#he got a nail trim after this photograph

[william-snekspeare]

Cuddling. don’t mind the claws of the beast

#he got a nail trim after this photograph #not snakes #ferret #ferrets #Steve #Toast #Oatmeal

[jewishrat420]

Eddie Munson doesn't know what he looks like.

Sure, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a guy with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes to match. He sees two arms and two legs and a scar-crooked smile.

He sees all the parts that he has, all the parts that he knows he's supposed to have.

And he's capable of recognizing that they belong to him. It's not like he thinks he's inhuman, some beast of otherworldly nature.

(At least, not on good days.)

It's just... well.

Sometimes, when Eddie looks in the mirror, all he can really see is his face.

Like, sure, he can see the rest of his body. He knows his face is attached to the arms and legs that he's capable of recognizing in some separate, distant sense at some separate, distant time.

But when he tries looking at himself as a whole (after buying himself a full-body mirror to hang on the back of his door), it's like his face alone is magnified a hundred times over.

Like all he can see are the hollowed-out sockets where his eyes sit, the heavy flush of his cheeks, how stark it is against the rest of his pale skin.

It's like he zoomed in too far and got stuck there, unable to refocus and look at the picture as a whole.

All he can see is each individual pore that travels like a lightning rod through his skin. All he can see is the curve of his nose and how big it looks when his brain doesn't recognize its place on the rest of his face.

It's like he sees each feature individually. His eyes are miles away from his lips, his chin and forehead a stretch farther than that of the sun to the moon. Hopelessly revolving around each other in the desperate attempt to cross paths, understanding the inevitable and fighting against gravity to change it.

He recognizes that he has a face. That his eyes and nose and mouth and cheekbones and pores all belong in the same place, on the same body, to the same person.

But it's like there was a wire cut somewhere in his head. Like the connection that reminds him that all those separate parts actually go together was severed. That reminds him he's more photograph than Picasso, less alphabet soup and more a well-structured sentence.

It's worse when he looks at his body.

Because there's so much more to it than to his face. There are so many parts, so many varied pieces that somehow fit together and make him the gangly, skeletal, off-center human he knows himself to be. The sack of bones and blood that moves when he tells it to.

He looks in the mirror and sees his arms, how they hang and where they fall. And then it seems like they keep going, and rather than focusing on where they end (just above the jutting curve of his waist), all he can see is how little space there is from the tips of his fingers to his feet.

And then his arms look ten feet tall, stretched out to fit the entire length of his body, and when he turns away from the mirror, he swears his nails are going to drag along the carpet.

He doesn't know why he feels like this, but he knows he's been this way since he was a kid. He didn't know it was any different than how everyone else felt, assumed in that childlike way that he was just like all the other humans on this planet.

And then, one day, Wayne told him he should probably trim his hair. Said it was getting real long.

And Eddie had looked at him, confused, because his hair hadn't really grown for as long as he could remember. Kind of just stayed the same length, always at the same place on his body.

So Wayne led him to the tiny, clouded mirror in the yellowed bathroom of the place he'd learn to call home, his calloused hands big on Eddie's shoulders. He'd trailed a path with his finger from Eddie's scalp all the way down to the middle of his back, drawing a horizontal line where his hair ended.

"See, Eds? S'all the way down your back."

And Eddie remembers seeing this, even today. Remembers how confused he felt trying to connect what he saw in the mirror with the image his brain was showing him. Fighting reality with his own imagination— a battle he would soon learn cannot be won.

Because his hair did fall halfway down his back, objectively.

But it was also three feet off the ground, too, and that's pretty high up.

So it must not have been too long after all.

Because it still didn't look long, not to Eddie, not until years later when he and his uncle would bring out one of the scrapbooks and he'd finally see what the rest of the world did, if only for a moment.

It was then that Eddie learned he'd never quite see the world the same as everyone else. The way it was meant to be seen, by people who were meant to see it.

He'll see what's really there, eventually, but only after that version of him is no more than a fleeting memory. Only after he's adjusted to the way he looks in the present, to the vision his distorted eyes show him when he enters the hallway of mirrors.

It gets worse with the scars.

Because now his brain has something else to play with. Something else that convinces him that the thing whose limbs move around when Eddie tells them to isn't actually the person he calls "himself."

That they're actually three separate entities:

Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson's body, and the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

Three separate things, none of which have ever existed in the same world, let alone in the same person.

It doesn't bother him. Not always.

He doesn't need to know what he looks like, as a whole, the way other people see him. That's not for him.

No, Eddie Munson's Body is for the people that turn away when they see it in the grocery store. For the people who will peer upon its pale face in an open casket and mourn the thing that was inside it. The thing that Eddie knows to be himself, the thing that's begging to be seen for what it is.

But there's not much that can be done about it.

And most of the people in Eddie's life are there for him, for his brain, for the thing that floats inside Eddie Munson's Body. They don't care about what it looks like, only that He's in there.

Still, sometimes when Eddie looks in the mirror, he thinks he sees it. Him.

Eddie inside Eddie Munson's Body, hidden behind the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

He thinks he sees it, him, buried somewhere deep. Small, naked, crouched in the corner. Shaking with its hands clasped in front of its chest like it's praying.

He wishes he could do something. Wishes he could reach in and grab it, hold it in the palm of his hand (the one that really belongs to him, the one that he can see) and nurture it until it's bigger than the Thing, bigger than the Body, bigger than the whole world.

Big enough to be seen.

But every time he tries, it disappears like sand between his fingers.

So he gives up.

He drags his nails on the carpet and cuts his hair when Wayne tells him to.

He fills the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body and plasters a smile on the face he thinks is his.

x

original post

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson character study #eddie munson has body dysmorphia #body dysmorphia #body dysmorphic disorder #a bit of dissociation #eddie munson needs a hug tbh #stranger things eddie #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson fic #eddie munson headcanon

[i-did-not-mean-to]

See me, hear me

This one is for my dear friend @sorisooyaa!

She wanted, and I quote, Maggi-boo or Haldir and these are her prompts...I hope you'll like this :)

I love you, baby!

Prompts: Mafia AU - Photographer - Someone can't tell the truth

Words: 1.8 k

Characters: Maglor x OC

Warnings: slight threat, a little danger...and some insults

India rolled her shoulders fitfully as she shrugged off her leather jacket and threw it on the battered, wobbly couch in the corner of her office.

Her eyes darted around the dark room nervously—the incredibly expensive camera she had carried cradled against her chest protectively, on the other hand, was placed on the scratched-up desk very with as much care as her trembling fingers could muster. Finally, she thought, she had struck gold.

It was a dangerous endeavour to go digging in the wrong places in this city, but India had grown up in a strict household and had consequently learned how to circumvent constant supervision and the lethal quicksand of ever-shifting, arbitrary rules before she could even write in full sentences. She was not afraid of the men who held the strings of all the major events and enterprises wrapped around their long, elegant fingers.

“Got you,” she muttered as she gingerly extracted the memory card and put it into her laptop to upload the protected files onto a secured cloud—a part of her expected one of them to come after her for the unforgivable trespass that had allowed her to snap a few crystal-clear shots of two of the infamous Fëanorians in the dark courtyard of an abandoned factory.

As of that moment, India didn’t exactly know what she had witnessed and photographed—when it came to that family and their insidious, cancerous influence on almost everything, drugs, money-laundering, and outright murder were not beyond the scope of possibilities—but she was sure that she would, in time, find out of what nature that illicit and secret meeting had been. And then, she’d bring the whole house of blood-soaked cards down on their gorgeous heads.

Her fingers—short, clean nails trimmed perfectly—hovered over the discreetly gleaming keys for a moment before she logged out and shut down the device with a low sigh.

A lamp flickered on in the opposite corner and she gave a startled gasp.

“Good evening,��� Maglor drawled melodiously, a deceivingly sweet smile softening the hard contours of his angelic face that was bathed in shifting shadows and yellowish light.

As he saw her reach for the second drawer of her desk, he lifted his hands in a cheery gesture of goodwill. “I’ve only come to talk.”

India was surprised that they had sent him—Maglor was primarily renowned and feared for his powers of seduction rather than for the gruesome acts of ruthless violence he had undoubtedly assisted in gleefully. She had expected Celegorm or the twins if there had to be a messy late-night visit, or Caranthir for a tasteful poisoning in plain sight; a part of her had even dreaded that they’d let that ginger monstrosity with the dead eyes tear her limb from limb.

Even though she would never have admitted as much to anyone, she was secretly rather afraid of Maedhros. Unlike the others, he would betray neither childishly cruel delight nor disgusted disdain when his impossibly long, bony fingers closed around her tender throat and squeezed—yes, she was terrified of staring into the abyss of his numbness until she could see nought more.

“What do you want? This is breaking and entering,” she snarled with more aggressive conviction than she could actually muster up.

Her nocturnal visitor cocked his head which made his long, sleek hair fall like a curtain of midnight dreams across his broad, toned shoulder. “Nelyo says that you’ve been naughty. Have you?”

“Innocent urban photography,” India said with a shrug. “As you keep swearing that you don’t engage in any illegal activities, I am sure that you cannot object to being caught on camera doing…perfectly harmless things, right?” Her smile flashed sharp and white across her face like lightning tearing through a stormy night sky.

“Ah,” Maglor purred, “you are, of course, right. Nelyo and Curvo were merely meeting a potential supplier to talk about the changing tides in the market. Nonetheless, it having been so late…we wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression, would we?”

That bastard, India thought with a flash of disgust—Maglor’s smile was steady and warm, and his crystalline eyes sparkled like rare gems in the hazy light of a lamp that had not been cleaned since she had brought it in from her late grandmother’s house. Against her will and her better judgement, she felt her cheeks heat up and her blink rate increase; he was a dangerous criminal, everyone knew that, but that did neither mar nor dampen his blinding beauty.

Furthermore, his voice seemed to be a living thing, slithering under her skin and winding around her senses perniciously—in the quiet darkness of her deserted building, his presence—vibrating with palpable intensity—radiated with crackling intensity and shockwaves of melodic allurement.

 As those sensual lips stretched into an almost hypnotic smile, India straightened up, trying to consciously shake her body out of the trance that was numbing her sharp mind and her sense of self-preservation.

“What do you want?” she snapped; knowing that Maglor was a charming and effortless liar made the hair on the back of her neck stand up in acute wariness. She had to stay alert to every minute shift of his enchanting face—it was vital to collect every tiny clue if she wanted to sort through the shadow castle of half-truths and deflection he was building in the stale air between them.

“Me?” The nascent grin flickered like a candle as his eyes grew dark and dangerous for a single moment before he moved ever so slightly and let the weak light of the lamp wash over his flawless complexion once more. “I want nothing at all. Nelyo just wanted to ask whether you’d be amenable to a meeting before you release the pictures you’ve taken into the wild. He wants to explain.”

India gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “I’ve seen the state in which people generally find themselves after agreeing to that kind of interview with your lot.”

A deeply wounded expression replaced the open friendliness—the change was monumental and just a tiny bit too fast to be entirely credible. Maglor, India knew, had perfected that very picture of injured sensibility over the years and she’d be a fool to fall for it.

“Knock it off,” she said. “You look like an Italian Madonna—you’re overdoing it.”

This time, his face changed slowly. As if a diaphanous veil of silk and starlight was lifted from him, Maglor’s face seemed to solidify in front of her bewildered eyes. The angle of his jawbones and the stark lines of his eyebrows came into focus while the humourless smile cutting like a blade through his luminous skin was now sharp enough to slash someone to pieces with a single kiss.

Not that India was thinking about kissing him. At least not for more than a single confused second.

“Nelyo is confident that—if you let us explain—you’ll understand what damage an unprepared publication of these pictures could do.”

Summoning all her courage, India steeled her spine and mind. “Lapdog,” she hissed. “If he is so sure, why is he not here now?”

The fleeting smile passing over Maglor’s countenance like a shadow now struck her as startlingly crooked and surprisingly genuine.

“He’s frightening,” he admitted, “and he’d rather not terrify a young lady in the middle of the night.”

“So are you,” she confessed impulsively.

“Am I?” Maglor touched a hand to his face as if to check whether his carefully crafted mask of suave civility had slipped off without him noticing. “I am generally considered to be the most pleasant of my family.”

“That is saying much less than you think it is,” India teased as she thought of the different kinds of horrific and threatening pulchritude Maglor and his brothers represented.

“Fair,” he conceded with boyish carelessness. “If you’d rather not meet with Nelyo, I can ascertain what it is he wants you to know, and you could deal with me instead?”

Oh, there was seduction in his voice now—warm, velvety, and as immobilising as a river of treacle—and India instinctively took a step back, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk for support.

“A public place,” Maglor grinned and flicked a small card—dark red with an expensive-looking golden trim—onto the polished surface before her. “You choose the venue and give me a call, all right?”

Moving past her like a panther, Maglor turned suddenly and curled a warm, smooth hand around the base of her throat playfully.

“I’ll be waiting for that call,” he purred into her ear, the heat of his lips thrumming against her prickling skin. “Don’t you go breaking my heart.”

Leisurely, he pressed a kiss against her temple and India’s eyes fluttered shut—this was how she would die, she was sure, and she had to admit that she much preferred this to being taken down by the twins or the other savage with his rabid dog.

“See you soon,” that melodious siren voice whispered.

When India opened her eyes again, she was alone. Nonetheless, the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin like a brand, and she couldn’t help probing the spot where those silken lips had brushed against her flesh—a part of her expected her fingers to come away smeared with blood, but a quick once-over assured her that she was bodily unharmed.

This was why they had sent him, she thought, disgusted with her own weakness. If anything, Maglor had caressed rather than battered her body and there would be no trace of the terrible, poisonous seed of longing and curiosity he had planted in her mind.

No, he was outwardly as blameless as she was unscathed; nobody could see the damage that had been done to her mind and soul and thus, she could not be helped and he would not be punished.

“I can resist,” India tried to soothe herself in a croaking voice. Already, she felt as if his insidious, relentless untruthfulness had seeped into her veins and infected her.

The invitation, the promise of information, and Maglor’s beauty would unfurl within her mind as she lay in bed—tendrils of desire snaking through every vein—until she could think of nothing else anymore. Possibly, she might be able to delay the inevitable but, sooner or later, she would pick up the phone and agree to that fateful meeting.

Locking away the camera and turning off the light mechanically, India decided that she would simply get on with it. She knew how this would end—she could see the road ahead of her with insulting and inevitable clarity—so, being diligent and fearless, she decided that the sooner she set off down that path, the sooner she’d arrive at the final destination.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one :)

-> Masterlist

Lots of love from me!

#og post #Fotfics #Maglor x OC #Fellowship of the fics #May Mashup #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Modern!AU #Maglor #Mafia AU #photographer #someone can't tell the truth

[chocosvt]

love café

⚬ pairing: jeonghan x fem!reader ⚬ word count: 17.6K ⚬ warnings: some vulgar language, i guess! ⚬ genres: big time nsfw, dirty talk, lap dances, quickies, bath shenanigans, exhibitionism, overstim - you get what i mean. big ole romance, angst, fluff, jeonghan is very rich and very hot, joshua has a not so subtle crush on you. 

✧✎ synopsis: while you’ve spent the last few months pretending the love café doesn’t exist, you realize you need its services now more than ever. this brings you face to face with jeonghan, the son of a luxury fashion designer who’s got money to burn. your exchanges are strictly business. until they’re not. 

✧✎ a/n: YES, ANOTHER REWRITE. the original love café was just so unsalvageable that i almost fully wiped its plot, minus the actual concept of the café. so, this should read as fairly new! I HOPE U ENJOY IT !!

It’s not that you were desperate. Because you weren’t.

You were actually more than desperate at this point, and no longer could you sit on that uneven couch with the broken leg, staring at the chipped paint, listening to your neighbours’ screams, believing you should continue like this. More than anything, you were shortchanging yourself. There was no point in holding onto that little string of hope in which those employers might phone you back. It would be impossible to contact your family when you had affirmatively cut ties with them ages ago. And, it was becoming increasingly foolish to ignore your one saving grace, just a street over from your rundown complex.

But, could you really commit to it? Would anyone even be able to look at you and think you were someone desirable enough to reward?

Those thoughts often hung over you like a dark cloud, and poured down so heavily that you were metaphorically drenched, in your own pessimism. However, on that day, you were beyond patience with the cards you’d been dealt. Such a despairing apartment, with all its bugs and drafts and horrible neighbours, could not be your brightest and most fortunate future. There had to be something you could do.

Even if it meant going to the Love Café.

In other words, an easy gig to financial heaven, in exchange for sexual pleasures of course. You walked into your bedroom and sat down in front of the wooden vanity, clicking on a dim, flickering bulb to help illuminate your face as well as its lifeless expression which stared back at you. It didn’t take more than ten minutes to pat your skin with some emptying makeup and thinning pans of eyeshadow. Then, you fixed up your hair and chose a simple, mute-coloured dress from your closet, immediately swallowed by the large winter coat you cozied into.

You hurried quickly down the corridor, ignoring the muffled shouts from your argumentative neighbours bleeding through the nickel-thin walls, past the barking dog which jumped against the door, scratching its nails whenever you waited for the elevator, and you didn’t even spare one glance at the very strange man who always hovered in the central lobby and watched you ignore his coos every single day. By the time you arrived outside the Love Café, you were breathing like a marathon runner. Despite the cold weather, you felt a sweat run like a breeze down your temple as you wiped your face before heading inside.

The space felt warm. Everything was red, pink, or white. And when you inhaled, the air smelled like a note of rose petals and candy. It was surprisingly easy to sign up for a ‘Love Card’ at the front desk.

“This card has twelve punches per service with your partner. If, by the end of the twelfth punch, you’re not looking to pursue something serious with this individual, you can pay for another Love Card. If you do manage to find, ‘the one’, then congratulations, and well wishes. Since you’re a first-time client, you get twenty-five percent off your first card.”

Whoever the lady was, she seemed less than enthusiastic as she pushed a cherry-red paper across the counter with a finely manicured nail. You thought she must have given this spiel so many times, the script probably haunted her in her sleep. Nonetheless, you thanked her, and heeded her direction when she advised you to choose any of the free tables, marked with a pale rose. For some reason, you picked the very last table amongst the row and slid yourself onto the uncomfortable, white chair, the metal back moulded into the shape of a heart.

Whoever reserved the table wasn’t exactly punctual. About half an hour after being seated, ordering yourself a tea, and examining the different clients who filtered in and out the café, you were beginning to assume the worst. That they cancelled. Flaked. Decided to pull from the service and direct their affluence elsewhere. As you titled the last few droplets of tea around the base of the cup, feeling utterly depressed and bored, you heard the little bells clink above the door, followed by a gasp from the employee at the front desk. Considering her microscopic range of emotion, you figured whoever entered must be some flawless rarity.

“Jeonghan!” She fixed her slouched position. “I wasn’t aware you made a reservation today. I haven’t seen your name in the system.”

“No worries. I set an anonymous appointment the night before. After all the chaos I caused last time, I figured it’s best to stay under the radar. I know I’m late. I was finishing up a term paper.”

“That’s quite all right. Here, I’ll just quickly renew your information. One moment… Okay, Yoon Jeonghan, you’re all set.”

At that, your eyes practically bulged right into the teacup. You’d heard his name in some conversations with a few university friends, before you had dropped your program. His father was an inventive in the fashion industry for nearly a decade, and his brand was considered high-end luxury, with people forking up the big bucks just to wear a piece from the collection. His mother recently begun a perfume company. In fact, you had a bottle from her Sunrise series sitting on your vanity, though you used each spritz very sparingly considering its outrageous price point. According to the most recent gossip, Jeonghan had ended his relationship with a model who’d been strutting his father’s cloths.

You couldn’t believe he was here.

No – even worse, you couldn’t believe he was making his way toward your table. It had to be some sort of mistake. How could it be that you chose to sit here? Was the universe attempting another cruel joke?

His visual seemed even more daunting outside his photographs in the magazines. Beyond a glossy page, he was softer. Thick hair, shiny and dark brown, which swooped beneath his ears and parted smoothly at the forehead. His lips were the same shade as the windowsill roses, as well as the high arches in his cheeks. But then, he was sharper too, with a trim, angular jaw and such a defined yet judgemental brow. You had expected anyone else but him. And now, this esteemed, much too beautiful man had come to the very last table, wearing an expression of waning curiosity. Or, as you interpreted it, clear-glass disappointment.

Before Jeonghan seated himself, he untucked his phone from his coat pocket and clicked a side button to check the time. He then sniffled, looked straight at the wall, and sighed. Despite your now devoted wish to disappear, you attempted to begin a conversation that wouldn’t backfire.

“Yoon Jeonghan. I’ve heard the name. It’s nice to meet you.”

He settled one arm on the table, tapping his fingernails.

“Yeah. I’m guessing you’re not a regular here—” he then peered over at your bright red Love Card placed by the teacup to say your name.

Bouncing your leg underneath the table, you nodded. “No, not really. I’ve been debating for a while if this was a choice I should make, but I can’t seem to have ends meet doing anything else. So, I came here.”

Already, Jeonghan looked painfully bored. He stopped tapping his fingers and leaned his chin against the hand instead. You knew it was the insecurity barking. Unnecessarily, you apologized to him.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m probably not the woman you’re expecting and I get that. I wouldn’t be all that offended if you wanted to save the Love Card for someone else or—”

Out of the blue, Jeonghan laughed, though he attempted to mute the sound by digging the bend of his index finger between his teeth. Your sentence trailed off with an awkward, dying breath. He suddenly leaned back in his metal seat, shaking his head apologetically and pulling back some of the soft hairs from his eyes. You felt utterly confused.

“Sorry, sorry,” he smiled, “didn’t mean to discourage you there, sweetheart. I’ve just never had someone apologize for—well, their looks.”

“I-I don’t know,” you lunged for damage control, “I just thought you seemed disappointed and I… Well, I haven’t done this before, so I don’t really know all that well how it works. I… I should stop talking…”

It felt as though someone had swatted both your cheeks in an iron-slap, because the skin was stinging hot like never before. You knew he was staring at you, probably thinking to himself that you were a train wreck waiting to happen. Afterward, an employee visited the table to collect your emptied teacup, and asked Jeonghan if he’d like anything to drink. Refusing to look elsewhere but the clenched fists in your lap, you waited for the employee to leave once Jeonghan rejected the offer. He’d pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket. Uncapping the pen with his teeth, you watched him sloppily scribble something down.

“My number.” He said, sliding it across the table. “Listen, I’ve gotta go home and proofread that term paper before I submit it. Just send me a text, okay? I won’t be free for a few days, anyways.”

“Oh, okay.” You sniffled.

Quite frankly, you couldn’t comprehend that he was still interested in pursuing something venereal, even when you had embarrassed yourself like a circus act. He rose quickly from the table and wrapped the waistband of his coat tight around his small waist.

Staring down at the paper, you blurted out, “are you sure?”

Jeonghan titled his head. “Am I sure of what?”

“Never mind.” You answered. “I’ll text you later.”

“Okay.” He nodded, on the verge of walking away when he abruptly stopped himself. “Are you always this nervous?”

Caught off guard by his question, your elbow whacked the edge of the table and you meekly stuttered, “I-I don’t know…”

You were more than positive he was going to ghost all your texts.

To a degree, you were correct.

Over the course of the following week, you sent Jeonghan at least three texts, each on separate days, only to be rewarded with a demotivating lack of responses. You knew he was a busy individual who probably didn’t have much time to waste on promiscuous affairs, let alone a committed relationship. So, you tried very earnestly to not feel upset or unimportant at his methods – even despite the series of required payments glaring you down from those white envelopes scattered atop the kitchen table.

And then, during the black, late hours of a snowy Friday, you received a reply. A surprisingly urgent one which detailed that you make it to the downtown Opal Studio before eleven o’clock, as there would be a backdoor entrance left unlocked for your access. He mentioned a storage closet underneath a staircase, worded very sternly as: … Wait inside, and do not make yourself known. I’ll see you there shortly, and ensure you leave without being spotted. Uncertain of what the situation would entail, you phoned a cab and payed the driver using some remaining funds from a paper note purse. The studio’s front was a smooth, velvet black, with a wide window which illuminated several mannequins wearing Mr. Yoon’s newest issue. Each outfit cost a pretty penny.

Like you anticipated, Jeonghan was late to meet you in the storage closet; however, you were at no point going to scold his blatant disregard for scheduling when he’d pressed you tight against the door looking the way he did. Buttons popped down the chest of his unwrinkled dress shirt, sleeves cuffed to his elbows, and his neat, styled hair beginning to dishevel around those intense eyes. He braced his hand beside your head, studying your lips as though they were glittering.

“Can I kiss you?” Jeonghan asked. The question seemed to rumble from deep in his throat and you felt your knees weaken.

You nodded immediately, allowing his hand to frame the side of your cheek as his warm, soft mouth nudged against yours. It was gentle for a fleeting touch, and then there was pressure, teeth, a slick tongue running across your bottom lip and leaving you in such a sensual daze that you just stood there with a parted mouth. Jeonghan definitely knew what he wanted from you in that moment. And he wanted it quick. You were flipped around, chest pushed against the door, skirt hiked up impatiently as the fabric ruffled around your hips. His hand slid between your thighs to rub you through the thin pair of underwear, pressing firmly enough that you could feel the cold, thick rings on his fingers.

Eagerly, you began a slow gyration of grinding against Jeonghan’s touch while simultaneously biting down hard on your bottom lip, knowing embarrassingly well that you were already sticky and soaking and ready for him to use you like a designated fucktoy. He was rather flush to your backside as he dug the heel of his palm against your clit, so much yet not enough between the cotton. Something about his scent was beyond arousing, and it gripped to him like a web. An expensive cologne no doubt, mature, raw, and ocean-fresh. You heard the sound of his belt being whipped open, followed by a zipper.

“Alright,” Jeonghan hummed, passing a hand up his length, “let’s make this quick. Gotta be back upstairs in five to finish the measurements and tapering and all that boring shit. Now, just be a good, quiet little girl for me, sweetheart, and this’ll be a cake walk.”

Your mouth stretched into a low, whiny groan as Jeonghan held your underwear aside and began to sink inside of you, his hips stalled against your skin. His light breath then fluttered at your ear, “bet you’d make such a perfect toy to keep my cock nice and warm. Feels so perfect, being this deep inside you, sweetheart.” He shuddered against you, thrusting once, twice, slowly and teasingly dragging himself out before ramming right back in to pinch you against the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed between his teeth, “life would be so much easier if I could just keep you right here on my cock, wouldn’t it, baby?”.

Undoubtedly, that smooth-talking tongue of his was going to be an impending problem. You don’t know where he got off exactly on such scandalous thoughts, but you were too consumed in your own lust to care. The way he fucked you against that door with one hand scraping at your hip and the other wrapped up your throat, fingers pressing hot into your drooling mouth to keep you quiet, it was more bliss than a one-way ticket to Eden. Jeonghan timed his orgasm appropriately, slipping himself from your warmth at the last second and finishing himself off using the hand which had been maintaining your silence. His breaths were slow but husky in the aftermath, his fingers painted in cum.

“You wouldn’t want to use that pretty mouth of yours to clean this, would you?” He laughed.

Before you could respond, Jeonghan had grabbed some paper towels left to sit on a shelf and cleaned the mess himself. Then, as though nothing had happened, he asked if you were carrying that damn Love Card before you could even flatten down the wrinkles in your skirt. You grabbed the small note purse you set down next to the paper towels and revealed the obnoxiously coloured card. Jeonghan smiled.

“That’s the one.” He took a dry erase marker from the shelf and wrote his initials in the first circle.

“Here,” Jeonghan proceeded to offer back the card, “one session down. I need to scram. The hall should be clear at this hour, but have a cab ready just in case you need to bolt fast. Oh—before I go, you got the money to pay the driver? It’s no problem if you’re short. I can cover.”

“N-No, I should have enough.” You answered.

“Cool. I’ll transact you tonight.” Jeonghan nodded, tucking in his shirt rather poorly before slipping past you to exit the storage closet.

One week later, you were at the entrance to the library, pulling open the door with a big, cold huff. It was much warmer inside. You were beginning to feel the tips of your stiff fingers again.

Despite your service at the Love Café, you wanted one last time to test your luck on a receptionist position at the downtown hair salon, simply because you would think better of yourself if you weren’t relying chiefly on Jeonghan to pay your bills. His last transaction had been more than you anticipated. Finally, you were able to erase that huge electricity bill, and you still had enough of the money left over to supply some warm meals for the next few days. If you could just submit your newest resume to the salon, then you might be able to permanently cover the groceries.

Except, you needed access to a computer.

Ever since you tipped over a glass of water onto your old laptop, it had stopped working properly, and the library was the only place close by which let you use the computer room without fees. However, as you peered in through the backroom window to find an open space, you realized just how crammed full it was. Judging by everyone’s intense typing and unblinking eyes, you weren’t going to steal a seat anytime soon, which pulled out a frustrated sigh as you fiddled with the USB in your pocket. You thought about heading home, until you saw Jeonghan.

He was seated at the distant left corner, leaned back comfortably in the chair while he examined something on his laptop. A gym bag was slid underneath the table, and he was dressed as though he had some sort of sports practice; quite the contrary to his usual crisp, ironed shirts and heavy winter coats courtesy of brands you couldn’t pronounce. He seemed concentrated, chewing on his thumb nail while he tapped the touch pad. In fact, he didn’t notice that you had approached him until you said his name quietly from across the table and his eyes flickered.

“Uh, hey.” Jeonghan replied, sounding bothered while he pushed his thumb harshly against his bottom lip. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“And I didn’t expect to see you.”

He shrugged, maintaining his uninterested glance on the laptop screen. “Well, I’m looking over some notes. Last minute stuff.”

You nodded. “What’s with the duffle bag?”

“My friend Joshua – he’s been making me coach this Peewee soccer team with him at the Greenfield Dome.” Jeonghan puffed out his chest, letting an arm fall loosely to his side. “Those kids are insane. They have too much energy. I shouldn’t have let that bastard sweet talk me.”

At that, you giggled, though immediately hushed yourself when the librarian came by with a metal cart, filled with books to shelve. You stepped around the table to move out of her way. Jeonghan pulled out the chair beside him using his foot and nodded that you take a seat.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the USB.

“I need to upload my new resume. I mean, I probably won’t hear anything back from this place, ‘cause that’s how it usually goes. But, whatever. Thing is, I busted my laptop, and now the computer room is filled up. I’ll just come back later and hope it’s cleared out.” Staring down at your shoes, you avoided Jeonghan’s gaze. “I know I’m doing this Love Café stuff, but it would still be nice to have my own income, you know?”

“I get that.” He replied, scratching at his collarbone. “I’ve already got my laptop here and everything. You can use it, if you want.”

“Really?” You smiled wide. “Thanks.”

Jeonghan closed a few tabs that he’d been rotating between before sliding his laptop over to you. Wriggling the memory stick into the small slot at the side, you logged into your email account through the main search engine. As long as you could send your resume to the salon before they closed their application deadline, then you would hope for the absolute best, even if it was an unstimulating, lacklustre gig answering phones and scheduling hair appointments all day. Just as you went to drag the file into your email, Jeonghan’s laptop froze.

“Uh, Jeonghan,” you whispered, “nothing’s moving. Do I just wait? Does this normally happen? Did I screw something up?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Relax, relax. It’s been doing that a lot recently. I figured out if you hold down these keys—” Jeonghan suddenly scooted his chair in very close, his thigh pressing against yours as he reached a hand underneath your arm, the other lightly nudging your fingers off the keyboard, “then it goes back to normal. See?”

“O-Oh, yeah. It’s working.” You stuttered, not all staring at the specific keys he clicked because the side of his face was much too pretty.

Granting you access to the keyboard again, Jeonghan leaned away, though he didn’t move his thigh from yours even an inch. It was almost concerning how flustered you felt. Jeonghan had literally pinned you against a closet door and fucked his own hand right in front of you, and yet, your heart was fluttering tenfold. In a much different way. And it lit this spark of fear and adrenaline at the core of your chest like gasoline hitting a wicked flame. You detached the USB stick, logged yourself out from the email account, and moved quickly off the seat.

In a hurried breath, you said, “thanks so much!” and proceeded to leave the library as though someone were trailing you with a pitchfork.

While it was embarrassing, you knew it was necessary. There was no way you were going to crush on that boy. It was strictly business.

Tired. Aching.

Uncomfortable moisture covering the slopes and divots of your body. You didn’t think there was anything left inside you for him to so commandingly take, like his name were inked to your each and every limb. And yet, Jeonghan wasn’t ready to let you rest. The mattress dipped behind you, the heat of his chest sticking to your back, the weight of his erection pressed right at your tailbone. While his lips kissed softly up your neck, Jeonghan slid his hand in between your thighs to continue pleasuring you, ignoring the responsive whimpers attached to your sensitivity. He’d already brought you to two orgasms, though you were sensing the overbearing rush of a third.

An index and middle finger slid down to your entrance, the contact beyond slippery, a sort of wet velvet, and you hardly recognized the sensation unlike the first time he’d touched you. Jeonghan hooked the digits deep, using the heel of his palm to rub a thorough friction against your clit. Working faster and faster, his laboured breaths fanned hot across your neck while he sharply concentrated on making you starry-eyed. It was pain. It was bliss. It was exactly what you wanted most and everything you couldn’t endure at the same time. You came heavily, screamed as the pulsation at your core felt almost violent.

