tone of a short brown haired girl tore his attention away from his dwindling thoughts—she was staring cluelessly up at her father, who watched her from the family’s porch.

jisung huffs, a small smirk already pulling at his lips. he’s heard this conversation a thousand times, but he was always curious as to how each parent would spin the story and he in-turn was pleasantly surprised at the amount of different takes each parent would tell their kids.

the man clears his throat before repeating the same old folklore the people of the city had made up about the white haired boy, yet with a new-found twist. “if you stay outside too long, jack frost will come and freeze you up!”

this makes the teenage boy chuckle, his staff hanging freely on his fingertips. sure, he can cause a blizzard with just the touch of them thanks to the man in the moon, but even he wouldn’t do that to a little girl. though, his sharp eyes watches her gasp before she rushes up from her spot in front of their house, the snow beneath her feet crackles as she giggles into her dads arms.

jisung doesn’t know what makes his heart freeze, the lonely feeling he gets from the heartwarming family gesture—or the snowstorm he seems to be brewing over the city of pennsylvania.

—

“you were out again?”

jisung sighs. he didn’t want to be sitting through another one of the tooth fairy’s lectures and with this one being his third of the week, he could probably recite her lecture off the top of his head.

her wings were fluttering rapidly as her cheeks tinted pink with how frustrated she was with him. “you didn’t throw snowballs at a child’s head again did you?”

a laugh almost bubbles from his lips. almost.

“that was one time! and they had fun didn’t they?” the boy grins as he twirls the small snowflakes around in the air above his fingers. he watches as she relaxes a tiny bit, her wings still making the slight fluttering noise he’s learned to drown out. the green fairy sighs, tired from having to say the same thing over and over again to the michievous boy standing in front of her with absolutely no care in the world.

“don’t let north find out, okay? he’ll rip your head right off.” she ends her lecture short with a small murmur, which catches jisung off guard. her bright smile flashes at him before she’s whisked away by one of her many fairies.

being a guardian wasn’t always easy, he was a teenage boy for god’s sake and having to deal with everything a boy his age does on top of having to be a ‘role model’ for millions of kids out in the world—meant finding time for him to just be himself, the teenage jisung park, was a scarce opportunity. he knew the tooth fairy only meant well, they all did, even the easter bunny. but he felt like they didn’t understand. they didn’t know about the grip his past had on him, a past that he isn’t even fully aware about yet. they didn’t know that sometimes all he yearns for are answers to who he really is.

but despite all this, he picks up his staff with his gaze trailing over the hundreds of elves scattered across the north pole.

and the white haired boy is gone—with only a small snowflake left in his place.

—

over the years, jisung’s learned to ignore the ache in his chest that longs to search for the answers to the questions swirling in his head. instead, he enjoys walking in the silence of the night—the glow from sandman’s magic lights his path as he prods at the floor beneath him.

he welcomes the cold, the one thing that has brought him comfort over these last few years. watching the ice create beautiful shapes on the pavement strangely relaxes him as he hums a soft song he doesn’t remember, though his heart seems to recognize the familiar tune.

“great job, sandy.” jisung whispers into the dead of the night, watching proudly as the yellow sand sifts into each house he passes by.

the boy lifts himself into the air with little to no effort. he lets a chuckle slip past his lips as his fingers feel through the sandman’s ‘dream trail’ as he likes to call it. jisung has always admired him, his power to soothe children and provide them with heart warming dreams to keep their sleep from being distrupted.

on nights like this, cold and lonely ones, he misses his home deeply. he knows it sounds ridiculous, to miss a home he doesn’t even remember, but he dreams that he had a family. one that would snuggle under one blanket on nights like this one—one that would wake each other up on christmas day because north or ‘santa’ had decided to pay them a visit.

he’s snapped out of his daydream though when he spots you sitting in front of your house. jisung’s never been one to keep track of time, but judging off the dream trail, he was pretty sure that it was late enough for no one to be out. you seemed to be busying yourself with something in the snow, so he takes this as his sign to drop down from the wires he’d been standing on previously.

