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daechwitatamic · 1 year

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All That Holly, Jolly Sh*t || MYG

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Title: All That Holly, Jolly Sh*t

WC: 11k

Genre: exes to lovers, the babiest angst straight to fluffy smut (they’ve got shit to work out, but they get there!!)

Summary: You haven’t seen or heard from Yoongi since he broke your heart five years ago, laying out a logical list of reasons why you were better off breaking up. When a Christmas Eve blizzard traps you together for the night, you have no choice but to examine how few of those reasons are still true. And if they’re not… where does that leave you?

Rating: NSFW - minors DNI

Warnings: manbun!yoongi YES THAT IS A WARNING, drinking, language, kissing, breast play/nip stim, fingering, unprotected sex with bc (be safer than this!!!), multiple orgasms (f), penetrative sex, soft idiots in love

A/N: Merry Christmas, Kelly!!!! @here4btsfics I was soooooo excited to pull your name for @bangtansecretsanta because it gave me such a good opportunity to get to know you better and start talking to you! I really, really hope you love this little Christmas fic!

I know you said no angst so just a lil disclaimer, a synopsis I messaged my beta was "it hurts for a hot minute but then they kiss about it and everyone is fine" so I think you'll be okay!!!

Huge thank you to @kookstempo @moonleeai and @cherrysoulth for beta-ing and to @itaeewon for the gorgeous banner!

“Anything new with you? How’s work?”

You plaster on what you hope is a friendly smile and not a sarcastic one. Seokjin’s girlfriend is super nice, you remember her from a party over the summer, but you do not want to talk about work right now. You want to drown yourself in another cinnamon toast crunch cocktail and double-fist those iced, reindeer-shaped brown-sugar cookies.

You admit to being a little bit on edge.

You’ve attended Taehyung’s annual Christmas party every year since you left for college. It’s tradition, and it’s one of the only times each year that the whole group is back together again after you all went your separate ways in the world.

Except, for the last five years, Yoongi hadn’t attended. You never thought too much about why - too busy, other plans, just the fact that he’s an absolute Grinch… or maybe it’s your presence that keeps him away. You didn’t waste too much time thinking about it. You’re just always happy he isn’t there.

Until this year.

No one even had the decency to shoot you a warning text. Hey, heads up, your ex is here, very unexpectedly.

You knock back the rest of your drink and head to make yourself a new one.

You normally attach yourself to Jimin at these, but he’s betrayed you this year by bringing an absolutely gorgeous date. They’re currently hogging the doorway with mistletoe above it. You make a mental note to remind him tomorrow that the PDA thing stops being cute after a while.

“Work’s good,” you say, finally answering the question. “Nothing new. How about you and Jin? All good?”

“Nothing new to report!” she grins. Then, the smile slips off her face a little as she glances at her phone. She notices you watching and grimaces. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just keeping an eye on the radar. The storm tonight is supposed to get nasty.”

“Hey! What’s the rule tonight?” a voice bellows from the living room. It’s Taehyung, perched against the back of one of his couches, and he points an accusatory finger at the girl you’re talking to.

She must know something you don’t, because while you’re baffled, she looks chagrined. “Don’t talk about the blizzard,” she recites by rote.

“Don’t talk about the blizzard,” he repeats. “Have another drink. It’s Christmas Eve, we welcome the snow.”

“You’re the only person I know who’s optimistic enough to try to throw a party on a night they’re calling for the storm of the century,” Seokjin tells him, making his way into the kitchen - probably to protect his girlfriend from Taehyung’s scoldings.

“They say that every time,” Taehyung scoffs, waving a hand. Then he’s up and moving, heading towards the dining room, where a spread of food is laid out.

There must be more people in there, you think, because the kitchen and the living room are definitely looking a little less crowded than they were an hour ago. Yoongi and Hoseok are on the couch, glasses in hand, talking quietly. The tv, mounted high on the wall, plays a classic Christmas film in black and white. You stop before the balcony doors, peering out into the night. The lamps that line the parking lot glow orange, and you can see in the lamplight that snow is falling steadily, and it’s starting to accumulate a little on the pavement below.

Jimin comes up beside you. His date’s lipstick is still smudged in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re a hot mess,” you tell him affectionately.

“I think we’re gonna head out,” he tells you, ignoring the jab.

You shake your head, your earrings glittering in your reflection in the glass. “It’s not even nine,” you point out.

“The roads are going to get slick,” he tells you, suddenly serious. “You should think about getting an Uber before too long, too.”

“You’re going to break Taehyung’s heart,” you inform him. “I think he’s starting to catch on that people are leaving.”

“He should have rescheduled the party!” Jimin says hotly; he and Taehyung had argued about this passionately all week, ever since the forecast picked up on the storm coming through. “We could have done this yesterday, no blizzard, everyone would have stayed all night!”

Jimin’s date slinks over and presses her hand to his upper back. “Ready?” she asks, voice like silk.

“Bye,” you tell him sulkily. In the reflection, you watch him pause to tell Yoongi and Hoseok goodbye. They each stand, reaching in one at a time to give him a quick one-armed hug goodbye.

You keep watching the reflection in the glass as Hoseok takes advantage of already being up and heads for the dining room.

You knew it would happen at some point tonight - you’re alone in the living room with Yoongi. You’d just hoped it would happen after you were a lot drunker.

He meanders over. You glance at the drink in his hand - whiskey, neat. You could have guessed that on a gameshow and earned some money.

He’s dressed in all black - down to the chelsea boots. His hair is half-up in a bun that sits just behind the crown of his head. The rest brushes the tops of his shoulders, curling slightly at the ends.

He’d never had long hair like this before. It’s a crime how fucking good it looks.

Your gameplan tonight has been simple: avoid, avoid, avoid. But Yoongi stands close enough to reach out and touch you, sips at his whiskey, and murmurs, “It’s been a while.”

Five years. But who’s counting?

“It has,” you allow. You hate confrontation, you don’t want this to be a thing. You’re determined to be polite, play nice, and hopefully get out of here unscathed. “How have you been? Are you enjoying yourself?”

He wiggles his head. “Eh. You know I’m not into all that holly, jolly shit.”

“It’s a Christmas party,” you point out flatly. “Holly, jolly is kind of the point.”

He shrugs. “The point for me is just to see the guys, catch up with everyone. It’s been a long time since we were all together.”

He means we the guys, not we you and him. But your heart still speeds up at the word, the traitor.

You nod, turning away from him to look outside again. But your eyes stay on his reflection, both of you standing with your backs to the party. He looks down at his drink, swirls the amber liquid around the bottom of the glass.

“You always did hate the holidays,” you observe absently.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, so gently that it shocks you into turning to look at him.

“Do what?”

“Rehash everything,” he says with a shrug. “Talk about everything we remember. Talk at all.”

“If you don’t want to talk to me, then don’t,” you snap, suddenly defensive and heated. “You came over here, not the other way around.” So much for polite and non-confrontational. But damn, he has some audacity.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, a little quickly, holding up his one empty hand like he’s surrendering. “I just meant… don’t feel like you have to, if you don’t want to. Don’t do it for my sake.”

Your temper settles, but you still feel a little… disgruntled, unsettled. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t be,” you grumble.

He smiles at this. “That’s right. You never do anything you don’t want to do.”

Maybe that used to be the case.

The liquor takes over your mouth. “I didn’t want to break up,” you say pointedly, “so I guess that’s not true.”

He huffs out a single laugh, shaking his head at your audacity. “You always just say shit,” he murmurs. “To hell with the consequences.”

“What consequences?” you demand, turning to face him fully. “Are you going to dump me more? I fail to see how I could make things worse for us after five years of not speaking.”

He licks his lips, eyes on his glass again. That was the thing about you and Yoongi - he’s right, you did just say shit. And he always just handled it. He always heard you, processed it, and dealt with it productively. He never took the bait and got mad back, never yelled - even when you’d wished he’d yell.

“It’s because,” he’d told you, sometime around seven years ago, when you were together, “when you say absolutely wild shit like that, you always mean something else. And I just happen to be very good at translating you.”

Now, he meets your eyes again, having processed. Having translated. “What I’m hearing you say,” he says slowly, “is that you’re still mad at me.”

That’s all it takes to take the wind out of your sails - that’s always how it worked with you and Yoongi. You blustered and got worked up, and he defused you easily - just by meeting your gaze, just by assuring you that you were heard.

“I think I’m mad at our circumstances,” you correct quietly. “And I think I’ve had too many of these.” You eye the cocktail in your hand with narrowed, accusatory eyes.

He gives you the barest sliver of a smile. “Don’t blame the drinks,” he says, shaking his head. “You never could lie to me - it has nothing to do with alcohol.”

He’s right. For all your faults, for all the negatives you can take credit for, you always told him the truth.

Namjoon appears in the living room, a beer in hand, still in the bottle.

“I’m trying to decide which one of you needs to be rescued from the other,” he admits, looking between you, “and I honestly can’t tell.”

“Rescue him from me,” you say. “He’s been nice and I’ve been prickly.”

“You?” Namjoon says in mock surprise. “Prickly? No way.”

You flip him off, smiling.

Seokjin comes up behind Namjoon, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think we’re going,” he says, looking past you to the snow outside. “I don’t want to drive once the roads are slick.”

Namjoon sighs, following his gaze. “I was having fun,” he says sadly. “But I’m probably not too far behind you.”

“Nooo,” Taehyung whines from the dining room. “Everyone stop leaving! It’s just a little snow!”

Seokjin’s girlfriend finds him, joining your little circle, her phone still in her hand. “We’re supposed to have almost three inches by midnight,” she says in a whisper, clearly not wanting Taehyung to come after her. “We need to get moving.”

When Seokjin and his girlfriend leave, you float back towards the dining room. Namjoon and Yoongi stay behind, talking quietly. Probably, Namjoon is checking to make sure you weren’t too mean to him. Which… that’s fair.

The truth is, you aren’t mad at Yoongi. How could you be? When he ended things, he hadn’t been cruel, or unfair. His decision had been made logically. You understood exactly why he felt he needed to do it.

That’s where the hurt came from, you figured. You were always led by your emotions - quick to anger, but quick to laugh. Yoongi was always more even-tempered, logical. While you were packing up your life to move away from home for university, he’d laid out the reasons you shouldn’t stay together like they were a grocery list.

Like it didn’t hurt him at all.

None of his reasons were wrong. But would it have killed him to act like he cared? You’d been together three years - and you felt like they should count more, since they were such formative ones. Like dog years - each one should have counted for seven. It had broken your heart to let him walk away - shouldn’t he have felt something, too?

You’d dated plenty in college, a few of those relationships getting serious enough to last a few months. But at the end of the day, nobody compared to your first love. How could they? How could anyone?

No one understood you like Yoongi. No one could translate you like Yoongi. No one knew - or learned - how to settle you down like Yoongi. No one had that mental encyclopedia of useless knowledge like Yoongi. No one else had that perfect blend of dry and earnest like Yoongi. No one else fit to your body like a puzzle piece like Yoongi.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. Yoongi had left, Yoongi had taken the decision right out of your hands and walked away with it. You weren’t mad at him, but you definitely resented that.

You’d had years to get over it, to forgive him, to come to terms with the fact that he was right about every single thing. But forgiveness and understanding are one thing. Letting go - of him, of loving him - is something else entirely, and you’re starting to think that even a lifetime of years won’t be enough for that.

That’s enough of that, you think, giving yourself a rough mental shake. You set down your drink glass and head for the bathroom, but it’s occupied. You lean against the wall outside, counting your breaths, trying to get yourself back into that holly, jolly headspace.

The door opens and Jungkook emerges, singing under his breath, “Pah-rum-pum-pum-pum!”

“Hi, JayKay,” you say, moving to slide past him into the bathroom.

“Oh, hey!” he says brightly. “I was just about to leave. You have a way to get home, right? It’s getting worse out there.”

“I was just going to Uber,” you tell him.

“Better do it soon,” he warns. “Soon the drivers aren’t going to want to be on the roads.”

“Good point,” you say, and wave a quick goodbye before shutting the bathroom door. You give yourself a stern look in the mirror.

Get it together, please, you think firmly. Seeing your ex - this ex, too, not just a casual one - for the first time in five years earns you a little wallowing, you think, and you fully intend to. At home. Later. Not here, in front of everyone.

Not here, in front of him.

Back in the kitchen, the party has really dwindled down to the last few people. Outside, snow falls as steadily as Taehyung’s guest list.