Unable to fully ride out the pleasure, you attempted to curl away from Jeonghan, hiding your face in the pillows and further tilting your hips. However, the boy followed your movement. He stayed snug to your back, practically leaned over top you with the latter arm braced next to your head while his hand pounded and pounded. The amount of liquid gushing onto his fingers and spilling down his wrist felt almost comical, and you were certain that you had never orgasmed so intensely in your life. To make matters worse, it seemed as though he’d taken that little memory box in your head filled with all your language and tossed it right out the damn window. You couldn’t form one word other than sobs.

Jeonghan breathed a light, shaky chuckle beside your ear. “Trying to run from me, sweetheart? When I can make you feel so good? Look at how much you can take, honey. Such a good girl when you cum so fucking hard ‘round my fingers I can barely move them.”

The sound of his digits sliding out from your entrance was the most impure, salacious noise you didn’t know could exist. Rolling slowly onto your back, you saw the immediate coating on Jeonghan’s hand and the drops beading down his wrist. He caught one with his tongue, licking all the way back up like he was cleaning the juice from a melted popsicle, and you almost couldn’t watch him. In fact, you were exhausted. There wasn’t anything left for you to offer, and the thought of moving from his bed when your core felt this utterly sore and your muscles this tight set a perfectly timed cue for your eyes to fall shut. It was heavenly.

Nonetheless, Jeonghan had a very specific rule. There was no staying past your session, and he was often strikingly clear about it. But  this was the first time you’d been pushed to such a degree. He must be able to recognize that it was only a short nap you needed, and perhaps a quick minute under the shower to rid your skin of the sticky sweat.

Out of the blue, something was tossed onto your face. It was your t-shirt earlier stripped and thrown to the floor by Jeonghan. Cracking an eye open and peeling away the fabric to hang loosely from your grip, you sighed. He had already slipped back into his exercise pants.

“Seriously? I’m exhausted.”

He threw a loose flannel over the long, beaming red scrapes that you had clawed down his back, shaking his head with a huff.

“I’m not saying you need to get out right now. I’ve got a dinner with the parents at eight.” Jeonghan proceeded to drop the rest of your undergarments onto bed. “So, you gotta be gone by a quarter to, alright?”

Swallowing dryly, you nodded.

“Alright.”

The next morning, you were seated on the edge of your bed, staring with bleary eyes at the smooth, red Love Card that was initialed to its fifth circle, leaving only eight more sessions with Jeonghan. Though you approached the café with nothing more than an intention to earn money (even if the sex would be inexplicably dull), you were beginning to presume that there was more to this business than you thought. Because the sex wasn’t dull. It was concerningly amazing. And the very man who you had sworn to maintain a no-strings-attached type relationship with was throwing you for a loop. But he was boundary driven.

Be ready to go by this time. No sparkly clothes. Leave nothing in the washroom. Don’t show up here. Don’t show up there. Don’t text me unless this. Don’t call me unless that. Jeonghan knew very explicitly that you were a simple trick to relieving his stress and fulfilling his sexual desires, yet, anything further than that was laughably impossible. And, besides, it’s not like you needed to be in love or have this dazzling, perfect boyfriend. There was too much on your plate already.

You had gone to bed in a thick wool sweater, layered with the heaviest comforter you had due to the broken heating. Ignoring the cold, your next-door neighbours had found themselves in another drunken argument, forcing you to hear the unnerving crack of beer bottles and an outrageous number of insults, ranging from the very straightforward, ‘ridiculous bitch” to the audacious, “go fuck yourself, narcissistic prick.”

Thankfully, the dramatics ended just before three am.

You set the Love Card back on your nightstand. After you splashed mild water onto your face from the sink, you started multitasking, attempting to brush your teeth and remove your pyjama bottoms at the same time. Then, there was a knock at your door. You spared a glance through the peephole while the toothbrush hung from the corner of your mouth and the frigid air hit your bare legs. Upon recognizing the face reflected through the fisheye lens, you nearly choked on the mint-flavoured spit collected at the back of your throat, which forced you to unpleasantly compose yourself at the kitchen sink.

He knocked again, and you pulled the door open almost immediately, probably appearing as though you just hiked through the wilderness. Jeonghan’s eyes widened as he smiled at you.

“Damn. Sleep well?” He remarked, looking you up and down.

You were in the midst of a yawn as you answered. “Um, yes. I-I mean no. Wait, I don’t know what I’m saying. What was the question?”

Jeonghan nodded. “I’ll take that as a no.” He then reached into the pocket on his flannel coat. “Anyways, I have your phone. You left it on my bedside table the other night. Figured it’s kind of useful, I guess.”

“Oh my god. I did that?” You winced, realizing you must have been so tired and discombobulated from Jeonghan blowing your brains out that you forgot. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Leaning your temple against the door, you sighed. “How was that dinner thing with your parents? Was it any fun?”

The boy shook his head, pulling out his car keys and tossing them from hand to hand. “No. It was all business bullshit. What they want me to do with my future after I graduate uni. How to be responsible with my money since they think I’m gonna blow it in a few years. Trying to structure my life around stuff I don’t really give a damn about.”

“O-Oh…” You frowned, “well, was there at least good food?”

Jeonghan stopped playing with his keys and titled his head at you. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes gentle, “they had great red velvet cake.”

Unfortunately, your neighbours must have woken up and decided it was a little too peaceful at such an hour, because you heard a loud, clanging thump echo from the room beside yours, like someone had dropped a metal pot or pan on the ground. Of course, the yelling started.

It didn’t last nearly as long compared to the night before, just a few scolding comments which were ultimately muffled. You wondered what Jeonghan was thinking as he blinked at the neighbour’s door and realized how despairing the narrow, dimly-lit hallway looked. After visiting his high-end apartment numerous times based in the luxury core of the city, with its beautiful architecture and sparkle, you were frankly a bit humiliated he was witnessing this drab part of your life – the reason you were seeking his service in the first place. You apologized through your teeth for the commotion, though Jeonghan merely shrugged.

“It’s better than nothing, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true. But those two next door can be a handful sometimes. I don’t get it. If they hate each other, then just break up. Get divorced. It’s like they want to be miserable on purpose.”

“Bet you wish you could get the hell outta here, huh?”

“All the time.” You replied wistfully. “I’m thinking of going to the mall today, actually. I need a new bath towel. Whatever gets me away.”

“You want a ride there?” Jeonghan asked, shaking his keys.

At that, you smiled a little too wide. “Maybe.”

Carefully, you picked up a thin, glass bottle of pink perfume from the display counter, tilting the liquid back and forth as the lights gleamed off the gold nozzle. Everything inside the store was diamond bright and almost blinding, while the air smelled strongly of expensive floral. The employees were tailored in smooth, sophisticated suits, which made you more petrified than usual to touch anything, hence your very delicate inspection of the perfume as you waited for Jeonghan to finish his conversation with the front clerk. Since his father’s collection was sold at the boutique, Jeonghan seemed to have a cordial relationship with the staff, and they had recognized him almost immediately.

As most of their merchandise was quite expensive, you always ignored the boutique until Jeonghan suggested you stop by. It didn’t help that there was actually some cute clothing begging to be bought, though you knew one swift glance at the price tag would change your mind. You brought the perfume bottle close to your nose and inhaled lightly.

“What does it smell like?” Jeonghan asked.

You sniffed again. “It’s sweet, though it’s not strong.”

“Let me smell.” He said, and so you raised the bottle up to his nose. Jeonghan wrapped his hand around yours as he took a breath, shaking his head in disapproval. “That’s all wrong. I don’t like it.”

“It is kind of high schoolish.” You told him, setting the test bottle back onto the counter as though you were laying down a jewel. “I just need a new scent, you know? I actually love that one bottle your mom did, the summer tropic one. It’s so peachy but mild. I’m running out.”

“For real?” Jeonghan laughed, his eyes skipping over the different shaped containers. “You use one of my mom’s perfumes?”

“Um, yeah. Have you even smelled the tropic one? It’s amazing.”

“I don’t hang around her laboratory too often.” He replied. “It gives me a big fucking headache. Smells like this place times a hundred.”

You shrugged. “I guess that’s understandable.”

Suddenly, Jeonghan had latched his hand around your elbow, pulling you around to the opposite side of the counter. He grabbed a tall, slim bottle that was made from foggy glass and a chrome silver pump.

“C’mon, give me your wrist for a second.” He said. “Try this scent. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of you.”

Pulling up your sleeve, you stuck out your wrist and allowed him to spray a thin layer against the skin. Then, you sniffed the area. At first, your forehead crinkled as you attempted to decipher its concoction of notes. There was something a little fresh and cool, but then there was this oddly mature hint of a distinguished floral scent. You couldn’t pinpoint the flower, but it was certainly addictive and very intriguing.

“It’s called Orchid Night. Smells great, right?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, rolling your sleeve back down “just don’t tell me what it costs. It has to be at least fifty bucks.”

“Try sixty-nine,” Jeonghan corrected, “plus tax, don’t forget.”

Immediately, you grabbed the bottle from his hand and returned the perfume to its small podium on the countertop.

“Well, let’s put it back before we break it.”

Jeonghan smirked. “I could buy it for you.”

For a split second, you were tempted to succumb, though you snapped from the thought at the last second and shook your head.

“No way. I wouldn’t let you, anyways.”

He buried his hands in his pockets, rolling those gold-copper eyes of his. Jeonghan made sure to purposefully bump into you as he walked down the bright aisle toward the clothes. “Honestly, you’re so boring, man. That scent, on you? It would be sexy.” The boy then turned around to smother you with a burning gaze. “But, fine. Have it your way.”

You hurried after him, scoffing lightheartedly to camouflage the fact your heart was beating like a broken pendulum. Jeonghan had stopped at a rack of neatly pressed clothing to sort through the hangers.

“My way is the better way,” you smiled, “always.”

Jeonghan moved the long-sleeved button-up he’d been eyeing back onto the rack, merely blowing out a puff of air.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Besides, I still need to get my bath towel.”

“We can find it on the bottom floor. At the new essentials store that just opened up. The Shower Duck, I think.”

“The Shower what?”

He couldn’t help but cackle while repeating himself. “The Shower Duck. You thought I said something else, didn’t you?”

When you were too tongue-twisted to reply, Jeonghan decided to place his fingers softly on your chin, holding your head still as he leaned in very closely to whisper, “you’re such a dirty girl, you know that?” You almost hated how casually he pulled away and continued to examine the clothing, as though he hadn’t just murmured a lascivious comment into your ear while the employees were standing a mere few meters across the store. More than anything, you desired the courage to deservingly tease him in return, to break that relaxed little shtick of his. Except, you weren’t confident nor subtle enough to attempt anything in public.

But when your eyes landed on that brand-new lingerie set wrapped primly on the nearest mannequin, you had a wonderful idea.

“No, are you being serious? Why? Why?”

His blunt fingernails sunk into the leather arms of the desk chair, scraping upward, as equally frustrated with your cruel antics as he was aroused and impatient. Maybe it was somewhat meanspirited to strut the thin, beautiful lace and ribbons curled around your body in a baby pink, and indeed, there was a moment where you pondered leniency, though, you severed the thought, because Jeonghan would surely tear each garter and bow from your outfit like it hadn’t cost anything at all. Pursing your bottom lip, you smiled, sinister and cold.

“I am being serious,” you stated firmly, nearing closer to his desk chair, “your hands won’t touch a single part of me, Jeonghan.”

He glared up at you with a dark, flickering fire in his eyes,  as if he were already weighing the consequence to breaking such rules. You began to sit comfortably on the boy’s lap, curling your arms around his neck while maintaining the intensity of the stare.

“And, if you do, I’ll grab my things and leave. It’ll just be you and your hand, for the rest of the night.” Purposefully, you brushed delicate lips, featherlight, along his warm, red-tinged ear, to which you could practically feel him harden underneath you upon the whisper, “and there’ll be nothing you can do other than remembering how good it felt when I was in your lap, grinding down on you, baby boy, just like this.”

Slowly and with focus, you rolled your hips in a deep, smooth gyration, ensuring Jeonghan felt the heavy pressure against all the right places. His hands keened for your waist, so you immediately reminded him of your unnegotiable rules, forcing them to settle on the arms of the chair. He drew in a sharp breath. And then, he started to laugh, like a beaten protagonist receiving their first, acrid taste of defeat. Jeonghan titled his head back to smile very lazily at you.

“Evil.” He said. “You’re fucking evil.”

“Mmhm,” you agreed, continuing the unhurried, steadfast pace of your hips rolling back and forth, observing with poorly hidden glee as the boy lost his smile, “but you’ll still cum, won’t you, Jeonghan?”

Before he could sneak in a clever rebuttal, you adjusted yourself even lower onto his lap, digging your nails down the back of his neck as you circled a thorough motion against his erection. Admittedly, it was difficult to maintain the domineering act. Even through the black material of the slacks, his cock was managing to create a friction with your lace underwear, a friction so rough yet fruitless that you were already tempted to take him, full and aching inside you. In order to distract yourself, you licked the tender side to Jeonghan’s neck, looping your tongue in a messy, warm pattern overtop a sensitive vein.

“Ff-fuck,” Jeonghan stuttered, scraping harshly along the chair, “you devilish little girl, c-can’t believe you’re g’nna make me cum like this—b-but it feels so damn good the way you’re moving, baby.”

You suckled until you’d drawn a shiny, wine-coloured hue to the surface of Jeonghan’s skin, to mark a dark bruise as a keepsake. He kept breathing through a parted mouth, each exhale shakier and more erratic than the last, his knuckles hard like stone while they gratingly tensed and betrayed his frustration at not being able to touch you. With slow, teasing hands, you began to drag them down his chest, nails clawing at the expensive fabric of his dress shirt. Jeonghan squirmed. He clenched his jaw and cursed rough under his breath. You focused on where his cock was poking you to apply the most dizzying pressure thus far, rolling your hips until something inside Jeonghan snapped and you felt him cum.

“Jesus—fuck!” He shouted, the loudest you had ever heard the boy, and there was a notable tear in his usually soft voice. “Keep going, keep going,” Jeonghan panted, squeezing his eyes shut, “keep fucking moving just like that, sweetheart. A-Ahh, ff-fuck, feels s-so good—"

At the pulsating sensation right beneath your core, you submitted to Jeonghan’s wish and continued grinding down, even if you were beginning to tire at your lack of stamina. However, there came a point where you were too breathless to maintain such a pace, so you trickled to a halt and steadied your hands on his firm shoulders. He tossed his head back, neck leaned against the edge of the chair. The hazy, glass look to his brown eyes and the rose glow smeared on each cheek made it appear as though he’d just touched down from heaven. As you shifted slightly in Jeonghan’s lap, you noticed the white stream of cum that had soaked through his pants, and that somehow, he was still hard.

“I didn’t know you could beg, Jeonghan.” You remarked, grinning, meanwhile attempting to catch your breath.

He shook his head. “Don’t expect it too much.”

“Well, I can tell you’re satisfied, either way.”

He chuckled, brushing some of the loose hairs from his face. You felt his hands settle upon your waist’s bare skin, warm and squeezing. In that moment, you just didn’t possess the same acuteness to scold him.

“Almost,” Jeonghan huffed, “but, what do you suppose you’ll do to please yourself, sweetheart?” He leaned forward, until his forehead was just a sliver away from bumping yours, the boy sliding a hand down your abdomen and beneath the lace underwear. As he stroked the tips of his fingers along your slit, he smirked. “I’ve never felt someone so wet before, dripping all over my fingers and I’m barely touching you. Did it turn you on that much, sweetheart? Feeling my hard cock right underneath this needy pussy of yours?” Jeonghan teased with a smirk and a low, calm tone. You couldn’t tell if you wanted to duct tape his mouth shut or allow him to keep talking, as there was something about his honeyed voice which wound you up like clockwork.

Yet, before you could even start the syllable of a response, Jeonghan pushed you strongly from his lap, his hands glued to your waist as he guided you to stumble against the bed. Your back hit the mattress, the sheets puffing up around you. And then, Jeonghan was kissing you, lips clashing messily while he took advantage of the switched power dynamic to run his hands over your every inch. One second, they were cupping your breasts overtop the baby pink bralette. Another second, they were grabbing at your ass and kneading so desperately. You were being ravaged. It was overwhelming, it was gratifying, it was needed beyond belief.

“Hey,” Jeonghan said, separating his mouth from the side of your throat to stare at you with an oddly sentimental eye, “before I get all up in your guts and everything— you look beautiful. Even if you did choose this outfit to be a big fucking tease.” His fingers brushed down the edge of your jaw, and he smiled at you in a way that wasn’t clever or teetering on sarcasm. Your heart leapt like a little frog in your chest.

“Really?” You questioned him, not because you didn’t believe the lingerie suited your figure, but rather, you weren’t expecting this sweetness from someone who was always so quick to get rid of you.

He nodded, raising a suspecting eyebrow. “Yeah, really. What, you think I’m lying to you or something?”

“No, I don’t think that,” you answered quickly, curling your fingers into the bedsheets, “I just—I wasn’t… Uh, never mind.”

“Alright,” Jeonghan laughed, lowering his head to delicately kiss your cheek, and then your neck, “you’re a bit strange sometimes, you know that?” He mumbled against the sensitive skin, even daring to dig his knee between your thighs to make you increasingly pliable.

“I-I know,” you stuttered, unable to help your embarrassing voice crack. But you still smiled, letting Jeonghan explore and pleasure your body with an uncharacteristic tenderness for the remainder of the night.

Twelve am.

Usually, at this time, you’d be at the bottom floor of his apartment complex, seated by the lobby water fountain. You’d be examining your face with a pocket mirror, awaiting the yellow taxi cab, and trying to avoid eye contact with the wealthy businesspeople filtering from the elevators in glamourous congregation.

However, tonight was different.

Tonight, you were in Jeonghan’s bed, with a white sheet covering the lower half of your bodies, an ear pressed to his bare, warm chest while you breathed him in like the wind on a bright summer’s day. You felt his fingertips trace long figure eights down your spine and then dance back up to the subtle curve of your shoulder blades. Sometimes it tickled, other times it was a touch so soft it was hardly there, and in between you thought he might have been tracing words. The room was quiet. But good quiet— the comfortable quiet. And then you heard Jeonghan speak into the crown of your head while his hand stilled at your waist.

“Did that salon ever call you back?” He asked.

You sighed, focusing on your thumb which brushed a small freckle on his pectoral muscle. “They emailed me, and said their position was already filled, but that they’ll try to look for another opening.”

Jeonghan rubbed your hip. “That’s good, right? I mean, they didn’t just flat out reject you. They’re gonna keep you in mind.”

“It’s better than what I’m used to getting,” you answered, pressing your lips together and tilting your head up at him.

And, that’s when it struck you, like someone had just clanged a bell right beside your head. You were still in Jeonghan’s bed. You were still in Jeonghan’s apartment. You were still with Jeonghan. Feeling as though you’d broken some vastly significant cardinal rule, you operated on a strange basis of panic and autopilot, already seated at the edge of the mattress while you tucked your underwear back on.

“I’m sorry,” you spewed, reaching for your shirt next and straightening it out frantically in your lap, “the time escaped me. I-I know I have to go. And, my Love Card, I think it’s in my purse or—”

“Can you slow down?” Jeonghan laughed, casting a hand through his loose, disarrayed hair which you had admittedly tugged earlier in the night like your life depended on it. The boy’s arms circled around your midframe, hugging your back to his chest. “I don’t care about that stupid card right now,” Jeonghan hummed into your ear, “stay.”

At that, you almost choked. “Stay? You want me to stay?” You repeated dumbly, dropping the inside-out shirt back onto your lap.

The coldest shiver split down your spine as Jeonghan buried his face against your neck, taking a breath of your scent, kissing your skin.

“Yeah,” he purred, now pecking the soft spot behind your ear, “I want you to stay. Or, if you really want to go home, I won’t stop you.”

“No,” you replied almost immediately, melting into his voice, his touch, his body, “trust me, I’d rather be here.”

Jeonghan’s arms relaxed their snug grip.

“I figured that.”

Even though you had strongly protested the idea, Jeonghan succeeded at wearing you down akin to an ocean tide forming whorls into rock, and now you were seated before your vanity with an array of makeup scattered at your fingertips as you prepared for a dinner. His parents were going to be there, in addition to some business partners and close friends, which sounded like something from a hellish nightmare. In fact, Jeonghan himself didn’t seem all that eager to attend. He’d been sprawled across your bed for the past half hour, with the long drapes of his coat fanned around him, as he flipped through an old magazine. You were certain he just didn’t want to tough another dinner alone.

After focusing a spritz of perfume to your neck (the orchid one, bought by Jeonghan, because he was very insistent that you not smell like his mother) you shut off the vanity lights and sighed.

“I think I’m ready… Physically though, not mentally.”

Jeonghan yawned, tossing the magazine aside before he pushed himself to sit upright on the bed. He rubbed at his eye.

“Trust me, it’s not going to be the big, royal midnight ball that you’re picturing. My parents have these dinners all the time. You’ll be the centre of attention for a few minutes, and then it’s pretty much just business central from there. You’ll be lucky if you can even get a word in. I stopped trying months ago.”

You smiled at him, feeling slightly better about the situation, and took one last, scrutinizing glance in the mirror. The dress was simple yet elegant, a mute shade of dark blue with a beaded, crystal belt that you had forgotten about, as you discovered it laying behind a stool shoved in your closet. The fabric had an elastic tightness to it and was hemmed shorter than you remembered, just above your fingertips. You tried not to judge or overthink the figure which reflected in the vanity glass, or what Jeonghan’s parents might assume upon their first introduction to someone who was so clueless on their accolades. It was merely a dinner.

“Stop worrying so much,” Jeonghan hummed, sensing that you were at the forefront of a spiral. His hands settled to your hips and he caught your eye through the mirror. “No one is going to judge you, or poke fun at you, or say anything mean. I promise.” He then grabbed your winter coat off the bed, helping you slide into the arms, and even doing up the buttons. “You’re gorgeous.” Jeonghan said, tapping your chin.

It didn’t help that he could fluster you so easily.

Joshua wasn’t at all who you expected him to be, while simultaneously encompassing everything you would indeed expect from the position of Jeonghan’s closest friend. He was a juxtaposition personified. Slick, ash blonde hair combed into a handsome wave, eyes which twinkled like the restaurant’s diamond chandelier, and a soothing voice which could be a cup of warm milk on a frosty day, though his interactions with Jeonghan portrayed him as childlike and frivolous. He greeted you, at first with a quick hug. You heard him exhale deeply.

“Wow,” Joshua commented, retreating to shake your hand, “you smell amazing! I mean—well, I hope that doesn’t sound weird.”

You laughed, and wondered how someone could smile with such a prettiness. “Thank you! I’d be upset if you didn’t notice, actually.”

Joshua continued to shake your hand. “Oh, yeah, agree. It’s wonderful to meet you. Jeonghan’s been trying to hide you, it seems.”

“Go shove a break stick in your mouth,” Jeonghan scoffed, blowing a loose piece of hair from his eyes, “and stop shaking her hand like that. You’re gonna snap her whole arm off.”

Finally, Joshua released his grip, and your arm fell back to your side like a limp noodle. His cheeks were starting to turn pink.

“I was not. Anyways—” he nodded at you, “like I said, nice to meet you. I hope we’ll talk more tonight and I’ll pick your brain.”

“Sure thing,” you answered, waving the boy off as he returned to the dinner table before facing Jeonghan. “He seems nice.”

“And totally into you. I haven’t seen him shake someone’s hand like that since I introduced him to Elouise from France. He’s gonna turn into a lost puppy all over again. Bet he’ll try to sweet talk you later.”

“Can’t wait.” You grinned, already giggling through your teeth.

Jeonghan c0nsquently thwapped your forehead with his finger.

However, meeting Jeonghan’s parents was starkly different than the good-humoured Joshua. They both appeared cross, and firm, and before you had even shaken their hands you were forced to wipe yours against your dress. The father was a bit softer around the edges, showing you a pleased smile that reminded you instantaneously of Jeonghan, while the mother was stone-faced and seemed as though she hadn’t slouched since birth. Even when she complimented your fragrance, there was a tartness to her voice which made it sound disingenuous.

“Well, Jeonghan,” she said, clasping her hands together, “I’m glad to finally see you with a lovely lady on your arm. I didn’t think it was possible that you could settle for someone after being with Baejin.”

“Oh?” The father piped up, “you’re my son’s girlfriend?”

Before you could respond, Jeonghan had beaten you to it.

“No, she’s…” he bit his lip hard, “she’s just a friend. Mom kept nagging that I always come to these dinners alone, and she was down.”

For some reason, it felt like someone had pierced a pin straight through your heart – a very tiny hole which shouldn’t hurt all that much, yet stung like flesh to orange, glowing metal. In fact, there was a visible shift in your countenance, from a nervous smile to a sunken frown, but you were able to veil it very quickly and pretend nothing was wrong. Why should you feel so disappointed that Jeonghan had introduced you as a friend? The promiscuous nature of your relationship didn’t immediately loop you two together as soulmates, or lovers, or even the mildest beginnings of boyfriend and girlfriend. You tried to refocus yourself.

Jeonghan’s mother nodded. “Even if she isn’t your next Baejin, it’s nice to meet a new face. The dinner talk might bore you no doubt.”

“No, not at all—” you forced a smile, “I’m just excited to be here.”

It was easier to endure the night than you thought, because true to Jeonghan’s word, the conversation was a bunch of business lingo that you didn’t exactly understand, with the occasional question flitted to you by Joshua who sat across the table. You had completely emptied your glass of ice water, and were halfway through your wine when two fancy, tuxedoed servers stopped by the table to collect everyone’s dishes. A distant relative was seated to Jeonghan’s right, and they had swept him into a discussion of whether or not he was interested in pursuing his current degree or if he would abandon it to work fulltime for his father’s brand. Meanwhile, Joshua had whisper-shouted your name.

You raised an eyebrow, “what?”

“Are you getting dessert?” The blonde asked, already shoving a small, plastic menu to his face. “I can’t decide what I want.”

“I guess so,” you picked up an extra menu sitting by a purple wine bottle and started to browse the list of decadent food.

Joshua sighed, “I usually get the cheesecake… but, I’m torn. What if I want the caramel apple baked pudding with black truffles?”

“The caramel apple baked what?” You questioned, laughing from the absolute mouthful that Joshua just worded so effortlessly.

“I know, I know. It’s a jumble. But my family and I come here all the time so I’ve gotten these names down pat. What are you thinking?”

“Um, I’m not sure. I’ve never been here before, actually.”

His eyes, glistering and delighted, locked with yours. “Can I recommend you something, then?” Joshua said while smiling. “Red velvet cake. It’s right at the bottom. Not to mention the slice is huge so there’s always leftovers for the next day. It’s a favourite here.”

The relative responsible for dragging Jeonghan into another trite conversation concerning his future had excused themselves from the table. He was finally able to return his attention to you, and you slid over the dessert menu so he could pick something. You noted that Jeonghan’s hand had fallen onto your thigh, right at the hem of your dress, and you could only surmise that trouble was brewing. Joshua took a sip from his water glass, then settled it back on the table while subtly eyeing you.

“So, I’ve never seen you around before. Are you in school?”

You tapped your nails against the white table cloth, shaking your head, “no—I had to drop my program. It just wasn’t what I thought it would be and, well, I took a huge hit financially. So, no school.”

“Not everything is going to be a bullseye,” Joshua said, “I’m sure there’ll be more opportunity down the road. This other friend of mine, his name is Mingyu, he does this thing called the Love Café—” the boy then gestured to Jeonghan, “and I know he’s done it once before. Have you heard of it? Maybe it’s not up your alley, but I hear it’s good money.”

The suggestion had quite visibly stunned you. It seemed that Jeonghan was intent to keep the foundation of your relationship as covert as possible, which prompted his ‘friends’ comment before dinner, therefore you had no choice but to follow the rouse, even if the boy was currently sliding his hand further up the inside of your thigh, pushing inch by inch under your dress. Jeonghan didn’t contribute a single word.

“Um, the name sounds familiar. I’ll have to look it up.” You then glanced at him, hanging his head over the menu like a child who forgot their glasses, probably hiding some million-watt smirk.

“Are you having dessert?” Joshua asked his friend.

Jeonghan sat up straight, nodding, “I am.”

“The red velvet cake?”

“Vanilla ice cream. The one that comes on the skillet.”

“Oh, that one’s seriously good,” Joshua groaned, “ask them to put a chocolate chip cookie on the side. It gets all warm and—”

“Joshua,” the young lady beside him, probably in her late twenties, with petal-shaped, twinkling eyes similar to his and ice-like smooth skin, suddenly wrapped her hand around his arm, “can you come outside with me for a few minutes? I think I left my wallet in the car.”

He pushed out his chair. “Sure thing—guys, I’ll be back in a few. I need to help my cousin. If the waiter comes, order for me please.”

While you might have promised Joshua to follow through on his unnecessarily complicated apple pudding, such thoughts were quick to be discarded the moment he’d left the table, as Jeonghan had given you much more to think about. The boy’s hand was wedged between the apex of your thighs with two fingers pressed flat against your underwear. You felt heat, and the faintest burning of pleasure, one that yearned for you to start a gentle undulation against his hand because your unruly body was already eager for stimulation. Jeonghan picked up his wine glass.

“What are you doing?” You tried to shelter the whisper from the table’s guests, hoping the business speech was too engrossing.

As laid back as an ironing board, Jeonghan took a long gulp from his drink, swishing the wine from cheek to cheek before he swallowed. He set the wide-rimmed glass back down and wiped his mouth.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing?’” He said, raising an eyebrow at you as though you’d conjured a make-believe tale. However, the instant he started to slide up his index finger so it could push firmly against your clit, a smirk penetrated that complacent expression.

You grabbed his wrist, stared him dead in those honey-brown eyes. “Are you insane?” the whisper was harsh, “we’re in public.”

He tilted his head indifferently. “What’s your point, love? I get to play with your pussy whenever I want. It’s mine now. Remember?”

The dirty-mouthed comment split a fire beneath your cheeks like a flint cracking steel. Not only that, but Jeonghan studied each minor contort of your face as he slipped two digits beneath your underwear, brushing his fingertips ever so softly around your sensitive clit. You gulped, dry and gritty, hating that your thighs were starting to spread.

“Jeonghan!” A voice called his name from down the table.

Fear gripped your poor heart like latex glove. It was an older relative, asking him to pass down the remaining bottle full of wine.

“Oh, such a nice boy!” She chirped.

You nearly gawked at the remark considering the immoral placement of his hand and what he was doing. On the contrary – as much as you wanted to be embarrassed for allowing Jeonghan to touch you in public viewing– he knew his talents much too well, and the manner in which he used your own arousal to lubricate the massaging motion of his finger to your clit was an astounding bliss. Your legs fell wider apart, inviting him to explore a more rigorous touch, and that’s when Jeonghan curled his two fingers inside of you until his knuckles couldn’t fit.

Before your pinched expression could be caught by anyone at the table, you looked straight down at your lap, watching his wrist work beneath the navy-blue fabric. In fact, very faintly, you could hear the squelch from his digits pumping deep and slow into your warmth. Your bottom lip was quivering as he drew them out, now running the long length of his fingers upward to graze beneath the hood of your clit. He repeated a stroking gesture. It triggered the nerves to swell and pulse.

“I see Joshua walking back,” Jeonghan murmured, an arrogance thick in his voice, “and you don’t want him to find out about this, do you? Or, maybe I’m wrong.” He slid his entire hand beneath your underwear and cupped your centre, squeezing like he owned it. “Maybe you want him to know you’re such a whore of a girl that you’ll take my fingers anywhere. I mean, look at how much you’ve opened your legs, and I didn’t even ask you to. I love when you behave just for me, honey.”

Joshua collapsed back at the table with a huff, combing some snow flurries from his hair. “We found the wallet.” He said.

Yet, you couldn’t even bring yourself to face him. Jeonghan had spread your lips with his index and ring finger, using his middle digit to make rhythmic, deep circles around the bud. An erotic whine escaped your teeth and Joshua’s eyes widened; his face tinged with concern.

“Are you alright?” He questioned. “Did you get a Charlie horse?”

“N-No, I’m fine, really.” You composed yourself with a weak smile, and took a sip from your wine. “I got one of those rib pains.”

The blonde boy winced. “Ouch, those hurt big time.”

Honestly, you didn’t think it was possible to endure dessert without revealing to some degree that you were being, well, stretched open by Jeonghan. It was sheer torture staring at the waiter while he took your order, knowing the boy was lazily pumping his fingers inside you with a half-smirk seated so comfortably to his face. When that huge, delicious slice of cream red velvet cake was placed before you on the table, you could only fork a few pathetic bites, and when Joshua offered you to try a spoonful from his warm apple pudding, you nearly squealed the word no as Jeonghan rolled your sore clit between his fingertips. The most egregious aspect to the entire daubable was that the boy stripped your orgasm from you at the very last second, like stopping a rollercoaster just before it tips over the downhill plummet.

“How was the ice cream?” Joshua asked him innocently.

You observed with horror as Jeonghan brought that sinful hand to his mouth, lapping his tongue against his two fingertips as though he were actually savouring a sweet and flavourful vanilla.