“ducks?” he’s confused when he sees enough ducks made of snow sitting in a straight line, all of them nearly identical to each other.

his curious mind pushes him to wander towards your hunched figure, but something in him makes him cautious—almost like approaching you was a mistake.

jisung chooses to ignore the unfamiliar feeling, his feet making no marks in the snow as he squats next to you, his staff standing tall next to both of your figures.

his eyes linger on your face, the top of your head was covered in a black beanie with a pom pom sitting at the top. you were clad in your pajamas and a jacket—an outfit that kind of matched his—your cheeks and nose were both stained pink from the cold, but your eyes shimmered in happiness as you continued to make another duck.

“you kind of look like a ryan to me..?” he’s startled by the warmth in your voice, followed by the soft giggles that left your lips.

he could tell you were his age, something he oddly never encounters. he’s used to seeing toddlers running and playing around in the snow, so the weird feeling of familiarity settles in his chest as you put down the duck-making-contraption to blow some warmth into your hands.

you don’t seem to notice him, not like he expected you to, but it’s when you whisper something into the cold air that has him rooted to his place on the ground.

“i hope you still like ducks, ‘sung. i made too many for you to not like them anymore! happy birthday, wherever you are.”

and you disappear back into your house after picking up your contraption.

—

“how would she even know who i am?! i sure as hell don’t know who she is!” jisung was close to ripping the frosty white hair off his head and his feet were burning the solid floor of the north pole from the amount of pacing he’s been doing since he had gotten there an hour before all the elves had woken up and gotten to work.

north’s jaw ticks as he sighs for what felt like the millionth time that morning. “for the last time, jack, she probably means someone else! it’s not like you’re the only “jisung” in the world.”

the rest of the guardians bob their heads in aggreement, soft murmurs of their own comments all mesh into one—but jisung decides against them all. he felt a physical pull towards you, the shape of your face, the way you spoke and the way your eyes shone in the moonlight… all those things felt so familiar, but he was driving himself crazy as to why it all felt the way it did.

“i’m telling you. she knows who i am!”

he was frustrated. the feeling of familiarity in his chest was addicting and so very comforting. he wanted to know who you were—how you knew him—well, he was so sure that he was the “‘sung” you were talking about.

his heart was racing so loudly that it was pumping in his ears. the questions that were screaming at him made his head spin. it wasn’t like the helplessness he felt when he couldn’t remember his past. this… this was world’s apart from that.

despite it all, jisung’s pacing seems to slow to a stop before his eyes narrow into slits. the silence of a certain green fairy was enough for his mind to swirl with a couple thousand more questions.

his gaze hardens like the ice he’s able to create with his fingertips, “you know something.”

the phrase comes out bitter and demanding. something the younger boy has never used especially around any of the guardians. he watches as the fairy’s eyes dart to everything in the room except him, explanations spilling from her mouth.

“no i don’t! who said i did? was it one of my own? because there’s absolutely noooo way i know anything! nothing! nada! zer—“

the tooth fairy bites her lip as she watches jisung’s grip tighten on the wooden staff.

“park,” north’s voice is low, the warning clear in his tone. he loves jisung like he would love his own son if he had one, but he would not and will not tolerate him hurting any of the other guardians.

not like he could ever do that.

“you’re going to tell me what you know right now.” the frustration is evident in his voice. he was tired of being left in the dark—forced to fend for himself when that’s all he’s been doing for so long. too long.

the fairy fiddles with her fingers, her wings flapping at an even faster rate behind her. “i-i don’t know much. but—i have your teeth. f-from when you were just jisung park.”

the world seems to slow to a stop. jisung’s read about it happening in some books he found in the nooks and crannies of the north pole, but he hadn’t expected it to feel like it did.

he knew what that meant. she had once told him that all the teeth she had collected from each kid held a memory from their lives. the collection of memories all locked in the gold tube he used to gaze at with so much curiosity, the memories unlocked by one touch of his finger.

the silence was suffocating him—and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

“jisung. you have to calm down.”

the worried gaze of the easter bunny somewhat helps him, though his rapid breaths were starting to be difficult on his lungs. hearing how something so crucial to figuring out his past, to figuring out who he is, was kept from him by someone he’s kept so close for the past few years seemed to be crushing him.