The peer pressure gets to you, and you pull out your phone and open a ride-share app. It takes a while before a driver connects, but you’re persistent. Once you have a driver, you watch the little image of their car start to head in your direction on the map.

From the dining room, you hear Yoongi make a tch of frustration. “No one is picking up for me,” he grumbles, seemingly to himself.

“Good,” Taehyung says seriously. “Don’t leave me.”

You go find your coat, slipping your arms into the sleeves and doing up each button. When you return to the dining room, Yoongi and Taehyung are the only ones left. Taehyung is fully, blatantly, sulking, his arms crossed on the table and his chin resting dejectedly atop them.

“Better luck next time, bud,” you tell him kindly.

Yoongi is still squinting at his phone screen, frowning.

You feel a twinge of concern, of the need to make it better for him the way you used to on a regular basis. “Still nothing?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t even see anyone on the map.”

You check your phone again - your car is just up the road. “I have one,” you tell him. “Join mine - we’ll just request the extra stop.”

Yoongi meets your eyes, holds your gaze for a minute. Then, he says, so seriously, “Are you sure?”

You know he means it. You know if you give any indication that you don’t want him in a car with you, he won’t push it.

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. I’m not going to leave you stranded here.”

“Why not?” Taehyung whines, kicking his feet a little in protest.

“My car’s just here though,” you warn, eyes on your screen, both of you absolutely ignoring the host of the party.

“I’ll grab my coat,” Yoongi says, and heads for the hallway.

“Sorry, Taehyung,” you say sympathetically. “I know you’re sad.”

He refuses to look at you.

After giving over-the-top goodbye hugs to try and un-sulk the whiny baby, you and Yoongi head down the stairs and outside. You don’t look behind you to check that Yoongi is following. The car idles by the curb, and you double-check the license plate against the app.

In the backseat of the car, you slide over to make room for Yoongi. As soon as he closes his door and the car lurches into motion, the vibe changes. You sit stiffly, ramrod straight, eyes on the windshield. Yoongi’s not sitting quite as straight as you, but there’s a tightness to his shoulders, like he’s holding himself carefully so he doesn’t touch you by accident with the car’s inertia.

You had put in your parent’s address when you requested the ride, since that’s where you’re staying until New Years’ Day. You and Yoongi sit in blasting, blaring silence as the car crosses the middle of the town you’d both grown up in, that you’d run around in together as teenagers in love. But, past town, towards the quiet neighborhood where your parents’ house is, the car slows to a stop.

“I can’t go through this way, Miss,” your driver says, peering at you through the rearview mirror. “There’s a powerline down up there.”

“Oh shit,” you say, which is probably not very polite of you. You lean forward to look at the same time Yoongi does, your shoulders bumping. You both recoil quickly.

“I think you can get to the development from the other side,” you muse, “but we’d have to backtrack and go around the lake on the other side…”

“Let’s just go to my place,” Yoongi interjects. “The roads are getting worse, and it’s close.”

You frown. Yoongi’s parents’ house - which you’d been to plenty of times as a younger person - is on the other side of town. Not close by your standards, but you aren’t here to argue.

Or maybe you are.

“I don’t know, Yoongi,” you say, uncertainty creeping into your voice. “How will I get home from there?”

“You might have to stay,” he admits, leaning down to better look at the road through the front windshield. The driver sits, watching you debate, waiting for a directive.

You give Yoongi a silent look like, okay, and so you see my problem?

He scoffs at you. “It’s fine. We can handle one night.”

You want to ask, how sure are you about that? Instead, you start to tell the driver Yoongi’s parents’ address.

“Wait,” Yoongi says, putting a hand gently on your arm to stop you. You both freeze, looking at the point of contact. Yoongi shakes himself out of it first, and tells the driver a different address.

The car shifts back into drive and you look at Yoongi quizzically.

“Did your family move?” you ask finally.

Here’s the thing. You know Yoongi, you get Yoongi; five years apart hasn’t changed that at all. So when he licks his lips, shifts his gaze to his feet, and starts rubbing the back of his neck, you know it’s guilt.

“Yoongi?” you prod, suspicious.

He mumbles something, still not looking at you.

“What?” you snap. “You what?”

“I sort of moved back last month…” he repeats to the floor.

“You live here?” you repeat, dumbfounded. “You live in town again?”

“Currently, yeah,” he says, and there’s something in that currently that you’d really like to examine, but you’re still fucking floored.

Yoongi had gone to university in the city - hours away. The distance thing was reasons one through four of his Why We Need to Break Up list. It had made sense, logistically. It made sense when you went abroad for university, and he stayed here. It made sense when you returned and got an internship and then a full-time job in a different city, hours in the opposite direction. It made sense when you managed to go five entire years without being in the same place.

But now he was here. Reasons one through four, moot.

Reasons five to whatever largely revolved around being young and needing to experience the world and figure out what you want in life, that kind of shit. Now it’s five years later and you’ve both experienced plenty of bullshit.

Reasons five through whatever, moot.

You wonder, wordlessly, heart pounding again, if Yoongi knows or cares that every reason he gave you to validate walking away no longer applies.

“You live here,” you repeat. You’re stuck on it, you can’t move on. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” he says guiltily. “I know you didn’t. I… was honestly fighting with myself about if I should reach out or not. I guess I ultimately decided not… since you’re in the city, and you have your whole life and everything…”

What life? You wonder.

The car pulls into a small, understated neighborhood. You’ve been here before; your chemistry partner from tenth grade lived in this development, you’d come to do homework more than once.

It’s always so weird to come back to this town, where everywhere you go has memories, secondary definitions. It’s not just a library, it’s the library where Yoongi had kissed you for the first time. It’s not just a park, it’s the park where you’d had your first fight, where you’d screamed at him in front of God and the ducks and all the moms pushing strollers. It’s not just a diner, it’s the diner where Yoongi had told you that it made no sense to try and stay together from different time zones.

Everything came back to him. It always had. It always does. In a lot of ways, you felt like you were fated to be tied to him this way - and you usually didn’t believe in shit like that.

You always break your own rules for him.

The place is small, and not very Yoongi-ish, but you keep your thoughts to yourself as Yoongi slides out of the car and waits for you.

“Get home safe,” you tell the driver before closing the door. Yoongi’s got his house keys in his hand, and he leads you up the walkway. It’s slick, and you try to step only in the footprints he leaves in the inch of snow coating the ground.

Inside, the light over the sink illuminates a small, mostly empty kitchen. That’s not very Yoongi-ish either, you think. You remember him cooking all the time - appliances everywhere, cutting boards hanging, pots and pans stored on hooks.

He passes the kitchen and enters what looks like the living room, reaching to click on a few dim lamps. They cast a yellow glow to the room.

You set down your purse and fold your coat up on top of it. Yoongi waits for you in the living room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the window, watching the snow. His jawline from the side nearly takes your breath away. He’s so damn beautiful it makes you sick.

And he’s back, Yoongi is back.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, finally looking at you.

“Whatever you’re having would be great,” you tell him. You settle gingerly on one end of the couch as he busies himself in the kitchen. You shoot your parents a quick text that the roads were too bad and you weren’t going to make it back to their place so they wouldn’t worry.

Yoongi returns with two glasses of red wine. He hands you one wordlessly and sits opposite you on the couch.

“So,” you say. The awkward, hyper-polite vibe from the car is back. Like you’re strangers. Like you didn’t know each other inside and out, once. “You’ve been here a month?”

“Just shy of it,” Yoongi corrects politely. “I signed a two month lease, so… I’ve got a few weeks to figure out my next move.”

“You don’t think you’ll stay?” you ask, then sip at the wine. It’s good - of course it’s good, he’s got great taste. You love and hate that about him.

He shrugs, drinks from his own glass. “Doubt it.”

He doesn’t give you any more information than that - why he’s back, what’s next for him, why he’s here for such a short time.

You don’t press it. He’ll tell you if he wants to.

Instead, you both drink in silence. Outside, the snow seems to redouble its efforts, the wind picking up until it seems to be snowing sideways for minutes at a time before calming into a normal downward fall again.

“I think we made the right choice,” Yoongi murmurs, and it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the weather and Taehyung’s party, not about your past.

“Mhm,” you nod, as you come back into the present. That’s a problem you have - you’re always looking back. “Imagine if we were just leaving now? What a mess. Thanks for taking me in, I guess.”

“You guess,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, but there’s no ire in it.

You drink in silence a little longer, and then Yoongi rises with a sigh. “I’ll go put clean sheets on the bed,” he says, sort of absently, like he’s both talking to you and also just thinking out loud. “And then I’ll show you how to work the tv in there if you –”

“I’m not sleeping in your bed, Yoongi,” you tell him flatly.

He balks. “I didn’t mean with me, I meant by yourself!”

“No, I know that,” you reassure him. “But I’m not letting you sleep on your own couch because of me. I’ll sleep out here. It’s fine.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, shaking his head vehemently. That long hair swishes. “You’re a guest. I’m not putting you on the couch.”

“Yoongi,” you say sternly. “If I know you’re out here on the couch and I’m in there with your whole friggin bed, I will simply not sleep because I will feel too guilty about it! And I would like to sleep. So, please, put your chivalry and hospitality aside, and let me sleep. Out here.”

He considers this, because he knows you, and he knows you’re telling the truth. “Fine,” he concedes, and disappears into what must be his bedroom.

When he returns, he’s carrying a stack of what looks like linens. He sets down the pile and you spy blankets and pillows. He pushes the pillows aside gently and picks up something else, turning to hold it out to you, an offering.

It’s gym shorts and a large tshirt, and you reach to take them without thinking. Once they’re in your hand, they feel suddenly heavy with meaning. You used to wear his clothes all the time - you might have one or two of his hoodies in the back of your closet at home because you love them and don’t want to get rid of them, even though you feel too weird to actually wear them. You’re not sure how you feel about wearing his clothes again, now that it means nothing. The alternatives are pretty undesirable, though, so you’ll have to grin and bear it.

“There’s a half-bath on the other side, through the kitchen,” he says, nodding towards the bathroom in question. “So you don’t have to feel weird walking through my room to the full bath if you don’t want to. Though... do you need to shower? I can get you towels and stuff –”

“Maybe in the morning?” you say, eyeing the clock on the wall. “Just… could I borrow face-soap? And toothpaste?”

You’ll have to make do without your make-up remover and an actual toothbrush. Finger-brushing it is.

When you emerge from the bathroom, teeth freshly finger-brushed, wearing Yoongi’s clothes, he’s standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the wine glasses you’d used.

You brush past him silently, and start setting up the couch how you want it. You hear the sink turn off, the click of the lightswitch as he shuts off the lights behind him. He comes back through the room and pauses in his doorway.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

“No,” you say, feeling small in his baggy shirt, feeling small in the face of all the feelings you’re swimming in right now. “I’m all good.”

He looks at you for a long minute, searching. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Sleep well.”

He turns into his room, and you watch his skinny wrist turn as he reaches to shut the door.

“Yoongi,” you say, the word out of your mouth before you really know what will follow it. He pauses, peeks his head back into view, raises an eyebrow at you. “Thanks,” you say, meekly.

He nods, silent, then reaches to close his door, gently and effectively shutting you out.

You get comfortable on the couch, bunching the blanket up around your head how you like it. It takes almost no time at all to fall asleep, and when you do, you don’t dream.

You’re awakened sometime later by a noise, and you sit up, your brain scrambling to catch up to the present and figure out where you are.

A couch, it processes. It comes back to you a little at a time. Yoongi’s couch. Yoongi’s house. Yoongi’s house in town.

The noise that woke you must have been his bedroom door opening, because as you slowly get your bearings, you become aware of him staring at you from his doorway.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says apologetically, then moves across the room towards the kitchen. “I just needed water.” Then, from the kitchen, as an afterthought, he asks, “Do you want one?”

“Please,” you say immediately, mentally cataloging all the effects of dehydration you can feel. Cottony mouth, ringing ears, the tingling beginnings of a headache…

He returns to the living room and stops near the couch. You stretch to turn on one of the dim lamps, casting a quiet yellow on the room. He stands there in too-big pajamas and holds out a water bottle silently.

It’s definitely still the middle of the night. You can’t have slept more than a few hours. Everything feels different, somehow. It was so awkward before; you’d felt the need to be cautious and hyper-polite. Now everything feels blurred, fuzzy with sleep, softer. You’re sitting up, the blanket you’d been sleeping under still over your lap. You reach over and lift the other side, holding it up like a question.

Yoongi pads over and sits on the far side of the couch, but he curls his legs up and slips his bare feet under the blanket. You let it fall, covering him from the shin down.