“Delicious.” He grinned, catching your mortified stupor from the corner of his eye. “I’d taste it again in a heartbeat, Shua.”

Dropping the slice of bread into a shallow bowl, you used the spatula to submerge it underneath the milk, egg and cinnamon mixture until it was completely coated. Then, you slid the bread onto your buttered frying pan to let its surfaces crisp and brown. Since you began utilizing the service granted by the Love Café, life at your depressing excuse for an apartment was becoming more bearable, though your ultimate goal would be to ditch the paper-thin walls and insult-spewing neighbours once money was no longer a prevalent issue. You were still insistent on supporting yourself too, if you could ever score a job.

You flipped the bread onto its opposite face, pressing it down with the spatula as the pan sizzled and the butter popped. A few days had passed since your last intimacy with Jeonghan, and the proof would have been stamped to your Love Card if the boy had actually written his initials like usual. The thing was, Jeonghan – who had always been so firm and unwavering on the rules of the café – was now skirting about the regulations as though they were optional. There were days when he didn’t even initial the card, but still delivered his transactions. In fact, you were almost positive that sex had happened more than twelve times and that you could be renewing your card if wanted (you didn’t).

As silly and cliché as it sounded, you liked Jeonghan. You constantly thought about him and missed him and wondered what he was doing while you were trapped in bed listening to another argument between your spiteful neighbours. There was always a deep, electric pounding in your chest upon weaving the tips of your fingers along his skin, touching him, exploring him. Yet, when he held you close, tucked your body tight against his like there was nothing surrounding you but ice, comfort found a home in your belly like a warm, homecooked meal.

After spilling some icing sugar and strawberries across the toast, now fried a delicious shade of golden-brown, you took a seat at the counter and dug in. There had been an occasion where Jeonghan brought you breakfast after warping your legs into complete gelatine (you had no idea that kitchen table sex could be so fiery and passionate), which proved to be a pleasant morning, where you could still feel the softness of his thumb as he kindly brushed some whipped cream from your bottom lip. You sighed, sticking a strawberry into your mouth. How foolish it might be to fall this far and this devotedly for someone like him.

But you didn’t want to stop yourself.

In fact, you reached for your phone across the counter, swiped into your messages, and decided to be bold. You texted him.

[  9:29 AM ]: Hey! I know that I’m not supposed to send you anything unrelated to our business lol, but

[9:29 AM ]: Just wondering if you’re available to grab a coffee with me or something along those lines?

Setting the phone down and turning it over so you wouldn’t be tempted to helplessly wait for a notification, you continued eating. After scraping the last few pieces of toast and syrup around the plate, there was a vibration and a quick, ding! Strangely, you were starting to sweat.

[ Jeonghan | 9:34 AM ]: Sorry. In a lecture rn.

Of course, your surge of bravery immediately dehydrated, and you decided it was best to pretend that you hadn’t asked him anything at all – for your confidence’s sake. The next two hours were spent cleaning the kitchen, taking a short walk outside the complex to feel the Northern air refresh your face, and finally, a long bath, in which you nearly fell asleep and drowned as the steam lulled your eyes shut. While wrapping your body snug in that new, hot pink bath towel, you heard a knock at the door. You assumed it was the painter who occupied the room directly below yours, as you had borrowed his vacuum the night before, though you weren’t exactly raving at the thought of answering him in a towel.

However, by squinting through the fisheye lens, you were shocked (and greatly relieved) to discover that it wasn’t the middle-aged painter dressed in his splattered, dirty overalls, but Jeonghan.

And he was holding a drink.

You unlocked the door.

“Uh, hello after all. What are you doing here?”

He smiled at you and held up the cardboard cup, “my lecture ended, and I thought I’d do you a solid. Couldn’t remember if it was two sugars-one cream, or two creams-one sugar. So I tossed a coin.”

“What exactly was the result?” You giggled.

“Heads,” Jeonghan answered, “two sugars-one cream it is.”

“You’re lucky that’s correct.”

Accepting the warm cup from his hand, you set it carefully on the kitchen counter. When you returned to the door, Jeonghan was evidently ogling you. He really suited the image of a casual university student when he wasn’t dressed to gems and jewels in his sumptuous clothing.

“I knew the hot pink towel would look good on you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not dropping it, so forget it.”

“Whoa,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “I didn’t ask you to drop it, sweetheart. I’d rather you not actually, with this door wide open and everything.”

“Did I really just hear that from you, Mr, Dinner Table?” Folding your arms, you stared him down with an accusing expression.

He held up one finger in defense. “First of all, that was under the table, so unless someone bumped their fork or something, then we were pretty much safe. This is you dropping your whole towel right in the doorway like there isn’t a weirdo probably peeping you across the hall as we speak. And I’m not letting anyone look at you like that, ever.”

“Fine,” you sighed, hoping he couldn’t spot the flustered heart pumping your chest beneath the towel, “you’ve made your point.”

Jeonghan checked his silver wrist watch, “fuck. I gotta get going, need to be at the studio so I can be a taper dummy again.”

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, “talk to y—”

Suddenly, the boy was cupping each side of your face in his hands, and his lips pressed soft but quick to your forehead. Jeonghan then pinched your thigh under the towel, a gesture which felt oddly endearing rather than sexual, before he left the corridor.

“Later!” He’d called.

Shutting the door, you returned to your seat at the counter, holding the coffee cup up to your mouth as you took a small, nervous sip.

How could you let yourself fall this easily for him?

Jeonghan’s washroom was somehow nicer than your entire apartment, and you were fairly certain that your eyes had never seen so much white-grey marble, all squeaky-clean and aglow with lights. He’d shot you a text roughly an hour ago, right after he was released from the painful effort required to keep Joshua’s peewee soccer players in check, wondering if you were available to come over. Of course, the innocence to the term ‘come over’ was nothing more than a euphemism, a means of sugar coating what Jeonghan actually intended: to be inside you no doubt. And since the boy was so drained and unwilling to instigate any work himself, Jeonghan decided that a steaming, hot bath should do.

Well – a bath which involved you seated on his dick. The tub was dark grey tile, square-shaped, and practically the size of a small jacuzzi. It even had a bench to sit on. While it had been difficult at first to simply cockwarm the boy – when all you could feel was how deeply he spearheaded into your sensitive spot and how this shock would ripple from your abdomen at even his gentlest movement– you knew he wasn’t looking to make things quick and temporary. Therefore, you settled into his lap, wrapping your arms around Jeonghan’s neck while his circled your waist beneath the water. Both of you were starting to fall asleep.

“Jeonghan,” you whispered, lifting your head from his shoulder, only to remember that you were indeed naked and this heat lapping around you was definitely not a blanket, “can I tell you something?”

With his eyes still shut, he nodded, his fingers digging appreciatively at your hips. “Of course you can, baby.” He replied, his voice sounding deeper than usual as he orientated on the edges of sleep.

Smiling, you combed through the damp hairs at his nape, your voice reverberating like a musical instrument off the marble. “Remember the salon place? They called me two days ago, said they had an opening for me and that I could start next Monday. I… I wanted to text you about it, like, as soon as it happened. But I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“What? Really?” Jeonghan was staring at you now, his head straightened from its leisurely position against the edge of the tub and cocked with interest. The fact he seemed so intrigued, that you could read the genuine excitement building up in those brown eyes, had almost made you happier than the salon’s phone call. “Congratulations!” He leaned forward to kiss you, pecking your lips chastely the first time, and then slower come the second, his hands squeezing your thighs.

After a tiny laugh, you sighed contentedly. “Thank you. It’s going to be so nice having my own cashflow and everything. And if I can work my way up and become like, a kickass hair stylist? Can you imagine?”

“Should I grow my hair out more so you can practice cutting it? You’ve got a steady hand, don’t you?” Jeonghan asked, mostly teasing, as you could imagine his parents harping him during his next session at Opal Studio if he looked as though he’d ran through some hedge clippers.

Returning the affection, you kissed the rosy tip of his nose. “I think my hands are pretty steady. We’ll find out I guess, and we’ll know for sure if a huge chunk of your hair falls to the floor.”

Your laughter immediately mingled, and you hid your smile against the boy’s neck, a very moonstruck, loopy smile which felt like riding a blazing comet between the stars. If you were legitimately able to climb higher amongst the business, then you could picture a life in which you didn’t need to lean on Jeonghan and the Love Café for financial support. In fact, there were moments where you felt rather dirty using his money even when he was completely insistent on such matters, like buying food and paying off bills. You held tight to a certain hope, that you could become independent again, and maybe, just maybe, be able to keep this beautiful boy whom you once thought would hate you.

His fingers tapped up your spine, urging you to face him.

“Seriously,” Jeonghan said, “I’m happy for you.”

“I know,” you answered, so quietly he could hardly hear it.

And then, you decided to kiss Jeonghan, placing your damp hand upon his cheek while your mouths slotted together. The contact had lost its grace almost instantly, and the kiss turned from a sweet gesture to a sensuality so thick you could feel it swelter the air and pool between your legs. He offered his tongue for you to suckle by sliding it smoothly into your mouth, and from there, Jeonghan’s intended relaxation had vanished. His hands grazed to the front of your body, reaching up and sliding back and forth over each breast. It wasn’t until Jeonghan began massaging his thumbs in circular motions around your nipples that you moaned into his mouth, a sound which flicked a smirk to his face.

Once his lips were shiny and slick with your saliva, he moved each kiss down the side of your neck, now pinching at your nipples, even twisting gently and making sure to ease the dull throb by rubbing them afterward. It was becoming unbearable. You needed to move. However, the second you started a rhythm in Jeonghan’s lap, he shook his head.

“Be still,” he told you, lightly gripping your chin.

The desperation in your whine was horribly apparent, almost soaking each word. “No Jeonghan, I-I can’t do that anymore—” ignoring him, you continued to grind your hips and move the water around you, feeling his engorged head tick against that one spot of insane pleasure, “I need t’cum now, all over your cock.” With every bounce in his lap, you begged, “please, please, please.” This prompted Jeonghan to grab your waist much tighter than usual and slam you down, holding you still.

“No, not like that,” he grunted, and you wondered if his control was simply otherworldly or if he was just that talented at hiding how good he felt. “I’ll make you cum, sweetheart,” Jeonghan nodded, “but you can’t move. I just want you to sit there, all the way down.”

He then leaned in close to your face, nearly pressing his forehead to yours, and that’s when you felt his thumb brush with a featherlight, fleeting touch across your clit. The sudden stimulation jerked your body. Jeonghan bit his lip and grinned while continuing the sensitive touch, the pressure becoming heavier with each minute that passed. Your thighs started to tremble, and your moans were echoing around the washroom.

The honeyed dirty talk crawled up Jeonghan’s throat. “You’re such a cute little cocksleeve, sweetheart,” he purred, titling his head as he rubbed his thumb faster, “oh, look at you, baby. Shaking and crying and taking it like it’s the only thing you’re good for—” a messy kiss to calm you down, thin strings of saliva hanging in the air each time your mouths separated, “I bet you’re gonna cum for me soon, right?” The boy encouraged, keeping his forehead flush to yours so he could observe with utmost clarity the beautiful contortions of your face. “I know you are, sweetheart. Because it feels so good, right?” You nodded frantically, digging your fingers into his neck like a cat sinking in its claws. Jeonghan’s thumb pushed beneath the hood of your clit, directly massaging the soft bud, and the pleasure inside you leapt to a new high which made you dumbly lose all sense.

“Cum.” Jeonghan commanded so gently, his gaze burning against your eyes, squeezed shut. At the straightforward word, you allowed the sensation to swallow you like a current, and the hot, teary cry you mewled had been quickly snuffed as the boy pushed his lips to yours.

“Can feel you clenching so fucking tight around my cock,” he chuckled, digging his nose into your hair and speaking warmly beside your ear, “and how much you’re throbbing right under my thumb. Must feel so good, sweetheart, cumming all over me like such a good girl.”

You slumped against him, overwhelmed, emptied, and breathing so heavy that you were afraid the oxygen might dwindle completely from your lungs. The fact Jeonghan could remain so composed while buried to the hilt in your heat was something else that frightened you, though, in the moment, you preferred not to think about it, instead concentrating on the distant sensation of Jeonghan drawing galactic shapes to each your shoulder blades.

Hopefully, he’d let you stay the night.

Once you started the receptionist job at the hair salon, you had bumped into Joshua on a Friday evening. While his platinum blonde look was indeed enchanting and princely, he complained that it was difficult to maintain the roots, and that he often found himself back in the stylist’s chair for a touch up. He’d come in on a whim. Luckily – due to the late hour – there was an open seat, and Joshua puffed a great sigh of relief as he hooked his jacket onto the salon coat hanger. Curious if there was more behind the reason to his abrupt appearance, you conversed with him while he waited for the stylist to tidy up her work area.

That’s when Joshua informed you of the Opal’s Galleria Night, a fashion exhibition which would display Mr. Yoon’s newest edition for his upcoming Spring line. Joshua seemed surprised that you hadn’t known about the Galleria, or, that Jeonghan hadn’t mentioned it to you. Oddly enough, Jeonghan had been radio silent the past three days; not a phone call, or a voice memo, or even a text. Yesterday you had hoped to catch him stuck in the books at the library, but the area where he usually sat was occupied by a study group of freshman. It concerned you a little.

An ungraceful quickie in the washroom after his three-hour lecture ended on Tuesday was your last encounter. Not to mention, there was only one more opening left on your Love Card.

“He didn’t say anything,” you told Joshua, pretending to act indifferent “so… I don’t think he wants me there. It’s not a big deal.”

Yet, that’s not how you truly felt. There had to be some reason for the boy’s keeping you in the dark. Did he not want to explain the ‘friends’ trope to all the Galleria members, like at the dinner? Or, was he thinking that you wouldn’t be interested? It wasn’t easy to seem unphased.

“Jeonghan doesn’t need to invite you,” Joshua had said, “cause I’ll invite you myself. Mr. Yoon said it was more than  fine if I brought someone along. So, why not you? It’ll make the night more fun.”

At first, you vehemently rejected the invite, no matter how sweetly Joshua attempted to rope you into a night of free perfume samples, delicious catering food and a chocolate fountain perfect for dipping strawberries. However, when the hair stylist pulled Joshua away to fix his darkening roots, you had much time to mull over the offer, and even the fact you felt poignant about dismissing it. As you tapped a pen against the desk, staring out the window into the grey, dulling sky, you convinced yourself there could be no harm in attending the Opal’s Galleria Night. Besides, you and Jeonghan weren’t cast in stone. He probably wouldn’t bat any eyelash anyways, knowing his eased nature.

And so, you caught Joshua just before he left.

You told him you’d changed your mind.

When Jeonghan first saw you at the Opal Galleria, it was from across the ballroom that had been temporarily converted into an exhibition space, stood next to a mannequin draped in a cherub-pink slip dress. Almost comically, he gagged on some sparkling champagne held in a thin and tall glass, though he recovered smoothly as to not interrupt the conversation his father was sharing with the dense crowd. You waved at him, not too noticeably of course, but he either didn’t catch it or had decided to ignore the gesture. Shrugging, you tried not to overthink it.

Mannequins were lined up along both sides of the ballroom, adorned in the mild tones baring semblance to Spring, with the blips of baby blues, clementine oranges, and cream violets transforming the Galleria into an acrylic painting. Jeonghan’s mother took the opportunity to offer some spritzes from her most recent line, which had both you and Joshua smelling like a tulip garden. While exploring the room with the blonde boy, you stopped to examine a mannequin dressed in a relaxed, high-waisted pant and a lace camisole that seemed breezy and flowing. This collection was definitely tamer compared to the usual extravagance you had always seen through the store windows and in magazines.

“Would you wear it?” Joshua asked, chewing on a strawberry that he might as well have plucked from thin air.

Tilting your head and squinting, you took a moment to contemplate. “If it was my size I might, if I could find a price hanging off somewhere. But I don’t want to even touch it. Mannequins are weird.”

“No prices are usually displayed at the Gallerias,” Joshua informed you, “though, I will agree. It’s probably a Toy Story thing where they all start moving at night when no one’s here. Spooky, huh?”

You sighed at him, “thanks for the nightmare material.”

Suddenly, there was a tap to your bare shoulder, and you nearly yelped like a cat with a stepped-on tail as Joshua laughed between bites from his juicy strawberry. Turning around, you were met with Jeonghan, who had this flat-lined, unenthusiastic smile hardly touching the corners of his mouth. He looked rather agitated in fact, and you felt cold inside.

“Hey!” Joshua exclaimed, punching his friend’s arm. “Finally escape your dad’s novella-length speech on the pink slip?”

The crowd once gathered around the mannequin had started to disperse, with the visitors now exploring the rest of the outfits.

Jeonghan hardly payed any mind to his friend, throwing out an impatient, “yeah, it was whatever,” before he began questioning you. He started with a rather inhospitable, “why are you here?”

“I invited her,” Joshua announced, “since I ran into her at that salon place. I thought it would be nice and everything. The Gallerias can get pretty stiff if you come alone. Plus, there’s chocolate fountains.”

He appeared nettled, like he’d woken up and spilled coffee on his favourite shirt. You couldn’t place the exact emotion, nor could you identify the reason behind Jeonghan acting as though there were one-hundred choice words waiting to zap off the tip of his tongue. For an instant, you wondered if it would be worthwhile to question him, though there was a shout of the boy’s name and you spotted his parents beckoning him over from across the exhibition. Jeonghan merely rolled his eyes, disappearing just as quickly as he’d arrived to accompany them.

You folded your arms concerningly. “Do you know if something’s wrong? I haven’t seen him like that before.”

Joshua dropped the rest of the strawberry into his mouth. “He’s probably stressing over something. I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s not really one to blow up or get all in your face. I’ll talk to him later.”

Seeing as there were others who wanted to examine the camisole mannequin, you and Joshua seated yourselves at a tiny table right beside the chocolate fountain and catering foods. Though, you were unable to quell the curiosity at what Jeonghan was needed for, prompting your eyes to wander as unnaturally as possible in his direction. He’d just pulled a young woman into a hug, and she was positively gorgeous, dressed in a silk-fabric dress, form fitting and ruby red, with an elegant slit parting up to her right thigh. Her ponytail was slicked shiny as though her hair had been styled professionally, and she flaunted a dreamy smile that reminded you of a vintage female heroine.

And then, like a slap to the face, you realized she must be the woman whom Jeonghan’s parents seemed to be obsessed over.

Baejin, his ex-girlfriend.

She mentioned something into his ear, and they became giggly, the two pulling in again for another short hug. Jeonghan’s father gestured back to the pink slip mannequin, and the four walked over to discuss it for the umpteenth time. You wondered if she was going to be modeling some of the clothing. The assumption felt correct as Baejin touched the dress’ delicate fabric and the beaded, glimmering string tied around the tiny waist. Quickly, Jeonghan fetched the girl a champagne glass, the two drinking together while the father appeared to be entering another in-depth explanation. And, perhaps dignifiedly so, you were feeling mislead and upset. You speculated if this could be the reason for him to keep the Opal Galleria a secret – Jeonghan didn’t want you to catch even a glimpse of him reuniting with Baejin.

They hardly portrayed two ex’s who were now settled on different chapters to their lives. The longer you stared, the angrier, yet, more confused you felt. As you thought before, the odd relationship between you and Jeonghan was not set in stone, and it certainly didn’t ignite with the intention of actual love taking a blossom to your doorstep. It could be that you were jumping to conclusions, misreading things, or disillusioned by your tendency to wishfully think. Nonetheless, the sight still hurt.

Joshua bumped your elbow.

“Are you hungry at all? The scent from the catering tables is getting to me. I can grab a plate for you, if you want.”

With a sigh and a fragile smile, you shook your head. “No, I’ll come with you. Besides, you don’t know what I like anyways.”

“Fair enough.” Joshua agreed.

He stuck out his hand for you to take while rising from the chair.

Grabbing a small plate, you started at the end of the catering table and began making your way down, using the plastic tongs to serve yourself some spring rolls. Joshua filed after you, instead taking a bowl and scooping up some of the fresh zucchini pasta. Admittedly, you had lost your appetite after watching Jeonghan act so cordially with Baejin, though you were determined to not let the plight sour the otherwise enjoyable night you were having with Joshua. Once you reached the chocolate fountain, you swore a sparkle jumped into his eye.

“Why are you so obsessed with the fountain?” You had tried not to laugh as you asked the question.

The blonde boy looked aghast. “Because, it’s beautiful!” He picked up a strawberry arranged neatly around the base, dipping the edge briefly beneath the chocolate. “I mean, how can they make it so delicious and velvety? When I came to my first Galleria, I spent like, half my night just standing by the fountain, eating the fruit.”

You couldn’t help but think Joshua was adorable, and you grinned at him, “well, maybe I don’t have as much of a sweet tooth.”

“Just shush up and try this.”

He held out the strawberry, inviting you for a taste. At first, you paused, wondering if there was some flirtatious intention behind the gesture or if Joshua was just being his overtly kind self. And then, you held onto his wrist and took a bite from the strawberry, the warmth of the melted chocolate satin-smooth against your tongue.

Wiping the edge of your mouth, you nodded. “It is pretty tasty, actually. Let me try dipping it. You make it look weirdly fun.”

After setting down the catering plate, you took Joshua’s strawberry while he picked up a new one. Together, you pushed your fruits beneath the streaming chocolate, twisting it at the green leaf to fully coat the sides. So it wouldn’t drip, you immediately took a huge bite with a hand placed just below your mouth, humming contentedly.

“Okay,” you mumbled, still chewing, “I can see why you like this so much. I think I could get addicted to chocolate strawberry dipping.”

“Me too,” Joshua chuckled, “oh! Look, there’s whipped cream here and I didn’t even see it!” He set down his plate beside yours and grabbed the bottle like an eager little child. Popping off the cap, Joshua shook the can and pressed his fingertip against the nozzle, spraying a white-frosted peak onto the top of another strawberry. You copied him, though you had accidently sprayed too much. Once you licked the cream off your finger, you poked the entire fruit into your mouth like a funfetti-sized cupcake. For some reason, Joshua started giggling at you.

“What?” You glared at him playfully. “What’s wrong?”

Rosy tinges flushed to the arch of Joshua’s cheeks. “Uhm… Well, l-let me just—” he stuttered, cupping his hand gently to your face, his thumb brushing at a spot right below your bottom lip. “You had some whipped cream on your… chin slash lip. Sorry about that.”

“O-Oh, it’s okay.” You were stumbling yourself, tongue darting out instinctively to ensure there wasn’t anything still there.

At random, you felt this prickle tiptoe up the back of your neck, a sensation that was hardly perceptible yet singeing enough for you to notice it. Gulping, you peered toward that faceless mannequin draped in its pink slip dress, toward Jeonghan, Baejin, and his parents who were enthralled in a conversation with her. Jeonghan was glaring so blatantly at Joshua that you’d forgotten how to speak, and you couldn’t even pronounce a single word of warning as the boy started storming his way across the ballroom.

His grip was on your elbow like a viper’s teeth.

“Geez, where’d you come from?” Joshua said, though he was  able to note the tension this time, and Jeonghan’s surly behaviour.

“I need to talk to you,” Jeonghan murmured by your ear, ignoring Joshua yet again, “in the hall just outside the exhibition.”

You didn’t want to agree. Strangely enough, you felt this urge balloon inside you, an urge to cause a gigantic scene with screaming and thick tears and unnecessary curses, because as much as you wanted to dismiss your anger, there were jealous, wronged feelings inside, on fire and itching to escape from your gut. Miraculously, you held your composure, and announced to Joshua that you’d talk to him later.

Jeonghan then tore you into the empty hallway.

It was like a lightning bolt, how quickly he exploded.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jeonghan ranted, pacing back and forth as the distant echo of music bled through the wall. “Seriously, I don’t text you back for like, three days, and you’re already going on a date with my best friend—” he softened his voice in a purposefully mocking way, “letting him get all delicate with you, feeding you all lovey-dovey style and wiping that cream off your lip. Did you think I wouldn’t see it?”

“Excuse me?” Your brow instantly creased like a folded map, and you felt an intense ache hit the front of your skull. “Um, you’re one to talk! How come you didn’t tell me about the Galleria? Because you didn’t want me to see you with your arm around your ex’s waist? Because you don’t think I’m good enough to show off to your parents?”

Jeonghan gawked at you. “Baejin? For real? You think I’ve been secretly dating her behind your back or something?”

“How am I supposed to know?” You barked, tucking your arms defensively across the chest. And, while it might have been too early into the argument to pit such a statement, you had already started bubbling, and you knew there was nothing to snuff your fire. “Besides, you hardly ever get back to me apart from when you want to fuck!”

At that, the boy was momentarily stumped. What sounded like a rebuttal fizzled at the back of his throat, though it faded away. The silence worried you, because it echoed a confirmation that Jeonghan might’ve actually never seen as you as anything more than an outlet to alleviate his carnality. That, once the Love Café ordeal was finally over with, he could forget you had ever existed like erasing a mistake of smudged lead. The thought made you glassy-eyed and thus, terribly vulnerable. However, you also craved the truth to your relationship.

“Just admit it,” you beseeched him, “admit that you want me only for sex and nothing else. Is that why you didn’t bring up the Galleria? Because you think it’s easier to shove me in the dark when it’s convenient for you? Is that why you were acting so mad?”

He skimmed a hand exasperatedly through his hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m not dating Baejin behind your back, I have never once thought you weren’t good enough to show off to my parents, and I didn’t purposefully hide the Galleria from you.”

“Right,” you scoffed, “but you’re fine with labelling me as a friend and pretending like we don’t hook up every week.”

“It’s…” he clenched his teeth and growled in frustration, “it’s complicated, alright? Can’t you just accept that?”

“Complicated?” A shudder coursed down your spine at having to repeat the boy, and the tears sprung from your eyes with such a sharp sting that it became impossible to hold them back. You felt each drop, cold and runny, drip along your face. “That’s the word you’re going to use? You’re going to look straight at me, after the entire span of our relationship since the Love Café, and tell me we’re summed up best as complicated?” Again, the word struck you like a stiff punch. If he was going to regard your connection so trivially, then you didn’t care whether or not he knew the verity of your heart. Like it would affect him anyways.

“I would’ve said we were in love,” you shrugged, watching his expression drop in a mere instant, “but—sure, let’s call it complicated.”

And, with the tears shining like salt stars on your face, you stalked out the building into the softening winter weather.

You didn’t know it could be so difficult to ignore someone, especially when you were supposed to hate them. The effect Jeonghan had on you was almost phantom-like; a constant lingering, even if the boy himself wasn’t palpable and poised right before your eyes.

It had been three days since the outburst at the Galleria. That night, you cried, and wept, and broke out the amber bottle stored beneath your sink which was only sipped from in occasions of complete misery – very well suited to the situation at hand. You had questioned calling the Love Café’s customer service desk to issue a termination of your card, and, at one point, you were standing drunkenly by the toilet contemplating your decision to rip up the red paper and flush it. Though, nothing ever came of either idea. Instead, you faceplanted onto your bed and allowed the intoxicated dizziness to fade black. The next morning, you were faced with multiple texts from Jeonghan, missed phone calls, voice notes. But you didn’t listen or respond to anything.

Complicated. That was the word you kept hearing.

Absolutely not, you had thought that morning, you weren’t ready to speak with him, even if the temptation seemed like it could be promising. The air was still too bitter. And you couldn’t handle another argument.

On the second day after the outburst, you were seated at the receptionist desk in the salon, flicking through a magazine while you became increasingly mindless to the humming of the blow dryer and the potent fragrance of the hair products. When you glanced out the window, you nearly combusted, as both Joshua and Jeonghan were about to enter the salon together, hurrying in from the melted snow and winter’s final downpour. You hid in the breakroom until they left, forcing your co-worker to take your position at the desk. Joshua was apparently getting his hair trimmed while Jeonghan had asked about you at the reception.

“He’s gorgeous!” Your co-worker had immediately gushed to you in the breakroom. “Why are you avoiding someone like that?”

“It’s complicated.” You’d phrased it simply.

Dang it. You hated the fact you’d used that stupid word.

But, on the third day, most of your bitterness was gone.

After breakfast, you were back at the vanity mirror to prepare for work, and while you buffed some makeup to sit seamlessly on the skin with your puffy foundation brush, there was a knock at your door. This time, you didn’t bother peeping through the fisheye lens, because you knew exactly who it was – damn his persistence. Jeonghan’s brown hair had been slightly mused in the wind, and there was a glow as soft as a peach to each his cheeks. But that easygoing, relaxed smile was by far the most heart fluttering. He extended a coffee cup to you. When you reached out, Jeonghan suddenly pulled the coffee away with a tsking sound.

“You can have it only if—” he held up his finger, “you agree to let me in so I can explain myself. Yes, I’m bribing you. And yes, I’m an asshole from time to time. But five minutes at least. That’s all I need.”

For a moment, you wavered, only to mutter a resounding, “fine.”

Despite Jeonghan’s company, you still had work to get ready for, so the boy followed you into the bedroom. He took a seat on the edge of your mattress while you settled back into the vanity chair. Picking through your jar of makeup brushes, you plucked a round, oval-tipped one to apply your eyeshadow. Jeonghan was silent at first, watching you through the mirror as you hurried about the look. It wasn’t perfect, in fact it was a bit sloppy and rushed and there was already some fallout  sitting like a glittered dust on your cheeks, though Jeonghan was staring at you with such fondness, you wondered if the mirror was reflecting the same image. Of course, the Love Card was sitting on your desk too.

“Well,”  you spun around in the chair, pressing your lips together, “I’m waiting for you to explain, y’know. Like you said you would. Technically, you’ve lost a couple minutes, and I should really try to be at the salon early, but I’m still going to give you full time since—"

“I love you.”

“… What?”

“I love you,” Jeonghan repeated himself casually, a slow smile spilling from each corner of his mouth, “I’m in love with you, as deep as I could be, I think. Anyways, you want me to keep saying it? I love you.”

It felt like someone had taken a picture with the blinding glare of its flash, a picture you couldn’t be more unprepared for, the dots still dancing and fumbling across your vision. The moment was disorienting, but you experienced a very fulgurant warmth take shape inside you. It was comforting yet daunting, a sugar rush and a hangover, something so alive you knew you wanted it more than anything else in the world.

Yet, “you… are in love with me?” was all that you could express.

Jeonghan fiddled with the coffee cup in his hands. “You’re a funny girl, you know that? But I can say it a fifth time if you want.”

“N-No, I—I just, I wasn’t expecting—”

“Yeah, I can see that, “ he’d laughed, though it quickly fell into a sigh and suddenly Jeonghan’s temperament had shifted. “Look, I know that night wasn’t pretty. I know I ghosted you. I know I didn’t tell you about the stupid Galleria,” the boy glanced up, catching your eye, “but… I didn’t say anything because I was confused. I knew your Love Card only had one signature left, and just like that… you could be in my bed for the last time. If we’re really gonna get sentimental about it,”

Jeonghan chuckled, scratching his chin a bit shyly, “it could be my last time holding you, and kissing you… I just, I didn’t want it to be like that. But I didn’t know how to confront you about it, so I hid. And I stressed myself out, and I got so stupidly jealous and angry when I saw you with Joshua. That was my bad. I should’ve been upfront.”

Tucking your hands together anxiously in your lap, you nodded, beginning to understand the missing pieces.

“Thank you for saying that.” You murmured, tapping your feet in a nervous rhythm against the floor. “I… I was being unreasonable and jealous too,” you subsequently admitted, “I was assuming things about you and Baejin when I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what I was expecting anyways, that you act like she doesn’t exist? It was dumb, and I was adding pressure. I’m sorry too.” Wanting to lighten the tone, you smiled at him, “I guess we both have our flaws, huh?”

He returned the tender glance and held out the coffee cup.

“I guess we do.”

You grabbed it politely.

Turning around in the chair, you grabbed the bright red Love Card off the vanity, initialed until its last circle, “what should we do with this? I mean, we kind of messed up their rules, fooling around more than twelve times. And, well, I’m not gonna renew it.”

“Oh, let me see.” Jeonghan said.

As soon as you passed the card to him, he ripped it clean in half, crumpled each piece, balled them together in his hands and tossed the shreds into the trash can sat in the corner.

“Well, that was fucking easy,” he smiled, getting up from the mattress, “aren’t you late for work? Do you need a drive?”

You looked at your alarm clock.

“If you can get me there in the next ten minutes, that’d be great.”

Jeonghan headed to the front door while you hurriedly grabbed your coat from the closet and snatched your bag off the floor, resting the strap over your shoulder. With the coffee still in hand, you headed into the living area, looking around in one final swoop to make sure you had everything packed for the day. A sheet of sunlight spilt into the room from outside the window, pale, like the morning sky, yet filling every crevice of the cheap apartment with a dull shine. And for a very fleeting moment, you thought this place wasn’t so abhorrent. It had been your home, your stepping stone, a thumbprint which identified a period of hardship and growth. But, despite this bittersweet taste on your tongue, you couldn’t envision yourself staying.

“Come on,” Jeonghan pinched your hip, “at this rate I’ll get a speeding ticket trying to get you to work on time.”

Turning around, you stuck a kiss to the boy’s cheek, just catching the cool beginning of a smirk on that dazzling face of his as you interlaced your fingers and pulled him into the corridor.