“y-you… you had the answers to my questions all this time… and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me?” heartbreak drips from his tone. all those nights he spent trying to shut out the loud thoughts in his head—all of which could’ve been solved if the tooth fairy had just told him what she just did.

“we wanted you to embrace who you are now, jack. you’re a guardian now, it doesn’t matter what happened in the past—“

“that’s not for you to decide!” his rough shout startles everyone in the room, even some of the elves. his eyes sting from the unshed tears he’s determined to keep from rolling down his cheeks.

“it wasn’t your right to take that from me. those are my memories, my past, my life!” jisung’s breathing hard now. the intensity of how painful this secret was overbearing. and the fact that everyone knew? not just the tooth fairy? that’s what hurt him most.

he scoffs, the grip on his staff tightening as he lifts his hood up above his head.

“i can’t believe any of you.” he ignores the way they all scramble after him, pleading for him to calm down—he needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else but in a room full of people who just shattered his already bruised heart.

—

you couldn’t stand the cold. you prefer to be out on a sunny and warm day than to play in the snow while simultaneously freezing to death.

so why were you standing out in the cold?

you wished you could say that you didn’t know. that somehow, the cold just brought you some source of comfort and that you couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason as to why. but you did know. you know that you’re out here because of a certain boy and how he always loved the snow. how he knew how to handle himself on ice, even when it was freezing and his teeth were chattering.

“y/n? come back inside, dear. it’s freezing!” the voice of your mother pulls you from your everlasting thoughts of the boy you loved, as it almost always did.

you turn to look at her and you see the pity in her eyes. you know she can tell whenever you start to get out of sorts over your best friend who went missing four years ago now. she’s seen the ducks left out, just like you do for every birthday that’s passed without him.

“i’ll be in in a minute, mom.” you smile, a genuine one, soaking in the cold for a little bit more when you hear your front door gently closing after a soft reply from your mom.

you hadn’t known what happened to your best friend, and he never got the justice you felt he deserved. but him disappearing without a trace seemed to scream ‘runaway!’ to the police, so his case was dropped, much to yours and your family’s devastation. you still remember the day you found out he disappeared like it was yesterday.

“where’s this boy at?” your irritated sigh is acxompanied with a white puff from your mouth, the cold atmosphere made your breath visible as your teeth chattered and your fingers trembled.

despite it all, you were there. waiting in front of the fountain of your town like you always do when winter starts.

‘hello! this is jisung, i don’t seem to have heard your call or—shit y/n cut that out! sorry uh… leave your message at the beep, okay bye!’

“damn it.” the frustration was settling in, your eyes gazing at the digital numbers taunting you on your phone. it’s almost been an hour since you were supposed to meet jisung here—either he had forgotten your plans, or he simply liked to torture you because he knew how much you hated the cold—and if it was the latter, you were certain you’d kill him.

your phone rings in your hands and you hurriedly pick up, expecting to hear your best friends deep voice scrambling with apologies.

“jisu—“

“…honey? where are you? mrs. park just called to say that jisung’s gone missing…”

your life hasn’t been the same ever since. you never heard a peep from the boy—and even after a whole year of you texting his number, someone else eventually answered, regretfully telling you that they weren’t jisung, but an older lady named kira.

which was a weird experience, but your parents were glad that you had finally let go of texting your missing best friend. they knew you would take the news the hardest. you were head over heels for this boy, and seeing as how you both were attached at the hip—they were worried for how you’d cope.

and they’ve settled that you making ducks out of snow once a year seems to be the perfect way to cope for you.