He taps on his phone and grimaces at the time. “Hey,” he says, a little wry, “Merry Christmas.”

You smile. “Merry Christmas, Yoongi.”

He taps at his screen again and a speaker near his tv comes to life, playing what has to be a Coffee Shop Christmas playlist, pre-curated. You lean your head against the back of the couch, listening to the strum of acoustic guitar and the gentle snare of a drum meander through a mellow, lethargic version of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.

“Christmas music, huh?” you tease, eyes closed. “That’s very holly, jolly of you.”

“I don’t hate Christmas,” he protests. “I’m not, like, a Grinch. It’s just… another day. So is tomorrow. Why all the fuss?”

You bump his foot with your knee beneath the blanket. “Scrooge.”

Ignoring your teasing, he looks sideways at you, something baleful on his face. “Y/N? I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

You’re surprised into silence, looking back at him across the couch. “What? What for?”

He grimaces, like the answer is too big, like he’s got an annotated list of every fault he’s mentally cataloged. “For all of it, I guess.”

You’re not letting him off the hook; this is too important to skirt around. “What are you sorry for, Yoongi?” you ask seriously.

He laughs once, quietly, incredulously, like he can’t believe you. “You really want to go there?”

“You know I do.”

He thinks before he speaks - one of your favorite things about him. “Because for the last five years, I hated myself for leaving you behind. And I wondered every day if you hated me for it, too.”

You sit in silence, feeling frozen. Yoongi lets you - Yoongi waits. Is he admitting regret? Does that mean he’d do it differently, given the chance?

Because here you are - being given the chance, in a way.

“I was never mad at you for going,” you tell him, because you know he needs to know. Yoongi doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, which means he really did wonder if you hated him. You don’t owe him much, but you figure you owe him this truth. Then you admit, “But I was mad at myself for… letting you. Did you… I mean, should I have argued? When you left?”

You’d always wondered. What would have happened if you’d fought just a little harder for him to stay?

He scoots a little closer, tugging the blanket closer to his knees, thinking about your question. “I think part of me had hoped you would… but it wouldn’t have changed my mind,” he tells you honestly. “Just would’ve made it hurt more. The way things happened, I could lie and tell myself you were fine with letting me go.”

You exhale on a note of indignation. “Fine? That was you. You were so… okay with walking away.”

He shakes his head. He must have taken the bun out when he went to bed, and his hair swishes around his shoulders, loose and beautiful. “I wasn’t okay. I didn’t go a single day and not wonder… how you were. I didn’t go a single day sure that I made the right choice.”

You feel, weirdly, kind of pissed. “What am I supposed to do with that, Yoongi? Seriously?”

He opens his mouth to answer this rhetorical question, but you don’t let him. The words pour out of you, unleashed after five years of being held back.

“This is just… unfair. Because normally, in the movies, when you get this moment - the post-mortem - with someone from your past… they always ask why, right? Why’d you leave? But I don’t need to ask why - I know the why, I understood why. I want to know… I want to know if you regret it. If you’d take it back.”

“That’s two different questions,” he says solemnly, “with two different answers.”

You cut your eyes at him. It’s the middle of the night and your brain is mostly mush. You need him to just be forthcoming, just say things plainly.

He knows.

“Of course I regret it,” he whispers finally, as if the words hold too much weight to utter any louder. “I regretted it while I was still saying it. I hated being away from you, I hated not talking to you, I hated not knowing how you were or what you were doing or if you… still cared about me at all.” He pauses, inhales slowly, rubs a hand down his tired face, then exhales with a whoosh. “But would I take it back? I don’t know.”

You exhale, eyeing the ceiling. Who’s the one just saying shit now? God. “You can’t just say things like that, Yoongi,” you tell him, eyes trained on the shitty, popcorn ceiling above you.

He says your name, still so soft, so quiet.

“What?”

“Don’t cry.”

It’s so stupid. You hadn’t cried then, not in front of him. You wipe hastily under your eyes. “Sorry,” you say hastily, trying to save face. “It’s the lack of sleep.”

“I’m not sure I would take it back,” he repeats carefully, and you realize he hadn’t been done before - you’d interrupted his thought, “because when I left… I knew the whole time that it didn’t make anything better. But if I hadn’t… I think I’d still be wondering if I should, if we’d be better apart. I wouldn’t know, so the question would still be hanging over me.”

You think he’s saying something without saying it, but it’s like four in the morning and you just aren’t sure.

“But now?” you prod.

He shrugs, like it’s so simple. “Now I know the answer.”

You want to shake him. You’ve never had a conversation go in circles like this in your life, and you need to get to the center of it. “Yoongi,” you say, your voice tight like a warning.

He knows.

He always knows. He cuts to the chase. “I have a job lined up in the city.”

You almost drop your water bottle. “My city?”

“Your city.”

“Yoongi,” you say again, pleading. “Just say what you mean.” Please.

He smiles your favorite of his smiles - only one half of his mouth lifts at first, cocky, until it spreads the rest of the way and shows his gums in all their glory. “Just thinking about that whole list of reasons we shouldn’t be together… null and void now, don’t you think?”

You feel like you can’t breathe. You’ve both been circling it like predators, and now you’re closing in.

“So what does that mean? For you?” Do you dare to ask it? You do. “For us?”

Someone else, you think, would probably have asked you, what do you want it to mean?

But it’s Yoongi - and Yoongi knows the answer already.

He’s pushing the blanket off of his legs - and yours - and coming to hover over you. Your body responds, laying back against the pillow you’d been sleeping on, making room for him like it remembers exactly how you fit. Your fingers find his jaw like they’re magnetically drawn, your thumb sliding against his cheek.

His hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out the dim lamplight, as his mouth finds yours.

Kissing him again is everything. It’s absolutely everything. He’s home, he’s wilderness, he’s calm, he’s the whole damn storm, he’s undoing every seam you have, he’s stitching you back together, he’s beautiful beautiful beautiful.

His lips are soft but sure against yours, his jaw moving under the press of your fingers. You feel like you’re flying, falling, maybe both, as your eyelids flutter. He’s bracing himself with his hands on either side of you, holding himself over you. You were resting your free hand against his side, his ribs like piano keys beneath your palm, and you find yourself bunching his shirt into your fist, trying to pull yourself up, closer, closer.

You have to will yourself not to babble against his mouth, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. You could say it six hundred times and it still wouldn’t get it all out of you. You pour it into the kiss instead, straining up to meet him, beating words away from your mouth as you toy with his bottom lip.

He drops his lower body carefully, pinning your hips beneath his own, shifting to hold himself up on elbows instead of hands. The weight of him is welcome; something needs to keep you tethered to this planet.

He licks into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours, and you inhale sharply against his mouth.

“Yoongi,” you murmur against his lips, and he turns his head to kiss your palm where it’s been resting against his face. There’s something so tender about it that tears spring to your eyes, and you blink them away quickly.

Then he’s leaning down to capture your mouth again, humming a low, happy note against you. You go for the hem of his shirt, pulling until it gets tangled against his armpits. He sits back on his haunches, helping you pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Your eyes trace him, over and over, trying to remember every shade and every line, trying to find every difference from five years ago. He’s beautiful, flushing dark across the chest, eyes positively predatory in their focus on you.

“You, too,” he says, sounding a little breathless, and you scoot back and sit up. He goes for your hem before you can, tugging it up and over your head. The cold air assaults you and you shiver. Yoongi makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl in appreciation, lowering himself over you again. His kiss is insistent this time, one hand coming up to cup a breast, fingers deftly rolling your nipple, sending electricity skittering down your spine. You whine, deep in your throat, and you feel his lips quirk into a smile.

“Would you kick my ass if I said ‘I’ve missed your tits’ right now?” he asks, chest quaking as he tries to rein in laughter.

“Yes,” you grumble, reaching to weave your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug him back so you can kiss him again, and he lets out a quiet, breathy moan as you do.

“Okay,” he says, in between kisses, “but I did.” Then he puts his money where his mouth is - or maybe vice-versa - to prove it, lowering his head and taking the other nipple in his mouth, flicking it lightly with his tongue. Your whole body reacts, feet stretching, back arching to push against his body, fingers tightening in his hair as you moan out loud. Each little motion of his mouth ignites sparks that reach every part of you - the pit of your stomach, the base of your spine, clear down to your toes.

It’s honestly embarrassing how turned on you get as he continues, working one side until you’re writhing beneath him, thighs rubbing together desperately, then switching to continue his onslaught on the other side.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, and some absent part of your brain is aware that his name is the only coherent word you’ve said in a while. “Please, you’re torturing me.”

He releases you with a wet pop, grinning up at you deviously. “So pretty when you beg like that,” he remarks, like he’s observing the weather - which is still a fucking blizzard, by the way. Then he’s coming up to kiss you again, deep and slow this time. His hand slides along your bare stomach, around and under your back, and you arch your back partly to make room for his arm underneath you, and partly because you can’t not, as his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Please, what?” he murmurs, lips close to your neck, his fingers tracing the edge of the shorts you’re wearing - his shorts. “What do you want?”

“Anything - whatever you’ll give me,” you manage. All you can focus on is his fingers, their circular path along your lower stomach, toying with your waistband.

It must be the right answer, because he slips his hand into your shorts, fingers pressing along your slit, your underwear clinging to you already. He slides his fingers along the slickened fabric, eyes on your face, listening to the tiny moans that escape when you exhale.

He shifts to his side, between you and the back of the couch, and you loop an arm around his neck - half to hold yourself up on the couch, and half because you need to be holding him. You can feel how hard he is now, as his body presses against your legs. He distracts you with a kiss, and slips your panties aside, wasting no time in sheathing his middle finger up to the last knuckle.

You hiss his name, your head lolling back against the couch in pleasure, your neck bared to him. He gives it a quick nip and then a kiss as he adds a second finger, pumping in and out of you slowly. You groan, the sound rumbling from your chest. You could let him do this all night if you had the patience - just this simple act feels so good you think you might come undone.

And if you remember anything about sex with Yoongi, he’s just getting started.

He slips his fingers out of you and brings them up to your clit, circling once, then twice, before going back to where he started, the pad of his middle finger circling your entrance, careful to stay just outside.

Your whole body turns to jelly, everything quivering from head to toe at the sensation. You grip the couch with both hands, digging your fingers in. “Ohhh my god,” you manage, something accusatory in your tone, like you’re asking him how the fuck are you doing that?

He smiles against you, middle finger still running in lazy circles through the wetness collecting there. “That’s right, I know what you like,” he murmurs, smug, his lips tickling your neck, before plunging both fingers back into your heat without warning. He repeats the cycle - in, out, up, down, around, around, in again - until you’re dizzy from it, your fingers clutching the fabric of the couch so hard that you’re sure you’ll rip it.

You have one single moment of clarity that sends you reaching down to where you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, but he shifts away, tutting.

“You first,” he says. “I want to see you make that face you make. It’s been literal years.”

“Oh my god,” you say, feeling yourself flush. “Yoongi! Seriously?”

He laughs, shoulders shaking. “What? I love to watch you lose your shit. What a fucking ego boost.” He punctuates these words with a quick change of wrist direction, suddenly pistoning against your front wall in a way that has your comeback melting right out of your brain.

He’d had you close before, and the sudden switch-up does the trick - you feel everything tighten from your shoulders to your toes, your eyes screwing shut. Yoongi shifts his weight to hold your leg in place so you can’t try to close them on him and redoubles his efforts, humming in pleasure as you squeeze around his fingers like a vice.

You let out a series of wordless cries as the pleasure builds to the point you want to shy away from it, and then Yoongi presses his thumb to your clit just so and you’re spiraling over the edge, your ears filled with a buzzing white noise, your toes curling, your desperate hands leaving the couch and clutching Yoongi instead, trusting him to guide you to the other side.

When you come down, heart hammering in your chest, you bat his hand away, breaths heaving.

“Take those off,” you pant, tugging on the bit of his pants you can reach, and shimmying your own bottoms the rest of the way off and dumping them onto the floor.

“Bossy,” Yoongi remarks, smirking sideways at you as he obeys.

You resituate yourself against the arm of the couch as he comes to kneel near your feet, stroking himself languidly. You both freeze with the same thought at the same time.

“Do I…” he says hesitantly, “do you want me to wear -?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, mind racing for an answer. You’re tempted to just tell him it’s fine, because surely having a how many people have you been with in the five years since we broke up conversation will absolutely kill the mood right now. But that’s not really safe.