No, you could not stay here.

Not when your future was with Jeonghan.

✧✎ a/n: yeah, so this was clearly A LOT longer than the original love café teehee. i remembered the plot vaguely therefore i refused to reread my first version weufhewif PLS IT MAKES ME CONVULSE SO BAD !! i just had to rewrite the plot and do it some actual justice! i hope this version is a lot better and that you rly enjoyed it! i wish yjh would give me money but i guess we can’t all live in a fantasy world!! thx for reading!!

#caratwritersclub #jeonghan scenarios #seventeen scenarios #svt fanfic #jeonghan fanfic #seventeen smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen jeonghan #svt smut #yoon jeonghan #svt x reader #jeonghan x reader

[wiypt-writes]

Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

A Frank Adler One Shot.

Summary: It’s Frank’s wedding night… but you’re not quite ready to let him go just yet.

Warnings: Bad Language words. Smut (NSFW, 18+) allusions to cheating…

Pairings:  Frank Adler x Reader

A/N: Just a little smutty one shot featuring everyone’s favourite Dirty Boat Daddy. Written for @onlyjamesbarnes 1.5k Follower Challenge. Prompt in bold. Congrats babe!!

Lyrics from Fall Out Boy- Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

Frank Adler Master list // Main Masterlist

❤️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔

I'm gonna make you bend and break,

Say a prayer, but let the good times roll

In case God doesn't show…

Frank had always been powerless to resist you. He was a moth to your flame, but like always, you play with fire and you get burnt.

But now, you were the one burning, burning hotter than the sun.

With a groan, you ground your hips down as you leaned back, rolling and rocking down onto him. That face, sharp chiselled jawline covered by a slightly nearer than usual scruff looked back at you, his perfect profile silhouetted against the moonlight which drifted through the curtains of the hotel room.

How could something that wrong feel so fucking right?

And I want these words to make things right, But it's the wrongs that make the words come to life.

"Who does he think he is?"

If that's the worst you've got, better put your fingers back to the keys

He shouldn’t have let you in, but you knew he would as soon as he fired you the message with his room number. Your signature knock had sounded across the plush suite he was spending his last night as a ‘single’ man in, and like a sacrificial lamb welcoming its slaughter, he’d opened the door.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I wanted to see you.” You blinked up at him. He was still in his slacks and dress shirt, from the rehearsal you’d sat through, tie discarded, collar open. He cut a stark contrast to the boat greased and oil stained, salty air cured man you were used to.

He held the door open for you, stepping back and allowing you in. Without a word you walked over to the grand windows the space provided, offering a look at the shoreline outside and below. The view was breathtaking at night, the moonlight shining off the waves as they lapped at the shore, mere metres away from where tomorrow he would take his vows.

Through the reflection of the window behind you, you could see him just as his hands gripped at your waist. You turned on the ball of your foot, manicured fingers running up his chest from his strong pecs to his collarbones and over his shoulders to around his neck, your lips quickly on his. Your tongue slipped inside, tasting a hint of scotch, a half drunk glass of which sat on the small coffee table to the right. Frank moaned against your mouth while your fingers slipped through the neatly trimmed hair of his neck.

You pushed against him slightly with your body, the back of his legs hitting the chair besides the coffee table and he took a seat, breaking your kiss.

“This shouldn’t-“

“Shhh.” You shook your head. “Just give me tonight, please.”

He stared at you with lust blown eyes, different to the playful glint he normally possessed when he used to look at you, as you thought for a second about your next move, bottom lip already swollen from his kiss between your teeth.

You knew he was a goner.

"Y/N," he managed to croak out as you straddled his lap, seating yourself over his now hard cock, the rough fabric of his dark dress pants constraining him, giving you just enough teasing friction agasint your sensitive inner thighs. His large hands slid up your thighs and under your light coloured, flowy dress as you moved your lips over his again, giving him access to your ass, finger tips grazing the barely there material of your panties.

You ground down against him, your hips rolling in a circular motion as he growled into your mouth, squeezing your cheeks with his hands. You kicked off your sandals, making a thud as they hit the plush carpet. A sound that matched that of your heart. A heart that squeezed in your chest, as if someone had wound and elastic band around its middle knowing that tomorrow you’d watch him takes his vows.

And everything would change.

Frank broke away from your lips, to lick and nip at your jaw and down your neck, tongue rolling against your sternum. His face drilled between your breasts, inhaling your scent.

Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt and plucked them open skillfully, French manicured nails raking across his chest, causing him to shudder and groan. You reached for the buckle of his belt, undoing it with little trouble, lifting your hips slightly, showing a strength in your thighs as you lifted away from him, to undo his flies. You adjusted yourself, pushing up on your knees just a little to allow the room you needed to dip your hand just under his boxers waistline, gently gripping at his dick.

“No, not here.” He growled, teeth nipping at the shell of your ear. “I want you in the bed.”

The bed. Where he would spend his first night as a married man.

It was so wrong.

Yet you happily obliged.

It was a well practiced tango the pair of you had danced over the years, and now here you were, him keening underneath you with a desperation you’d come to know well.

You could feel his cock pulsing against your walls and it gave you the chills. You held the power and control as he struggled to keep his.

With a quick movement, Frank sat up, pulling you flush against his chest, the angle hitting you just at that pleasurable spot he always managed to hit within you. His head dropped, lips and teeth gently teasing your nipple, large hands splayed agains your spine as he lavished you with affection.

You started grinding down harder, looking for that clitoral stimulation you wanted and as you found it, he moaned deeply into your ear.

“I’m close, but I don’t wanna… not yet.” His words were a plea, a plea that he wasn’t ready to end, and you knew he didn’t simply mean tonight.

But it had to. There was no way around it.

One night and one more time, thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great

"He tastes like you only sweeter"

"Just...let...go," you purred against him.

"Oh fahk," he ground out as his feet planted firmly into the mattress and his hips thrust upward. It didn't take much, a few strong and hard drives and you were crying out his name, your head thrown back in ecstasy as you came around around him.

"Jesus, fahkk, I'm gonna fahking.... Oh fahk," he swore vehemently, his old Boston drawl thick as he drove hard into you for a final time, exploding his load deep into you, spraying your walls with ribbons of white cream.

The pair of you collapsed onto the bed, utterly spent. Frank kept you held to his chest as you both drew ragged, heaving breaths. After a moment, Frank pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, no words needed.

And you blinked back a solitary tear.

*****

I'm looking forward to the future, but my eyesight is going bad.

And this crystal ball, it’s always cloudy except for when you look into the past

One night stand

Frank had fallen asleep with you in his arms, not quite ready to let you go. But you were long gone by the time he woke the next morning, the only evidence you’d been in his room was a scribbled note on the pad on the night stand.

“Here’s to the first day of the rest of your life.”

He’d folded the note up and slipped it into his breast pocket, not quite sure why. Maybe it would keep you close to him in those moments he needed to feel you, who knows.

Who knows why any of this had started in the first place.

He watched Mary walk down the aisle first, her bouquet in her hand had been dropped as she had leapt into his arms for a hug, laughing as she told him how excited she was. He’d kissed her cheek and placed her down and she stood by his side, watching as his bride and her father started towards him.

It was then Frank’s eyes had found yours as you watched him, and he swallowed, his chest contracting.

He could still feel your eyes on him and he couldn’t get the image of you bouncing on top of his cock out of his head. He blinked as someone said his name, and he looked at the officiant, clearing his throat.

“Sorry, little nervous.” He apologised, flashing a cheeky grin before he took a deep breath.

A couple of I-Dos later, he was told to kiss his wife. So he did.

And all he could taste was you.

Man and wife walked hand in hand down the aisle to applause, and at the end they stopped and the new Mrs Adler peered up at Frank, a soft smile on her face.

“You happy?”

“Of course.” He smiled back.

“Good, because choosing me to spend your life with, well, I actually think it’s the second best choice you’ve ever made in your life.”

Frank blinked as he heard the click of the photographer's camera. “Oh? The second? What was the first?”

“Letting me into your room last night.” You grinned, your hand sliding up his tux, the diamond studded band catching the sun, glinting in the bright light.

Frank grinned at you, before he arched his eyebrow. “Time will tell if it really was bad luck to see my wife the night before.”

“Didn’t feel like bad luck to me,” you smirked, you hand gently tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck as he dropped his head to kiss you, the cheers and applause once more chiming in your ears.

One night and one more time, thanks for the memories

#onlyjamesbarnes1.5kchallenge #frank adler x reader #frank adler x you #frank adler fanfiction #frank adler fic #reader insert #Chris Evans #chris evans characters

[ff-imagines]

Oh snap you're opened. Welcome back! Can you please do the nsfw alphabet for peking duck? I really like your writing!

Peking duck: nsfw alphabet

Minors dni xoxo

A - aftercare

The best at it, honestly. Might seriously cry a little afterwards lmao. You don’t have to ask for anything because he’s already thought ahead and is shoving everything you could need your way. It might get a little ridiculous with how careful he is with you, he doesn’t mean to baby you, he’s just terrified of hurting you. If you’re sore at all he feels incredibly guilty, even if there is a tiny part of him that twinges in pride when you remind him you’d asked for a rough treatment and, well, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give you exactly what you asked so nicely for.

B - body part

Of yours, it’s more a question of what he doesn't like. If he had to make a choice, he’d say your stomach. It’s good to lay his head on it, and it’s one of the softest parts of your body so it’s nice and warm. He’d die before he admitted it but some nights he goes a bit harsher than usual, splaying his hand across your stomach and feeling how deep his cock is inside you as he thrusts- it drives him insane really.

He also loves your hands, always wants to be holding you hand, especaily during sex. Will pin you down in a loving way by lacing his fingers with yours above your head.

On himself? Definitely his hair. Playing with his hair and giving him a scalp massage makes him feel some type of way. Sit in his lap while you run your nails across his scalp and he’ll bury his nose in the crook of your neck and moan for you, whatever happens next is up to you babes xoxo

C - cum

It’s not a crazy amount but it’s pretty thick. You can’t tell me he doesn’t have a big ass breeding kink. What can he say, Peking Dad is a family man! Just the thought of cumming deep inside you has him thrusting all that harder. Beg him to cum inside you, I dare you. You’ll see a side to him that’s much more feral than you’ve ever seen this sweet man. Would 100% cum inside and buck into you just a bit longer to fuck any cum that’s slipped past his cock back inside you.

D - dirty secret

He wants to take pictures of you while in your blissed out state. He loves you so stupidly much, he’s already got tons and tons of pictures of you going about your daily life. He’s the type to see a cat asleep and go “what a rare moment I must capture it forever” and that stays true with his beloved. If you’d let him, he’d love to make some… home videos with you, ones he’d definitely come back to rewatch to the point where your whines are committed to memory like the lyrics to his favourite song.

E - experience

I’d say he’s not a green bean with sex. I don’t think he’s been around the block either. He’s probably opened up such intimacy with a few others before just to test the waters, but hasn’t really felt passionate about opening that part of himself back up for quite some time. He’d most likely fumble a bit to begin with as he recalls the motions.

F - favorite position

Whatever yours is! He’s the definition of a true switch, let him soft dom you or treat him how you like, it’s up to you!

If he had to pick, he’s most likely a sucker for when you’re on his lap. No matter if he’s in charge or not, he just loves to look up and see the way your face scrunches when he bucks and hits that one spot inside you that makes your mind vacate.

G - goofy

Not…. Really? He’s accidentally goofy by saying something super out of place during intimate moments or by fretting over something you wouldn’t even think to be worried over. You could have his cock buried so deep in your insides will feel like they’ve molded to the shape of his dick and he’d stop and ask if you remembered to turn the oven off lmao

H- hair

On himself he mostly trims to keep it simple but like, that’s it. He’s got a light happy trail that he doesn’t really trim since it’s not that thick, it doesn’t really bother him.

On you, he literally doesn’t care. Shave or don’t, he’s your personal cheerleader either way.

I- intimacy

It’s his expertise, your honour! He lives to be closer to you, learn more about your desires, what makes you happiest, please let him treat you good, he adores you so much, and precious things get treated like royalty in his hands. He commits your body and reactions to memory, almost like he’s taken a photograph of every single touch- and like I said….. if you let him…. he would take pictures ;)

J- jerk off

You’d think he’d only do it occasionally but he actually does it quite a lot. He thinks it’s healthy to release regularly, it’s better to cum now than have a weird spike of horniness in public. He’s probably considered the chance that you walk in on him, and he’s surprised by how much he wants that to happen. For him to be desperately close to the edge and for you to walk in and take over, him a deer in the headlights as you take control, he’s could probably cum to that fantasy alone, honestly.

K- Kinks

Well, obv a big ole breeding kink. The thought of cumming in your deepest parts has him frenzied beyond belief.

Idk if the taking pics thing is a kink but also… that ofc.

I think he’s also into sensory deprivation. Allow him to blindfold you, tie your hands behind you, let him take care of you. He’ll handle everything from here, sweet thing, all you have to do is keep moaning for him in such a pretty way.

He’s also, surprisingly, into masochism. He doesn’t care for sadism at all, he’d die before he left a mark on your perfect skin, however….. if you decided to roughly pull his head back by his hair and bite just a little too hard, you might find him bucking into you a little faster.

He’s probably thought a bit about cock warming, but surprisingly he doesn’t really want it to be…. “sexual” as much as he desires to be closer to you. You sitting in his lap, feeling you exhale against his neck with your arms wrapped around him, all the while is cock is buried deep inside you, it just sounds so intimate, and he finds himself craving to be that close to you often.

The biggest of all? Praise praise praise. Body worship as well. He’s literally always babbling about how gorgeous you are, how good you feel, how amazing you make him feel. Always encouraging and always admiring you, just like he does every single day in non sexual contexts, always sneaking in ways to remind you how much he adores you. Tell him about a certain part of your body you don’t feel confident in, he’s paying extra attention to making it known how perfect everything about you is. Everything you have, own, are, all of it. Peking is your number one fan, sit back let him remind you just why he finds you so lovely, you won’t regret it.

L- location

He prefers to be in a secluded area, he knows he’s loud and he’d be really embarrassed if anyone but you brought up the….. volume of his whines.

However, he’s very weak when it comes to your begging. If you're in a less than private location, he’ll most likely let you lead and just try to bite his knuckle to keep from crying out. It'd be soOoOo awful if you made a game out of trying to get him to break and whine out for you unmuffled as you play with him, oOoOoHhHh the horror >:)

M- motivation

He’s an old dad with an enormous you-shaped hole in his chest, just ask him and he’ll give everything he has to his name to you. You don’t need to wear that certain perfume he loves so much, you don’t need to breathe across his neck like that, you don’t need to run a finger down his spine so slowly, he’ll give you anything you ask for, please don’t tease him so much.

If you straight up ask him for sex, he’ll mostly lean towards soft service domming, if you choose to purposely rile him up, he’ll be in a much subby-er mood.

N- no

Like I’ve said, there really isn’t a sadistic bone in his body. He also doesn’t have literally any desire for humiliation kinks. He just doesn’t like it, giving or receiving. He’s a big ole simp with a big heart and it’s in the palm of your hands, please treat it nicely :’(

O- oral

P l s let him give you oral. He might not be an expert but he lives to make you feel good.

Afab readers…. He’ll most likely try to make you sit on his face at least once, please please he wants to feel your thighs against his head while he works his tongue on you.

Amab readers, he fuckin loves to rub his thumbs on your hips to keep you from bucking as he swallows your cock, he’ll open his mouth for you after you cum, swallow, and open his mouth again to prove he didn’t let a single drop go to waste.

As for receiving, phew boy does he love receiving. He cannot for the life of him figure out where to put his hands so it’s a frenzy of him grasping the sheets to biting down on his knuckle to placing a hand on your head. If you made him look down at you and lock eyes while his cock is in your mouth his soul would leave his body lmao

P- pace

Not very fast at all, he prefers to thrust deeper than should be possible. He really likes when you beg him to go faster, and as soft as his heart is, this is the only time he might withhold himself from giving into your begging for a bit, he just loves pulling out so slowly and watch you almost cry out for him to thrust back, deeper harder, faster, please, he’ll give into you eventually, just let him savour the feeling of you needing him badly enough to cry for a few more minutes.

Q- quickies

He prefers long, drawn out rounds, but if you really need some relief quickly, he’s not one to deny you. He will most likely give in, and later on in the night when you're back home and out of the public eye, suggest you two have a much more... thorough round as quick rounds just don’t satisfy him enough.

R- risk

Surprisingly…… he kinda likes the idea. The thought of someone, maybe even someone who’s been pining for you, to catch him in the act of making you beg and cry for him. Alternatively, making them watch you as you give your full attention to him, pleasure him, make them watch you love him instead of them. It riles him up in a way even he’s not used to.

S- stamina

He’s an old man, his refractory time is kinda long lmao. He prefers one really long round rather than multiple. He doesn’t mind or judge if you need a little more, and doesn’t mind giving you a few more orgasms with his tongue or hands.

T- toys

He doesn’t have any, but he’s open to the idea! Admittedly, he likes the idea on himself, like, really likes the idea. Give him a cock ring and watch him cry out as he begs for a break that he doesn’t actually want to take because the bliss you’re giving him is making him feel like jelly.

U- unfair

He's tried to edge and tease you before but he gave in so damn quick it was almost embarrassing for him. He just adores you, he lives to please you, even if you beg him not to give in and try to tease you he just can’t, his heart is so so squishy and he loves you very much dear, please let him treat you exactly how you beg to be treated.

Overstimming however….. he does it accidentally a lot, he just loves prolonging your pleasure, watching you squirm a bit as he forces a second orgasm out of your poor spent body.

V- volume

He’s very loud honestly. If you decide to dom him he talks a lot. He's got a bad babbling habit, words of adoration bleeding from his lips that get more and more incoherent the longer you toy with him. Play with him long enough and he’ll forget how to form words, letting out loud whines and he squirms under you. You might catch him attempting to cry out your name but the poor thing just can’t seem to form the right words.

If you let him top you he’s still throwing out every compliment he can think of and he still whines a lot, he likes to bury his face in your neck to muffle himself and listen to your moans. He lives to hear you come undone, but he can’t help being so loud, you’re just so warm and you feel so good :(

W- wild card

I think jealous sex will be more common than you actually think, Peking is just very quiet about the reason he’s suddenly a bit more handsy. He knows it’s not rational to worry about his place in your heart, but it just eats at him sometimes when he sees the way you blend in with others so easily while he just… doesn’t. If a stranger/friend is more overt about their flirting he will probably be more obvious about the jealousy burning through his veins. Even if he wasn’t prompted through jealously, pillow talk sometimes leans towards him venting his fears to you. Please praise him, tell him how much you love him, he needs it :’((((

X- X Ray

A lot bigger than average and a bit curved. He never considered himself to be out of the norm, or never really considered his cock to anything else than, just, “well, its there” I suppose. He does appreciate the curve a lot more now because it makes it easier to hit your weak point. He feels a bit of pride nestling into his chest if you cry about him being too big.

Y- yearning

Fairly often, but he doesn’t mind not acting on it. He can still function and do his work if he’s only surface level horny. Literally anytime you ask he’ll deliver with very slim exceptions. He’d like it to be a regular thing, since he really enjoys the intimacy, so maybe 3-4 times a week, 1-2 if you prefer it to be.

Z- zzz

Oh man he loves cuddling with you after sex. He also loves cuddling with you period but god he loves to the pillow talk with you in his arms, listening to your sleepy voice as your grip on him slowly loosens -but never lets go, as you succumb to sleep. He isn’t overly sleepy himself, instead choosing to close his eyes and comb through your hair, or run a thumb across your cheek if your hair isn’t a texture that can be combed through. Sleep will come to him eventually, he just likes savouring the warmth you bring him.

#food fantasy #food fantasy x reader #ff peking duck #peking duck #ff peking duck x reader #peking duck x reader

[foodieforthoughts]

Deep in Love

Summary: It's been too long since Chris has been away. When his flight gets delayed, she's sad. But wakes up to Chris ready to take her breath away.

Pairing: Chris Evans x OFC

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+ content, bodily fluids, oral (female receiving), sexual Intercourse, unprotected sex

A/N: I had to give some loving to my other muse, Mr. Evans. First ever smut and I would like to start with him because he has been the object of my fantasies for more than a decade.

Title: Deep in Love

Chris hated it when I watch his interviews online. He said he only acts the way the public wants him to be like, a little naughty for PR, a little held down to not come off as uncivilized or too out spoken.

To some extent I agreed. Chris was the human equivalent of a teddy bear, soft and cuddly and his intellect was beyond what could be projected through the camera. Chris was more than just a face and I was lucky to see him for who he really was.

Waking up to his sleep ladden eyes, heavy voice with tousled hair was the best sight for me. But I would never lie that seeing him on screen, all primped and dashing, got me craving for him even more.

Especially when he had been away for months on end and Skype calls could only satisfy me so much.

This particular one that I had stumbled on YouTube, a photoshoot interview that featured him answering the same old questions about his life. He always complained he was so tired of repeating the same things, but it was all part of the job eventually. He looked breathtakingly handsome in this one, the photographer had done a fantastic job.

Chris looked the best with his beard-a personal preferance for him and me alike. It was trimmed neatly, his hair slicked back and the beige and brown outfit complimenting him so well. Hearing his voice, that laugh, it just made me miss him more.

Dodger whined from his place on the adjacent couch. Chris's voice from the speakers seemed to have grabbed his attention too.

"Yeah, buddy. I know. I miss him too." I cooed at him.

My phone rang besides me, a video call from the man himself.

"Hi, babe."

How was it possible to be feeling mushy by your boyfriend's voice even after being together for three years?

"Tell me you are reaching home soon." I went to sit near Dodger, ruffling his fur while I spoke to Chris.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Actually, my flight got delayed because of the weather."

I frowned. I had been so excited for him to finally be with me, even prepared his favourite lasagna and bought his favourite wine. I was hoping that he would make in time for lunch and then we could cuddle in the bed while he slept his jet-lag off.

"Hey," he called out. His eyes soft and apologetic. "I'll be home today, don't you worry. Okay?"

I was afraid if he didn't come home tonight, I might forget what it felt like to be buried in his chest, his arms holding me tight. His scent was already close to a faded memory, no matter how hard I tried to remember it.

"I miss you so much." I sounded a bit whiny there, but I really did miss him a lot.

"I miss you too, baby. I can't wait to kiss you till you become breathless." He said in a sing-song voice, trying to make me laugh.

I did chuckle but the thought of being kissed by Chris untill my lungs gave out felt so hot. As my thoughts began drifting to activities that usually followed our out-of-breath kissing, my cheeks heated up and wetness began forming down south.

Dodger decided to bark at the moment, all the way near the door.

"Oh, someone wants to go pee-pee." Chris chuckled and shook his head.

I was thankful that Chris took no notice of my blush because I wasn't sure if I could handle it if he had decided to tease me with some descriptive imagery of our love making. I glanced at our pooch staring at me with expectant eyes to let him out.

"Wait, I'll just let him out-"

"Actually, I'll call you back. Someone is at the door, probably an update. If I'm late, babe, don't wait up okay? I'll kiss you good morning tomorrow."

I nodded and he was gone. I really didn't want to miss giving him a welcome hug when he came home. I didn't want a good morning kiss, I wanted a good night loving.

"Looks like we'll have to wait a little longer for your dad, Bubba." I told Dodger before letting him out.

***

I had no clue what time it was. When I opened my eyes, our bedroom lights were on, music playing from my ear buds, and a warm presence behind me.

Thought about not locking the door securely, or leaving a window open, giving access to a murderous intruder flooded my mind. I turned so quickly to look at the presence, I had to blink several times from the head rush.

My heart was racing from the fear, but it wasn't an intruder's sinister eyes that met mine. The man with soft, blue green eyes with a tired smile on his face looked back at me.

"Chris?" I sat up instantly, giving myself another head rush. But this was incredulous. I really hoped I wasn't dreaming. "Are you really here?" I stupidly asked.

His chest rumbled with his chuckle, him sitting up too. His face so close to mine, his breath washed over my face. A wide smile spread over my face and I threw my arms around him.

He welcomed me and held me tightly against his chest. Oh, how much had I missed the physical contact between us. He felt so warm, so strong, it made my heart flutter. I took a deep breath, the faint scent of his cologne and soap lingering, enveloping me entirely.

Chris pulled back his face, making me look at him. He placed a gentle hand behind my head and slowly placed a kiss on my lips.

I swear I was about to melt. He pulled me closer with his arm, I was almost straddling him now. Our bodies were flushed together, my arms still around his neck.

His beard scuffed against my face, as his lips moved with mine in perfect synchronization.

I had imagined this moment various times in the past months, about our reunion. It always hurt me when he left but whenever he came back, it felt surreal. I could feel the intensity of our kiss deepen with his tongue beginning to move with mine. Warmth spread from my cheeks, to my chest and settled as a heat pooled between my thighs as I tasted his sweet cavern.

I moaned as I felt his erection beginning to strain against his pants, nudging my thigh through the clothes.

The desperation to feel our bodies close, sans the obstructive fabric of our clothes, was so urgent that we nearly tore them off of our bodies. Chris laid me down on the bed, placing himself in between my legs. His cock was hard and ready and my core wet and dripping for him.

But instead, Chris decided to travel down my body. He gently grabbed a hold of my breasts, kneading them and placing kisses all over. My back arched as he took a hardened nipple in his mouth and sucked at it.

I held onto his arms, feeling the tautness of his muscles underneath my touch. I moaned when one of his hands travelled down my body and teased me at my entrance.

"Baby you are so wet. You really did miss me a lot, huh?" He smirked against my breast, his eyes dark and lustful. He placed kisses over my body, goosebumps appearing on my skin, making his way even further down.

I shuddered when he reached in between my thighs, his warm breath against my quivering folds. I let out a shaky breath when he looked at me, his dark eyes lined by his long lashes.

"Oh..." I moaned as he flicked his tongue over my swollen nub. I felt his fingers rubbing at my entrance before he slid one digit in and took my clit in his mouth.

I moaned out his name like a prayer, my hands reaching out and grasping at his head. His soft hair clutched in mine while he performed his ministrations on me.

The heat pooled at the bottom of my belly. He sucked and licked and flicked his tongue over me, another finger joining the first one. I was so immensely starved of his touch, that it did not even take long for me to come against his mouth. My thighs shuddered, my body felt hot and my panting breaths were the only thing audible in the room.

Chris lapped at my juices like it was nectar. He climbed back on top of me, not giving me a moment to relax. He licked his lips while lining his cock against my entrance.

The sound that escaped his lips when he entered the tip of his penis inside me was so erotic. My insides stretched to accommodate him, feeling him bury deep in me.

"Fuck, babe. You feel so tight." He said with a moan when he was fully within.

I finally felt one with him, joined at our bodies, competing each other. He leaned down, lifting my legs to wrap around his waist and kissed me deeply. I could still taste myself on his lips, feel him pulsating inside me. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he pulled out and trusted back inside.

My hips met his thrusts with groans excaping from our lips. The room suddenly was beginning to feel warm, our bodies beginning to sweat. He wound his arms around my waist while I encircled his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. The familiar knotting was beginning to deep within me as Chris hit my sweet spot with each thrust, like he had done a hundred times before.

The time away from each other must have been difficult for both of us, because like me, Chris didn't last long either. Together we came, him shuddering above me with a curse, filling me up. I buried my head in the crook of his neck, digging my nails in his skin, as his final thrusts pushed me over the edge once again.

In a heap of sweaty limbs, we both laid, spent and undone. Chris took deep labored breaths, his head on the pillow besides me. My heart was pounding in my chest as I felt Chris begin to go soft inside me.

"Hell of a reunion, wasn't it?" I managed to speak.

He climbed off of me and laid on his side. His breaths still coming in short but a content smile on his face.

"Told you I'll kiss you good morning." He pulled me over to him, my head resting against his chest. His heart was racing still, I could hear it thumping underneath. He rubbed my arm as his eyes began to close, tiredness getting to him. "Take a nap, babe. We'll need the energy for round two."

I smiled against his chest, hearing him snore and drifting into slumber.

#Chris Evans #Chris Evans fanfic #Chris Evans smut #Chris Evans fluff #Soft Evans

[malfoymanortings]

lavender and velvet //part one

SUMMARY: she had her fathers eyes, his aristocratic looks, her grandmothers spite, her mothers heart, but the one thing she didn't have was the love of her father that her god brother received. juliet black finally meets her father who has already decided who his child is.

PAIRINGS: to be decided.

quite frankly, this idea will not leave my head. juliet has begged me to write her story, so here we are. now, sirius is slightly out of character for this, as if he really did have a child i would like to think he would want to do better than the parents he had. but, thats just not what this imagining will look like. hopefully you guys like it! if, by chance, you would like to be added to a taglist for this story, let me know xx

“I want to meet him,” Juliet said quietly, looking down at her hands. “I deserve as much, don’t I?”

Remus paused. “Of course. I just… love, he isn’t-”

“I don’t have very high hopes for him,” interjected Juliet, scoffing slightly. “He’s been out for two years now. He hasn’t attempted to see me once.”

“Jules, you have to understand,” Remus placed a hand on her shoulder, his face seeming to age years within that moment. “It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s been so easy for me.” she said the words under her breath, not wanting to fight with Remus again. 

They had been fighting far too much lately. The cause of it was her father. The man who had fathered her years ago before being locked up for a crime he didn’t commit. When he finally did get out, it took two years before he thought of seeing his daughter.

“It hasn’t been safe enough for him to see you,” Remus pressed on, crossing his arms behind his back. “With the ministry still believing he was responsible-”

“For the Potter’s murders, it was too risky for him to come see me until everything was settled with the order,” Juliet recited, rolling her eyes. “Yet he saw Harry third year, didn’t he?”

Remus sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Juliet. We are not having this discussion again.”

“Perfect, that means I can have it with him.” Juliet said decisively, walking over to the fireplace. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Remus asked, pausing in his pacing. 

“What better time than the present?” 

“Well, Harry just got there-” Remus cut himself off, wincing as Juliet’s temper flared.

“Harry’s there, yet I can’t go meet my own fucking father?!” she yelled, fists clenched at her side. “Fuck this.”

Juliet turned, grabbing a fistfull of floo powder. She tossed it in, ignoring Remu’s protests, and spoke clearly.

“Grimmauld Place!”

She arrived in a flurry of green flames, with no one around. She could hear voices down the hall of the unfamiliar place, and she faltered in her step slightly. She felt out of place, although she shouldn’t. Her father lived here. This was her father’s house. 

It should have been her home.

A door opened somewhere, and footsteps sounded loudly through the hallway. Remus poked his head into the sitting room, where Juliet stood in front of the fireplace feeling rather out of place.

“Come on, then,” Remus motioned for her to follow, his tone kinder than it had been before.

“Professor Lupin!” Hermione came out of nowhere, Ginny following close behind. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Miss Granger,” Remus grinned, and Juliet was the only one to notice it was off. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Jules!” Ginny shouted, running towards her friend. Juliet opened her arms, engulfing the beautiful redhead in a hug.

“Hi love,” said Juliet into her hair, pulling back to examine her friend. “You’ve grown, haven’t you?”

Ginny gave her a funny look, laughing. “Juliet. It’s been a month since I saw you last. I doubt it’s possible I’ve grown since then.”

Juliet shrugged, looking past her to where she could hear more voices grow louder. Fred and George appeared then, twin grins on their faces as they hurried over to greet Juliet.

“There’s our favorite serpentine girl,” Fred grinned, ruffling her hair. “Good to see you.”

George slung an arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. Before pulling away, he put his lips near her ear. “Calm down darling, it’ll be fine. He’s in the kitchen with Harry and mum.”

Juliet nodded, giving him a quick squeeze back. George and Fred were well aware of Sirius being her father. She had confided in them on more occasions than one. Those two and Ginny were her closest friends out of the Weasley family. 

Ron appeared next, Harry beside him. From behind the pair, came a man with her eyes and her smile.

Juliet took in a sharp breath as she examined the man she had hurt over all these years. He had shoulder length brown hair, wavy and streaked grey with age, and a neatly trimmed moustache. His cheeks were hollow, his features aristocratic like her own. He had tattoos peeking out from the edges of his buttoned shirt, and walked with a slight limp.

He was Sirius Black, the man who had only existed for her in photographs.

“Dad,” Juliet breathed, walking towards him. 

Sirius looked as though he had seen a ghost. He looked to Remus, and back to Juliet. He watched her as she walked forward until she stood in front of him, and he hadn’t moved. 

“That’s Juliet, pads,” Remus said from behind them. “Your daughter.”

“My daughter,” Sirius said, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. “Of course. You take after your mother in looks.”

“I’ve been told I’m a Black through and through.” replied Juliet, feeling a little awkward standing in front of him. She was waiting for a hug, for something, but nothing happened. He just stood there, staring at her.

“Well, hopefully not,” Sirius cleared his throat, forcing a chuckle. “The lot of them were dark wizards, straight from Slytherin house to the Death Eaters.”

Juliet felt her cheeks flame, and she felt deflated. “I’m in Slytherin.”

Sirius paused, clearing his throat again. “Erm, right. Harry mentioned that.”

She felt her anger grow again. She tried to fight it, but it bubbled over the lid she kept concealed in. “Of course you did. Instead of meeting me for yourself, you would rather hear second hand from Harry. God forbid you put effort into meeting your daughter.”