“this is stupid,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone in particular. you gaze at the perfectly lined up ducks. eighteen of them.

that’s how old jisung would’ve turned that year.

when your fingers start to feel numb, the cold air seeming to get even colder, you decide that maybe it’s time to head back inside. you glance one more time over at the eighteen ducks sitting neatly at the front of your porch. a small flicker in you hopes that one day, they somehow bring jisung home.

—

he didn’t know what he was doing here. after all that happened in the north pole, he just let the wind take him anywhere. his mind was too busy to figure out where he’d stay before returning back to the north pole when everything was sorted out in his mind and heart.

and that’s how he finds himself standing next to you. his hood is up and his tight grip on his staff causes you to let out a small shiver.

he can tell you’re feeling somber, your eyes weren’t as happy as they were when he first saw you and your gaze seemed to linger at nothing in particular.

he watches as you purse your lips before slowly heading back inside. jisung didn’t know who you were, but being next to you warmed his freezing heart with a sense of familiarity he hasn’t felt in so long.

“eighteen…” his soft mumble is heard by no one, he had counted the ducks you had lined up by your house.

he wonders why you had decided to make that many, but a small smile tugs at his lips when he uses his magic to create a small pile of snow around the ducks, forming a small fence around all of them.

jisung’s torn from his thoughts when he hears soft chatter coming from the inside of your house, his curiosity getting the better of him while he stands to steal a glance from your window.

“hey hon. do you want to pay jisung a visit?” an older man looks directly at you as he fixes his tie, your slightly smaller stature stands in front of him, clad in the same outfit he saw you standing in earlier—minus a set of blue gloves.

the mention of his name has him attempting to hear your conversation better. he strains to hear over his racing heart, but he hears you reply with a hesitant ‘sure’. even from where he’s standing, he can see the fear in your eyes. he doesn’t exactly know why they glisten with unshed tears and he looks away as your family gathers around you in a group hug. he felt like he was intruding an important family moment.

he’s not sure how much time has passed with how he was trying hard not to eavesdrop, but your front door suddenly nudges open, surprising him almost enough to drop his staff.

“you made a little fence?” jisung hears the grin on your mom’s face and he turns to you to find you staring at his little creation around your ducks.

your face is turned down into a frown, your hands clad in the blue gloves you were wearing the first time he saw you that day. “i didn’t.”

this seems to silence your parents as they watch you with curious eyes. you looked conflicted, almost as if you didn’t know whether or not you liked the fact that someone had added to your small creation.

“well… then maybe jack frost did it?”

jisung perks up at the mention of his name, (well his alter ego’s name, you could say) his jaw slacks at the playful tone your father had taken when talking about him. but your eyes immediately roll into the back of your head.

“yeah, whatever.” the last word was mumbled underneath your breath, but he heard it loud and clear. he couldn’t understand why you not believing in him hurt the most, even when he knew you didn’t just by the fact that you couldn’t see him.

he watches dejectedly as your family gets into your car, you taking the back seat while your family sit in the front. your head bobs to music that was probably playing on the radio, and all he could do is stand on your porch as your dad drives you all away.

—

“let me see my memories.” the tone he’s chosen to use wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh either.

jisung’s staring straight at the tooth fairy, who was in the middle of sorting out a problem with her baby fairies. she stills and purses her lips, looking at the teenage boy with red-rimmed eyes.

he’s had enough of the lies, tired of the way the rest of the guardians seem to think they can decide what he wants to do with who he is and the past that holds the answers to everything he had questioned the man in the moon ever since he had become jack frost.

“what happened, jisung?” her concern is waved off by the cold boy, the grip on his staff was tightening. “please, toothiana.”

his low whisper gets to her. he never calls her by her name unless things get too difiicult, for either of them. she could hear the pain hidden by his tough front, but she could tell that the boy was having an incredibly hard time.