“Maybe you’d better?” you venture. “Have you -? I mean, we don’t need to talk about this right now. But I haven’t been with anyone without… you know.”

“Same here, and I got tested after… the last one. Just in case,” he admits, eyes on yours, and the moment feels heavy. Do you trust Yoongi to tell you the truth?

Of course you do.

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” you tell him. “No pressure.”

“You’re still on -?” he checks, and you nod.

“In that case,” he says, and leans over you to kiss you again. You can feel him, rubbing along the messy slickness, and it occurs to you that you haven’t even touched him yet.

You whine, twisting your shoulders to try and reach him with a hand, but he’s too impatient, lining himself up and starting to sink into you. You groan at the stretch - it’s been a while since your last fling - but the sound that tears through Yoongi’s throat is more like a growl, guttural and animalistic.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growls through gritted teeth, as he slowly rocks into you until he bottoms out, his hips tight against yours.

He’s everywhere - caging you in, hovering above you, holding you down, filling you up. He’s everywhere, and he feels both so familiar it makes you want to cry again, and also - somehow - brand-fucking-new, like you’ve never felt him before.

You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch, as he sets a slow but even pace, letting you adjust.

“God,” you gasp when he hits a spot just right. His head had been hanging above you, his eyes watching the place where he disappeared inside you, all that long hair loose, but he smirks up at you at this.

“Good,” he coos, and picks up the pace, hips smacking yours, filling the room with the lewd sounds of skin on skin, his grunts and your whines.

You’re gasping a little at each stroke, that tight feeling bubbling at the pit of your stomach growing stronger with each thrust. “God,” you growl, fingertips pressing into his shoulder blade as you hang on for dear life. “Yoongi, fuck!”

He slows on purpose, straightening up, forcing you to release your hold on his back. He grins at you, that shit-eating, one-sided grin, and then grabs your ankles, maneuvering them both to rest against his right shoulder. He leans forward against your legs and hammers into you, breathing hard, and you swear to god you see stars for a second.

“Ohmygod, yes, there,” you gasp, hands going to the backs of your own thighs to help alleviate the stretch. You need to start doing yoga or something.

The build-up is slower this time, the feeling pulsing through you in waves that strengthen and ebb again. Yoongi can tell when it’s real by the change in your voice - wordless whines rising in pitch, by the arch of your back, by the way you clamp around him so hard that he almost loses it right there.

“Yeah?” he asks, the word more like a gasp for air. “Close?”

“Please,” you beg, the sensation of pure light racing up your legs to your toes, the pulsing starting slow and determined in your core.

“I’ve got you,” he promises, brows furrowed with concentration as he works to keep a steady pace. He grips one of your ankles and switches it to his other shoulder, creating space to reach down and rub gentle figure-eights around your clit.

The wave takes you over, and there’s a long moment where you’re completely devoid of your senses - no sight, no sound, nothing but how tight tight tight everything has gone, too tight to even breathe - and then it breaks and you can hear yourself wailing, eyes shut against the onslaught of sensations. You clench around Yoongi hard, the aftershocks rolling through you, so hard that he hisses and drops his forehead to yours, his pace slowing significantly as he fucks you through it.

You go boneless as it leaves you, and Yoongi pushes all the way inside you and stills, pressing his lips to your temple.

“You good?” he murmurs, so sweet for someone who just had you experiencing the multiverse.

“Mhm,” you manage to respond, so spent and tired that you can barely form the word.

“C’mere,” he grunts, slipping out of you, and he grips the back of your neck, hauling you upright and falling backwards in the same motion, pulling you over top of him. You loop your arms around his neck, feeling floaty, and he wraps his around your middle. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, his breath loud next to your ear.

“Can you keep going?” he checks. “I know you’re tired. I’m almost there, I promise.”

“M’good,” you assure him against his collarbone, and he gives you one quick squeeze before reaching down to adjust himself. He pushes in and you cry out, the sound muffled as you press your face into him. You’re so sensitive now, the sensation is entirely different.

“You can take it,” he whispers, sliding a hand down your spine. Then, with a grunt of “shit,” he grabs you and jackhammers up into you, his fingers furrowing into the meat of your ass, so tight you think you’ll have five little bruises on each side when this is over.

You feel so close to him - your cheek presses up against his, your arms wrapped tight around him, his hands securing you in place, his heart beating wildly against yours where your chests press together.

You gasp for breath into the crook of his neck, holding on for dear life, just trying to take what he gives you. You can hear his breathing change as he gets close, his pace quickening but his thrusts starting to come less evenly, his grip on your ass tightening just a bit further as he pulls your hips down to meet his every few thrusts.

“Is inside okay?” he asks, the words sounding like they’re torn from him.

“Yes,” you tell him, but it comes out more like a moan.

“God,” he grunts in response to this, and the word tears, ending on a strangled moan as he empties himself deep inside you.

You lay there, gasping for breath, for a long minute. Then Yoongi gives you an affectionate pat on the ass, indicating that it’s safe to move.

“Go get in the shower,” he suggests. “I’ll grab you a towel and meet you in there.”

“I don’t know if I can get there,” you say, joking, but your legs feel like jelly. You grab your phone and make your way, wobbly, through the living room and into his bedroom.

You hadn’t come in here before. It’s clean, but sparse. It’s devoid of anything that makes it feel homey. It’s devoid of anything that makes it feel like Yoongi.

You keep going, padding through his room and towards the attached bathroom, fumbling for the lightswitch. You place your phone next to the sink and fiddle with the shower’s knobs until you get a steady stream of hot water going.

It feels heavenly to step under the hot water, your aching muscles relaxing in the steam. But it feels even better when Yoongi wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his lips to the side of your neck.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you giggle. You might still be riding a little bit of a post-orgasm high.

You both rinse off in silence, and then Yoongi places his hand on the knob, looking at you to make sure you’re ready to get out. You nod, but he hesitates.

“Will you sleep with me?” he asks, a little unsure, leagues different from the cocky man you’d been tangled up with mere minutes before. “Don’t go back to the couch.”

You give him a soft smile, and he turns off the water, reaching for the towels hanging just outside.

“Of course I will,” you tell him before wrapping yourself up in the soft, gray terry-cloth.

You crawl into his bed once you’re dry, and he joins you after making a quick pass through the living room to turn the lights back off and gather up the clothes you’d both tossed around. When he clicks off his bedside lamp and rolls to face you, you feel a fluttering of nerves in your stomach.

You’re not sure where you go from here.

You lay facing each other in the darkness; it’s just too dark to really see much, but you can tell he’s looking at you.

You’re laying there, letting your thoughts spool around you, the what-if’s and what-now’s laying themselves out in your mind, when you realize you’ve reached out without meaning to, your fingers tangling in his long hair, rolling strands between them. You keep playing with it, cautiously, practically holding your breath, waiting to see if he objects.

Instead, you feel him relax under your hand, letting out a long breath. “That feels nice,” he admits, voice breathy with almost-sleep and barely audible.

You fall asleep without any answers, with your fingers curled up in Yoongi’s hair.

You wake up to a warm body behind you, not quite touching. You shift your cold toes a little closer to the warmth you find, smiling when you hear him whine about it. The light outside is white, that abnormal shade of light that comes from sunlight bouncing off of snow and ice. You’re about to close your eyes again when you realize that the warm body behind you isn’t sleeping, because you can hear the incriminating clicking and clacking of a keyboard.

“Are you seriously working right now?” you ask him, rolling a little to look at him over your shoulder. He peers back at you guiltily, his glasses low on his nose, fingers frozen in the air above the keys.

“I just wanted to answer a few -”

“It’s Christmas morning!” you scold.

“I’m aware of that,” he answers dryly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Turn it off, Yoongi. It’s Christmas and you are in bed with someone. My God.”

He shoots you a defensive look, but finishes whatever he was doing and clicks the laptop closed, leaning over to place it on his nightstand.

“You haven’t changed at all,” you say, a little fondly, sitting up a little next to him.

“Neither have you,” he says pointedly. It’s less fond when he says it.

You consider this. “You want to know something stupid?” you ask. Yoongi doesn’t answer out loud, just meets your eyes and waits. “You’re right. I haven’t changed. I think… I think I’ve been afraid to.”

He turns to face you, sensing how serious you are about this. “What do you mean?” he presses.

You stop to think, the way you learned to after spending years watching him, knowing he did this better than you. “I guess… some little part of me always wondered what would happen if we crossed paths again. If I changed too much… what if I stopped being someone you’d want? What if I became someone so different that your heart didn’t know mine anymore?”

It sounds so corny coming out of your mouth, but the truth behind it is so heavy you can’t hold it up anymore. It was a fear you’d secretly harbored for half a decade - what if fate put Yoongi in your life again, and he still didn’t want you?

And Yoongi does what he’s always done - hears you, understands you, answers you in your own language.

“Impossible,” he says softly, leaning closer to you, eyes combing your face. His voice is like a layer of snow, smooth and clear, full of something unnamable. Or maybe you don’t want to name it. You turn your head, as if that will get you further away. “That’s impossible. My heart will always know yours.”

You look at your hands, feeling a little choked up. Your heart stutters and jumps in your chest. The question you’re holding back churns in a little ball behind your ribs.

“Hey,” he says, softly but intently. You manage to look up at him. “Let’s make breakfast?” He says it like a question.

“Yeah,” you say, able to speak again. “That sounds good.”

Yoongi lends you sweatpants, since it’s too chilly to roam around the house in basketball shorts, and busies himself in the kitchen while you get changed. When you finally join him, he’s plated something for each of you, and he pushes a glass of iced coffee towards you.

You can’t help but smile. “You remember,” you accuse, and he avoids your eyes, cheeks flushing.

“You get a girl ninety-thousand iced coffees, it stays with you,” he defends.

“Ninety-thousand,” you scoff, but you’re pleased. As you eat, you look out the kitchen window. It’s bright outside, but it’s still snowing - tiny, wispy flakes floating leisurely down to join you. The road clearly hasn’t been plowed yet; the snow outside is untouched, unbothered, a perfect sheet of white. You can’t even tell where the road is, except for the mailbox poking up out of the feet of snow on the ground already.

Yoongi follows your gaze. “Looks like you’re trapped here for a while,” he observes.

“A shame,” you deadpan, and he kicks at you playfully beneath the table.

“Well,” he says, thinking out loud, “since you won’t let me get any work done… do you want to put on a movie?”

“A Christmas movie?” you ask, perking up.

He rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting a little smile. “I guess that’d make sense,” he agrees.

He leads you back to the couch, which you eye sideways, remembering clearly what this couch witnessed about three hours ago. Yoongi seems unphased, slouching sideways against some pillows and looking at you expectantly. You join him gingerly, leaning against him, and he drapes a blanket over your legs.

“Pick something,” he asks, passing you the remote - another old Yoongi trick that you remember well.

You take the offered remote, clicking through the holiday options for something that you don’t think will make Yoongi gag. As you scroll, brows furrowed in concentration, he clears his throat beside you.

“So, uh,” he says, and you stop scrolling, because he sounds nervous. “Next weekend I’m supposed to go look at some apartments. Do you… would you want to keep me company?”

You look at him, eyes wide, the remote forgotten in your hand, still aloft and pointed at the tv.

“Why?” you whisper once you find your voice.

He shrugs, wets his lips. “You know the city well,” he says. “You can offer your brilliant opinions - tell me if the neighborhood’s okay… if there’s good take-away… where the transit stops are, that kind of shit.”

“Hm,” you say, a little tightly.

He shoots you a sheepish grin. “I’ll take you to dinner after?”

You give him a look. “Say what you mean, Yoongi.”

He purses his lips a little, disgruntled at being called out. Then, busted, he sighs and tries again. “Can I take you to dinner next weekend? Preferably in the city, and preferably after you help me make some choices about my living situation?”

You grin, unable to hold it back. “Yeah,” you say, trying hard to fight back the smile, to play it even a little bit cool. “Yeah, I’d really like that.” Trying to save your dignity, you turn back to the tv and go back to scrolling until you find a movie that seems like it’s not too over-the-top.

Yoongi reaches an arm around your shoulders, and this time you settle against him comfortably. You can feel him breathing beneath you, can smell that Yoongi smell - clean and alluring, can hear the shouts of some neighborhood kids running around outside. From the tv, tinkling bells and happy strings play a medley of Christmas songs as the opening credits run.

Part of you is already thinking about when the roads are plowed and you have to go home, shower off the scent of him, update your best friend about all of this, miss Yoongi in a much more real way than you’ve had to in about three years. But at least you have the promise that you’ll see him again next weekend. You close your eyes, content, happy to just be right now.