“Now, that’s not fair,” Sirius raised his hands, backing away from her. “It wasn’t safe for me to be out in the public yet- it still isn’t.”

“That didn’t stop you from sending letters to Harry though, did it?” Juliet bit out, balling her fists up and digging her nails into her palms. She was dimly aware of the others leaving the room, Remus and Harry the only two left behind.

“He needed me,” Sirius defended. “He had no one but those muggles, I’m his godfather-”

“You’re quite literally my father,” shouted Juliet, shaking her head. “I needed you too, and you were never there.”

“Juliet, that’s not fair,” Remus interjected, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He was in Azkaban, he wasn’t able to be there due to no fault of his own-”

“I know the story, Remus,” snapped Juliet, glaring at the man. “But when did he break out? When Harry’s safety was at risk. Not for me, not for you. Only for Harry. I apparently wasn’t worth the risk or the attempt.”

“Juliet, I-” Harry began, but she quickly cut him off. 

“Harry, stay out of this,” chastised Juliet, holding out a hand. “For once, this isn’t about you. This is about me.” she looked at Sirius, who merely looked back at her with a heavy look. “This is about what I did. What Molly did. What Remus did. What you didn’t.”

“Juliet, I’m sorry,” Sirius tried again, running a hand through his hair. “But Harry needs me now. You have all those people behind you, and he only has me. He’s got to deal with Voldemort. He needs someone to confide in.”

“Like a father,” scoffed Juliet, turning away from him. “Even though you’re supposed to be mine.”

“Juliet-” Remus was quickly cut off by Juliet.

“I want to go home.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Remus looked uncomfortable now, and gave her an apologetic glance. “You’ll be staying here for the remainder of summer. I have things to do for the Order, and it’s not safe for you to be unprotected at home any longer.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Language,” reprimanded Remus, once again looking older than his years. “I’ll pack your things and bring them here. Please… try to get along.”

Juliet raised her middle finger to Remus, turning back to Sirius. “So, do I get a room? Or are they all reserved for Harry?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That’s no way to act. Of course you get a room.”

Juliet laughed at his words. She thought it was funny, how he had so easily cast her aside for Harry, and yet now seemed to be attempting to parent her. She refused to let him do so. It was all or nothing, and he had clearly chosen nothing.

“Kreacher,” Sirius called behind him, and with a crack a scraggly looking house elf appeared. “Show Juliet to her room.”

Kreacher gave Sirius a dirty look, glancing over at Juliet appraisingly. He grumbled to himself, only a few words audible.

“Kreacher will show master’s brat to her room… blood traitor… Gryffindor… filthy… mistresses house..”

“Without the commentary, you dirty thing.” Sirius rolled his eyes, turning away from the house elf. 

Kreacher glared at Sirius, before walking up the staircase. Juliet followed, not bothering to cast a backwards glance towards her father. It was obvious he had no interest in her. Why should she care, anyways? She had gone by fifteen years without him just fine. She would be just fine.

“Dirty Gryffindor..” Kreacher muttered, pointing a crooked finger towards an open door. “Sharing with the other dirty blood traitors, nasty Gryffindors.”

Juliet scoffed, crossing her arms. “Kreacher, is it? My name is Juliet. And, I’ll have you know I’m not a Gryffindor, I’m a Slytherin. The superior house, if you ask me.”

Kreacher paused at that, his mumbling ceasing. He once again eyed her appraisingly, this time without dislike. “Kreacher apologizes to Miss Juliet. She is not a dirty filthy Gryffindor like the rest of the brats..” again, the decrepit looking house elf trailed off in his thoughts, wandering down the hallway wringing his hands.

Juliet sighed, and stepped inside the room. She could tell from the items inside, that Hermione and Ginny already had claimed the two beds. 

“Kreacher?” Juliet called, poking her head out of the room. 

Kreacher turned, eyeing her again. “What does young mistress want?”

“Is there another room,” she paused. “Or another bed?” 

“Kreacher can make another bed for mistress,” Kreacher hobbled back over, stepping into the room. With a snap of his fingers, another bed appeared, identical to the others in the room. 

“Thank you.” 

Kreacher looked shocked at her words, and he nodded to her before wandering back down the hall. 

Juliet sighed, sitting gingerly on the bed. She plopped backwards, staring at the ceiling. She expected to feel mad, or sad, but instead… she felt nothing.

“How are you holding up, love?”

She turned her attention to the doorway, where George stood leaning against the doorframe. She shrugged, and the ginger haired boy came into the room, sitting on the bed next to where she lay.

“I think you two have just got to get used to each other,” he said quietly, taking her hand in his. “It’ll all work itself out, in the end.”

“Ever the optimistic, huh Georgie?” noted Juliet, moving so that her head rested in George’s lap. “Tell me about your summer so far.”

As George launched into an explanation of the different joke shop items he and Fred had been experimenting with, Juliet listened intently. He wove her fingers through her hair as he spoke, and Juliet found it was easy to let of her tension as they conversed.

Fred slipped in the room at some point, and began explaining their plans with George. Their voices calmed her, and she felt more at peace with the two of them in her presence.

Even if her father didn’t want her, she had her boys. They wanted her.

two

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#sirius black imagine #remus lupin #sirius black daughter #daughter of black #juliet black #george wealsey imagine #george weasley #weasley #fred weasley #fred #george #Harry Potter #hp x reader

[em0avacado]

Pen Pals - Ezekiel Reyes

trigger warning : none other than brief mention of removing someone’s pelvis, wearing maybe.

word count : 2068

Dear Ezekiel,

Her first letter started simple, she wasn’t sure whether to address the inmate more formerly, or of this was fine, but with lack of better knowledge on this, she settled on that. It all started when curiosity got the best of her. She had a friend who would constantly talk about her very own pen pal, she’d talk about the stories theyd tell her, how they were interesting and that they had, in reality, not much better to do with their time in lockup. At first, the young woman was rather skeptical, but after reading some of her friends letters herself, the curiosity started eating her alive from the inside out. Maybe she’d give it a try, what’s the worst that could happen? So, after a few hours of extensive reasearch, she’d picked an inmate and began writing, although, after the first two words of the letter, she was stuck. It wasn’t long until she realized how much time had passed since she’d actually written a letter to someone who wasn’t her grandmother.

With a pen gripped tightly in her hand, the black ink began to spill onto the page as her mind finally came up with things to scribble onto the soft blue lines. The nails of her right hand tapping against the finished wood of her desk, it wasn’t long until she ripped the paper out of the coiled notebook and started over again.

Dear Ezekiel,

My name’s Ophelia, I’m about twenty six years old, and my favourite colour is orange, because it reminds me of orange creamsicles on a hot summers day. Seems childish, I’m aware, but alas, my curiosity only carried me so far. It’s been years since I’ve actually written a letter, let alone made a friend. You see, I’m a very reserved person but i supposed that the only way of really making friends with a pen pal is to start off by introducing myself into a bit more depth than small talk. The friends I do have, they call me Oph, no one really calls me by my first name.

God, she sounded so utterly stupid, she thought, but what else was there to write? Who even knew if this man would write back? No one, no one did. But, can’t be for sure unless she tries, right? right.

However, she went on, writing down anything she could possibly think of that could stark some sort of interest from the man behind bars. She went from how the green on the trees in the spring brought her a specific joy in her heart because when she was younger her father would point out that the green in forests meant that the wild life was happy, healthy, to explaining what the saw was initially invented for. Once her hand began to cramp, she called it a day. Folding the papers together neatly, she shoved them in an envelope and sent it off to the right address before her hesitation stopped her. Now; it was time to wait. And she hated waiting.

Without a real timeline in her head on when she’d hear back from Ezekiel, she waited days, then weeks, at some point, the thought seemed to slip her mind. Heading to work each day, only to head home, check her mail box, head inside, prepare herself for the night and get at least a few hours of sleep before doing it all again the next day. An impossibly boring routine that was disturbed when she found an envelope, with blue in scratched into the front. Reading the name ‘Ezekiel’ within the first few lines of the actual letter, thrilled her. Quickly, she tossed her bag and keys to the side, kicking the door shut behind her, she tore into the envelope and began to read.

Dearest Ophelia

You can tell me absolutely anything you wish to, just from your first letter i can tell that your mind is a place of wonder. If you think anything like you write, I’d love to pick your brain some day, those run on sentences really get a man thinking.

A wide grin spread across her lips, her eyes flit across the pages as she read ever word scribbled onto the lines in blue ink. He told her anything that reflected topics she covered, answering all the questions that she asked, even adding in commentary here and there. He matched the amount she wrote, rambling on just as much as she did.

P.s. were chainsaws really invented to cut open and take out the pelvis of a woman who took too long giving birth?

A cackle rolled passed her lips when she read that very last sentence, and she dove into explaining the history of it once more. Every letter she wrote, would end in a fact so buzzard it was hard to believe. The two went back and forth as fast as time would allow, matching the length of letters, each and every time. Quickly, that ugly blue ink from Ezekiels pen became her favourite colour, replacing the orange colours that she once preferred over all else.

But, all good things do eventually come to an end, for years, they’d go back and forth, writing letters and knowing everything about one another. Occasionally letters were sent with tear stains wrinkling papers from when she poured her heart onto the page, she’d sent a picture of herself once too, one she never got back. Dozens of paper cuts, empty pens and notepads empty, pages torn out and sent. Then, one day, it all just stopped, her last letter never got a response, she waited weeks, but weeks turned to months quickly and she assumed he’d gotten out, it wasn’t worth contacting her anymore now that he was set free into the world once again. It hurt, it shouldn’t have, he was just a pen pal, a friend who wasn’t permanent in the slightest, she knew that, she did, but that bond she thought they developed was broken. Perhaps she got attached, but, for lack of better wording, it sucked.

It was now the middle of December, and Ophelia had planned what she usually did during the holiday season. Nothing. She didn’t have family left, her friends had their own families to attend to, besides, she had just up and moved to a town she was dangerously unfamiliar with. Although, none of that really phased her. On her way home from work, she stopped by the store, a hardcore case of the munchies leading her down chips isle. Humming to herself softly, her eyes scanned the shelves, tossing a bag or two in her basket before strolling down the isle.

A small, white sheet of something, perhaps paper? Swayed to the ground slowly, landing rignt at her feet, with a quirked brow, she leant down and picked it up. The man who dropped it, standing not too far in front of her, didn’t seem to notice that he’s lost it. A man, with a buff figure, broad shoulders, he walked like he’d been constipated for a week now, his phone in hand, which his focused had zeroed in on. She trapped the small paper, which turned out to be a photograph. Ophelia didn’t want to look at it, to respect the mans privacy, but curiosity killed the cat, right?

The photo, she immediately recognized the bright red hair, the pearly white smile, the mess on the pale skin and the beaming green eyes. That was her, the photo? it was the one she sent to Ezekiel all those years ago, when they first started talking. But why did this man have it? With confusion, she rushed forward, tapping the man on his shoulder “excuse me -“ she started, but her words caught in her throat when he turned around, it was him. he looked like he did in the pictures on the sight, the one he sent her, just slightly older, his hair had a tight trim, he had a few more stress lines than the picture did.

The basket tucked under her arm just moments ago, hit the ground with a crash. Her eyes went wide, her skin paled. Ophelia looked like she’d just seen a ghost, Ez mimicking the shock on his own features. “you- i-“ she managed to get out, forcing her mouth shut.

A nervous chuckle came from Ez, paired with a weak “O- hey.” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

She raised her fist and punched him in the bicep “what the fuck?!” she asked, her shock replaced by anger as she waved the photo in front of him. “really?! I thought we were cool, friends? even? you said I was one of the best friends you’d ever made and I don’t even get as much as a ‘oh hey Ophelia I’m getting out talk to you never!’ ?! and you just carry my picture around like a creep?” she asked, pushing it against his chest and crossing her arms over her own. “well?”

“Listen, I’m sorry.” he said, looking for ways to explain himself, why he hadn’t kept in touch, any sort of excuse but there was nothing, truth was, he had wanted to stay in contact but everything with the club, and the deal, and pops got in the way, so it kept getting pushed back. “it was a dick move and I’m sorry.” he said, looking down at her.

“yeah no fucking shit.” she spoke, her arms still crossed over her chest, her glare burrowing holes into his head. She opened her mouth, ready to add more onto what was already said to him, but in that moment someone in a kutte that nearly matched his own, rounded the corner, ready to speak to Ez until her glare shifted from him to the slightly taller man, his green flannel buttoned up, chains clanging together.

“Hey boy sco-“ he stopped mid sentence, not taking another step, he narrowed his eyes at her, looking between her, and his brother, a smile came to his lips in realization “oh shit.” he laughed “you can deal with angry fire crotch on your own, I’ll wait outside.” he laughed, heading out and leaving the two alone again.

“Angel?” she asked, he looked exactly like Ez would explain in his letters, nodding his head, she furrowed her brows slightly and leaned down, picking her basket up again, hanging it in the crease of her elbow. “Look I get it, you got out, had better things to do, I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me but come on? We spoke for years, we bonded, or so I thought? Feels ridiculous now, but, hey, I hope that your life treats you better than it has, I’ll see you around.” she said, nodding her head at him, turning to head to the till when she felt his hand on her arm, spinning her around.

“I looked for you.” he started “not nearly hard enough but they never gave away your address, nothing, which was smart but I did look for you, where I could.” he confessed “not once did I forget about you, Ophelia, I couldn’t.” he dropped his arm when she stood, looking up at him.

“I know. Duh. Your memory is like- permanent.” she said, and he nearly rolled his eyes.

“okay smart ass that’s not what I meant.” he groaned. “you’re unforgettable, even if I could forget, I couldn’t.”

“you’re much smoother on paper” she added another little side note.

“Ophelia.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyways, that picture was the only that allowed me to feel a sense of home as of lately, and would be the only thing that did until i found you. That’s why I kept it.” he told her, her gaze softening. “Now that i have, found you, i won’t let you get away again.”

“sounds kidnap - y.” she muttered, interrupting him. He dropped his hands, slapping against his thighs with a soft sight, he shot her a glare.

“Ophelia I swear to god i’m trying to confess my feelings right now could you put a pause on that for a moment?” he asked her, raising a brow.

“no.” she said simply, scratching her nose. “don’t confess your undying love for me in the middle of a grocery store, please. That old lady has been listening and eyeing you this whole time.”

#angel reyes x reader #ez x reader #ez reyes #mayans fanfic #mayans mc #jd pardo

[meepmoopfanfics]

you don’t get a win unless you’re playing the game: Daveed Diggs x Reader Chapter 6 Part 2

The familiar sound of Alexander Hamilton blares through your phone speakers waking you from your deep, restful sleep. You reach over to snooze it but are almost too excited to continue rehearsals to even close your eyes again. It’s 7:30am. Monday. It’s finally here. The day you would rehearse for your dream show in front of your dream cast. The sunlight peeks through your window, shining warm, bright light on your cheeks, filling your soul with positive energy for the day. You reach over to your nightstand to flip through your script to make sure you’re able to nail all of the alto harmonies in front of the whole cast today. 

You had your rehearsal outfit laid out from the night before. You weren’t one to be this organized or prepared... but for Hamilton?! You were instantly on top of your shit. You pulled on your favorite black Lululemon leggings, a camo sports bra (you’re ready for battle here!), and a cute cropped burgundy shirt from Urban Outfitters. You threw on a white Nike hoodie over top to keep you warm when you weren’t dancing. You giggled at the thought of potentially wearing your copy of Daveed’s signature Purple Oaklandish hoodie to rehearsal that you got as a gag gift from your parents on your last birthday. One day that would have to happen. Would be fangirling at its finest. Maybe you would eventually just burn it so no one saw.

Your subway ride to the Richard Rogers was not as chaotic as usual. The trains were on time and you felt like the universe was finally on your side. You stopped into the coffee shop across the street to grab a large black coffee and a classic bacon, egg, and cheese on an English muffin with avocado to get you going. You were there a little early so you could foam roll and stretch while listening to chill music. You always needed your “me” time to get into your groove before facing the day. You walked into your dressing room and were so happy to see Michelle already there, devouring her favorite Panera bagel, the cinnamon crunch. Mid-bite, she squeals at seeing you.

“Y/N!!! You have me on the edge of my freakin seat here. What in the HELL happened after brunch?”

You giggled and felt the heat come over your face. 

“Let me tell you Michelle... it was everything.”

“Was it good?!” Michelle immediately blurted out.

“...yeeeeeeeah...” You said through a smirk. 

“WAS HE BIG?!” Michelle yelled.

“SHHHHH” You said to shut her up while snickering.

You both laughed so hard you felt tears coming to your eyes. Thankfully there was no one else in the dressing rooms near you yet so you weren’t that worried. 

Until two seconds later when you heard a knock from wall next to you.

Michelle and you screamed and continued to die laughing. 

“Laaaaaadieeees!! What’s goin oooon?” Anthony bursts into your dressing room without warning. “What are ya laughin’ about?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing!” You said quickly back, continuing the laughter.

“Oh yeah?! Nothin at all to do with Diggs, right?” Anthony’s signature grin came across his face as his face turned red as he held back laughter. He nudged your arm a couple of times. “I heard the whole thing, Y/N, the walls are paper thin. But it’s chill! It’s chill!” He waved his hands signaling that he would keep a secret and would have your back. Then out of no where he whisper taunts “Diggs is after the bullet! Diggs is after the buuuulleeeeet!!!”

Thankfully Anthony’s actual dressing room was upstairs next to Diggs. Ant was only visiting the PT room to warm up.

“You’re the absolute worst!” You responded.

“Enjoy your breakfast ladies!” Anthony waved goodbye in the silliest way and headed back out. 

You and Michelle caught up over your breakfast sandwiches. You showed her the note you wrote on your phone about your hookup, trying not to miss out on any details when telling her. Your attentiveness to details and your photographic memory were so helpful when it came to choreography, but when it came to remembering events, it was both a blessing and a curse. Re-reading it, however, was having you break a sweat more than if you started warming up.

Michelle then filled you in on her evening with Cedric. You knew the two of them were bound to become a thing even though she was hesitant about it. And thankfully you wouldn’t have to worry about Cedric coming on to you in any way.

--

Time passed and both you and Michelle warmed up together, foam rolled, and got ready to go. You started to get butterflies thinking about dancing for Lin Manuel Miranda. He was having his alternate, Javier, stand in for rehearsals so he could watch from the theater. He was going to see your every move of Act 1. You were proud of yourself for how well you knew the show and felt perfectly comfortable with your castmates. 

“Alright good morning everyone!” You heard from the loud speaker that reached all rooms backstage. “You all can make your way to the stage for our first run through of Act 1! Make sure you grab your mic belts and mics from sound. Thank you! Everyone to stage, please, everyone to stage.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You said aloud. 

You made your way to the stage. Even though you already had seen the set and the majestic view of the theater seats in the Richard Rogers, it still gave you chills every time. The intricate detailing in the set design was something you could stare at for hours and continue to find something new.

You walked out of your comfort zone to stand next to Anthony who was giving Jasmine a shoulder massage. They were so sweet and truly the epitome of what love/healthy relationships should be and look like.

You looked around at everyone chatting to each other in awe. There was Oak making Michelle and Cedric laugh as if they’d been best friends for years, Renee and Philippa giggling and rubbing each others arms to stay warm, and Leslie pacing already in his craft, perfecting every last detail to ensure he still had that Tony winning performance in him.

Stephanie was seated a few rows back to get a good view of the full stage and balcony. Andy, the choreographer, wasn’t there this week since he was working on some other projects, but he would be coming to watch soon. You couldn’t wait to dance for Andy again, your dream choreographer. She sat next to Alex Lacamoire with the “god mic” which she would be shouting out notes and corrections from during the run.

“Check check...” Stephanie said in a low, radio-esque voice. “It’s me, God.”

The entire cast and crew erupted in laughter.

“Just jooooking it's Steph. WHAT’S UP WOLF PAAACKKK?!”

The OBC woo’d, shouted, and clapped. 

Then you heard a familiar raspy voice shout, just about an inside voice, “It’s too early SK.”

You looked over to see Daveed looking hella hot with his hair pulled up a-la Lafayette style with his glasses on, scratching the scruff of his freshly trimmed beard.

“It’s too early for shots out the grammy hangovers, Diggs.” Stephanie responded playfully. You hoped one day you’d get to take one out of the grammy.

Daveed looked tired, but so sexy as expected. He was dessed in a Black Oaklandish tank and red sweats, with a black hoodie tied around his waist. You instantly you got a sour feeling in your stomach. You imagined him partying out late with other women, hooking up with them after he threw back a few Belvedere shots with Rafa... wait. Your mind was making up situations that were not even real. Shit... I guess you were starting to like this idiot. You rolled your eyes at yourself and focused back on his bulging biceps to snap out of it.

Gotta pay attention, gotta pay attention. You thought.

“I can guess who he was out late with!!” Anthony softly whispered in your ear. Jasmine instantly hit him on the shoulder giving him a dirty, yet playful look. 

“Oh shut it, A.” You whispered back as you elbowed him in the side. 

Daveed looked over at you and Ant but had no idea what you both said. His eyes then met yours, sending a heartbeat to your core. He winked at you quickly and smirked. You winked back.

“I see you, Y/N...” Jazzy whispered. “You guys are acting like Ant and I did when we started this shindig.”

“It’s nothing, really.” You said while breaking eye contact, trying to sound chill.

“Y/N... don’t you dare lie to me!” She giggled. You were dumbfounded by her perfectly clear skin.

“Well, we’re just two super flirty people, it’s nothing, well, nothing more than that on his end I don’t think.”

“Girl just be patient. Enjoy it. He really isn’t openly flirty with many people. He sees what he likes and takes it. You’ll see. If anyone knows that, we do.” Jazzy mentioned while pointing at her and A. She then started softly warming up her vocal chords and gave you a pat on your shoulder. She was so sweet and the positive, chill energy she brought into the room was contagious.

“Lets take it from the top y'all!” Stephanie shouted on her mic.

You headed backstage to get ready for opening. You and Daveed started backstage Left together. You approached him and he gently placed his warm hand on your lower back as you passed him.

“Morning, (Y/Nickname). Merde, babygirl.” He said as you walked to your wing.

“Mornin, Lafayette.” You said as you snickered. “Loving the hair.”

He smiled and shook his little poofball on top of his head back at you as you both settled into your spots.

The piano keys pounded the same melody as you heard from your alarm waking up this morning. An unreal moment for you. After Leslie sung his solo, one by one the principals started rapping the words to Alexander Hamilton. It was hard not to mouth them under your breath. It went perfectly. Aaron Burr, Sir went through quickly since you weren’t on stage really. You didn’t get a single note during My Shot. The little moments you had together bantering with Daveed were cute and he “shoved you with love” as the chorus says during rehearsals if you know someone’s in the wrong spot. One after one, you all nailed your dances. You and Cedric nailed your partnering with only one slight mishap with the basket toss lifts in Helpless, since it was your first time using the rehearsal skirts. They were heavy as hell.

Then came time for Stay Alive. Your first moment as the Bullet in front of Lin. You counted and perfectly grabbed the bullet from M4′s rifle causing Stephanie to come on the mic and say “You better work, Y/N!” You smiled as you mimicked the bullet just surpassing Javier’s skull. You respected Javier so much because he took his work so seriously. That’s how you wanted to be known. The quick change into the British army coat was going to be difficult, but you know the dressers backstage were on top of it a and would make sure you’d get to stage on time once the show premiered.

The rest of the run through was a sheer blur of running back stage through the wings, mimicking where your quick changes would be, staring at awe at Daveed as he rapped 19 words in 3 seconds, even while completely hungover, and chugging water bottle after water bottle. This was tough stuff. Non stop was a cardio routine essentially, and pushing Chris as Washington on the moving stairs was way tougher that you thought. You didn’t want to hurt the set so you were extra gentle with it. The way Stephanie responded to the cast was so positive. You all were knockouts. She gave some notes to Michelle about her mother lift, which she corrected and perfected immediately. You were so thankful to be part of such a talented and intelligent cast who were quick on their feet and no nonsense.

“If that were in costume, that would’ve been a near perfect first run for your cast.” Stephanie said.

“EXCEPT I WASN’T IN IT.” Lin said as he snatched the mic. The cast giggled as they plopped onto the stage floor, panting from the run. “My new cinnamon rolls are perfect. PERFECT I tell you. I can feel all of your energy beaming from the stage. I can’t wait to perform with you all. This is truly an honor.”

Everyone clapped together. Just so happy to be performing after such a long time apart. You’ve never felt more proud.

“Now OBC’s... make sure we don’t let our comfortability tinge our performance okay? Remember when the material was fresh and fun? We need to make it fresh and fun for our audiences. Jazz watch the eye contact with Ant, you’re gonna ruin it for the LAM fans if John Laurens looks like he's straight.” Everyone laughed. “Also Daveed, quit milking your side moments with Y/N.” 

“I noticed that too...” Steph chimed in in a tone which sounded like she had discovered a secret.

You began to feel embarrassed and covered your face with your hands.

“I was shoving with love!” Daveed shouted, trying to make the situation less awkward. He didn’t look back at you, no recognition, no nothing. Your stomach started to churn with nerves again. Could he not admit he was flirting with you? I guess it was a professional setting, but still sort of upsetting. 

“Alright let’s take a twenty minute break. New ensemble, we’ll go a little more in depth with minuscule notes and changes. Wolfpack, take a half hour before music brushup with Alex.” Steph turned off the mic and people dispersed into their dressing rooms, the green rooms, or into the audience to grab snacks/ foam roll.

Your Burgundy top was slightly sweat drenched from the hard work you put in. You got back up to your dressing room with Michelle and saw your phone light up with a text.

Diggs: You looked hella good out there, Y/N. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you

Y/N: Thanks, Diggs. You weren’t too shabby yourself ;)”

Diggs: Like I said before, even though I’m not technically the bullet, I still got ammo... and you have a twenty...

Your eyes widened. A quickie? Right now of all times? You couldn't. Not with the professionals in the room.

Diggs: My dressing room in 5?

Well I’ll be damned, Lafayette’s on my side... you sung in your mind.

Y/N: Here? You sure it’ll be okay?

Diggs: I don’t share a room. Only if you’re comfortable, babygirl

You felt a pulse go to your opening when he said that. Also him calling you babygirl drew you over the edge. You also didn’t realize how much of a turn on it would be to potentially hookup in the very place the most respected people who’ve ever worked on Hamilton would be simultaneously working, unfazed at what would soon happen behind Daveed’s dressing room walls.

Y/N: I’m in

You checked yourself out in the mirror without saying a word to Michelle, made sure your flyaways were sprayed back, put some more deodorant on and gave yourself a splash of your fave perfume.

“And where the hell are you in a hurry to go to, missy?” Michelle said as you began to briskly exit out of the dressing room.

“Can’t talk, will update you later. Love ya.” You winked in her direction. Her eyes widened and she started laughing to herself as you closed the door behind you while ferociously typing a new text to get Diggs excited.

Y/N: Your shirt better be off by the time I get to your dressing room. 

Diggs: Way ahead of you

Diggs: Can’t wait to hear you struggle not to moan

God damn, Diggs.

Y/N: Oh yeah? How cocky of you to assume you’d make me moan ;)

Diggs: You know I will

Diggs: And I know just how I can muffle them ;)

Fuck.

Your brisk walk turned into a light jog as you became desperate. You climbed the last set of stairs to his dressing room and stood outside of the door that was slightly cracked ajar. Here you were again, with one inch of barrier between you two. You couldn’t wait any longer.

You lightly knocked on the door and waited.

@alexander-hamilhoe

@riiyy

@lonelydance

@braidedchallah

@ohsoverykeri-blog

@roman0ffxnat

@lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa

@i-know-i-can

@vemazing

@ramp-it-up 

#daveed x reader #Daveed Diggs x reader #fanfic #Hamilton fanfic #hamiltrash

[slasherholic]

warnings for this chapter: gore and death, mentions of abuse

Read chapter one here!

End of the Line | Michael Myers x Reader | Chapter Two

You make it thirty steps before the blackness bites you.

Your foot catches on some stiff piece of metal and your brain can’t catch up with the rest of your body to realize why you’re suddenly laying face-down in the dust on your stomach, why your legs aren’t still pumping, your arms not still pistoning—and then, all at once, it hits you.

You’ve tripped.

If you weren’t such a small and frightened animal you would start to cry again. But that’s not what frightened animals do, screams your lizard-brain, frightened animals run. So get up. Get up and keep running.

You do. You barrel back into the unknown. If Michael’s footsteps are still behind you you can’t hear them over the blood rushing to your ears, sweeping through your skull, dizzying your vision in a sickening way. A sticky hot wetness drips down your back from where he cut you but you don’t care about that right now. Run. Run.

You run for a long time. Until reason tells you that you’ve left Michael far behind—but reason currently has no place in your oxygen-starved thoughts. The sound of his breathing still rings in your ears and your mind is plagued with a terrible prophecy that your next stumble will be headlong into his chest. That he will lunge out from the blackness and seize you and it will all be over.

Hugging the wall, you dash around another corner—

—and there, at the end of the corridor, you can’t believe it. You think your mind is playing some cruel trick, so you keep looking down the hall, keep stumbling towards it, but no, there is no trick, it’s really there—

—a light.

Making the hallway before you not black but rather a shade of grey, like an old-fashioned photograph. And somewhere around the next corner must be its source.

You are a moth drawn to a flame. Nothing matters but that light.

Tearing through the dusty hallway, you see now what’s been tripping you—toppled desks, scattered all up and down the corridor, their metal legs jutting dangerously out.

Oh, comes your realization. It’s a school.

The corridor is a cluttered wreck of disrepair. Every classroom door you blitz past is boarded up with nails and planks. The paper on the walls peels like a bad sunburn. Wires hang down from broken panels in the ceiling.

And now, you understand what that suffocating must-smell hanging like a stiff blanket overhead is—the reek of abandonment. Michael has brought you to an abandoned building. There does not exist a more perfect hunting ground. Scream as loudly as you want because nobody will hear you, run in any direction you please because you are a rat in a maze, a fish in a barrel—escape was never a possibility in the first place. 

But you don’t think about that right now, only about the light. Reach the light. Reach it before it fades. You tear around the corner—

—the light is blinding.

Wincing, your forearm shoots up to shield your eyes from the horrible strain.

“Stay the fuck back.” Barks a voice. “I’ve got a knife.”

And you nearly topple over in shock. Raising one hand to cover the beam, you blink past it, heart racing in your chest.

Three wide-eyed faces gawk back at you from behind three flashlights, all of them trained on you like rifles. The guy in the middle—the only guy—wasn’t lying about the knife. He holds it out across his flashlight in the sort of way that a police officer might hold a gun, but he doesn’t have the look to complete the image. With his dirty-blonde hair collecting around his shoulders and studded black leather jacket, the knife-guy looks more likely to get arrested himself than to be the one doing any arresting.

He leers at you like you’re a convicted felon anyway.

“You see this?” He continues, swishing the knife a bit. “I don’t wanna use it—don’t make me use it. You just take it easy and stay right the fuck there.”

You hardly hear knife-guy’s words. What your brain clings to instead is the fact that there are People. You are not alone in the darkness. There are people in this building. 

The realization makes your pounding heart soar and for a second your head is in the clouds and all you can think is maybe I won’t die tonight after all.

To knife-guy’s left is a short and trim Mexican woman with thoughtful eyes like black pools, the biggest you’ve ever seen. She clutches tightly at his bicep with one bony hand and stares across the hall at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. The tall girl on the right must be some sort of athlete, with strong legs and golden-tan skin and a high brunette ponytail. She gawks like she’s just seen a ghost—or like she might be giving up her own ghost at any second.

Nobody moves for a moment, and in the end you just stand there, looking each other up and down.

And then some cold and bitter voice in your head reminds you, these people are lined up for a slaughterhouse. 

The hopeful thoughts in your head crash like a fiery trainwreck. Your eyes go round and horrified.

Graphic images assault your brain, of cuts so deep that you can see yellow fat and sinewy muscle and bleach-white bone, of dumbly gaping mouths, of dead, unfocused, cloudy eyes, sightless—the look of a corpse. You see in your mind’s eye that look on the faces staring back at you and your racing heart does a flip-flop into your stomach; you clench your jaw shut tight and think about not throwing up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.

“Listen lady,” Knife-guy says, breaking the silence, sweeping his hair out of his face with his elbow. “We don’t want any trouble, alright?”

Too late for that, you think.

“If you’re trying to screw with us it just ain’t gonna work, yeah? So I’ll cut you a deal; you turn around, we turn around, we go our separate ways, and then we pretend we never even saw each other. That sound fair?”

Panic flares in your belly and all the moisture is sucked from your mouth.

“No!” The plea leaves you before you can even think. The tall girl on the right utters a little gasp at your outburst, jumping like she’s been burnt.

“No, no you don’t understand.” Your words are desperate; you hold your hands up in front of you like you actually are a convicted felon, just because it seems like the right thing to do; knife-guy seems to think it even more now.