“you’ve kept this from me for long enough. i’m tired of having to… look towards the moon and get no response every night for something i know is right here with you—!” his voice strains from the pain he’s trying so hard to hide from her.

the fairy sighs—conflicted by the care she holds for him and her duty to protect him. “…okay.”

jisung was fairly surprised by how quickly she agreed to him, but she wasn’t sure if she should even be allowing him to see his memories, strict rules from north was taunting her mind. but, with one more glance at jisung, she knows that she just doesn’t have the heart to keep it from him.

he watches silently as she flutters over to the hidden cases of teeth she had collected over the years, her fingers skimming over thousands of tabs—one shiny case slipping out into her awaiting hands.

“just… we’re here for you, jisung. okay? if you need us…” the fairy gently places the gold tube in his hands before leaving him alone to discover the memories lying in the gold case.

he wasn’t sure about what was preventing him from diving head first into his memories, but his gaze remained trained on the small image on the side of the tube, one that looked like his younger self. the silence he was left with seemed to scream at him to touch the white surface.

‘sung! jisung, where are you?!

he wanted to call out to the voice, tell them that he was right here and that he was doing just fine. he could hear the panic in the unfamiliar voice despite it being muffled and quiet.

being in this moment scared him more than anything ever has—he could have his memories in his hands right now and they were all at the touch of his fingertips. but the idea of it all overwhelmed him, pushing his heart to rage against his chest.

jisung… where did you go?

“i’m right here.” his whisper is heard by no one.

—

“that’s so stupid!” the room is filled with giggles as the boy attempts to flip whipped cream up from the back of his hand and into his mouth.

with a cute frown, “it is not! and it’s so possible.” jisung rolls his eyes, slapping his wrist and missing for the hundredth time.

this only causes the two kids to fall into even more fits of giggles, the whipped cream landing on the young boy’s forehead. he looked incredibly silly, but nothing could have prepared the younger girl for how adorable he looked, despite it all.

“shouldn’t you get going? or do you wanna stay over tonight?” she breaks the comfortable atmosphere with the tough question. the girl knew how sensitive the topic of jisung’s parents were, which is why she attempted to avoid it as much as she could. but it was late, and if he didn’t go home now, he would for sure be in trouble.

his deep sigh is what meets the soft question, and though he tries to hide behind a smile, she knew he was hurting.

“is it okay if i stay over?”

she never asks why, but that’s why jisung’s so lucky to have the girl sitting in front of him. his question is met by a soft nod from her, eliciting his lips to tug into a small smile.

“you’re the best.”

the sliver of a memory soothes one of jisung’s many curiosities. the small gold case he’s holding opened up one of his many lost memories, one that he knows was treasured by his younger self. the sight of the faceless girl haunts his mind as he imagines the memory over and over again. who was she to him?

“damn it,” jisung huffs when he feels frustrated tears sting at his eyes.

he could tell by the one memory he allowed himself to see—that the reason the guardians were hiding this from him, was because of the difficult past he was dealt with. he may not remember any of it, but slowly it was piecing itself together.

—

you hated this day. and with every year that passes, you’d wonder if it would ever get easier, but it never does. seeing your best friend’s name engraved on a tombstone was never an easy sight. it never failed to bring you to tears.

your parents would always carry a new boquet of hyacinths, jisung’s favorite flower according to you. the three of you would arrive at his grave, a different boquet already sitting at the feet of his tombstone.

you had your hands in your pockets and your gaze settled on the floor—so you didn’t notice a certain white haired boy who had settled himself on your porch.

“woah. what the hell?!” your loud voice seems to go ignored by your parents as they head into your house. your heart was racing at the sight of the unknown boy who seemed just as startled as you were.

jisung’s eyes are blown wide as he stares back at you, “y-you can see me…?”

you’re clutching at your jacket as you stare at him, bewildered. what the hell?