Yoongi feels it too, obviously. He gives your shoulders a squeeze, looks down at you fondly, and murmurs, “You know what? All this holly, jolly shit isn’t so bad.”

“God bless us, every one,” you deadpan. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

He grins at you, gums showing, and you smile back before leaning your head against his chest as on the TV a little girl watches out her window for signs of Santa.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!! My full masterlist can be found here :)

3K notes · View notes

hongcherry · 8 months

Text

pretty please (stay with me) || c.sc | 2

“After being assigned a fashion show for your big senior project, you set off to find volunteers to make it successful. However, when you meet Choi Seungcheol and his unfriendly clique through your volunteers, you realize they’re an unwanted package deal you can’t escape from. Can you handle Seungcheol’s obnoxious friends, and can he handle your brash behavior?”

🍒 Pairing: businessMajor!Seungcheol x fashionMajor!Reader (afab)

🍒 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+); Slice of life (!!!), slow burn, drama, fluff, angst; Unrequited enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, college au

🍒 Warnings: General tws + none? regular drama, cursing... lmk if i missed something tho!

🍒 WC: 12.4k

🍒 Betas: Sarah, Indi, Kelly, Freya 💙

🍒 Author’s Note: Thank you for the support so far! This chapter is a little more chill compared to what's to come ^-^

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Coming home to find your mother in the living room a few days later was not something you could have foreseen.

Her suitcases are by the front door, and her shoes are tossed in different directions. She and your father are in a heated argument; your sister is nowhere in sight.

“Oh, hi, dear,” your mother greets when she hears the door open. Her voice turns sweet, contrasting how it was a few seconds ago. She turns away from your dad, spreading her arms with a smile as if she wasn’t just yelling. Your father grabs one of her outstretched arms and pulls her back.

“You don’t get to hug her,” he hisses before looking at you. “To your room, Yn.”

“Where’s Seoah?” you wonder, ignoring his order.

“At a friend’s. Now, go to your room.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” your mother chimes in. Despite sounding defiant, she retracts her arms from you before she can even touch you. “How are you, sweetie?”

Your brain is whirling with confusion. You aren’t sure if you’re happy or annoyed she’s back. Her trips usually last for several months, maybe a year or two at most, but she always comes back. Sometimes you wish she didn’t. Her attendance never brings comfort, even if you want it to.

“I-I’m fine,” you answer. “What are you doing here?”

“She’s leaving,” your father says, pointing to the door as he looks at your mother. “Now.”

“Just let me stay for one night,” your mother pleads with her eyes on your dad. “I can find somewhere else tomorrow.”

Your dad glowers at her. “I’m tired of you treating this place like a hotel. If you wanted to stay, you shouldn’t have left.”

This conversation again.

Your parents are still married, perhaps because of the divorce cost or custody decisions, but it feels like it is an open marriage. Your mother never tells you if she has another partner, but some of her pictures from her trips are questionable at times. Additionally, your dad has never brought home anyone, but you won’t be surprised if he has gone out to find one.

Well, you wouldn’t have been surprised in the past. However, the present is different. He is nose-deep in his work. He claims it’s because he is trying to provide for you and your sister, which you’re sure has some factor in it, but he’s also probably trying to distract himself from his own personal demons. You were never that close with him to begin with, and your relationship only worsened when your mother left. You know he cares, but not as much as you wish he does.

Their argument fades out as you stand staring at them. You doubt anything will get resolved. Taking in a sorrowful breath, you turn around and leave the house.

The café you usually visit is nearby. It’s the perfect place to study or hang out with friends, as the atmosphere is peaceful. The food is reasonably priced and not too bad as well.

You find a spot in the corner and settle down.

The sketches for your outfits are coming together. You planned to go to a fabric store later this week to pick out a few yards of fabric. Luckily, your college has collaborated with several stores around to provide the students participating in the show discounts. Most are generous discounts too.

Once you are done going over your sketches, you double-check your to-do list. Jeonghan and Minghao are making good progress with the promotional items. Music, on the other hand, is a little more difficult. You haven’t found the right sound yet, but you’ve scheduled a meeting with Jihoon soon.

You sit your iPad on the table and rest your head in your hands. This project is challenging you in ways you didn’t expect. You simply want to create clothes, not deal with all the tiny other details of a runway show. Thinking back to the start of it has you remembering what you’ve been through these past few months.

You hate how much you think of Seungcheol at this moment. He has been the biggest surprise of them all.

He isn’t even helping you with your project, yet you have seen him so many times, he might as well be. You’re not sure when you started to tolerate his presence, but somewhere along the way, he grew to be one of the few people you wanted to see more.

And that corny nickname he gave you… Why does part of you like it? Damn, you wish you weren't thinking of him. Your thoughts of him are getting so bad. You can hear his voice—could hear that ridiculous laugh that makes you want to join in with him.

The contagious laugh is so prominent in your mind that you swear it’s right next to you.

Goodness. Even when he has no reason to be in your thoughts, he finds a way to squirm in. Or maybe you just find excuses to bring him in. Nevertheless, the latter is something you don’t want to admit to.

You regain focus on your iPad with the aim of distracting yourself. You’re about two minutes into sketching another outfit when he who should not be mentioned's voice sounds in your head again.

It’s so clear and getting louder. It’s repeating your name, spreading an odd warmth through your chest.

“Are you ignoring me?”

A hand touches your forearm, causing you to loosen your grip on your stylus. It rolls off the edge of the table into a person’s hand. Your gaze follows up the arm until it rests on their face.

Seungcheol chuckles at your startled expression.

“You okay, Cherry?” he asks with mirth.

Have you thought of him so much that you somehow manifested his presence? Irritated at the lack of control over your thoughts, you snatch the pen from his grasp. If only you could rein in your thoughts as well.

“What are you doing here?” you question, glancing behind his shoulder. For once, you don’t see his business clique. Your shoulders ease at this, not ever wanting to see them after what happened. The only person you see is a tall man with stunning features. He’s watching Seungcheol, so you guess they’re together.

Since your show project is never far from your mind, you take a mental note to ask him to be one of your models before he leaves.

“Just passing by,” he shrugs, then glances at your iPad. “That looks nice so far.”

Your gaze cast down at your sketch again. There is just a figure with a long, flowy skirt. Nothing extravagant.

“Thanks,” you reply slowly, but it sounds more like a question.

This time it’s his turn to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Needed a different environment to work in,” you answer. It isn’t a lie, but you aren’t going to disclose why you need a different environment in the first place. Family drama is never a conversation you enjoy having. And you definitely aren’t going to have it with him. Even if you two are getting closer, he isn’t on Dae’s level of friendship.

“Ah,” he pauses and before he can say anything else, you speak up.

“Who’s your friend?”

Seungcheol peers over his shoulder as if he needs a reminder of who he’s with. “Mingyu.”

“You think you can bring him over?”

He snaps his eyes back to you; they’re slightly wide, briefly before narrowing. “Why? You’re going to try to seduce him?”

Are you just imagining the bitterness hidden behind his teasing tone?

“He is handsome,” you observe. You drift your attention to Mingyu. His dark hair is pushed behind his ears, a few strands hanging in front of his face. He wears a short-sleeved shirt that exposes his muscles. You hope he wasn’t asked to be someone else’s model already.

Seungcheol doesn’t seem amused by your response.

“Yeah? Get in line, Cherry. He gets a lot of people batting their eyelashes at him.”

“Is that why you hang out with him? You’re trying to get his leftovers?” A smirk grows on your face as you look back at him.

Seungcheol stares down at you with an unreadable expression. “I don’t need his leftovers.”

“Then where’s your line of people batting their eyelashes?” you challenge.

“Right here,” he taunts, eyes sparkling with vain as he leans over your table to get closer.

You scoff at his answer and move away from him. You need space to think clearly. “I am not batting my eyelashes at you, Seungcheol.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but you have your own ways of showing your affection.”

“Like?” you raise an eyebrow. The only thing you feel like you’re showing him is an annoyed look.

“Like not telling me to go away when you first saw me.”

“That’s affection to you?” you laugh in disbelief.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “I’m telling you that’s how you show affection. I think I’m growing on you, Cherry.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and instead give him a scowl. You move farther away from him to show you definitely aren’t growing a liking for him—even if your heart hints otherwise.

“You will never grow on me. Not with those ‘friends’ of yours,” you reply.

“Hey, they’re doing you a favor,” he says, bemused at your sudden hostility toward them.

“Not those friends,” you sigh. Does he really need to be told which group of people you are talking about? Surely, he doesn’t think his business friends are such saints to not consider them.

“They just aren’t used to your people,” he reasons before sitting down across from you.

You give him a pointed look. “My people?”

“You know, the flashy fashion and such,” he says and gestures at your outfit as if to make a point; it’s another fit that “normal” people won’t wear for everyday attire.

“So that gives them the green light to insult me constantly?” you question, a little astonished at how he’s defending them. You understand they’re his friends, but is he so far up their asses he can’t see just how ugly their personalities are?

“You know you’re not all sunshine and rainbows, too, right?” he retorts.

You have to force your jaw not to drop. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll let them say all the shit they want to and not defend myself since, evidently, no one else will.”

The indirect jab at Seungcheol doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“I told them to stop,” he frowns, thinking back to the lounge.

“Ah right, how could I forget? How silly of me,” you answer sarcastically. Although he did try to stop them, you feel he could’ve done more—maybe been more assertive. You feel he isn’t one hundred percent on your side, and that hurts you more than it should.

You make sure your iPad is locked before you stuff it in your bag along with your stylus. This isn’t how you wanted, nor imagined, your conversation with Seungcheol to go.

“You just gave them a bad first impression. You weren’t very friendly when we first met.”

You pause in your movements as your mind whirls back to seeing him at Jeonghan’s door instead of Minghao.

“Neither were your friends,” you recall.

“They would’ve been nicer if you—”

“I really can’t believe you’re defending them right now.”

“I’m just saying you all have some issues that need to be solved, and not everyone has been on their best behavior,” he sighs.

Your eyes scan his face, sensing the trouble he’s going through at being in the middle of two sides. It’s then you realize he will never have your back completely due to his conflict of interests.

This shouldn’t bother you.

You had planned to never talk to him again once you were done working with his friends on your project, yet there is a tightening feeling in your chest that doesn’t make you smile. Some part of you is starting to oppose that original idea.

“I doubt these ‘issues’ will ever be resolved,” you reply, tossing your bag’s strap over your shoulder.

“Why not? We can all talk it through,” he says quickly, so you can’t leave. The look of hope on his face has you considering it for a split second, but you know that won’t go the way he’s imagining.

“I’ll make it easy for you, Seungcheol,” you begin and ignore his offer. “Don’t talk to me ever again.”

You should’ve known he isn’t going to let you go that easily. He grabs your wrist gently when you walk past him to leave.

“Where did that come from?” he wonders, tone teetering with confusion and annoyance.

“Don’t message me either,” you simply answer and pull your arm from his grasp. He looks baffled at your response, sitting still as you move away.

Before leaving, you stop at Mingyu. You give him the quick project explanation you’ve given to others before handing him your card. He tells you he’ll consider it, which isn’t what you want to hear, but at least he isn’t taken by anyone yet. You don’t want to linger around him any longer because Seungcheol is bound to come over since they came here together.

You leave just in time as you spot Hana, Hajun, and Soonyoung walking over to the café. You see through the café’s window as they greet Seungcheol and Mingyu. Some things will never change.

As you climb into your car, you feel a pair of eyes on you. The urge to turn back to confirm your suspicion of who it is is strong, but you keep your gaze forward. You didn’t stay at the café as long as you anticipated and hope your parents are done fighting when you get home.

You sit on Dae’s apartment floor as you pencil your clothes patterns on your fabric. With your mom back in town, you and your sister have been spending time at other people’s residences. You at Dae’s, and her at her own friend’s. You two have never been that close, so being separated from her doesn’t bother you as much as it would bother other siblings. Nevertheless, you’re still the big sister and worry about her occasionally—often sending text messages to check up.

You and Dae have music playing as you work on separate pieces. Even though you’re fine working alone, it’s comforting being with a friend right now. There’s a lot on your mind, and you just need something to distract yourself. Keeping your hands moving is a big help for that.