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I promise, alright? But please, please, you have to listen to me—”

“Jesus!” Knife guy clutches his knife tighter. “I’m trying really hard not to be an asshole right now, okay? I don’t wanna be that macho douchebag that yells at girls, but honestly lady, you sound like some sort of nut! And believe me, we don’t want any of—”

“Oh Travis, honestly, quit it!” The short girl, silent as the grave until now, hisses sharply, elbowing Knife-guy in the ribs. Knife-guy shoots her a little look of what the hell dude, which she ignores.

“There’s something wrong, dammit—I mean, look at her!”

You assume she’s talking about the look of horror sprawled across your face, or about the cold sweat clinging to your reddened cheeks, or the fact that you must look like something that just came crawling out of the woods.

But then, you feel it again. You feel it trickling down your lower back, down your side, making your shirt cling to your skin, wetting the hem of your pants. And oh, that’s right. You’re a bloody mess.

Now, the pain registers. Your salty sweat stings the wound in an agonizing way. Paling, you reach gingerly beneath your armpit, toward your back, dreading the inspection, but doing it anyway. You need to know.

Your palm meets the cotton. You whimper, because your shirt is soaked-through.

Pulling your hand back, trying not to tremble too hard, you glance down at your fingers. They’re coated all the way to your palm in dark, shining red.

Michael cut you deep.

“Holy shit.” Travis breathes, his jaw tightening. You blink up at him again, fighting tears now.

“I’m—I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” You stammer. “But please, you need to listen to what I’m telling you.”

You pause to lick your lips and swallow and the silence in your stead is horrible, as if every breath is being held.

“This isn’t a prank, it isn’t a joke—you guys need to get out of here right now, and I mean now.”

The silence stretches on; the short girl, the tall girl, the knife-guy—Travis, the short-girl called him—they all gawk at you as if you’ve spoken in tongues.

Then, chaos.

“Fuck that.” Sobs the tall-girl, her voice breaking. “Fuck that, I’m so not staying here. I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this, we could have gone to see a movie! Let’s find Ashley and Josh and go.”

“Wendy, come on! She’s just trying to freak us out!”

“Well it’s fucking working, dude!”

“Both of you cut it out!” The short girl hisses, her volume a near-whisper. “Keep it down! Travis, for god’s sake, she’s telling the truth—you seriously think she did that to herself?” She eyes you anxiously, her gaze lingering on the blood eating through your shirt.

“...how did it happen?”

Her words twist something in your gut and you grimace. No, you can’t answer that—you can’t even think about that. You’re going to be sick.

But the short girl stares at you like you’re about to divulge the cure to cancer, and she isn’t going to leave it alone. So with a shuddering breath, in a voice so frail you can hardly hear yourself, you choke out the barest-bones answer you can muster.

“There’s someone else in the building.”

Your dread is a virus and the virus is contagious. The tall girl—Wendy—wilts visibly, terror overtaking her features. You think she might faint. Travis goes deathly silent, his expression hardening. The short girl chews her lip like a wad of bubblegum.

Good, you think. Great. They believe you. Now let’s get moving, please and thank you, because you simply can’t stay here any longer. Michael will not have given up the chase so easily. Any moment, the ghost-white of that awful mask is going to breach the dark. You know it. You can’t stay here. You need to get moving again.

But the short girl still isn’t satisfied.

“Who?” She asks, tears shimmering in her big brown eyes. Her words hang on her lips. “Who’s in the building?”

Your heart beats as fast and hard as if Michael’s hands are around your neck this very moment. 

Will they believe you? If you look these people in the eye and tell them the honest-to-god truth about who is lurking and stalking and hunting his way through these unlit corridors, will it tip the scales swinging in their heads hopelessly back into disbelief? Will they tell you to get lost, and to take your sick, twisted, poor-taste-of-a-joke with you, and what kind of a person pokes fun at something like that, anyway?

“It’s—he’s—”

You never get to finish. A sudden scream rips like shrapnel through the air.

The faces behind those blinding flashlights go paler than sheets. The blood in your veins runs cold. 

It is a bloody, piercing sound. It seems to rattle the walls around you. It goes on and on and on. When it cuts off it is abrupt and final and all the sound in the building is sucked away with it.

A cold, sneering voice in your head whispers, Well they’ll have to believe you now, won’t they?

Michael’s found someone.

~

He knows the hallways well. Even in the dark.

He stands at the intersection with the broken water fountain on the ground and does not move except to fill his lungs with air, listening. The girl had been loud; her footsteps carried far. He followed the echo and hunted her easily.

Now the echo has gone silent.

Looking down, staring at the floor beneath his boots, he sees them; shoe prints. Sitting freshly in the dust. Hers.

He does not need the girl’s sounds. Only her prints.

Studying them, he knows that she did not turn off here. Knows she kept on going down the hall. Toward the locker rooms.

He lifts his head and looks into the dimness after her, breathing the stale air deep into his lungs.

The hunt will be over quickly; the girl is running in a circuit.

Taking the left, stepping over the broken water fountain, he walks silently down the hall. The heat at his hips throbs, impatient. His thumb rubs back and forth across the handle of his knife. 

The girl will not see him coming. Not until it is too late.

He will grab her by her hot neck. Will let her twist in his hands. Will make her—

...

—he stops. Listening.

Hears footsteps.

Turning in a slow circle, looking over each shoulder, he searches the hall. Sees a set of double-doors. Listens more. Grips the knife harder, watching and waiting, breathing the stale air...

The doors swing open.

...and it is not the girl.

There are two of them. Two with flashlights. They keep on walking down the hall and do not look in his direction. Do not notice him standing across the way.

He watches them go. The heart in his ribs pulses steadily and rhythmically. The urge comes—follow the prey.

He follows.

He will have the girl later.

He will have her for a different urge.

~

You have never seen so much blood. Not even on Michael.

It shimmers starkly against the faded-blue lockers, streaking down in heavy wet lines toward the floor, pooling between the divots in the tile like tiny rivers, which trickle outward, extending their reach down the hall.

To your right, Wendy slaps her slender-fingered hand over her mouth. She sucks in big gasps of air and her shoulders shudder violently.

The short girl—Diane, you heard Travis calling her—stands next to Travis, her arms wound so tightly around his waist that if she squeezes any harder you suspect she might bisect him.

Travis just stands there. Shining his light at the gore. Entranced.

Your mind is blank as you yourself drink in the mess—blank and numb, thoughtless.

But when the smell of it hits you the tide of nausea comes racing back towards the shore.

You are no stranger to the tang of blood but this differs from the stench that clings to Michael when he comes home from a hunt. That smell is mixed among the salt of his sweat—muted by the scent of him—and the result is more primal and heart-pounding and less knock-you-on-your-ass dizzying.

But this smell is raw and undiluted. Straight from the source. It drains all the color from your face. It threatens to bring you right down to the floor.

You place a hand on a clammy locker door to keep from staggering.

“Look.” Diane whispers.

She untangles one arm from around Travis’s waist, raising her flashlight, shining it at the floor behind the puddle. You see what she’s pointing at. Bootprints.

The pattern on the sole is unmistakable. They are Michael’s.

They lead ten paces down the hall where they stop in front of a closed door. Squinting, you can just barely read the painted black letters on the door, letters which may have once read “Boy’s Changing Room.”

“Those aren’t Josh’s.” Travis breathes, squeezing the leather grip of his hunting knife tighter.

To your right, Wendy’s gasps become sobs. She collapses suddenly back against the row of lockers, their doors rattling harshly. You wince; Michael’s going to hear her.

Travis and Diane are on her in less than a second.

“She’s dead.” Wendy gasps. “She’s dead. We have to get out of here—”

“Christ, Wendy, stop it.” Travis hisses. Shoving his flashlight into Diane’s hand, he kneels at Wendy’s side, quick to clamp his hand over her mouth.

“You cut that out right now or you’re gonna get us killed.”

“Breathe,” Diane adds, sinking down to stroke Wendy’s hair.

Wendy tries to breathe, but it’s more of a blubbering in the end.

“You don’t know that, anyway.” Travis continues. “She could be alive right through that door, bleeding out. No way are we leaving until we find her.”

“She’s not.” You state.

Travis whips around. His scowl says it all.

Getting to his feet, he plucks his flashlight out of Diane’s hands and stands up rigidly straight. He shines the beam right in your face and you wince, wrinkling your nose at the brightness.

“Yeah lady? Alright, prove it; I don’t see a body.”

The tough-guy act is only skin deep. Blinking past the blinding beam at Travis’ face, you can see he’s tenser than a wire. He knows you’re right. He knows his friend is dead. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

You eye him sternly and hold your ground.

“I’m just being realistic; that’s a lot of blood.”

Travis’ nostrils flare, and all of a sudden he is walking across the hall with lurching strides.

The man approaching you is not small by any means—Wendy is taller than him, but only by an inch. His jacket is thick and puffs out around his arms, making him wider at the shoulders than he probably is, but his stature is sturdy, and his figure is close enough to Michael’s to plunge you into panic-mode.

Your limbs lock up habitually. You brace against the locker for hurt.

Travis stops at an uncomfortable distance from you, the leather of his jacket nearly grazing your chest. His breaths come heavily through his nose and you can feel them beating down on your face, hot and shallow. 

“You had better tell me right goddamed now,” He whispers through grit teeth, “What the fuck is in this building with us.”

The tightness in his voice is enough to unlock your limbs, enough to bring you out of your submissive trance, enough to make your lizard-brain realize that the man standing over you with a knife in his fist is not Michael, not even close—he’s just some college kid. Just as scared for his life as you are.

You don’t try to mask the hopelessness in your eyes as you finally spill.

“Do you know who killed all those people in Haddonfield last year?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Everybody with a working television or radio knows. Everyone who bothers to pick up their newspaper from their driveway in the morning knows. Everybody in the entire god-damned state knows. Hell, the entire god-damned country knows about those murders. It was all over the national news stations for a week into November, delivered each morning by a solemn news anchor:

And now, an update on the grisly string of murders which took place just last week in Haddonfield, Illinois—unofficially dubbed “The Babysitter Murders.”

The Haddonfield police department released an official statement this evening identifying the primary suspect in this ongoing case: Michael Audrey Myers, psychiatric patient and former Haddonfield resident, who escaped from government-mandated care on the night of the 30th.

Travis seems to hold his breath. When it comes out again it makes his upper body shudder. He knows, alright.

“Wait—” Wendy stutters, her frail voice cracking hard. “Wait, but I thought, didn’t they catch that guy?”

“They didn’t.” Diane pronounces quietly, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes are glued to the blood on the floor but they look unfocused and distant, like her mind is elsewhere.

“I’m following the Myers case for my thesis, and no, they never caught him.”

Travis’s invasion of your personal space finally relents. He steps back and begins pacing between you and Diane, his brow scrunching up in thought. He reaches up with his arm to wipe his hair out of his face.

“Okay, so you think it’s Myers,” He begins. “But come on, how do you know? How do you know it isn’t just some other freak? I’m sure there are plenty of real sick fucks out there, all I’m saying is that there’s no way you can know for sure it’s—”

“Guys?” 

Every head whips toward the changing room, and every flashlight follows.

There, peering tentatively out from behind the door where Michael’s boot prints lead is another tear-streaked face, a college-aged kid, no older than nineteen. The grey hood of his too-big hoodie is drawn up over his head.

“Josh!” Diane whispers.

Josh studies you sheepishly, his glossy eyes round and anxious. Then, he sees the blood. His eyes squeeze shut tight in an instant and his forehead lolls toward the door frame, knocking against it with a dull thud. His entire body begins to heave with silent sobs.

Diane shoots up from Wendy’s side like a rocket, tip-toeing around the gore. Reaching Josh, she embraces him in a tight hug, and Josh buries his face eagerly into the nook of her neck and only shakes harder. Diane caresses the frizzy ringlets around his ear and shushes him.

“If you saw anything,” She whispers, “You have to tell us. We need to know what happened.” 

“Is she dead?” Wendy sobs up from the floor, her slender fingers still clamped over her mouth.

“I-I don’t really know, man.” Josh chokes out. “It happened so fast. We were just coming to find you guys, a-a-and she saw the court, she tried to go check it out, b-but when she opened the door she got—she got—”

He gives a strangled little whimper and shakes his head weakly, burying it back into Diane’s shoulder, done.

She got grabbed, you finish in your head. It’s not a guess—it’s a fact. You don’t need Josh’s commentary to piece together what happened here.

Looking back at the smeared blood on the lockers, you see now where Michael did it, where he smashed this Ashley girl’s face into the aluminum doors, leaving divots and dents behind in the metal. At some point, Ashley had started screaming.

You drop your gaze to the heavy splatter of dark red on the tile again. 

She screamed, until Michael slit her throat.

“He followed me in there.” Josh sniffs, jerking his thumb at the locker-room door. “I ducked in a locker and he walked right past—but then he stopped and just stood there, like he was—I don’t know, waiting for something. Or—or listening for something.”

Josh wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I was so scared, man. I thought I was dead.”

You listen to Josh speak and the unease in your stomach twists.

“Where did he go?” You ask. Josh eyes you warily.

“Um. I dunno, he just kinda… left.” 

All the hair on your neck stands on-end at that. You know how Michael’s mind works—at least to some extent—and you know how he hunts. And you would bet your life on the wager that he hasn’t gone far at all.

Your eyes dart up and down the hall and you squint past the reach of the flashlights, into the edge of the looming blackness. Josh’s words play like a tape recorder in your mind: She saw the court. She went to check it out. You squint at the closed doors leading to the basketball court. Your breaths shallow.

Oh; that’s where Ashley is.

“No offence or whatever, but who the hell are you?”

“She’s just some lady we found.” Travis answers for you. “Look, did you see him kill her, man?” Travis grabs Josh suddenly by the shoulders, shaking him like it’ll knock the sense back into him. “Come on, you gotta remember so we can get outta here. Where is she?”

You point an accusing finger at the basketball court.

“I think she’s in there.”

Everyone with a flashlight trains it at the doors. Another strangled sob leaves Wendy. Thick red handprints glisten wetly on the beige wood, just above the door handle.

Travis eyes the gore for a moment. Then, knife at the ready, he approaches the double doors.

It is for a wickedly selfish reason that you do not utter some warning of he’s still in there, moron, and your friend is dead, and you’ll be next. It is for a reason more potent than the fear of stumbling blindly through the darkness again; a reason more powerful than the fear of being alone in this desolate place. A reason that you are ashamed of for even thinking, but one that your lizard-brain—the part of you that cares only about your own continued survival, and to hell with everyone else—gurgles gleefully: If Michael kills them, maybe I’ll get to live.

And if not, then at the very least you can make a break for the exit while he’s busy sheathing his knife in their guts.

You look silently on as Travis carefully, carefully, nudges the door open with his shoe.

The room inside is just as abysmally dark as the rest of the school. Travis, hovering on the edge of the door frame, not daring to step foot beyond the hall, shines his flashlight around to inspect. It’s a basketball court alright, and surprisingly uncluttered. Sets of stadium bleachers line the walls on either side and loom like metal giants. Travis shines the light all around its periphery, illuminating every dark corner. There is no Ashley to be found—or Michael.

But there is more blood. A trail of it, leading out across the court, wrapping around the bleachers, disappearing from sight.

“Travis, no.” Wendy whimpers. “You can’t—oh god, please Travis, don’t go in there—please don’t. Please don’t.”

“Yeah,” Diane quickly agrees. “I think the best thing we can do for her now is to call the cops. Travis, he could still be in there.”

Travis looks anxiously back over his shoulder at her. He swallows like there’s a lump in his throat.

“Look. There’s no fucking way in the world I’m gonna leave her here with that psycho. Not until we know. This place is empty, alright? So as long as you guys stay close behind me... that fucker isn’t gonna get anyone else. I promise.”

Guilt flares in your gut. Your eyes fall to the floor. You can’t look at him. You know that not a single person standing in this hall will live to see the sun come up.

For simple fear of being left in the darkness again, when everyone shuffles into the court, you do too. Beams from all four flashlights rove the walls like spotlights. Every head is on a swivel. Travis is at least right about one thing: the room is huge and empty. There’s no way that anything could sneak up on you in here, not a housecat, not a tiger. Not even Michael.

The thin trail of blood disappears behind the bleachers—your heart pounds in your throat as the group draws nearer. The silence weighs like a heavy blanket.

Reaching the corner of the bleachers, everybody peers around the bend. You squint into the dimness.

There, suspended five feet off the ground, swaying sedately back and forth—a figure.

Travis shines his light up at it.

It is the limp body of a woman. She hangs from her neck by a length of climbing rope dangling down from the ceiling.

Somewhere in the background, Wendy starts to wail. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh my fucking god.”

The body turns, slowly. When it turns all the way around you can just make out the messy red ruins of her throat beneath the rope, slit quite literally from ear to ear.

Reality stares you in the eye, gape-mouthed and grotesque, and it will not let you look away. You drink it in and all your thoughts, even the lizard-brain thoughts, are silenced.

You study the blood seeping from the gaping gash in Ashley’s neck. You watch the way it drips down her sternum, how it eats in splotches through her white tube top, the garment pulled half-way down her chest, exposing her breasts on one side. You look all the way down to the puddle of glistening blood beneath the body and watch the droplets trailing off the slender ankles, dripping to the floor and making tiny ripples in the deep, dark red puddle beneath.

When your thoughts finally return you realize all at once that you have never witnessed Michael commit a murder. You have never had to see him plunge his knife into a screaming, crying, terrified body, but oh, you can picture it so vividly, can hear the pleading and the begging, can imagine Michael twisting the knife deeper, can see him tearing a life away with the ease of one kicking sand over a fire to snuff it out.

You know that will change tonight.

You know other things too, things that make nausea bubble up your throat, and you know before it happens that you are going to vomit, but not because of the body.

You know that Michael is a monster; you know it like you know that grass is green. You know what you are to him and you know that you should despise him for it. You know that you should want to see him burn—and a part of you does. A part of you wants nothing more in the world. A part of you wants to be the one who lights the match.

But there exists another part of you which sits like a gaping black hole right in the middle of your chest, and when the hole is open—which is most of the time—you feel cold and hollow and empty on the inside, and when it is closed you feel complete again, if only for a short while.

You know that the hole is need. And the need wants only one thing.

Standing here, staring up at the reality of what Michael is, of what he does, of what he will do to you tonight, even now, the hole in your chest still needs him like lungs need air.

He will kill you and it will not make you need him any less. Will not make you want him any less.

And as terrible, twisted, perverted, fucked-up as it is, it won’t make you love him any less, either.

It was Michael who held you down and cut open the hole in your chest; and now Michael is the only one who can fill it.

The bile rises up your throat and you are sick.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #slasher x reader #horror #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #end of the line #tw: emetophobia

[takagishingo]

17 Questions & 17 Answers

thanks for the tag @superkixx ☺️

tagging: @yabaina @gaysuzukigun @adampage @nianotjax @timothycatcher + the usual open tag 😌 if it looks fun, join in!

NICKNAMES: my name’s pretty short so it usually doesn’t get shortened. a couple old friends call me ‘ai’ (pronounced like eye). i honestly prefer my full name.

ZODIAC SIGN: leo 🦁😌 and yes i do enjoy it

HEIGHT: 4’11/1.49m

HOGWARTS HOUSE: i always get sorted as a ravenclaw and i always liked that just bc i like blue

LAST THING I GOOGLED: converting my height in inches to meters

SONG STUCK IN MY HEAD: ride with me by pink sweat$

NO. OF FOLLOWERS: this sideblog has 83. combining followers from my main & my sideblogs — 1353.

AMOUNT OF SLEEP: recently idk a lot but intermittent bc the weather/seasons have me all fucked up. usually, around 6-7 hours a night and sometimes a 30-45min nap in the afternoons after work.

LUCKY NUMBER: 27 — i kinda have fixations/old rituals around multiples of 3 and i have the number 27 tattooed on my back in montreal canadiens’ jersey font

DREAM JOB: lately i’ve been daydreaming about being a live event photographer, like being a venue photographer or a touring photographer. but idk if i actually want that or if it’s just a daydream from missing going to concerts and festivals and stuff

WEARING: pajamas which currently consist of ratty old gym shorts and a 3XL tiger hattori tshirt

FAVE SONG: recently — your man by joji. of all time — i’m not sure. maybe it’d be one headlight by the wallflowers

FAVE INSTRUMENT: i took piano lessons as a kid, so probably the piano. i also really love traditional vietnamese string board instruments, they just get me feeling different.

FAVE AUTHOR: i could easily sit down with any agatha christie novel at any moment. i still want to finish her complete collection one day.

FAVE ANIMAL NOISES: my family’s corgi mocha’s nails are always a little long bc he’s so crabby about nail trimming, so the little click clack he makes on hard floors really makes me smile. also when he tries really hard not to howl with siren noises and lets out these like half-uttered ‘awoo’ noises.

RANDOM: i really like houseplants and own like somewhere between 40-50 of them, ranging in size from small succulents in palm-sized jar containers to 5ft long vines (they were at 10ft but i trimmed them back to propagate) to 4ft tall potted trees. and my mom recently gifted me a huge monstera (~3ft tall) bc i’d been talking about how i’d wanted one for a while but couldn’t justify buying one when i have so many other plants. but my mom heard from my sisters that i was having a rough autumn (like i usually do) so she got me one and put it in a really pretty ceramic turquoise pot for me to take home when i came over for dinner and to help her with paperwork 🥰

A RECENT PIC: some makeup i did and selfies i took before the weather turned

#aily talks #long post #tag games #tagged

[thliahls]

it is very obvious i don’t know how family trees work but ! richard and dominique are her parents, although thalia doesn’t know anything about her mother including her name or what she looks like. thalia spent most of her upbringing under the care of tony and gong lau who ran, what could most readily be compared to a foster home for children of spies. many kids came and went, short-term stays of a month to a year most common, but thalia, along with archie and arella, came when they were around seven or eight and were the only three that stayed there pretty much full-time even after they turned eighteen ( until her dad found out about her boyfriend and blamed them for her expulsion, believing they had been complacent with her ). maggie’s their biological child who’s in their thirties now but would often frequent the house so the kids became just as close with them too. prose about her d*d under the cut, stream kyoto (copycat killer version) for clear skin ! @gallaghertasks

there's a gravitational pull that leaves thalia hall orbiting around her father. similar to how it is impossible for the sun and the earth to cut ties with each other, it is equally as impossible to not regard everything through the eyes of richard hall. over the years he has become equal part man and myth, fragmented the way memories do over time. she is unsure as to whether that is his real name, the same way she is unsure about everything else that composes his being. while it is likely that he has a family, and as an extension, that she has one too, he has cut the cord between himself and them. no one arrives in this world untethered, but if anyone could, it would be him. he has always been alone. it makes her very existence a mystery.

the first time she learned about her father was through him. it is one of her first memories, before she lived with her guardians, when it was just him and her. the accuracy tilts between reality and fiction, further skewed by her father's insistence that it never happened at all. she does think it seems absurd, something pulled from a high art film that plays on a loop in contemporary art museums. perhaps she is making it all up. in this memory she is on her father's lap, in the bathroom, steadied on the closed seat of the toilet bowl. she is staring them down in the mirrored cabinet above the sink, and her father is trimming the ends of her hair with nail clippers, with meticulous precision. silence in their house always carries tension, she knows this now - she can label it, tension. when she was younger, it just had just felt like an invisible, nameless weight. when she breaches the silence it is with an existential question with a juvenile motive: "what will happen when you die?” look dad, only six years old and already thinking about these things. she wants so desperately to know what he values, is it her intelligence or servility? is it the way she hangs on to his hand when he sprints through traffic, how she doesn’t tug him back to the safety of the sidewalk, or is it the threat she poses when every once in a blue moon she successfully reads him? "you'll die long before i do sweetheart." that hadn't been what she meant. it hadn't been a threat or a thinly-veiled prophesy. it had been a six year old girl trying to act smarter than she was. that's all. the corner of the clippers nicks the fleshy part of her neck, and she's too much in shock to notice that she's bleeding. the next day she recites the question in the mirror, in different tongues and tones - she makes it sound like a threat to convince herself the way she'd said it yesterday wasn't one. they all blur together in the end.

the second time she gained insight to who her father was, was in the company of her guardians and siblings. "my dad's a deadbeat too." she'd die for this kid as easily as she'd kill him. the snivelling blonde haired boy who wipes his snot with the raggedy hem of his worn out t-shirt. she instinctively pins him down, his arms right angles as she secures his wrists into the dirt. his squirms are nothing more than flinches. "my dad's not a deadbeat." the blood drain's from his already pale face before he lets out a shrill pre-pubescent scream, and she presses a palm against his open mouth. her guardians hardly ever interfere, letting them go at it because it builds character. often at dinner, they'll discuss their day, sparing no details. that night, both her and archie are silent, prodding at mash potatoes, leaving their parents curious about their battle wounds: his shiner and her scratch that runs down the length of her neck, already scabbing. then, begrudgingly, because this silence feels like that invisible weight called tension, she says: "he called my dad a deadbeat. he's not." thalia's makeshift mom, guardian, closest person she's ever come to loving says easily in reply, "he's the farthest thing from it. men like him are invincible. they have nothing to lose." at first, the cruelty of it stings, whiplashed, a palm firm against the burner. but gong gives her an identity outside of her father: nothing. she is nothing, and for one, spectacular moment, it is liberating.

"he's a woman hater, he hates woman." is what her first and only boyfriend comes to understand about her father. her boyfriend, unaware of the spy world and thus the hate that breeds from it, thinks of billionaire magnates who don't respect women and men put dated, sexist jokes about wanting a girl to make them a sandwich in their bios. while she is well versed in feminist theory and the structures that are perpetuated to keep sexism in place, when he prattles on about how centrism is bad actually and that post-feminism isn't much better, with his overwhelming cynical attitude that she loves, she interrupts to say that wasn't what she had meant. what was the type of hate she's talking about? it's hard to explain: opaque and as dense as cement, it's virile, fertile too - it feeds on anything and everything, reproducing. it's got it's claws in love, it would gut her and kill him. "that's not what i meant." she doesn't have an answer prepared. "what did you mean?" he looks at her, willing to learn. she could tell him the earth is flat and he'd believe it, that's love. "he hates me but he'd never kill me. but he'd kill you to hurt me." there's a flash of panic in his eyes, before she smiles, a soft dimpled smile that makes him forget what fear is. they laugh it away, all this talk of hate, and it melts under warm breath. it is rendered less dense, it becomes extricable from everything else like they can pull it away as easily as a pesky piece of lint. like hate's a nuisance that's easy to rid, nothing more than a hassle. of course, when her father inevitably does find out, she never sees him again.

she talks to her mother in her dreams. thalia doesn't know what she looks like. sometimes she's working at a diner, in a putrid baby blue get up with a voice as sweet as treacle. sometimes she's a spy, wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a red lip that's smearing at the edges. she's never with her father in these dreams, but he's always there. she knows this because her mother is unable to maintain eye contact with her own daughter without looking over her shoulder. glass panes are a warning signal, she knows him inside and out. she knows him as a blurred reflection, a photograph, a body. she knows him this intimately so it's always her and never thalia. thalia has never met her mother, but she is a guardian angel all the same. the dreams end the same way, always. her mother repeats it like a mantra: "he is not the myth, i am." and thalia responds, "he is a man." they go back and forth like this, over and over until their words overlap, until it turns to a ritual, a chant that summons nothing but their disappearance. her mother falls back into the underbelly of her conscience, awaiting the next time thalia's dreams pull her to the surface again, and thalia wakes up. when she dreams of her mother she is often foggy for the rest of the day, and sometimes she believes that this grants her a temporary barrier from her father, that in the midst of lethargy and a lack of clarity, her thoughts are her own. she relishes in the privacy - and bares her teeth, a delighted wolf, in the face of this gift.

dreams never linger, she doesn't heed her mother's words. either of them. she doesn't becoming nothing and she mythologizes her own father to anyone who will listen. he is a piece of theory, jeremy bentham, panopticism. he is rules; how she uses her phone and what classes she takes. he's in her recollections of her summer break, he is six p.m on the dot. she's going to love him so much it kills him, the way he hates her so much it keeps her alive.

#gallagher:task #Nooo don't have daddy issues your so sexy Aha xx

[love-msj]

You Sent Me Flying

INVOLVED: Mercedes Jones & Samuel Evans TIME FRAME: Saturday, February 23rd, 2021 LOCATION: -: New York City, New York NOTES: Valentine’s Day. 

Mercedes eyed her phone as she typed out a response to her assistant, she tried to stay as still as possible as the woman before her completed her makeup for the night. She almost opted out of this event, for obvious reasons but at the last minute she chose to attend it. She was a highly requested guest, which wasn’t a shock, however she had caught wind and a usually invite for one turned into an invite for two. This would be their first public appearance as a supposed couple in the NYC high fashion nightlife. She was scared as hell even if she didn’t show it, her heart had been pounding her chest all day. However part of her felt that this would be a great practice run, right? Or they possible end up looking dumb ass hell in front of four maybe five hundred different notable celebrities and people alike. Exhaling softly she looked up at herself in the mirror and then towards the double doors that lead into another extended part of their Presidential Suite at the Pierre, Taj Hotel where Samuel occupied its space. 

Samuel sat awkwardly in the director’s chair. "Can we?" He said, turning the chair so he could see his profile in the mirror.  The barber worked effortlessly to shape his stringy mass of blond locks into something respectable. They wanted it all off. He wanted a half an inch trim.  They compromised and landed as something just to his broad shoulders. A win for both sides by his reckoning. Now he sat stiffly backed, as the stylist moussed his hair, placing it into a low man bun. Satisfied with his reflection. “Thank you.” He grinned kindly as he got to his feet, nervously rubbing his hand down his sides. "Umm.." He offered his hand to the stylist, a show of gratitude, wondering if a tip was in order.  "You're welcome the barber said with a flamboyant giggle.  Pointing Samuel to the bed, his clothes were neatly arranged for him. "Did you need anything else?" The barber asked, with a long thirsty look. Samuel shook his head no.  Moving over to the bed, he looked down at the suit, eyebrows raised. “This is mine? I mean for me-” He questioned as if there was a mistake.  The barber and his assistant's puzzled nods answered his question.  Without waiting for the audible confirmation, the blurted out another “Thank you.  Then waited on the room to clear so he could get dressed.

Mercedes looked away from the door, her eyes balls themselves the only thing moving as she looked back down at her phone. She hoped that watching the child wouldn’t prove to be too much for her assistant but so far so good. She trusted the woman, it was the child she feared. The thought made her smirk widely “sorry” she said quickly to the woman as she straightened up. Hopefully she didn’t give the young girl a run for her money, and with that she locked her phone and looked up again at her hairstylist began to style her hair, for them they chose something big. Loose curls and extremely full hair, which was a change from her usual silk straight hair styles she pushed for or even her usual bob. She looked at her nails, her eyes taking in the engagement ring that had finally come in. her hands were almost unrecognizable with it on, it left her feeling a series of emotions all the time and she didn’t know why. Maybe because it wasn’t real.

Samuel took his phone from his pocket and dropped down on the bed Facetiming his sister. He fingered the suit idly waiting for the girl to answer.  “Hey! Are you at least trying to behave yourself... “ He could tell she’d just put her fist on nonexistent hips.  “I’m always good. So you asking me that question is really about you.” Samuel snorted, beginning to wonder what the hell his sister's IQ was. “Whatever… but you know the drill.  Happy V-Day and don’t stay up all night.- Nope.. I said what I said.” He countered, before she could raise the objection.  “And I don’t care if tomorrow’s a school holiday.” He added, quickly. Addy sighed scowling at the man.  “Send me a picture of Mercedes. She’s going to be the prettiest woman there.” Addy said glowing. “Will do.”  Samuel said, looking towards the closed adjoining door. “I’m jealous.  You don’t want a picture of me?” Addy rolled her eyes, “No… boy’s clothes are boring” Samuel stood, turning the phone so she could see his outfit. “Woah... “ Addy exclaimed, eyes wide. “That suit is pretty.” Samuel turned the camera back around to face himself. “You like it?” he said shocked. “You have no style Sam. God.” She said, hanging up on her brother. 

Mercedes watched the woman lightly curl and tease the wig on her head and she shifted only slightly as the makeup artist applied the red lipstick on her lips. She had another assistant on standby always, life was easier that way. When the girl walked over and showed her the shoes she had picked out the three the woman offered her a thumbs up. “I like those” she said through her teeth before she asked for the time and when the girl gave it to her she said “thanks” softly. Her makeup was applied and naturally she looked herself over in the mirror she smiled a little making sure no lipstick was on her porcelain teeth. Her pearly whites glistened and she closed her mouth, making sure she liked the work she continued to look herself over. She stayed still as her makeup artist covered her face slightly with her hands and allowed the hairstylist to spray tons of hair spray. When she was finished she curled a few pieces in the back of the woman’s head, before she allowed Mercedes to stand. Mercedes did so and they all looked her over in the mirror. She turned around to check her hair out a bit, there she stood in a strapless bar, and one too many pairs of spanx. “I like it” she told the girl softly. 