“yes i can see you, y-you freak! who the hell are you?!”

he stumbles as he picks up his staff, the hood resting on his head falls as he slowly steps off your porch. “shh, dude. you have to be quiet.”

jisung doesn’t know what he’s doing. he came here to get some piece of mind—and when your car came rolling up your driveway, he wasn’t expecting you to see him.

“you expect me to be quiet when you’re just mmf—!”

both of you are surprised when jisung surges forward and covers your mouth with his hand. you’re stunned at his action, his palm feeling cold as ice against your skin.

“no one else sees me. i don’t know why you do, though. so you have to shut up.” he’s quiet now, his eyes turning to your front door, trying to see if your parents were going to come out at any moment.

“who the hell are you?” your voice is slightly calm now, the boy stands sheepishly in front of you. his silence gives you a moment to look him over, a ridiculous wooden staff is sitting between his fingers—a blue hoodie clads his skinny figure and his feet were bare against the white snow covering your front yard.

“i’m—uh… jack..?” he watches, amused at how you seem to stare at him with disbelief.

“jack?” you whisper, your jaw unclenches as he nods at your question. an easy smile dancing on his lips.

he honestly has no idea what he’s doing. but he does know that he’s enjoying it.

“yeah! jack frost, ever heard of me?” he smiles lazily. it wasn’t everyday that he could introduce himself as the fairytale that he seems to have become over the past for years to anyone.

your frown is instant. jisung watched as your eyes danced across his face, taking in the familiarity of his older, colder features.

he expected anything. maybe a jaw drop. maybe a gasp, maybe even an eyebrow raise with some questioning as to whether or not he was serious.

what he didn’t expect though, was for your eyes to widen before your body crumpled to the ground.

—

the warmth of your bed is the first thing that you register when you wake from the strangest dream.

you’d seen jisung. you were sure of it. his hair was as white as snow, and he stared at you with not one hint of recognition—just mischief and a little disbelief at the idea of you seeing him.

“jack…” your murmur disturbed the silence of your bedroom. sitting up, your blanket fell off your shoulders. you were still in the clothes you wore to jisung’s grave, and the moonlight spilling into your room was the only source of light that illuminated your space.

confusion and sadness wraps itself around your heart as you try and shake the feelings that your dream had welcomed back into your head.

unbeknownst to you, frost begins to form on the corners of your closed window as a certain white haired boy perches himself on your roof—his grip on his wooden staff tightening at your quiet whisper.

he didn’t know who you were—not up until a few days ago, anyway. so why did a flash of recognition cross your eyes before you tumbled to the ground?

was that his confirmation that he was the jisung you were talking about? but how?

the jisung you knew was dead. and he was very much alive. albeit, invisible to everyone, but alive. except he wasn’t invisible to you.

the cold boy’s eyes wandered up to the moon, glaring at it as it seemed to be taunting him from above. how could he possibly have more questions now that he’d watched one memory from his stupid golden tooth capsule?

with one last huff (and a glance towards your now peaceful figure tucked away underneath your blanket), jisung stands—and lets the air take him far away from your house.

—

“jisung! don’t go so fast!”

giggles erupt into the air as jisung grips onto the girl’s arms, leading them both across the frozen water.

his smile was bright enough to light up the darkest of nights, watching as the girl struggles to balance herself on the slipper surface.

“you’re alright.” he murmurs to her, grinning as a splash of pink settles on her cheeks.

the girl shakes her head, her grip on his arms tightening as she feels their speed start to pick up once more. “i swear to God, park jisung, if we fall—“

“don’t worry, darling. i won’t ever let you fall.”

“jack?” the tooth fairy’s tentative voice cracks jisung’s concentration as he shuts the golden capsule shut.

she eyes him, watching as he buries what he felt by what he saw deep beneath his surface. he clears his throat before shoving the capsule into the pocket that rests on the bottom of his sweater.

“what’s up?”

her wings flutter furiously as she flies herself over to him. “are… are you alright?”

and the concern in her voice—pisses him off.