Your father has allowed your mother to stay while she finds another place to go. Her being at home means lots of fighting. At least for once, it isn’t silent in the house. You and your sister spend most of the time in your own rooms, only coming out for dinner. This isn’t new, but it feels more like a prison than before. The good side of Mom staying is she cooks dinner, which allows you to focus on your project. You have fulfilled all your helper positions—thankfully, Mingyu came around in the end and said yes—so you are focusing on bringing your sketches to life.

“My hands are cramping,” Dae whines, bringing your attention to her. You finish the line you are drawing and sit back on your heels.

“Take a rest,” you suggest. Dae shakes her head.

“I’ve got a quota to meet. If I can finish it now, I can have the rest of the day off,” she explains and goes back to her work.

“If you say so,” you mumble before finishing your work.

Ten minutes pass until she speaks again.

“I ran into Seungcheol today on campus,” Dae says casually. You pause your movements at her sentence.

“And that matters to me how?” you wonder, keeping your gaze locked on your task at hand. Just his name has your heart racing. Though, you conclude it to be from anger.

“He asked about you,” she replies and stands up, a cut piece of fabric in her hand.

“I hope you told him I moved across the globe,” you mumble and grab the scissors you had brought. However, you can’t really focus on anything, so you simply mess around with the crystals you have to hold down the fabric.

Dae laughs a little and shakes her head. “I told him you are moping without him.”

You flicker your gaze to hers quickly, mouth open at her disloyalty.

“I am not moping, and if I was, it wouldn’t be because of him,” you argue fiercely, unknowingly moving your hands as you speak.

Dae’s gaze glances at the scissors still in your grasp. “Let’s put that down when we’re talking about Seungcheol, okay?”

You peer at the object and scoff. “It’s comforting me right now, so no.”

“How exactly is it comforting you?”

“I’m imagining sticking it where the sun doesn’t shin—”

“Yn,” Dae scolds.

“You asked,” you say, then set them down reluctantly.

Dae eyes your movements carefully before speaking, “He just wanted to know how you were doing.”

“I’m doing fabulous,” you snap, hoping that is what she had told him. Your tone is a little harsher than you mean.

“I told him you were doing fine,” she answers your silent question.

You sigh. “Both start with ‘f’, so you were close enough, I guess.”

“You know what else starts with ‘f’?” she asks.

“Fudge? Which we should go get, by the way.”

“Forlorn,” she answers, dismissing your attempt for sweets. “You’re forlorn.”

“I am not sad and lonely,” you huff. Sure, your family drama is at a high right now, and you just dumped your not-so-friend-who-you-were-starting-to-like-being-with.

You are not sad. You are not lonely.

“You’re also in fenial,” Dae adds.

“I’m in what?”

“Fenial.”

“You mean denial?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Huh?!”

You stare at her, puzzlement written all over your face. She smiles at that, pinning her fabric to her dress form and then turning to you.

“You’re in denial that you miss him.”

“What is fenial?” you ask, disregarding her statement about how you feel about Seungcheol. You are not missing him. He has chosen his side—alright, not really, but his actions say otherwise. He is not on Team Yn.

Dae groans. “We were on f-words, and I had to improvise. I just wanted to tell you you’re in denial.”

“And you’re felusional.”

“How about we just change to d-words?” she asks when she notices what word you mean.

“Or change the subject entirely.”

You stand up, stretching your arms over your head and twisting your body to ease your back as you’ve been hunched over for a while. Dae stays silent as she lets the topic rest momentarily. You leave to grab a glass of water before sitting on her couch. Just as you think she’s letting it go, she speaks.

“Do you think he’s a bad person?”

“Dae,” you sigh in a warning. You came here in hopes of getting away from your problems, not facing them.

“It’s a yes or no question,” Dae states sternly.

Instead of responding right away, you take a drink from your cup. The cold liquid feels refreshing, and you relish in the feeling before her question echoes in your head.

Finally, you say, “No.”

Dae slows her movements on her dress form and peers at you. She doesn’t look at you playfully or pitifully, which you appreciate, but you still don’t want to talk about it. She seems to want otherwise.

“So, why did you stop talking to him?”

“I told you before,” you answer. “I don’t want to be around someone who won’t stand up for me. They’re his friends, and I’m not going to force him to choose.”

“You want him to, though,” she observes. Even though you want to deny that, you know she is right.

“Well, I didn’t want to force him to. I thought he would just do that upon seeing how rude his friends are.” Your thumbs play with the condensation on your glass.

“You’re not innocent either, Yn,” Dae answers softly so as to not hurt your feelings. It doesn’t help.

“Great, so you’re siding with them now as well?” you exhale, exhausted.

“No,” she replies seriously. “I’m trying to show you that he could have picked them over you.”

“Explain,” you say as you try not to lose your temper for a change.

“You’re saying his friends are rude—”

“They are,” you interject.

“I’m not saying they aren’t. Just listen to me,” she continues when you nod. “You’re saying his friends are rude, and he should ditch them, but if you’re being mean, then shouldn’t he leave you too?”

There is an argument on the tip of your tongue that never forms. Her words sink into your mind, processing what she means.

“What his friends are saying to you is not right, and I get why you’re fighting against them, but I wouldn’t hate Seungcheol for not unfriending them.”

“He still doesn’t always have my back,” you counter.

“Hm,” she concurs. “That he could do better on.”

You sit still as you muse about what she told you. She has a valid point, and part of you is grateful he didn’t leave you despite you always giving off the impression of wanting him to.

“And I don’t hate him,” you murmur, lower than your normal volume, but Dae hears you.

She exhales slowly, glancing at you sincerely. She gives you a reassuring smile. “I know.”

“Can you play that one more time?” you ask as you lean over Jihoon’s shoulder.

“Sure,” he answers and clicks a button. The sound plays from his speakers once more. You move away and begin to pace in his room. Your eyes stare down at your feet while you carefully listen. Having four elements seemed good at first, but now you are having trouble finding a beat that fits all four. You like some of the pieces Jihoon created, but they often fit more with one element.

“Something just isn’t,” you trail off once the song fades out.

“Can’t you just make four separate tracks?” Chan, who you met through Soonyoung a week ago, pipes in from Jihoon’s bed. He claims he has nothing to do and wants to help as well. At first, you’re unsure. His major is dance, like Soonyoung’s, so what knowledge does he have about music production? Despite your original disposition, he turns out to be more helpful than you initially thought.

“I don’t have enough time on stage for that,” you explain. In order for the show to not run for an entire day, each student is given a limited amount of time for their section of the show.

You all sit in silence as you think about what to do.

“Hey Jihoon, Chan—Oh,” a familiar voice rings out in the room. All heads turn to the door to see Seungcheol standing there.

It’s been nearly two weeks since you saw him, and during said weeks, you had been avoiding him. You didn’t let yourself be alone with him, let alone let him speak a word to you.

The fight you had with him is still prominent in your mind, but what’s more evident is the way your body reacts when he gives you any attention. You feel betrayed by your own body when you feel a pang in your chest or a lingering desire to be close to him again. It’s as if you lost something you could’ve had if it weren’t for his wishful thinking. He wants his two worlds to coexist, but that isn’t going to happen. Maybe you would’ve given him an ultimatum, but you aren’t sure if he would even pick you. Hell, why would he when he’s known them longer? No reason to put yourself in that position.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, taken aback. Before you can question what he is doing here, Chan speaks.

“Hey, Cheol,” Chan greets. “Can you give us some help real quick?”

Chan’s question pulls you from your sappy thoughts and look at Chan as if he grew two heads. Seungcheol? Helping with music?

“We can figure it out ourselves, we don’t need—”

“Is this the music for your project?” he interrupts and walks inside the small room.

Sighing, you move away when he nears. “Yeah, but I don’t see how you could help.”

“Play it, please,” Seungcheol directs to Jihoon, ignoring your comment. Jihoon obliges before you can stop him. For the nth time, the music sounds in the room.

You stay silent as Seungcheol stares at the screen. His brows are drawn together, and his lips are in a slight pout. You realize you have never seen him so serious before. You don’t know why he’s so focused on a project he has nothing to do with.

As the song ends, another voice comes from the doorway.

“Cheollie, we’re leav—What are you doing here?”

To your disappointment, Hajun is standing at the door. Though what you really get a kick out of is her outfit. For the first time, she isn’t in pants. Her skirt stops a few inches above her knee, and her blouse is form-fitting rather than loose—like she normally wears.

Instinctively, your eyes drift to Seungcheol. You didn’t realize his attire until now. Despite it not being a suit, he wears slacks and a patterned top. A simple and clean look but is still nice. Were they on…?

Even though her question is most likely directed at you based on her tone, Seungcheol answers, “Give us a moment, Hajun. I’ll be out in a second.”

“But the—”

“Wait in the car then,” he replies sternly, eyes not leaving the computer screen. She fumes, gives you one final glare, then leaves.

“You have other files?” Seungcheol questions.

“Yes, but they’re either missing an element or don't fit any of them,” Jihoon explains.

You can’t recall ever telling Seungcheol about the theme of your project, so why is he acting as if this isn’t news to him? Maybe he put it together upon seeing your designs, or maybe his friends told him about it. Does that mean they talk about you in private? Probably. Still, you can’t help but want to ask.

“How did—” you begin, but Seungcheol stops you.

“Have you done one file with all four?”

“It was too long for her project,” Chan explains.

Suddenly, you feel you are being pushed out of your project. They’re talking about you as if you aren’t standing a few feet from them.

“This is my show, remember?” you huff. However, no one reacts to your question.

Your patience drastically decreases. It doesn’t help that the bane of your existence is the cause of being overthrown.

“So, just cut each element file to make them shorter and create transitions,” Seungcheol suggests. “She’ll just have to organize her lineup to match.”

“That’s a stup—” you began.

“That may work,” Jihoon mumbles, then says to himself. “Such an obvious solution, too.”

You open your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again.

“It may sound choppy if not done correctly, but that won’t be a problem since you’re making the track,” Chan adds with a supporting smile.

“Will you buffoons stop interrupting me?!” you exclaim, stomping a foot like you are a child.

They all turn toward you. Seungcheol chuckles softly at your scowl.

“Shouldn’t we be getting a ‘thank you,’ Cherry?” Seungcheol asks cockily.

Chan and Jihoon look at him, confused, never having heard that name before. To be fair, no one has.

“No, because you all just decided things without me,” you argue and gesture to the screen to prove your point.

“We were helping you,” Seungcheol rephrases.

“You were taking ove—”

“Come here,” he says, holding out his hand. You look at it as if he has just stuck it in sewer water.

“Like hell I will. You can leave. Hajun is waiting for you anyway. I need to finish working with Jihoon,” you scoff and angle your body to the screen to dismiss him.

“I don’t know why I offered my hand,” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s so quiet you can still hear it.

“Great question,” you say. “I don’t know why either, because I’m never going anywh—”

“I should’ve just taken yours.”

Seungcheol suddenly grabs your wrist, firm enough so you can’t escape but not so rough to where he’s hurting you. He starts walking toward the door with you in tow. Unless you want him to clean the floor with your body, you have no choice but to follow.

He pulls you into the empty bedroom next door, shutting it before he releases you. He presses his back against the door to make sure you can’t make a run for it.

“That’s your tenth time interrupting me,” you hiss, a finger pointing at him accusingly. It’s bad enough he waltzed in and made decisions for your project without consulting you. Now he wants to, what? Force you to talk to him? Force you to forgive him?

“It was probably like three times, and Jihoon interrupted you as well,” Seungcheol says.

“He’s not an ass like you,” you reply.

“Oh, I’m an ass?”

You move closer to him, finger now pressing into his chest. Your unwanted yearning for him is transforming into anger. It’s a way to divert the denial you’re feeling at how much you missed being near him. Even if he has pissed you off before, you didn’t realize how much he has wormed his way into your life. To suddenly cut him off made it harder not to think of him. Now that he is here in front of you, you don't know what else to do but to default to how you initially felt around him—annoyed.

Surely, the increased heart rate is due to being irate, not because you are nearly toe-to-toe with Seungcheol.

“A big ass. Huge! One that I—No!”

You quickly stop your sentence when he opens his mouth. The finger on his chest is now pressing against his mouth to quiet him.

“Let me finish, dammit. You’re rude and insufferable. You’re the biggest ass I’ve ever met. One that I wouldn’t mind kicking—with my heels on, mind you.”

Seungcheol looks at you, pleased, which only intensifies the fire in you. Once he starts speaking, you quickly retract your finger. The feel of his mouth moving against your finger feels like fire against your skin—burning and making you feel warm.

“You sure you can balance on one leg long enough to do that?” he taunts.

After letting out a big exhale while stepping away, you ask, “What are you even doing here?”