Samuel was still chuckling as he stripped off his overpriced tee shirt and jeans.  Everything was new about him, but his soul. He could take comfort in that blackened stain still being intact.  Sliding into a suit that he knew cost more than his entire neighborhood shouldn’t be easy.  But it was.  "Roses?" He mumbled, shaking his head. "I am going to look like a walking flower." He stepped into the pants, toeing into the shoes as he did.  Then pulled the shirt over his lean rippled frame.  Not eating regularly had benefits, soon he would need to put in some gym time to maintain his slender yet muscular frame. He whistled with appreciation, as he picked up the red faced watch. Now this he liked. He fastened it to his arm, admiring himself in the full length mirror. One final adjustment to  the waistband of the pants, then put on the belt. He wasn’t sure who the man in the mirror was. It was certainly someone more worldly than he would ever be.  He shook off his doubts about this whole evening as he grabbed the matching jacket. "It will be fine." He told himself… then repeated it again “There is nothing to worry about.”  

Mercedes moved over towards the gown hanging up and with the help of the young girl she began to get ready, getting into the gown. Her assistant pulled it up over her hips and she allowed to rest off Mercedes’ shoulders as it should. She zipped it up for the woman, placing her hair in front of her shoulders as she did. Once she did, she bent down and rubbed the woman’s legs down with a combination of lotion and baby oil. After that, the girl helped Mercedes into her shoes, zipping them up and tying the ties of them eloquently. When the girl was finished, Mercedes walked in the shoes towards a full length mirror, the girls were pushed up far more than she activated but hey, what could she do? She looked herself over, before her assistant walked over with thousands of dollars in jewelry, the girl placed the 100+ thousand dollar necklace on her neck, her 50+ thousand dollar studs in her ear, the matching tennis bracelet, and her watch on her wrist. The woman was dripping in millions the girl thought as she looked at the woman in the mirror. “You look stunning Mrs. Jones” she complimented just taking her in fully. Mercedes looked at the girl and hid the happiness behind her lips and eyes. “As I should right?” she asked the girl brushing her off, she had to say stuff like that it came with the territory. “I just need our invitation to the after party of the party” she said with air quotes “and my phone in my clutch” she told the girl. She picked up the almost thousand dollar bottle of perfume and sprayed her neck and then her wrist, tapping both together. “What time is it?” she asked again, “I know a photographer wants to photograph me and Samuel” she told the young girl. “Yes he’s waiting near the water fountain, security is in that area. He’s going to snap a few photos and then you guys should proceed to the party. It’s 9:15” she told her thereafter. “Okay” she said “can you see if he’s ready” she asked the girl as she moved to the sitting area where a bottle of wine sat. She needed something to take the edge off a little. 

Samuel opted for the director’s chair. Feeling a bit like a kid trying not to get dirty before church. He licked his lips idly scrolling to his YouTube feed. There had to be something worth watching. Nothing stood out to him. He rubbed at his temples, trying to massage away the tension headache that was building behind his eyes. They had pulled their ruse off once. Mercedes was a lot more convincing them him, but he’d done a respectable job. Right? His eyes moved to the adjoining door as it slid open.  He rose slowly, “Is it time to go?” he asked, putting his iPhone in his pocket. 

Mercedes’ assistant looked at the man, she looked like a totally different person. He cleaned up far better than she expected, she shook her head looking away from him and nodded sheepishly. “She’s ready to go, um, they want to take photos of you two first” she said, tucking hair behind her ear as she looked back up at him longingly before she stepped away. She rested against a wall by the door as she waited for Mercedes to return from the next room. Mercedes poured a full glass of red wine, and she downed it no less. Never really taking a break once her lips touched the glass, thank God for matte lipstick. She fixed another glass full, this time taking it down a little slower before she sat the empty glass against the table trying to calm her nerves. Once she’d inhaled and exhaled a few times, closing her eyes and really settling down. She walked away from the glass and back into the room, she brushed her dress of a little in front idly as she reentered “okay, I am actually ready now” she spoke allowed as she looked at her shoes and the dresses skirt taking them both in, as she stuck her leg out through the split. 

Samuel eyebrows rose and fell at the woman’s odd behavior. “Okay…” He said, easily striding forward. He stepped over the threshold, still puzzled by the assistant's weird behavior. That was until he saw Mercedes. His mouth went completely dry and his stomach twisted into a knot.  Addy’s words ring too loudly in his ears. The red of the dress, hid and hinted, while in places completely told a story, he’d envy any man for reading. She was an absolute goddess. He felt awkward and unworthy to be in the same room with this woman.  At the same time he wanted her more than any person he’d ever laid eyes on.

Mercedes looked up and took Samuel in, damn, he looked really good. She didn’t know how the hair thing was going to work out but she didn’t hate it, which said a lot. She took in his suit that was tailored to perfection and then took in the watch resting against his wrist. Beauty, she thought to herself. She tried not to show an obvious smile as she said “good looking” a bit playfully for her. “Uh” she said awkwardly as she looked at the young girl “my clutch” she said clearing her throat a little. “Here you are,” the girl said, rushing to hand the rose sculpted bag to her. Mercedes nodded and grabbed the bag making sure it’s chain was actually on the inside of it, she simply wanted to hold the bag as is in her hand. “Okay” she said again, looking at Samuel and gesturing with her head towards the door as she picked up some dress material walking towards the door. “You can drop everything off to my home, we will leave the other party and go straight there” she said looking back at the girl quickly before she opened the door to walk out of it. 

Samuel stood stunned in the middle of the room. Mercedes had given him a compliment he did not really hear.  She then rushed off, moving on with things like the world could continue or should be normal. “Wait…” He said, shaking himself awake.  “You look..” He tossed around the average words in his mind that couldn't and won't ever be enough.  He recalled a word from his sister’s latest vocabulary test and said it without any further hesitation. “Exquisite. Like you stepped from a dream.”  hands gesturing openly to the woman still in awe of her.

Mercedes turned to the man and she nodded her head, a silent thank you. Again, he was just saying that, they all felt compelled to do so she wasn’t stupid. Did she think she was ugly? Heavens no. But compliments hardly reached her heart. She never knew a difference from people’s truths or lies when it came to her and this business. As she walked out into the hallway, she dropped the dress and allowed it to flow making her way towards the elevator so that they could meet the photographer. 

Samuel lowered his eyes, hand rubbing at the back of his neck.  He was not sad he’d said what he had. He meant it. But Mercedes' knowing dismissal meant something. This was business.  He cleared his throat and left the suite, getting to the elevator just in time. The doors opened and, as his custom, he moved to the side, holding the door back so she could enter.

Mercedes walked in as Samuel held the door open, she picked the dress up and made sure she was fully inside before she dropped it to the ground again. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, pressing the L button moving to the side. She looked down at her clutch as she gripped in her hands, long nails sparkling under the light. She shifted on her heels as they rode the elevator down and she touched her chest delicate, resting it against the many diamonds she was sporting. 

Samuel stepped into the elevator and stood beside the woman, hand clasped in front him.  She was distracting him. How the fuck? His mouth water, as her perfume found his nose. Jesus… He needed to get a handle on himself for the love of God. For the first time a simple truth came to mind, it had been weeks since he’d gotten laid and right now, his fiancé.. Boss… business partner… was a twelve course meal, and he could eat. 

Mercedes placed some hair over her shoulder as she waited for the doors to open, watching the numbers descend as they moved downward. She looked over at the man for a moment before she looked away and shifted on her heels gently. As the doors opened she picked her dress up gently and moved out of the elevator in the direction that her assistant told her to go, to meet the photographer. When she walked out the building towards the waterfall she said “hi” to the man as he approached with his hands stretched. 

Samuel nodded to the elevator attendant, swallowing hard.  He moved behind Mercedes exiting the elevator, slipping one hand into his pocket, and rested the other on his stomach. He kept his gate at a cool, casual, pace that easily matched the short woman’s purposeful stride. She seemed so professional to him despite the softness of her appearance.   He moved up beside her as they approached the photographer, nodding to the man. 

“Hi Ms. Jones, it is a pleasure. My name is Daniel” the photographer said “and you are a special guest tonight so I was just instructed to take a couple photos of you and you plus-one” he said thoughtfully. “I thought right over here before the waterfall would be amazing” he told her with a smile. “It couldn’t possibly compare to your beauty but it will be a nice background view” he said gesturing where he wanted them to stand. 

Mercedes nodded her head at the man, releasing the dress “of course” she said to him as she moved before the waterfall. She held the clutch with both hands and she looked towards the man. She wasn't one for photos, she actually hated taking them if you asked her. But they were necessary at certain points of time, this she knew, and unlike most photos taken of her around New York in this moment she couldn’t just ignore him and let him do his ‘work’ she must engage. 

Samuel shifted but understood what it meant.  A smirk came to his lips as he moved to stand near the waterfall.  The man was correct.  The backdrop didn’t compare to her beauty but just as before she didn’t even respond to his words, just agreed and moved to stand near him. He fidgeted, but moved in just over the woman’s shoulder awkwardly, like a boy at his first prom.  Truth be told. It was.  

The man looked at the two with a raised brow as they stood there, awkwardly. He ushered them to pose “maybe you could” he said gesturing to the other man as he held the camera up looking at the two through the lens. 

Mercedes offered the man a small smile as he held the camera up, she moved closer to Samuel upon the man’s suggestion. She dropped one of her hands, holding the clutch and looking directly into the lens. Adjusting her hair she looked to the man once more as snapped several pictures of them both. 

Samuel nodded, catching on to the looks they were really after.  As Mercedes moved in closer, had no choice but to place his arm around her waist. With that he tightened his grip, looking down on the woman. He wasn’t going for love.  That would come off as fake. He went with what was nature in this moment. Lust.  

Mercedes felt Samuel’s hand and she swallowed hard, she wanted to look at him but the heat rising on her cheeks wouldn’t let her. So instead, against her wishes she actually smiled brightly, showing off her pearly white teeth for a change. And when the man told them he was done, she looked up at Samuel innocently for a moment before she looked away. “Thanks” she told the man as she pulled away from Samuel and began to walk towards the direction she knew the party was being held. Walking past a multitude of bodies, that seemingly parted the red sea for her as she made way. 

In the last moments as the camera shot away, using lust died away for Samuel.  It happened the moment Mercedes smiled.  It was genuine and bright.  The look of her all a glow, gave him a directive for the evening, keeping that smile on her face. He grinned at the photographer as if he and the man were in on some private joke. He did not rush to catch Mercedes, her short steps could not take her far.  He took her arm as she moved, parting the crowd. He slid his long finger down her perfect skin and then intertwined her fingers in her. “Slow down.” His whispered leaning close to her ear. 

Looking at him she nodded her head “I didn’t realize” she said sheepishly to him, looking away as he laced their fingers. It felt so good to be touched by a man, even if it were just a touch of the hand she thought in her mind. Or was she desperate? Walking towards the entrance of the massive ballroom, she looked around at everyone and turned to the woman standing at the door that gave her a single rose. She offered the woman a small smile as she walked into the room further, a few people watched, others took in Samuel. She for the first time felt like a fish out of water, she any other day never even saw half these people in the room. They nothing more than ass lickers, but today they were in her shoes and she in theirs. 

Samuel chuckled lightly going back to his full height.  “Is tonight business or a kind of pleasure?” He asked, raising his eyebrow. He nodded to the rose lady.  His face fell a bit, as he noted the quick glances or in most cases open stares. “From the looks on everyone's faces, I’d assume you don’t often attend these kinds of shindigs.” He said, tugging at his suit jacket. 

“A little of both, some of these events I get paid to attend, while well it is a Valentine’s Day affair” she replied back to him still looking around. “No, I don’t. Especially not with a man” Mercedes replied through her teeth and she smiled at another Fashion Mogul as she passed them by. 

“A little of both…” Samuel mouthed, nodding his head. He chuckled, looking down at the woman. “Can you drink and dance at these things or not?” He asked curiously. The idea that you could get paid to party too much was unbelievable.  “ooOh… I see.” he said remembering their conversation from before.  Not bitterly but as a simple matter of truth.  “Well,” He grinned. Lifting her arm he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “Let’s give them something to talk about.” 

“Of course” Mercedes said looking at him “they expect me to be my normal self, though I guess my normal self doesn’t really dance with people that much” she said more so to herself. “People pay to ‘party’ in the same room with me” she shrugged. “Though mostly I have a few drinks then leave, I never stay longer than 15-30 minutes” she told him. As he lifted her hand and kissed it she looked up at him, trying to keep her shock and amusement at bay as she processed his statement. “How so?” she asked  curiously, as she swallowed hard. Though he’d proven his point considering the bright flashes from photographers nearby. 

Samuel eyebrows climbed as she matter of factly said, yes to his question.  Now that was some rich people shit. “Wow… Just to be in your presence.” He whistled low under his breath, gazing into her lovely hazel eyes.  He leaned in close to her ear an excuse to breathe her in, “By having a good time with your fiancé.” He stood back, and raised a challenging eyebrow at the woman. 

Mercedes smirked at him a bit, she didn’t think about it that way often she just knew people were opportunist however factually what he said was accurate. As he leaned his close she held her breath thinking he’d steal a kiss, he didn’t which she was left to decide if it felt her longing for one or happy he hadn’t. At his words she nodded slowly another smirk forming on her lips and she said “of course” back to him. She was going to need a drink or more, along with a cold shower before the night was over. 

Samuel  looked around the well dressed crowd, “Now where is the bar? Or are they bringing around drinks on trays like in the movies?” He asked, staring to move through the crowd again.  “So, My next question is can you dance or is it just a choice not to?” 

“I am sure there are servers somewhere” Mercedes replied back to him as she gazed across the way, seeing someone that was utterly revolting to her head for her and Samuel. “Choice, by choice always” she said quickly to him as she clutched his hand tightly. “Heather” she said before the woman could speak her name first, she looked her up and down and smirked. “So nice to see you out” she lied. 

Heather Radcliff approached the only woman on the planet she despised at this present time in her life. “Mercedes” she said in unison with the woman stepping in line, she chuckled a champagne glass in her hand. “I could say the same about you hermit” she said wickedly as her eyes left the woman and looked the man up and down. Taking him in “Heather Radcliff, Editor in Chief of Marie Claire magazine” she said formally introducing herself as she held her hand out “you must be Mercedes’ assistant?” she asked him next. 

Samuel grimaced in confusion, “Huh?” He asked, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.  As the woman came into frame, Samuel tensed. His face darkened at the set of insults that the woman managed to hurl in under five seconds. He gazed down, seizing Mercedes’ eyes with his own, while he let Heather’s hand linger in the air.  In a tone steep in southern charm, “If she asked me to be. That could be arranged.” He said,  thumb caressed the back of her hand again, and he was glad he’d chosen the one with the huge rock on it. After a moment, he reengaged the Heather woman. Smiling, he took her hand brushing a light kiss just above her knuckles. “I’m Samuel. Mercedes has graciously agreed to be my wife.” He said, letting the woman's hand fall away. 

Mercedes eyed the woman slightly as she threw a question at Samuel that made her nostrils flair and caused her to squint her eyes. When the man answered for them she loosened her grip on his hand a bit, calming down a little now though she wished to get away from the woman. Seeing a tray she took an opportunity and grabbed two glasses, offering him “here sweetie” she said lovingly with a smile before she looked back at Heather. “And your-”

“Husband is home, with our two beautiful children” Heather said without looking at the woman instead she examined Samuel a little more before she said. “Something you know nothing about” left her lips as she fixed the fabric on the woman’s shoulder before she walked off. “Enjoy your night” she said cutely as she moved towards another group of party guests. 

Samuel accepted the glass from Mercedes, with a mouthed, “thank you,” and a smile. His face dropped into an angry scowl as the woman said her last piece to Mercedes cuttingly, and walked away almost as quickly as she had arrived. “She’s a bitch.” He said, turning to look at the woman on his arm. “You okay?” He asked sincerely. 

Taking a sip from the glass in her hand Mercedes offered the woman a knowing smile, as she finished her sentence and threw another insult at her. Her eyes followed the woman as she left before she turned to Samuel “yes she is” she told him. “I’m fine, it’s nothing” she shrugged her shoulders lightly before she said “would you like to find a seat?” curiously. 

“So… Did you steal Heather’s man or something? She’s bitter.” Samuel grinned. Craning his neck a bit looking for an empty table. “Come on. I assume there are a pair of nifty little cards with your name on one of these tables.” He asked as they moved on further into the ballroom.

Mercedes chuckled, shaking her head, “hardly” she replied to him “just her job” she admitted. “I couldn’t help it, I am better at it than she is,” she told him. “She’s probably over there telling them I am lying about my engagement” she said looking back. At his words she nodded again taking another sip from her glass as she followed him. 

Samuel laughed out amused by her statement. “That’s what she gets.” He’d considered that. “No doubt.” He agreed, “It will be fine.” he offered, trying to be convincing in a way that would sound genuine.  He knew she was looking in the Heather woman's direction, it’s what all women did. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on her forehead. “We got this. “ 

As he kissed her forehead she smirked at him “okay” she said as they approached the tables, seeing a few seated guests she looked at them as they passed them by. “Mercedes!” a voice rang out happily behind the two. Mercedes turned to see the red head “hi, Pamela” she said to the woman as she approached she and Samuel. “Your seat is at my table, yours and your guest” she said looking over at Samuel taking him in. “Great” Mercedes said just playing the part at this point she found none of these people to be friends or even associates really. They all just shared the same industry. 

Samuel offered the woman a lopsided grin, raising his eyebrow in challenge to the less than believable ‘okay’. “Say it with your chest.” He said, doing a quick impressions of Kevin Hart. He covered his laughter as a new woman approached, taking a drink from the wine in his hand. The constant head to toe looks made the skin between his shoulder blades crawl.  He sighed deeply, lowering the glass, then  placed his hand in the small of Mercedes back guiding her towards their table. 

“You look amazing by the way” the woman said to Mercedes, it wasn’t a lie by any means it was the truth. “I would ask you who are you wearing, but I can just about guess that” she chuckled as she walked with the two. “Oh, pardon me, I am Pamela Nelson” she said to the tall fellow “and you are?” she asked him curiously. 

“Same as you,” Mercedes said, nodding her head at the woman though she was in fact wearing something from last season. That made Mercedes' skin crawl but she said nothing of course, that wasn’t her business after all. They made their way to the table and she smirked “Samuel Evans, my fiancé to answer your real question” she said taking a sip of wine. “Ladies, gentlemen” she said to the other people at the table as she stood before her assigned seat. “Oh please don’t stand up” she waved the people off. 

Samuel took the time as they moved to admire Mercedes. Smirking as the newcomer echoed his early comment. “Doesn’t she.” he added, taking down the rest of his wine in a final gulp.  Thinking movies were good trainers. He moved in behind Mercedes and pulled out her chair standing near it as he waited for her to take a seat. Now his nervous rose in the pit of his stomach. Short conversations in passing were one thing, but now they were cornered. Here goes nothing he thought swallowing his nerves. 

Pamela chuckled at Mercedes brushing her off “oh Mercedes you are such a jokester” she told her as she sat down next to her husband. “So, tell us everything! How did you two meet? I mean I didn’t know you were even dating you are so darn busy Miss” she said. 

Mercedes looked to the woman and smirked, though she wasn’t at all joking. She sat down and looked at Samuel with a smile “thanks” she said before she sat her glass on the table. “Well” she said with a chuckle, they’d talked about ideas but only one stuck. “A art gallery, Samuel is an artist” she said to them smoothly. 

Samuel nodded to Mercedes, unbuttoning his jacket as he moved to take his seat. He pulled at his collar lightly clearing his throat as Mercedes spoke his profession into existence.  Mechanic would have been a more truthful route but when in Rome. “I wanted to draw her, but she wouldn’t let me.” He said, with a chuckle. 

Vivian’s eyes glinted as the handsome pair approached. “Mercedes… What a pleasant surprise.” She greeted, in a voice husky and rich. “Down Pamela. Let her breathe a bit.  It’s clear she's been using her time…  Wisely.” She grinned giving Samuel a proper once over.  Even taking a moment to chuckle at his little joke. “You do look radiant Mercedes. I’ll attribute that to you. I suppose.” She said, all eyes on Samuel.  

At his words Mercedes looked at Samuel yet again chuckling him off, for the, she didn’t know how many times now tonight already. “He’s always joking” she said brushing hair over her shoulder as she looked across the table. “Yeah, well it is love day and it's all in the air” she gestured back to her. 

“That’s small talk” Pamela said back to Vivian, “when is the wedding, I mean. Where will it be? Milan? Paris?” she listed before she gasped “Hawaii?” she listed further. 

Samuel relaxed slightly as the table collectively laughed at his little joke. He sat back in his chair, tapping his foot under the table. 

“Everyone needs a little humor in their life.” Vivian said, rolling her eyes tiredly at Pamela.  She was interested in the answers to the woman's questions but thought a bit of tack was a better approach. “You’re an artist?  Has your work been displayed anywhere?  Mercedes has such impeccable taste. You must be wonderful.” 

Mercedes looked to Pamela and she took a sip from her glass before she sat it back down. “He haven’t decided yet,” she told her respectfully. She looked at Vivian again and smirked at her compliment as she wondered what answer he would give the woman. Did he even know enough about art to pull this off? Probably not and then they both will look like jackasses for sure. Great. 

Score one. Mercedes shut down the questions about when they were actually getting married.  Good thing too, because even he didn’t know the answers to those questions. His eyes shifted to Mercedes as he sat up clasping his hands in front of him.  “I hope my work impresses her. But sadly, not yet.  I’ve always been a great admirer of the works of Cecile Gray Bazelon and the late Joyce Pensato.  Right now I'm working with Harvey Dinnerstein.  He is preparing for a showing, hopefully I should be able to showcase one or two of my pieces. Hopefully.” 

Vivian rested her chin on the back of her hands, smirking at the young man.  Her eyebrows furrowed at the names he dropped.  Not her type of artist to be sure, but names she’d heard before.  “Impressive. You’ll have to let me know.  -Or we’ll have to schedule time to get together. Honestly, I thought you were a model.” She smiled, still admiring the man. “You should let him immortalize you, Mercedes. Let see how good he is good with his hand.”

Mercedes looked at Samuel and tilted her head “I am far too impressed with clothes I assume” she joked as she looked at him again. As he began to list off people she squinted slightly taken back Joyce maybe, the rest were actually out of her league. At his last words she plastered a smile and looked away from him, now that was a huge ass shoe to fill and gap to cover. “A mode” she repeated “he is amazing to look at isn’t he” she said looking at Samuel, that wasn’t a lie. Looking at Vivian “you know I am just so darn busy with Vogue… I am shocked we get as much time together as we do. Me sit still longer than an hour?” she chuckled. 

Pamela smirked eyes bouncing from person to person, “I know” she agreed with Mercedes. The lady schedule didn’t add room for much, they all assumed she’d be alone with her thousand dollar jewels and furs forever, or maybe she just thought that. “Wow, a marriage” she said shaking her head again “you know what comes next, a baby carriage” she sang out. “You a mother Mercedes, how iconic! A mini you strutting NYC, we have to see it” she said nodding her head. 

Samuel chuckled, biting his lip, “You said it not me. He told Mercedes, reaching over  he stroked  her bare arm lovingly, “However, I’ll  let it slide. At Vivian’s compliment he grinned, the tips of his ears to darkening. “You’re kind. I’m just a man who likes to work with his hands.” he told the group looking down at his finger.  “We’ll have to see.  Fingers crossed Cecil like me pieces. “Mercedes is going to be a great mother. When the time comes.  My sister already adores her.” He said reaching for the woman’s hand. Beaming as he told the absolute truth for the first time tonight.  

Vivian eyebrow rose. She’d actually been thinking escort. Mercedes was too driven to find anyone. It was the idle joke of everyone in the fashion industry.  ‘I never kind dear. I’m direct. If painting doesn’t work out.  I’d be glad to take some test shots of you. As a matter of fact.” she reached in her pocket and handed the man a card.  “I insist on it.  Not many men could pull off that suit.”  She exhaled, and uncrossed her legs, “I could see it.  Didn’t think our Ms. Jones wants it.  But one never knows.” she said, asking a question of Mercedes without saying the words. 

Mercedes looked at Pamela, “well you know” she said with a heavy sigh “I’ve already given birth to my career” she said to the woman matter-of-factly. “It was a hard push and pull,” she exclaimed. “However, yes we do have a tiny tot we take care of” she chuckled. “And one day who knows, I may have a child who knows” she shrugged “32 is up there….” she said, looking at Vivian. 

Samuel chuckled as Mercedes dismantled the small jabs of the other woman at the table with grace.  He only wished Mrs. Heather had been around.  Samuel reached the card, tucking it into his pocket. “I’ll think about it.” He told Vivian with no intentions of ever doing so. “She is joking.  I think adding at least two more kids would be great. I want a big family.” He interjected, watching Mercedes face for a reaction 

“Vivian, do you always keep business cards on you?” she asked slyly, before she looked at Samuel. She shook her head and chuckled “and wreck this figure?” she asked him jokingly. “I’m only kidding,” she added, looking to everyone else. “Once things are finalized and we really get to planning. Building our dream home” she said lying through her teeth. “We will, you know, venture into those neck of the woods…” 

Vivian grinned at Mercedes, then chuckled.  “For the right person… Of course.” She answered a wiry grin on her face.  “Mercedes, Mercedes… My, my I must applaud you.” She said raising her glass, “To the new Ms. Jones.” 

Samuel held Mercedes eyes, peeling back layer after layer for her clothes, “That could never be done.” He said, seriously. Then chuckled with the rest of the table, as Mercedes went on laying out a life of lies. He exhaled feeling guilty. She really did need a family. Better yet she deserved one. No matter what she thought.  

Pamela looked to the couple, oh the gossip she would tell from this conversation. By the end of the week all of NYC will know that Mercedes lucked up with a real man is actually going to marry him. Shocking. She raised her glass and smirked to herself before she took a sip. She still had plenty of questions however, but she guessed those could wait. 

Mercedes looked at Samuel, eyeing him another blush hidden behind a playful eye roll. “You mean to the same Ms. Jones, but future Mrs. Evans” she corrected with a smile. The bitch, what did she mean new Ms. Jones? Men didn’t make or break her, wouldn’t move or shake her. What the hell was wrong with these women? 

Samuel raised his glass, smirking at the expression he’d put on Mercedes' face.  “To Mercedes Jones.” He said in unison with the table. His eyes shifted to the woman beside him now she was laying it a little too thick.  There was no way in hell, she’d ever take his name. Even he thought  the idea was laughable. “Ladies if you’d excuse us.  Mercedes promised me a dance.” He said rising to his feet, he turned and offered the woman his hand. 

Mercedes sat her glass back down avoiding the actual sip, before she looked over at Samuel. At his words she smirked a little and said “excuse us” as she moved to stand up from the table. Leaving her clutch and rose behind on the table as she maneuvered with the gown. “Thank God, I was nearly sick of them….” 

Samuel nodded to the collective, smiling as he pulled Mercedes away from the table. “Wow… that was worse than meeting my first girlfriend's dad.” He said, weaving his way through the guests. At the edge of the white and black tile dance floor, Samuel turned the Mercedes and brought her flush against his form, wrapping his hand around her waist, beginning the waltz seamlessly.  “Jesus. I needed a timeout…” He breathed whispers in the woman’s ear.

“They are so annoying, judgmental pricks” she said as she looked back at the table. Mercedes followed the man’s lead and when they reached the dance floor, her breath hitched a bit as he pulled her to him. Feeling his hand on her waist she looked up into his eyes as he began to carry her, again following his lead she moved in time with him. Chuckling, she said “thanks for being a trooper” kindly. “Before you know this will all be over and you are free to do whatever your heart desires….” 

Samuel moved effortlessly around the floor.  His face fell when Mercedes spoke of the eventual end of their entanglement.  HIs eyes rose, finding different faces in the room. Heather, Pamela, Vivian. The thought of any of those women turned his stomach. “Who says I’m not doing what my heart desires right now.” He said, eyes going back to her. He smiles, spinning her out then pulling her back to him. 

Mercedes eyed him, looking over her shoulder before she looked at his face again curiously. At his statement, she squinted lightly at him before he spun her suddenly and pulled her back. She looked at him, she didn’t believe him at all, he was just saying that. Why she didn’t know however. Usually she would have had something witty to come back with but, right now, no. After a moment she finally spoke and said “because I know”.

Samuel chuckled, “You know nothing Ms. Jones.” He said, shaking his head.  “Aside from the interrogation.  I’m having a pretty okay time.” He said conversationally. “Come on. You were enjoying yourself just a little over there. Admit it.’ 

“I know all things Mr. Evans” she challenged a little, listening to him she glanced at a couple who passed by. “Is that so?” she asked him, “it’s not a bad night” she shrugged lightly. “I’ve been to better parties, but none involved a comedian like yourself Mr. Evans. Two kids?” she asked, brow furrowed a smirk on her face. 

Samuel bowed his head in conceit.  “If you say so.” He pursed his lips, “I am not sure.  You tell me.” He said, a twisted smile on his lips.  He stretched his eyes, “That wasn’t a lie.  I actually want two kids. Or more. Speaking of… Are you really going to take my name?” 

“Best of luck to that lucky lady” Mercedes replied without thought. At the question he posed she chuckled lightly “why wouldn’t I?” she asked before she corrected “why wouldn’t I take my future husband’s last name?” curiously. “Do you think I am that shallow… or self absorbed?” she asked him. “You know it’s every woman’s dream to find her Prince, marry him, and in turn become the Princess…” 

Samuel laughed, “That is cold. You don’t want to have my babies.” He said, a mock hurt on his face.  He shrugged, shaking his head. “I never said any of that. I just thought I’d take your name.” He chuckled. “Well, then that settles it. I have to take your name because God knows ain’t nothing prince or charming about me.” 

Shaking her head Mercedes licked her red painted lips, she hadn’t a clue why he had to joke around so much. There was no harm it however it could be tiring sometimes, but she assumed that was just his nature. “You are too much…” 

Samuel stared down at the woman turning his head. “I am.” He agreed.  But this was really him taking the liberty to be free. Something he rarely got to do. He bit his lips face going still, “I want you to accept something for me. Would you do that?” He asked her seriously. 

She continued to move in time with him before she asked her something that made her very uneasy. However, she brushed it off and said “okay, sure” a little hesitancy in her voice still. Despite herself Mercedes couldn’t help but to look into his eyes as she waited for his remark. 

Samuel rubbed his thumb over the bare skin of Mercedes back.  A personal gesture, but perfect for the eyes of the multitude of onlookers in the room. “For tonight stop blowing off complements. You really are the most stunning woman here tonight.” 

At his words she looked off before she looked back at him “okay” she said quietly, Mercedes really didn’t understand why he cared or why that bothered him so much. “That’s easy I guess…” 

Samuel looked down at the woman. She had everything, -was more than he’d ever be.  Yet, she was humble. Why? “Thank you.” He said holding her just a little closer as they glided peacefully into the next song.

#samcedes rp #thread. #thread: you sent me flying

[buncompass]

“Are you ready?”

I opened my backpack for one last check. 

“Flashlights, EMF reader, laser grid, night vision camera, backup batteries...Yeah I think I’m set!” I pulled my flashlight out and closed up my bag.

“Okay, let’s go.”

We stepped out of the car and looked around. Other than the solitary dome light from the car, the abandoned yard surrounding us was a void being carried on a breeze. The branches of low-hanging trees swayed and beckoned as they danced into the shallow pool of light around us, raising the hair on the back of my neck in an instant. Despite the full moon, the tall reaches of the pines blocked off almost all of the night sky. I glanced over at Adam. He pulled his own flashlight out and clicked it on before closing the door behind him. The beacon he produced got lost up the front walkway before landing squarely on a crooked, heavily-graffitied door. I turned my light on - the equivalent of an additional match in a coal mine.

“You should start filming before we even get in.” Adam suggested. He sent his flashlight across the yard to illuminate various odds and ends. “I don’t want anyone saying we faked anything.”

“You got it.” I stuffed my flashlight away, pulled my phone out of my pocket and attached my tripod and light. No more holding a flashlight and phone at the same time for us, no sir. We were professionals now. I opened the livestream and pointed my rig at Adam. “Five seconds,” I said. He hurriedly ran a hand through his hair as he turned. After a breath, he set his regular “I’m amped to be ghost hunting” grin to his face.

“What’s up, ghoulfriends?” He asked, his focus entirely on the camera. A few of our streamers began to respond immediately. The chat box along the bottom of the screen was awash in ghost emojis and greetings. One of my many jobs was to keep an eye on the chat for any hints or tips. There was nothing there for me yet.

“I’m Adam, the creature behind the camera is Carlie, and we are here at the Angel House for our Halloween spooktacular livestream event!”

I panned away from Adam and focused on the walkway leading up to the abandoned structure. With a jerk of my head, I directed Adam to get walking. The Angel House wasn’t close enough to be in focus yet. He fell into step next to me, out of view of the camera. 

“The Angel House, so named after its late owner, Maurice Angelo, has been recommended to us multiple times. We’ve read the reports you’ve tagged us in and decided that Halloween was the best option for our investigation.” I said, filling my role as historian. “For those not in the know, Maurice Angelo died under mysterious circumstances in the early 1880s. He had no known children, and evidently left his home and grounds to the town. Now, nearly 150 years later, the Angel House sits way in the back of a conservation land. It has been unoccupied this entire time.”

As I spoke, the house began to fill the frame of my phone. What had once been a handsome Victorian manor home was now a sagging, warped building. I paused to let the viewers get the full effect of its broken windows, peeling siding, and crooked front steps. A section of wall to the far left side of the house was broken open. The front porch had a collapsed roof and broken floorboards. It was like the house itself was discouraging entry.