“yeah. never better.” jisung smiles at her, allowing his frustration to coat his words and drip off them.

he watches as she flinches at the harshness of his words, her mouth forming a slight pout, and guilt tugs at his heart. he sighs, trying to shake the frustration from his mind.

“i’m sorry.” he murmurs, turning away from the fairy to reel back his emotions. technically, it wasn’t her fault that the memory of the girl was flawed. so it wasn’t fair to the tooth fairy that he was taking his frustrations out on her.

she smiles slightly, reaching up to fluff his hair.

“i’m sorry too, jack.”

their eyes meet and he feels his resolve cracking just a tiny bit. he had always loved the tooth fairy in a sort of, sisterly kind of way, even when she’d piss him off a lot of the time.

she bites her lip, her wings fluttering as she brings herself back down to her feet.

“…did opening your tooth box help with anything?” she asks hesitantly, unsure of how he’d taken the weight of his past.

jisung swallows. his grip on the golden capsule tightens as he avoids her gaze.

“it… it actually raised a lot more questions.” he sighs, his jaw clenching as the image of the faceless girl forces its way back into his mind.

the tooth fairy frowns, watching him closely. “how so?”

“i haven’t actually fully opened it. i could only let myself see two memories,” she nods, listening intently as jisung runs his hand through his hair.

he bites his lip, a frown making its way onto his face before he continued, “both of which had this girl. we were inseparable, apparently. but in both memories her face is blurred.”

the green fairy sighs. “that does happen to some tooth boxes. either the memories are tampered with time, or they were simply memories that the child wanted to block out. but you did say that you and the girl seemed close? i wonder why younger you had wanted to block those memories out…”

jisung’s eyes fall closed, frustration swirling beneath his chest once more.

he’d taken his tooth box in hopes for answers. and yet here he stands, more and more questions filling his mind—and suffocating his peace.

—

“you’re here.”

your voice came out breathless, though you didn’t mean for it to be. jisung was sitting on your fence, snowflakes flying from his fingertips and his staff at his feet.

his eyes darted to your figure and his lips turned up into a grin. “hello to you too!”

your heart stutters in your chest. so it wasn’t a dream.

jisung grins when he hops off your fence to make his way to you. his staff hanging comfortably from his hands. there was a sense of familiarity that drew him to you, a weird feeling that oddly—reminded him of home.

“you, good lady, happen to be one of the only humans that can see me.” jisung smiles wider when he reaches to stand right in front of you. your neck cranes to look into his eyes, and it satisfies a small part of him that he chooses to ignore.

“good lady?” jisung laughs as you cringe, pushing the hood off his head.

“y’know, like good sir?” you roll your eyes as jisung nods his head to the pile of snow in front of the two of you.

your eyes widen as they finally register the sheer amount of ducks that have been spread across your yard. “what… the?”

jisung laughs and scratches the back of his neck as he watches your reaction carefully.

“i saw you that day. you were making ducks with that contraption of yours—figured it’d be a lot faster if i made them for you.”

you’re still staring at the snow ducks, all in different shapes and sizes, your voice having evaded your throat.

jisung shuffles on his feet, unsure of what to make of your silence. he flicks his fingers at the ducks and watches happily as they come to life.

“this is… this is awesome, jack.”

he stiffens at the name, but smiles nonetheless. you step forward to crouch closer to the ducks, laughing when some of them waddle around you. jisung grins, flicking his wrist to create even more magic with the snow that shoots from his fingertips.

your giggles fill the air as he makes snow glide through the air, before bursting into tiny snowflakes that glitter as the sunshine hits them.

jisung?

the oddly familiar voice distracts the white haired boy, his fingers freezing in the air. you’re still distracted by the snowflakes when jisung feels for the tooth box in his pocket.

‘sung, where’d you go?