“I promised I would help Joshua with something,” he explains. Hearing his name, it dawns on you that you are probably in his room. He and Jihoon have been roommates for a few months now, so you see him frequently.

“Why are you dressed like that?” you question next, eyes going up and down his body swiftly.

“I went out to dinner,” he shrugs, not finding a big deal in what he’s wearing.

You aren’t going to bring her up. You really aren’t. So, why can’t you stop your damn mouth from running?

“With Hajun?”

Something in your tone must have gotten Seungcheol’s attention more. A stupid smirk forms on his stupid face.

“Something on your mind, Cherry?” he quips. You hate when he has that mischievous grin of his.

“Besides wanting to kick you? No.”

Rather than Seungcheol being offended by your answer, his smile only grows. “I’ve missed your sassy mouth.”

There’s a tug in your chest at his words, something akin to a siren's call—luring you to someone dangerous. At least, dangerous to your heart.

It feels good to be missed by him, but you still can’t let go of the words he said to you in that café.

“I’m sure your friends are ecstatic to not have seen me lately,” you huff. Even though you are tired of thinking of them when you’re around him, you still bring them up. It’s just easier to latch onto a reason to be mad at him.

“I’m not talking about them right now,” he says firmly.

Seungcheol pushes off the door to stand closer to you. You take one step back, but one of his hands presses against the small of your back to bring you to him. The close proximity has you trying to lean away, but he doesn’t let that happen.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he encourages, voice softer.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. You’re still worked up from all the irritation you feel. You’re probably overreacting, but being alone with him stirs up feelings you’ve locked away.

“Let go of me,” you reply in lieu and wiggle in his hold. It’s fruitless.

“Yn,” he says lowly. Hearing your name from his lips has your breathing stop. It’s odd to hear it when he normally uses the nickname he gave you. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t need him to tell you what he’s apologizing for.

“Don’t,” you warn and press a hand against his chest. “You don’t mean that.”

His body feels soft, yet firm under your touch. While you would focus on his build, the feeling of his racing heart catches your attention more. Your eyes snap to meet his, not noticing you are staring at your hand on him. Is he nervous?

“I do. I’m sorry you felt I wasn’t on your side,” he says, mouth tugging down. “I want to be there for you.”

There is that feeling in your chest again—one you have been trying to force down for days. You try to hold onto the fizzing anger in you, but Dae’s words resurface in your mind. He could have left you. After all, he is right. You were rude when you first met him.

Seungcheol’s gaze darts between your eyes and then to your lips. You say nothing as he does so, your own eyes sweeping across his features.

As if in a daze, he starts to slowly lean forward.

You press the hand against his chest harder to stop him. “Cheol, you can’t. I—”

“What is it, baby?” he murmurs, thumb rubbing against the small of your back. The pet name wraps you in a blanket of illusion where you’re really his. One where there isn’t constant drama looming around you. You like the way it sounds from him.

“I have lipstick on,” you reply quietly.

Seungcheol flickers his gaze to your eyes, his own forming small crescents as he chuckles. “Is that your excuse to stop me?”

“No,” you answer with a slight shake of your head.

“Then stop talking,” he laughs softly and leans in again. Your hand on his chest relaxes as you let his body come nearer.

His lips gently brush against yours, almost experimentally. The simple feel of his mouth on yours has your body tingle. Your chest feels tight the longer you hold your breath in anticipation. As soon as he starts to press his lips on yours more, there is a loud noise from the other side.

“Shua, wait! I think Seungcheol and Yn are in ther—”

You both quickly separate from each other, eyes wide as saucers when the door opens. Joshua stands with a hand on his doorknob; his lips are in a deep frown at seeing you two.

“Not in my room,” he whines, body sagging when he sees both of your expressions.

“Huh? What do you mean? What’s going on—Oh,” Chan calls out as he comes behind him.

You’re sure neither one of you is untidy in terms of clothes and hair, but the look on your faces is a flashing neon sign indicating what was occurring or about to occur.

“Nothing happened,” Seungcheol says and pushes a hand through his hair.

“Hopefully not. You have your own place for that,” Joshua replies. The thought of doing something intimate with Seungcheol has your cheeks feeling hot.

Not wanting to think of that, you glance at Chan. “Did Jihoon get the music sorted?”

Chan, still a little startled, nods. “He’s ready whenever you are.”

“Great, I’m coming.”

Chan says okay before heading back to the other room. Joshua makes his way into the room while you and Seungcheol start toward the exit. However, before you can completely leave, Seungcheol grabs your upper arm gently to stop you.

He leans toward your ear to whisper, “It was an end-of-the-year dinner with my whole class. My friends are probably wondering where I am.”

Without another word, he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead before sending you a smile and rounding the corner at the end of the hall that leads to the front door.

Your brain hasn’t caught up to anything that has happened in the last few minutes. From being frustrated with Seungcheol to nearly kissing him. You don’t even like him, so why is your heart soaring at thinking of possibly being in a relationship with him? Why does knowing he didn’t go to dinner alone with Hajun make you feel relieved? Hell, you don’t even find him attractive… Right? Yeah. He isn’t your type. His smile isn’t pretty. His eyes definitely don’t shine. His dimples are unflattering. His laugh is cute—obnoxious! His laugh is obnoxious.

Your shoulders deflate.

Oh, fuck.

Seeing Seungcheol on campus stirs a torrent of emotions through you.

The sight of him has your lips tingle as if you can feel the ghost of his mouth on yours. You ponder on what would have happened if Joshua hadn’t barged into the room. Would the kiss have been short and sweet? Long and passionate? Quick and desperate? Would he have said something that would’ve changed the trajectory of your relationship? Did you want that?

You have been snuffing out any thoughts about Seungcheol that crosses the line of friendship. There isn’t a reason why you can’t be more than friends—besides the disapproval from his business friends. You chalk it up to being too busy to put much effort into a partner. Plus, is Seungcheol even the person you want?

“You know you’ve been staring at the man for the past three minutes, right?”

Dae’s voice knocks on your mind’s door. Your gaze tears from Seungcheol’s back, who is ahead of you in the line ordering, to peer at your friend. She wears a small smile and is watching you closely.

“Not on purpose,” you argue. “I was just staring off into the distance. He just happened to be there.”

“You’ve been hanging out with him a lot,” she observes.

With the conversation about Seungcheol, you can’t help but drift your eyes back to him.

He must sense your stare because out of the blue, he’s looking over his shoulder at you. The cashier follows his gaze, then says something to Seungcheol to which he nods in reply. Although the cashier turns back to the screen in front of them, Seungcheol’s eyes linger on you. He gives you a quick wink, mouth raising in a lopsided smile before finally averting his gaze.

“I haven’t,” you answer late and glance away.

“Uh huh,” Dae says, unbelieving.

“He’s just somehow always around when I’m working on my project with his friends. I’m not hanging out with him,” you explain.

“Maybe not directly, but he’s still there,” she shrugs.

“Trust me. I wish he wouldn’t be,” you sigh, shuffling forward when the line moves. “He’s distracting when I’m trying to get work done.”

Dae giggles. “Oh, I’m sure he is.”

“Not in that way,” you scold with a light arm slap. “I mean, his friends are easily susceptible to topic changes. What should be a thirty-minute meeting turns into an hour.”

Dae hums but doesn’t say anything else when you both are near the cashier finally. After ordering for yourself, you take out your card ready to pay.

“Actually, it’s already been paid for,” the worker says.

You cock your head to the side in confusion. “What?”

The cashier turns to Dae, who is ordering next to you. “And your friend’s.”

Suddenly, Dae is giggling. Though they aren’t quiet chuckles, they are loud and obnoxious. So much so, you feel it could be heard throughout the whole building.

“How kind of him, Yn,” she teases you, gladly accepting the free meal. You don’t need to specify the “he”. Since the deed is already done, you have no choice but to grab your food and move along.

“You should thank him,” Dae suggests as you walk to an empty table.

You scan the area and spot him with his back to you again. He sits with Vernon, Doyun, Joshua, and Mingyu. None of them notice you, and you turn around before that changes.

“I don’t want to, not in front of his friends,” you say, taking a bite of your meal.

“Why not?”

“I just feel it’ll be awkward,” you mumble.

Dae smiles. “It wouldn’t be, but fine. Let’s write him a note instead.”

You glance at her questionably. “Or I could just text him.”

“That’s so boring,” she scoffs, reaching inside your purse.

“Hey!” you try to protest but that doesn’t stop her from rummaging through your bag. She pulls out your sticky notes that have a cute design on them.

“Don’t you have yours?” you grumble as she starts to scribble on it.

“Yours are nicer,” she answers simply. She slides the pad over to you and her pen. “Now, write a thank you.”

Reluctantly, you do as you’re told. While you do so, Dae digs into your purse again. This time she pulls out your travel-sized perfume. You figure she wants to freshen up, but rather, she tears off the sticky note and spritzes the paper with the scent.

“That is so old school,” you groan, cringing at the cheesy act.

Dae smirks and folds the note. She pushes it in your hand and then covers her barely-eaten food.

“Let’s go give it to him as we’re leaving,” she instructs.

“But I barely started eating,” you complain, glancing down at your food.

“Do you really want to stay in this stuffy area? We can eat somewhere else.”

You watch as she stands up. Sensing she isn’t going to take no for an answer, and you don’t like eating in here anyway, you oblige and grab your meal.

“Any slower and we’ll have to eat during the lecture,” she says.

“We should’ve just left without sitting down,” you reply and started walking in the direction of Seungcheol’s table.

You don’t get the chance to back out of Dae’s plan since she taps his shoulder to get his attention as soon as she’s in arm's reach.

He jumps, turning as his eyes raise to flicker between the two of you. You bite back the giggle that almost escapes upon seeing his stuffed cheeks. He reminds you of a cute chipmunk, and there is a tingle in your fingertips that makes you want to poke his face.

Seungcheol seems embarrassed at having been caught like that, quickly covering his mouth and turning away. Once he swallows his food, he looks at you both again.

“Yn has something to give you,” Dae says.

You suddenly feel like her kid who has been forced to do something because “Mommy said to do it.” His friends are watching inquisitively.

“Oh?” he wonders, eyes glinting with curiosity.

You push out your hand, the folded note sticking out. He takes it slowly. His fingers brush yours as he did so, and you feel like such a love-sick teenager at the subtle giddy feeling bubbling from his graze.

You don’t want to be there when he opens it, so you clutch Dae’s arm and beeline to the exit without a word. You refuse to turn back to see his expression, only focusing on Dae’s endless giggles on the way out.

Your mom has finally found a hotel nearby to stay at. Even though you haven’t seen her in a long time, part of you is glad she is going. However, the little girl in you wants her to stay. To try to fix what is so broken in this fucking house, but that is a wish that will never be granted. You just want the fighting to stop, for you and for your sister. For that to happen, it’s best that she left. She’s been gone for three days; it’s been quiet since. Your father hasn’t said anything, just asked if you and your sister were okay before returning to his office.

Spring break came and went in a blink of an eye. You had no plans besides continuing to work on your project. After your mom left, you transferred all the items you had worked on from Dae’s place back to yours. You hung out with her occasionally, which wasn’t shocking to do, but what you didn’t expect was to talk to Seungcheol throughout the week.

Seungcheol was out of town with his family, so he was pretty busy. Despite this, he still managed to find time to talk to you when he could. Conversations were dragged out due to the delayed responses, but that didn’t matter to you. It was nice to learn more about him and think about something other than your project—even if it were just for a few minutes at a time.

Now your floor is covered in fabric scraps, cut-out fabric pieces, and sewing pattern sketches. Although it’s a mess, seeing your progress feels good.

Outside your door, you hear hurried shuffling. You ignore it as your sister is probably playing around.

“Yn! Your boyfriend is here!” Seoah calls out. You pause in pinning a piece of fabric to your dress form and sigh. You stick the pin in the pin cushion you have on your wrist, then leave your room.

As you are turning the corner, you ask in exasperation, “What are you talking about, Seoah? I don’t have a—Seungcheol?”

You stop in your tracks when you see him standing in the doorway, his name coming out as a gasp. His hair is wavy, which is different from how you normally see it. His dark hoodie and pants combo is nothing spectacular, but it has you wanting to wrap your arms around him to see if he feels as comfortable as he looks.

You quickly blink a few times, gathering yourself again and trying hard not to ponder on your thoughts. You veer toward your sister. “Go to your room.”

“What? You’re not even going to introduce me?” she scoffs, ignoring your demand and turning to Seungcheol. She outreaches a hand to him and bows slightly.