The chat box continued to fill as more viewers signed in to the stream. I watched for a couple seconds and smiled when one viewer posted a gif of a small girl with black pigtails.  The gif was then repeated by others, all agreeing on what the house looked like.

“They’re creepy and they’re kooky, mysterious and spooky..” I sang softly into the phone. More emojis lit up my screen. Our viewers were thrilled.

“They’re all together ooky, the Addams family!” Adam picked up the tune as we marched up the steps to the front door. He leaned forward and pushed it open on shrieking hinges. Our lights filled a cavernous foyer. Adam stepped ahead of me and I held back, careful to keep both him and the room in frame. A double staircase faced us, leading into the two opposite wings of the house. A broken, dusty chandelier hung above us. We paused again in the middle of the room, scanning the area for both the benefit of our viewers and ourselves.

“Do do do doo,” 

Adam clapped.

“Do do do doo!”

He clapped again.

“Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do,”

Someone clapped directly behind my head. I yelped and whipped around. The camera was pointed directly where I heard the sound. Adam, wisely, stayed put. This was our first piece of evidence - we didn’t want viewers thinking we were messing with them.

“What did you hear, Carlie?”

“Someone beat you to the last clap for the song, Adam.” I said. There was nothing behind us. I was staring out the open front door. My camera light bled out onto the porch, illuminating only a few feet out. Two busts sat on either side of the door on the inside along the wall. There were no additional doorways on the front wall of the house.

“Okay ghoulfriends,” Adam said. I panned slowly back around to where Adam stood. “This right here is why we wanted to do our first ever livestream at the Angel House! It seems we have a kindred spirit in here with us.” He grinned at his own pun. I provided the obligatory groan, glad to hear my voice had evened out. It’s hard to take ghost hunters seriously as is, let alone one who shrieks at the first piece of evidence. 

“The Angel House has exactly two reported deaths. The first being Mr. Angelo himself. The official report stated that he died of an undisclosed illness in his bed. The second reported death took place in 2001, on Halloween night. Exactly 19 years ago today.” 

“October 31, 2001 had the happy happenstance of having a full moon on Halloween. In fact, today is the first Halloween full moon since that night.” I added. Adam gestured to the rooms on the first floor beyond the staircases. The investigation had begun.

“On that date, local urban explorer and photographer Shawn Johnson decided to do a walkthrough of the Angel House. Now, Johnson was not a paranormal investigator. He was just a guy who loved exploring. While researching the house, we discovered his blog. The link will be posted on our page after the livestream.” Adam’s voice grew softer as we passed the staircase and walked towards an open doorway to the next room. It was a common theme for him - he started each investigation big and boisterous. When it came time for the actual investigating, he softened his tone. Something about big, empty, derelict buildings gave the same feeling as being in  a church. As though simply by talking, we were being  disruptive.

“Johnson believed that it was the unknown that made people nervous, not spirits or ghouls. So he opted for a nighttime exploration of the Angel House to prove, without question, that there was no such thing as ghosts. He wrote a preliminary blog post about it and outlined his plan for the night.” I explained. My tone matched Adam’s. 

“Unfortunately, Shawn Johnson never posted his follow up entry. He never made it out of the Angel House. His roommate woke up and checked his bedroom the next morning and found it empty. The police found Johnson in a guest bedroom on the second floor of the house, where he had died from blunt force trauma to the head. To this day, no one has found his camera.”

The chat box on the livestream was nonstop. Our fans were suggesting their own theories, expressing hope that we would find Johnson’s camera, and recommending what rooms to look in. I glanced through the thread. Nothing of relevance to the moment. 

We tiptoed over the threshold and found ourselves in a large kitchen. A cast iron stove lined one wall. The kitchen table, which at one point must have been beautiful with its intricate carvings and detail, was missing a leg and slanted to one side. Dust covered everything around us. Each step filled the air with an additional cloud. We poked through closets, looked out the windows, and opened every cabinet door. Nothing stirred. After a few more minutes of exploring. Adam signaled me to focus on him.

“So the main reason Carlie and I decided to start livestreaming was for better accountability. Believe it or not, we do read every single one of your comments and it breaks my little ghost-loving heart that you guys think we fake evidence.” Adam laid both hands over his heart and looked off into the distance, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. The chat box pinged with assurances in response. I grinned. 

“Whenever we investigate, we really do come alone. We don’t scope out places ahead of time, we don’t set anything up ahead of time. We do as little editing as possible, we just trim down on time to fit our investigations into a reasonable length. And to prove to you that it really just is us here, I want to direct your attention to the floor.”

I aimed the tripod down to our feet. Both of us wore heavy combat boots laced up tight. It had taken exactly one step on a rusty nail wearing Converse back in our early days to encourage safe footwear. 

“As you all can see, the floors of the Angel House have a pretty thick layer of dust. No one else is here. Every touch, every footstep, is 100% us.” Adam continued. I recorded our last few footsteps. The heavy treads of two pairs of boots, one smaller than the other, marked our way across the dilapidated kitchen.

“No activity has been found here, so it’s time for us to move on!” Adam walked back into frame. I recorded his feet for good measure, so that the viewers could see the footprints he left on the 140-year-old floors, when he stopped.

“Carlie, what the hell.”

“What?” I asked. I panned up to his face. He was looking at the floor ahead of us. I walked forward, keeping him in frame until I scanned farther up to the entryway to the kitchen. 

A third set of footsteps was clearly imprinted in the dust. It looked as though a third person had peered into the kitchen before walking away.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. 

“Come on!” Adam walked briskly toward the doorway. The third set of prints had come up from the perimeter of the foyer beyond the room. They were large, clearly men’s, but the tread did not match Adam’s in the slightest. I aimed the camera up to Adam’s face.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think we should follow them back to their source. If there’s someone else here, that could be unsafe for us. I want to see where they came in, because we would’ve heard someone come in the front door.”

“Right.” I agreed. We left the kitchen and walked along the third set of tracks. The chat box continued to roll. A few people thought we were messing with them, because why else make a big deal of our footprints if not to set up a mysterious third set? One commenter suggested we were intentionally misdirecting them. 

“It looks like whoever this was came down from the second floor.” Adam pointed at the tracks on the side of one of the grand staircases. I aimed my camera light around the area behind us. Only our tracks followed the third. 

“I guess we should just follow it up.” I suggested. Adam nodded and took a breath. Me and our viewers watched him steel himself as he led me forward to the staircase. 

“Oh, hey, battery and service check.” I reminded him. “If it ends up being just some creepy rando I want to be able to call for help.” He pulled out his phone and checked. 

“87%, full service.” He showed his phone screen to the camera and held it as the lens adjusted to his screen’s brightness. Once the camera registered his home screen, he pulled it down and tucked his phone into his pocket. Immediately, the chat box exploded. I held up a hand to keep Adam where he was. The thread was filled with exclamations and questions.

“Adam, the viewers saw something behind you.”

“What?” He looked behind him and shouted. I rushed forward and looked where he was pointing. The third set of steps had circled back behind him and gone up the stairs. I scanned up the staircase. In my first shot of the footsteps, they had been leading down on the left side. Now there was another set of the same footprints going up the right.

“EMF, now!”

I turned away from Adam so that he could access my bag. I kept the camera level as he dug through the pockets, searching for the tiny, handheld device that read electromagnetic frequencies. In a previous video, we proved that it was not set off by either of our phones or equipment, so Adam bypassed the explanation and held it  up. The little range of lights flashed immediately from green to red.

Something was in there with us. 

“Okay ghoulfriends!” Adam said, his voice an excited whisper. “The mysterious third set of tracks starts down the staircase and it looks like they loop around the back of the foyer. Whoever is here with us must have peeked in on us in the kitchen before going around the far end and then up the stairs behind us.”

“It can’t be some random person!” I said. “Our prints are the only ones from the front door and these steps originate somewhere upstairs! Unless some homeless person floated up there we can rule that out entirely.”

“Okay, let’s go!” Adam led the way up the stairs. We walked up the middle, keeping the mysterious footprints clearly on either side of us. At the top of the stairs we looked around. The EMF reader remained staunchly red.

“If we follow the prints to our left, we’ll see where they came from. If we follow them to the right, we’ll see where they lead. What do you think, everyone? Which way should we go?”

The chats were evenly divided. The viewers erupted into an argument about what made the most sense for capturing evidence of a ghost. Some argued that seeing the source would debunk the possibility of a third person in the house with us. Many argued that if we followed to where they lead, we’d see if it was a person. Some pointed out that either way, we’d be able to figure something out through a real-life sighting or process of elimination.

“It seems like our ghouls can’t decide!” I said.

“Well, then it’s a good thing we live in the future! Extra tripod please!” Adam reached for my bag again and took out a smaller handheld tripod and light. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, set it up, and held it up. 

“If you go back to our main page, you will see that we now have two streams! Stick around with Carlie if you want to see the source, and bounce on over to me if you want to see where they’re going!” 

I watched as half of our viewers left the current chat. 

“Okay Team Carlie, are we ready?” I asked. The chat lit up. 

“And Team Adam, are we set?” Adam asked his own chat. He shot me a thumbs up.

“Then Let’s Ghoul!” we both chanted. With a little wave at each other, we both turned to our respective quests.

The left hallway was as dark and dusty as the foyer below. A few doors to my right hung open, and a few more seemed to not have doors at all. They were simply yawning expanses of darkness until my camera light passed over them. The loss of Adam’s massive presence heralded the return of the creeping feeling on the back of my neck. I felt my entire body stand at attention, took a breath, and walked into the darkness. I directed my camera down to the floor. The mysterious third set was still to my left.

“As you guys can see, the footprints are a pretty decent size.” I stomped my foot next to one of the steps. Even with my big boots on, the extra set was larger. “I’m not sure what shoes looked like in 1880, but I’m fairly certain they didn’t have running sneakers. I wonder if we’re looking at the footsteps of the late Shawn Johnson?”

Talking to the chat made me feel less alone. I read their responses and theories as I walked to the far end of the hallway. The trail led me to the last door on the left. 

It was closed.

“Now that’s weird. Look at this! The steps clearly walk out through the doorway, but the door isn’t open. Do you think whoever did this doesn’t have to worry about doors?”

I took a breath.

“I guess there’s no use delaying this, huh? Okay, ghoulfriends. Let’s do it.” 

I kept the camera focused on the doorknob as I reached forward, grasped the cold, tarnished brass, and turned. The door opened inward, dragging along the dusty floor and mussing up the footsteps. I quickly panned up and did a sweep of the room. Nothing stirred.

“It looks like we’re in a bedroom.” I whispered to the chat. “It doesn’t look grand enough to be old Mr Angelo’s bedroom. This must be a guest bedroom.” 

A section of the wall was broken open. A massive branch had long since crashed down into the bedroom, leaving its rotted corpse behind. The furniture, having been exposed to the elements for who knows how long, bowed out at odd angles after absorbing moisture from outside. An ancient broken mirror stood facing the gaping hole in the wall. The shards of glass had been scattered along the floor. 

With my scan of my surroundings complete, I panned back down to the footsteps on the floor. Debris from the broken mirror and furniture pieces obscured what had once been a clear path. I followed them around the derelict bed towards the broken section of wall, placing my steps carefully.

“I’m not sure how secure this section of the house is.” I said to the chat. A few well-wishers told me to be careful. “If I feel like there’s any chance that this floor is unstable, I’m going to go find Adam. I’m looking for ghosts, not construction projects.”

I picked my way over to the mysterious source of the footsteps. The soft, rotted branch covered it up. I placed my foot on the floor next to it and pressed.

“I’m slowly applying pressure to the floor here. I’m not hearing any creaks or groans or anything, so I think I should be good.” Confident that the floor would support me, I stepped over completely and pushed the branch with my foot. It barely moved. The footsteps were clearly coming from beneath it. I looked around and spied a dresser not far behind me. 

“Okay guys, I’m going to put you right here and see if I can move the log. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful!” 

The camera light was aimed directly where I needed to be. I carefully squatted down, placed my hands underneath the damp, rotted trunk, and heaved. The tree creaked against the remaining wall. 

“One more time, I think!” I called back to my camera. I pushed again, and with a crack, the branch broke over, exposing the floor below. 

The footsteps came from the broken wall.

“What the hell?” I looked at the section of wall. There, nestled between the interior and exterior walls, was a battered camera. 

“Oh my GOD you guys, I think I found Shawn Johnson’s missing camera! Hold on, this is insane!” I stuck my arm into the wall. The moment my fingertips met plastic, I heard a rush of footsteps behind me. 

“What the--” Something sharp hit the back of my head, and I went down.

***

The floor was cold and hard beneath me. The back of my head throbbed. I opened my eyes, but saw nothing. Terror flooded my lungs as I blinked. I waved my hand in front of my face. In the darkness, I saw the stirrings of movement. My vision was fine; it was the room that had gone dark. I groaned and pushed myself up. Nausea stabbed through me. I leaned back against the wall and waited for the feeling to pass. 

“Okay,” I whispered. “Someone else was here. They hit me. They took my phone and tripod rig.” I sat on the floor and stared around the room, willing my eyes to adjust to the blackness. Shapes gradually appeared around the room. There was the bed, the dresser that had held my camera, the broken mirror across the room. Once I was sure my eyes were as focused as they could be, I pushed myself up against the wall and eased myself up. 

Whoever hit me had done an excellent job. Standing made me aware of how out of proportion I felt - my arms and legs felt too long for my body. Could I have brain damage? Was this just leftover dizziness? I shook my hands in an attempt to change the way they felt. No luck.

“Shit.” I whispered again. I shook my head and made myself focus. I had to find Adam. We would call the police, wait in the car, and everything would be okay. A shaky plan, but a plan nonetheless. I left the room feeling asymmetrical. 

The darkness enveloped me in the hallway. I paused to listen but heard nothing. Adam’s voice was so distinct, so easy to pick out, that he couldn’t be up on the second floor anymore. I would’ve heard him even if he were doing his excited livestream whisper. I walked down the hallway, keeping my hand on the wall for support. The camera light had spoiled me; I had never known such intense darkness. If Angel House had been creepy with poor lighting, it was menacing in the dark. I kept my focus on one thing: finding Adam. Whoever blitzed me thought I was already down, so I had to assume they were otherwise preoccupied. I stared around me, hoping for a break in the darkness, when my hand left the wall and found the railing to the grand staircase.

Quickly and quietly, I stole down the staircase and looped back to the kitchen. Just before the doorway I paused and listened, hard. Not a single noise. I peered around the frame and looked in. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was an expanse of darkness. I could make out the shapes of the lopsided table and stove, but not much else.  

“Adam?” 

No answer. I kept heading forward. We had only explored a small portion of Angel House, so the rest of the building was an unknown. I had no idea what else was on the first floor. My hand trailed along the wall next to me. The far corner of the room approached, a faded picture staring back at me. As I walked nearer, the face in the picture grew larger.  I stopped and stared. The face in the picture was hard to make out in the darkness. I took another step. The face in the picture grew larger still. Panic had finally started to settle in my ribcage. I strode forward, determined. The expression in the picture matched mine. 

He had a long face, a broad nose, and dark eyes. I turned my head to get a better look. He turned with me. I shook my head. He did the same. 

It was a mirror.

“What the hell. What the hell. What the hell??” I shouted. 

My voice, his voice, echoed across the empty foyer. It didn’t matter that there was someone else in the house. It didn’t matter that someone had tried to attack me. What mattered was that, somehow, I was staring out of someone else’s eyes into someone else’s face in a mirror. He was tall and thin, though somehow familiar. I leaned against the wall, bracing my considerably larger frame on a man’s hands and stared into the mirror. I took in the bold eyebrows and stubby facial hair. 

“Shawn Johnson,” I realized. Adam and I had studied his blog. There had been exactly one picture of the photographer. While he was exploring some old church somewhere he ran into another urban explorer. They had stood, arm in arm, grinning into their camera before exploring the church together. 

The camera!

Pieces began to fall into place. Shawn Johnson had died in a second floor guest bedroom. The report we read named blunt force trauma. That would explain the head pain. Had he been murdered? Did I have to relive his last few moments because I found his camera?  Or was the ghost of Shawn Johnson trying to get me to understand something else? I dropped my hands from the wall around the mirror. Of course. The tree. The trees surrounding Angel House had swayed so easily in the breeze when Adam and I had pulled up. The branch I moved had been huge. It must have fallen into the tree, hit Shawn in the head, and knocked him out. 

So why was he here? And why was I with him? I paced in front of the mirror. Shawn hadn’t been a paranormal investigator. He was an urban explorer and photographer. He had come here to disprove the paranormal. I snorted. Before I could even begin to think of the irony of that theory, a car door slammed in the distance. 

“Adam!” I called out. Had he gone out to the car to look for me? I ran along the side wall of the foyer and stopped in front of the window. There, down the front walkway, stood Adam. He was facing someone and gesticulating at the house. A bright light shone in my direction. Adam must have gone for the police. He obviously couldn’t expect to find out that I had been possessed by the ghost of the guy we were hoping to find. He had gone for help. I smiled. This was going to be an interesting conversation. But on the bright side, I’d be able to take Adam and the cops to Shawn Johnson’s camera. 

I watched Adam fall into step with his companion. They walked up the walkway together, and I heard their voices lilting back and forth. There was no hurry in their stride. Their conversation sounded formal, informative. I pressed my - Shawn’s - face against the glass. 

Adam was walking up the walkway with a young woman, carrying a tripod. He was walking up the walkway with me. 

I watched us trek across the front porch and heard my own voice begin to sing.

We were walking up the front walkway the way we had earlier in the evening. I was watching myself film Adam as he clapped in tune to the theme song. The front door shrieked open, just as it had when I had been the one operating the camera, Adam and the other Carlie walked into the foyer. I approached us, stunned. We were staring around the foyer, panning across for shots. I came to a stop directly behind what should have been me.

“Do do do doo,” 

Adam clapped.

“Do do do doo!”

He clapped again.

“Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do,”

I clapped.

#short story #halloween #the addams family #ghost story #haunted house #this was fun give me critiques

[evalinkatrineberg]

Practice Prompt 3

There was no break in the activity when we all finally arrived at the palace. The moment the limousine parked and we all stepped out, we were ushered inside by a group of palace staff. As they hurried us through the corridors, they pointed out some of the rooms, such as the Grand Ballroom, as places we would need to know in the future, but beyond that, there was little to no conversation until we arrived at a different ballroom, where we were told makeovers would be happening.

Ah, makeovers. I had almost forgotten about that.

It had been mentioned in the weeks leading up to my arrival here. There had been a tailor from the palace who had come to my house, and measured me for my new wardrobe. He hadn’t been unkind, but it was clear from the wince on his face when he first saw me as I opened the front door for him that he believed he had his work cut out for him. Though, maybe that was because I had been wearing only athletic shorts and a sports bra when he had arrived. Not exactly the wardrobe expected of a Three, but I hadn’t been planning on leaving the house that day, so I hadn’t gotten dressed up.

While he had measured me, Lydia had given him an exhaustive list of colors that looked good on me, and those that I absolutely could not pull off. Any shades of blue were good, along with dark shades of red, and pale pinks. Black was a classic, of course. No white or silver - they washed me out. Pale yellows and dark greens were okay, but not ideal. Absolutely no purple or orange - I just couldn’t look good in those colors, according to Lydia. The tailor had just nodded, continuing to take measurements without any further indication that he had heard what my sister was saying.

I wondered if he had actually taken her advice into consideration.

“And Lady Evalin can go to station seven!”

At the sound of my name, I perked up. A young woman with long brown hair, who appeared to be running the show, pointed towards a hair station in the back right corner of the ballroom. Before I could even acknowledge that I had heard her, some of the palace staff nudged me along, their chattering lost in the din of voices that filled the room, roaring like an ocean in my ears. Was this flurry of activity what I should expect of life from here on out?

I was used to low-level chaos, sure. Life was always busy when you had a big family. This, however, was on a whole different level. It was almost as if I now had thirty-four siblings instead of just four, and we were all getting ready for the same formal event. Except, we also had to compete against each other at this formal event.

Maybe Lukas had been right, all those weeks ago. Maybe I was in way over my head. Given what had occurred yesterday, though, I was tempted to argue that he wasn’t one to talk. He was certainly in way over his head, whether he knew it or not.

“Well, who do we have here?”

The stylist standing behind the chair was a man with the palest blonde hair I had ever seen, offering me a broad smile that stretched from ear to ear as I came closer. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties. There were no wrinkles on his face, and there was a hint of kindness in his brown eyes.

“Evalin,” I answered as the palace staff who had walked me over gestured for me to sit down in the chair.

The stylist place an apron around my shoulders before he began to give me his spiel. “Well, Lady Evalin, first things first, we’re going to need to get some before pictures for the special makeover program they’ll be doing on the Report on Wednesday.” With that, he motioned a photographer over to us.

The photographer immediately started snapping pictures of my hair, face, and nails. I could only imagine how worse for the wear I looked. It had been a long day of travel, and after losing sleep over my fights with Proctor and Lukas the night before I had left, I was positive that the bags under my eyes had to be huge.

And I couldn’t even joke that the bags under my eyes were designer yet.

My nails, at least, looked decent. I always did my best to keep them clean and trim, though I only ever used neutral polish shades. Accidentally smudging beige polish was a lot less noticeable than smudging brighter colors like red or purple, and I was certainly no artist.

My hair was another story. I could only imagine the havoc the humidity and wind had wreaked on my curls.

After a few more shots and some polite smiles, the stylists were off, moving over to their next victim. The moment they left, the stylist came to stand in front of me, placing his hands on his hips and asking, “So, what are you thinking for your makeover?”

I let out a nervous laugh, a tad unsure of how to respond. After a split second of internal debate, I decided that honesty was the best policy. “I’ve never really been into fashion or style, so I’m a bit out of my element here.” He frowned, but I continued. “You look like you really know what you’re doing, so if it’s okay, I’d like to hear what you’re thinking.”

Success. He smiled. “Well,” he began, moving over to a cart on my right, and beginning to rustle around through some of his supplies, “I have a few ideas of where this could go. First things first, though, we’ve got to ditch the glasses.”

I blinked, frowning. Was this a ploy of some sort? “But then I won’t be able to see.”

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “We’ve already had contact lenses made to your prescription.” With that, he leaned over, removing my glasses from my face and placing them on the rolling cart to my right. There was a white box with two raised bumps in his hand, though it instantly became blurry when my glasses were gone. I already missed their weight on my face.

“Lean your head back,” he instructed, a slight popping sound ensuing from the box in his hand. “I need you to keep your eyes open. This is going to feel weird at first, but you’ll get used to it. Your maids should be able to help you with getting them in and out until you get the hang of it.”

Oh, that was right. I was going to have maids.

We had never really had maids at home. Not that we couldn’t afford one, which was a fact my father often pointed out, but rather because my mother point-blank refused to hire one. She’d always insisted that our house wasn’t that big that we needed another set of hands to help with chores. She was adamant that us kids should learn how to do basic tasks, like washing dishes and doing laundry, for ourselves, anyway. I had always kind of wondered if her strong opinions on the matter had to do with her growing up in a lower caste, but I had always been too afraid to ask. The only time she did relent on letting other people outside of our family help with household tasks were in the few weeks after her father had passed away, when she had listened to my father’s wishes, and allowed a crew of cleaning ladies in to handle the vacuuming and the sweeping. I had never seen our home as shiny and sparkling as it had been those few weeks, but as soon as my mother was feeling like herself again, the cleaning crew had stopped coming, and we had been given the task of cleaning up after ourselves once again.

It was hard not to flinch as the stylist poked at my eyeball with one of his fingers, pulling the skin around my eyes back with his other hand. As soon as he had removed his hands, he said, “Good. Now blink.” I did, and he repeated the process for my other eye.

My stomach rolled as I leaned my head forward again, blinking a few times at the room around me. Something about seeing without having heavy frames on my face felt fundamentally wrong. I had been wearing glasses for nearly a decade now. It almost felt like a part of me was missing.

Stop being dramatic, I reprimanded myself. Suck it up, and get used to it.

“Now,” the stylist began, jumping into my line of vision once again, “on to your hair!”

I winced, wondering how much of my hair was just a puff ball on the back of my head at this point.

To his credit, the stylist only laughed at my reaction. “I could see this going two ways. Your hair, while primarily blonde, definitely has some red highlights in it. We could play that up, make you more of a strawberry blonde. Or, we could make you a little blonder! We could add some blonde highlights, and make your hair a little more gold in color, that way it would catch the light nicely.”

I sucked on a tooth, considering the options for a split second before making my decision. “Go for the blonde. I don’t think I have enough spunk to pull off a full head of red hair.”

“Fair enough.” He adjusted the apron around my shoulders, and then added. “We will need to chop some of this off, though.”

I could feel the color drain from my face as I asked, “How much?”

I had never in my life had short hair. What if I look horrible with it? I mean, sure, it would grow back, but not before I met the prince.

“Not too much,” he replied. “Just like, maybe up to your collarbones?”

“Won’t my hair get curlier then? Without the extra hair weighing it down?” That had always been the main reason my mother had stopped me from having my hair cut short in the past.

The stylist seemed to consider it for a moment, and then said, “We’ll cut it to just below your collarbones then, to play it safe.”

With that, he got to work, first separating my hair into different sections, and then taking smaller sections of my hair, and rubbing a brush dipped in something that looked like paint over those sections. Once that was completed, he wrapped the section in a foil, and moved on to the next one. After doing that a few times, he waved some other people over to help him.

I winced once I realized what was happening. “Sorry, I have a lot of hair!”

“That’s not your fault,” he responded, laughing.

One of the stylists he had called over to him added, “I wish I had this much hair.”

Even with the additional sets of hands, the process seemed to drag on for ages. Once they were eventually done, the stylist wheeled over a machine that looked like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. “This will help the color set faster,” was all he said, before turning the machine on.

The machine was hands-down the worst part of the day so far. I couldn’t tell whether the odor I was smelling was simply coming from the chemicals in my hair, or if something was burning, but whatever it was, it did nothing to help my already uneasy stomach.

As I sat there, a group of women came over, apparently to get started on my nails. The woman who seemed to be at the head of the group, a brunette with a soft face and cold hands, examined both my fingernails and my toenails before asking, “What do you think about a pale blue?”

I shrugged as best as I could with the machine over my head. “Sounds good to me!” It was a little different from my usual beige, but I could handle it.

With a nod from the brunette, the nail techs got to work, first filing my nails, then trimming my cuticles, and then, finally, applying a base coat. They had shaped my nails into more of a square shape than I was used to. Usually, at home, I just left my nails in their natural shape, which was slightly rounded at the tips. Sure, I would file them, but the shape never really changed.

After the second coat of polish had been applied, the first stylist I had met came back, powering off the machine and unwrapping one of the foils on the top of my head. Pleased with what he saw, he rolled the machine away and began pulling out the rest of the foils. As he began to wash my hair, the nail techs finished up, instructing me not to let my fingers or toes rub up against anything, lest the polish smudge. I nodded, thanking them as they wandered off to the next girl. I liked the color they had chosen. It reminded me of the snow we sometimes got around Christmas time, when my paternal grandparents would come to visit. My father often joked that they must bring the snow with them, because without fail, the first snow of the season always occurred when they visited.

The stylist rubbed my wet hair with a towel quickly, and then set it down. I could hear the clattering of the scissors before he even asked, “Ready?”

“Yes.” My voice was little more than a breathless whisper as I closed my eyes, bracing for the snipping sound I knew I was about to hear. It came not a moment sooner than I had expected it to.

The first cut was the hardest. After that, the rest of his cuts were smaller, more precise - like he was just evening out what he had already done. My head felt a little lighter, a little less weighed down, but I wasn’t entirely sure how much of that sensation was real, and how much of it I was just making up in my own mind.

As he continued, another woman approached, carrying a box full of what I could only imagine was makeup. Besides clothes, makeup was the only thing I hadn’t received yet, that I could think of. “Hello,” she said in way of greeting, setting her box down on the very edge of the rolling cart to my right. “I’m here to do your makeup.” She didn’t even look at me until her box was opened, revealing more makeup than I had seen in one spot in my entire life.

I had thought that my mother had a lot of makeup. She had half a bathroom drawer dedicated to her beauty supplies.

I was, apparently, wrong.

I should be used to being wrong, at this point.

The woman came closer, looking at my face like she was looking through a microscope. She moved from one side to the other, tapping a finger against her cheek as she did so. Every now and then she would offer a comment along the lines of, “You have nice eyebrows,” or, “Clear skin, that’s good!” I felt like a lab rat or a zoo animal, trapped in a cage that was really of my own making.

When she stepped away, she began to offer her professional recommendation. “I say we play up the eyes - maybe eyelash extensions? Definitely a red lip. I’m going to lay off on the foundation, let your freckles shine through, but I do want to add a bit of contour and blush. We’ve got to play up the diva image a little.”

I frowned. “People think I’m a diva?” I was almost kind of surprised, and a bit disappointed in myself, at how sad my voice sounded. I really shouldn’t care what other people think. If the last twenty-four hours had proven anything, it was that. Yet, some core part of me didn’t want people to think that I was a diva. Was I a diva? I didn’t think so. At the very least, I sure hoped that I wasn’t.

The makeup artist laughed, pulling some powders and brushes out of her box. “I don’t think many people know what to think. The picture they showed on the Report - of you in the car - that screamed diva. It was like a glamour shot! Your background information, though, doesn’t scream diva. I, personally, wouldn’t go looking for divas in the bio department of any university.”

I nodded, attempting to process what she had just told me. People thought that the picture of me that flashed on the screen during the Report was a glamour shot? I hadn’t even really liked the picture! I didn’t think it really looked like many of the photos I had taken in the past. Regardless, if people were expecting me to be a diva, I was afraid they were going to be sorely disappointed.

After about half an hour of silence, save for comments such as, “Close your eyes,” and, “Open your lips,” she was done. Around that time, the stylist finished with my hair as well, fluffing it up a bit in his hands before pointing me in the direction of a rack of clothing. I thanked him and made my way over there, where I was greeted by another stylist, who asked me to pick a dress and shoes, and informed me that what I was seeing were only my day dresses, and that my evening gowns were already in my room.

I blanched at that. The wardrobe in front of me was already so extensive - I had never owned this many nice gowns in my life, even coming from a pretty well-off family. I walked along the rack slowly, running my fingers over the different materials of each of the dresses, waiting for one to hit me.

There. A pale blue dress caught my eye. Within a few minutes, I found a pair of beige heels to go with it, and quickly changed out of my old clothes and in to the dress. As soon as that was done, I was ushered over to a couch, where I was informed I would be having after photos taken while I waited to be asked a few questions. The process moved fairly quickly, and within moments, it was my turn for the questions. The woman conducting the interview assured me that this was in no way the official interview we’d be doing on the Report in the near future, but rather for the makeover special they would be airing soon.

“So, Evalin Berg, yes?” There was a hint of ice in the interviewer’s voice, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. The look she was fixing me with was almost identical to the one Proctor had given me throughout the majority of our conversation yesterday.

I did my best to ignore it. “Yes, that’s me!” A nervous laugh escaped my lips, and I fidgeted in my seat, wringing my hands in my lap.

“Tell us about your makeover!”

I smiled, trying to figure out where to begin. “Well, the stylist cut my hair a bit shorter, and added some blonde highlights. They also painted my nails the same color as my dress, though I wasn’t planning on that.” I laughed again, moving one hand and holding it forward a bit, so the camera could see.

“And what a lovely dress that is!” The interviewer’s smile was so forced it hurt my face just to look at it.

“Thank you!” I beamed. “It’s so much softer than I thought it would be!”

“How has the rest of your experience been so far?”

I forced myself to smile, even though the complete change in topic threw me for a little bit of a loop. “Exciting, for the most part. It’s been very cool to meet the other girls. They’re all so talented and accomplished. I can’t wait to finally get to meet the prince, though!”

“Of course,” she replied smoothly. “Speaking of the other girls, is there anyone in particular you’re worried about, competition-wise?”

I gave a close-lipped smile in return. “It’s hard to say, at the moment, because I haven’t gotten to meet everybody yet, and in the end, it really depends on what the prince is looking for, doesn’t it? We’re all so different - there’s bound to be any number of things that could make one of us stand out in his eyes.”

“That’s very true,” the interviewer responded with a wry laugh. “Well, that will be all. Thank you for your time.”

I stood up. “Thank you.”

With that, I walked over to another couch, where a few other girls were milling about. Apparently, I was one of the first girls done with the makeover process, and the palace staff wanted to wait for a few more girls to finish before leading us to our rooms. I had to wonder how that could be the case, considering my hair alone had to have taken a couple of hours to finish.

I was glad to be off my feet again, though. The last twenty-four hours had left me exhausted both mentally and physically. Maybe I’d be able to take a nap before dinner. That would be nice. At the very least, it might help reduce the bags beneath my eyes. I hoped they didn’t stand out too much in the pictures they had taken today.

I sighed quietly to myself. This was the first long day in a series of long days, and it was high time I get used to it. I was made of tougher stuff than this. If I could make it through four hour long organic chemistry labs, then I could make it through a simple makeover, for crying out loud! I just needed to get my head back in the game - back into the palace, not in Carolina.

This would be my home for the indefinite future, and I’d better get used to it.

#selectionoc