“i-i gotta go. i forgot i had some place to be.” he murmurs, tugging the hood of his hoodie back over his head.

your eyes linger on the little ducks all over your feet, “alright. when will i—?”

when you finally tear your eyes away from the snow, the icy boy is nowhere to be found.

—

i… i’m right here.

it was weirdly quiet. jisung felt like he was floating, which was definitely not something he was used to. his eyes were closed, and he couldn’t seem to peel them open.

“park jisung, i swear if you’re hiding just to scare me, i’m going to kill you!”

y/n. where were you? your voice sounded so far away.

it was cold. jisung felt the bite of the freezing winter air, but he didn’t feel the need to care at all.

“‘sung, seriously…” you sounded annoyed. but he was right there.

i’m here!

jisung was convinced that he was trapped in a dream. he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, or to reply to your annoyed cries.

then he heard your phone ring—a heartbroken gasp tumbles past your lips, and hurried footsteps fade farther and farther away from him.

y/n! i’m right here…

“y/n.” jisung gasps, the tooth box slipping from his fingers. the truth slams into him and brings him to his knees.

your last memory of him, was that he’d ditched you. the revelation wraps around his heart as tears push their way past his strong exterior.

for years he had longed to know who he had been before the man in the moon chose him to be a guardian. for years he longed for a family—one that knew him as park jisung and not as jack frost.

and now, the answers to his prayers were right there, within his reach.

“jack?” north’s deep voice brings him out of the haze he was drowning in.

tears were blurring his vision, but he stood, grabbing his staff before wiping them off with his sleeve. “i… i have a family.”

jisung’s soft voice brings a small smile onto north’s face. the rest of the guardians had been just that all their lives, guardians. jack—jisung, had been the only one who was turned into a guardian after a tragedy that had struck his life.

north had hoped to keep him in the dark for as long as possible, though he knew it was never going to end up that way. when jisung was first introduced as a guardian, he had been so clueless—so accepting of his fate as jack frost, that north had felt it’d been best to allow him to learn to love himself as jack frost, even if that meant not knowing who he was as park jisung.

he had, obviously, been wrong.

“go, ji.”

jisung’s sobs (embarrassingly) get louder, surging forward to wrap his arms around north.

“thank you, north.”

—

something told jisung that you weren’t home. even though he passed by, eyeing the car that sat in your driveway.

the cold winter air was leading him some place else. some place closer to the girl that seemed to feel more and more like home.

“i miss you, ‘sung.”

your lonely whisper just manages to reach his ears as he slows to a stop a couple feet away from where you sat.

his eyes wandered past your seated figure, slowly taking in where the wind had taken him.

a frozen over lake. one that he knew quite well.

it was cold. jisung felt the bite of the freezing winter air, but he didn’t feel the need to care at all.

“where’d you go, ‘sung?” your heartbroken whisper echoes through the empty lake once more, and urges jisung to move closer to you.

“i’m right here.”

you’re startled—your head whips towards his figure before you’re up on your feet. you’re frowning at him, but all he can do is smile warmly back at you.

“jack? what are you—“

he moves forward, flicking his wrists to form makeshift ice skates on your feet. jisung has no idea what he’s doing, but he moves swiftly and hurriedly—transferring the two of you onto the frozen lake.

“jack!” your gasp is full of fear, your hands gripping onto his forearms as jisung glides the two of you across the frozen water.

“i’m so sorry it took me this long to remember you. to remember us, y/n.” jisung’s murmur is quiet, the cold winter air suddenly heats as your eyes find his despite the fear of falling.

it takes a second, but the truth hits you just as hard as it had him a couple hours before.

park jisung was in front of you. his brown hair hair was swapped with strands that were white as snow, his eyes were blue instead of their usual dark brown and his feet were bare—but there was no doubting the sweet smile that etched itself onto his lips and the dimples that came with it.

“…’sung?”

your whisper is breathless once more, and the smile that curves jisung’s lips could not be sweeter.

“hi, darling.”

—

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