“Hi! I’m Seoah, the better sister.”

Seungcheol chuckles and reciprocates the handshake, bowing slightly as well. “Nice to meet you, Seoah. I’m Seungcheol.”

“I’ve heard about you!” she exclaims. “Yn has talked about you.”

That is a partial lie. You have talked about him, but not with her. She must have heard you talk about him while you spoke to Dae on the phone. Curse your thin walls.

Seungcheol glances past her to you, who stands, annoyed, a little away from the door. He takes in your casual attire, and you realize he’s not used to seeing you like this. You suddenly feel self-conscious. Instead of that making you cower in shyness, you just get irritated.

“Good things, I hope,” he answers your sister with a laugh.

Seoah winces. “Actually, not really—”

“Room! Now!” you huff and point to the hallway. Seoah rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. She gives Seungcheol a wave before skipping past you, making sure to “accidentally” bump into you on her way.

Once you hear her door shut, you walk closer to Seungcheol.

“What are you doing here?” you ask in a quiet voice, knowing Seoah probably has an ear pressed up against her wall.

Rather than giving you the answer you’re looking for, he chaffs, “You’ve said bad things about me? I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I’m about to have more bad things to say if you don’t answer my question.”

Seungcheol smiles, seemingly unfazed by your brazen response. “At least you would be talking about me.”

Unamused by his playful tone, you take a step back and push the door closed. Seungcheol presses his palm against the object before it can fully shut. His push on the door is strong enough that you have no choice but to stop your actions.

“Must you always be so snappy?” he questions blithely.

“Must you always be so annoying?” you retort.

“Annoying is subjective.”

“Seungcheol,” you exhale. “I’m busy, so unless it’s something dire, get off my porch.”

“I haven't seen you for a week and suddenly you’ve turned into an old lady.”

Your eyes narrow. The pin cushion comes into view, and you reach to pluck a needle from it.

“This old lady has a weapon, so don’t even start,” you threaten.

Seungcheol takes a step back when he sees the small object. He bites his lower lip as he stares at it. You can tell he’s trying not to laugh. It makes you jab the air toward him, causing him to take another step back.

“Alright, alright, Cherry, put that tiny sword away,” he laughs, hands rising to show mercy.

You oblige, eyes scrutinizing him in case he decides to do something. Though, he simply lowers his arms.

“What do you want?” you ask.

“It’s always ‘what do you want’ and never ‘how are you’,” he sighs teasingly.

Your reply almost leaves your lips until you hear the sound of a door opening from inside.

“Yn? Is there someone at the door?” your father’s voice comes from somewhere behind you. In a panic, you shut the door—so unexpectedly and fast, Seungcheol doesn’t have time to stop you this time.

You turn around to him. “Yeah. I forgot I left something at Dae’s. She’s just brought it back. I need to go meet her.”

Lying to your Dad isn’t something you probably need to do. It’s not like you are banned from having friends or being in a relationship, but you try not to mix too much of your personal life with people you know.

“Ah, alright,” he says. He lingers around for a moment and then leaves the room.

You open the door as soon as he is out of sight. You step out this time. Seungcheol gives you a concerned look, but you pretend not to notice.

“Can we talk in your car?” you ask. It’s better to talk where Seoah isn’t eavesdropping, and your Dad can’t spot you.

Seungcheol doesn’t question you and gestures for you to lead the way.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he observes as you go down the stairs.

“Good to know you can see,” you reply, not caring about the fact. You’re just going to figure out what he wants then go back inside.

“And you called me insufferable,” he groans.

Suddenly, your feet aren’t touching the floor.

Seungcheol has his arms under your knees and around your back. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck tightly.

“This is unnecessary!” you shriek at the abrupt change.

“You could get hurt,” he simply says, walking the short distance from your porch steps to his car parked out front.

“It’s concrete, not glass. I would’ve been fine,” you argue.

“You never know.”

Seungcheol’s grip doesn’t loosen, and you know he isn’t going to let you down until he reaches his vehicle. With this knowledge, you decide to let yourself think about the way he holds you so tightly. His hair is tickling your arm, and his cold touch on your bare legs warms your skin the longer it presses against you. For a moment, you dive back into that illusion of being more than friends. It’s a dangerous thought.

Instead of setting you down on the ground when he arrives at his car, he gently rests you on top of his shoes—still not letting your feet touch the rough concrete. It’s a small gesture, but the impact it has on you is big. You warmly stare at him, hoping he doesn’t see it as you wait for him to open the door. The click of the door cues you to climb inside.

“All that work for what?” you laugh lightly when he climbs inside, trying not to seep deeper into the warmth that begins spreading in your chest. He turns on the car to get the AC running.

“For your safety,” he replies as if what he did isn’t anything special. While you hate the part of your brain that wonders if he has done this for anyone else before, you hate another part that wants him to only do these things for you more.

“Should I carry you if you are barefooted next time?” you tease.

The grin on his face is wide enough to accentuate his dimples. “As much as I would love for that to happen, I doubt you can carry me.”

“We can try it now,” you offer, gesturing out the window.

“I would rather not break my tailbone when you drop me,” he laughs.

It’s getting harder to deny that you miss him and his contagious giggles. You laugh along with him briefly.

“So, will you please tell me why you’re here?” you ask when the laughter dies down.

“Another ‘please’? I ought to be around you more if I remind you of that word,” he replies.

“You do, constantly,” you start. “Please go away. Please get to the point. Please shut up. Please—”

“I got it,” he chuckles, and you stop to give him a triumphant smirk.

“I wanted to invite you to dinner with my friends,” he finally reveals.

Hearing the term “my friends” coming from Seungcheol has your smirk slowly evaporating. Upon seeing your change of expression, he quickly elaborates.

“Our friends. Would you like to go to dinner with our friends? Not my… other ones.”

You feel better at knowing it isn’t the group you are avidly evading. “Why would they want me there? Did you not ask about me coming again?”

“Actually,” he pauses, “they asked me to invite you.”

“They did?” you wonder out loud, startled.

“You and Dae.”

“This couldn’t have been asked in a text message?” you ask.

“I wanted to see you,” he shrugs as though there is nothing wrong with that. Which, there isn’t, except it stirs unwanted emotions that make you feel warmer.

You move your gaze from him as you consider the invitation. Your first outing with people other than Dae went horribly, and even though this will be with people you are more fond of, you’re still nervous. Maybe if Dae agrees, you’ll be more inclined.

“Can I get back to you?” you ask.

Seungcheol’s small frown quickly turns upside down when you look at him again. “Yeah, of course,” he forces out.

“Sorry, I just…”

Seungcheol reaches out to you, placing a hand on your thigh lightly to reassure you. “I get it. Don’t feel pressured. We just wanted to get to know you both without talking about your projects.”

You nod slowly, eyes staring down at his hand on your skin. Heat is spreading from his touch to across your body. His other hand comes up and guides your face upward, causing your gaze to tear from his hand to his face. He’s closer than you remember. He smiles at you, those devilish dimples appearing and making your heart melt involuntarily.

“Just let me know,” he speaks lowly, slowly so you hear him clearly. Your mind isn’t sure if he is referring to letting him know about the dinner invitation or letting him know if you want him to kiss you.

Yes to both.

You nod, eyes trailing down to his lips. You watch as they stretch into a bigger grin.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is thumping in his quiet car. Though that is a fleeting thought as he nears your face. Your eyes flutter shut as you meet him halfway.

Like before, his lips graze yours tenderly. It’s so gentle that you have to suppress the shiver your body wants to emit. One of your hands slowly rises to rest against his cheek to bring him closer. His head tilts into your touch.

Seungcheol’s hand that’s on your thigh glides up your side until it rests on your waist. Your lips are pressed against his more than they were at Jihoon’s, but not fully. Despite the slow pace, it’s thrilling to be able to focus on his every touch.

“Not your boyfriend, huh?”

The voice outside has you both springing from each other. You move so fast that your head accidentally hits the passenger window. The thud catches Seungcheol’s attention and before you can glare daggers at your sister, his hands come up to cup the back of your head where you had hit it.

“Are you okay?” he quickly asks. Although you want to indulge in his caring nature, you move his hands so you can turn to face the window. The throbbing is already fading.

Seoah stands with her arms crossed, hips shifted to one side, and a not-so-intimidating stare.

“Well?” she prompts. Her voice is slightly muffled from being outside, but you hear it nonetheless.

You open the door so she can hear you clearly. “You say anything and I’ll—”

“You’re really going to threaten me with your boyfriend here?” she questions, a knowing smile on her annoying face.

“You’re right. Let’s go inside first,” you say before turning to Seungcheol. His face is flushed, and he still seems a little startled by everything that happened. You’ve never seen him so bashful before. He looks rather… cute.

“I’ll get back to you, okay?” you say, starting to slowly leave his car.

That has him swimming out of his thoughts. “Do you need me to—”

You smile at him. “No, Cheol, I don’t need a ‘ride’ back to the door.”

“Watch your step,” he warns softly.

“I will. Drive safe,” you say, fully out of his car and leaning in through his now rolled-down window to see him. You peer over your shoulder to see Seoah waiting a few feet away.

“Also,” he says quickly. “I’ll drive you and Dae and pay for your dinners. If that’s any incentive to come.”

“Tempting,” you playfully reply. “I’ll let you know soon.”

“Okay,” he slowly says. “Oh, and thank you for that note.”

Your body stills at remembering that silly, scented sticky note Dae made you give him days ago.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” you reply with a hint of sternness.

“Bye, Cherry,” he smiles. He seems like he wants to say more but decides against it.

“Bye, Seungcheol,” you say.

Per his request, you’re careful with your steps as you retreat back to your door. Before you go back inside, you turn to Seoah.

“What were you doing outside?” you question. You can hear the sound of car tires as she answers.

“Dad sent me out to get you.”

Your eyes widen. “Did he see who I was with?”

“No,” she says. “Just said he didn’t hear you come back in.”

Of course, the one time he decides to be attentive is when Seungcheol comes.

“Don’t tell him about this, alright?” you sigh.

Seoah nods. She may be annoying, but at least she isn’t traitorous. “Are you dating him?”

“No,” you reply sternly. You aren’t. You are just… testing the waters? About to have a friend with benefits? Friends with make-out-sessions? You are nearing an unhealthy spiral from how much you are fretting over the man.

“Do you want to be?” she wonders.

“Enough, Seoah. Just promise me you won’t say anything.”

Seoah stays silent for a moment. You fear you’ll have to plead more, but she ends up sticking out her pinkie finger. You sigh in relief, wrapping your pinkie around hers.

“I promise,” she says.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “Let’s get inside,” you instruct, voice softer than before.

“Please turn in your progress reports. I’ll see you all next week,” Dr. Lim says and motions to the spot on the table in front of him.

You wait as the majority of your peers place their papers in a pile. You’re still on your iPad and editing a few designs. You just can’t get one of them right. Something is off, but you aren’t quite sure of the reason.

Maybe if you hadn’t stayed up last night, your mind wouldn’t be so sluggish.

Seungcheol wasn’t quite ready to end the conversation once he left. Countless texts transpired before he eventually called. The conversations were easygoing enough for you to continue working on your designs while you talked to him. You learned he had an older brother and parents who all lived a few cities over. He hasn’t visited as many times as he wished due to being busy with classes. Though, he tries to go when he can.

You don’t disclose much about your family, keeping it simple by saying you have a sister, whom he met, and parents. He doesn’t pester too much on the topic, and you’re glad. Instead, you talk about what you’ve both been up to and your hobbies (he likes to play games and drink with friends).

You stayed up later than normal and are now paying the price for it. Though even through your haze, you don’t regret it.

“Come on, Yn,” Dae says when the line to leave shortens.

“One second,” you reply as you focus back on your sketch.

Dae sighs but leaves you alone, going to turn in her own report.

Maybe the coloring? But if you adjust the shade, it will be too close to another design. Is the one slit in the skirt too common? Maybe if you add two… Better, but it still isn’t clicking. Perhaps it is the top.

Your hand dances across the screen, drawing and erasing, then redrawing until you finally have something that itches that artistic scratch you are trying to satisfy. The other issue is you need more fabric to make this piece. You’ll have to note that down in your to-do list.

Once you are finally packed, you leave your table and set your paper on top of everyone else’s.

Dr. Lim glances up at seeing you walk past. “Thanks, Yn. I look forward to seeing what you have so far.”

“I am as well. Let me know if there are any changes that could make my designs better,” you reply, pushing your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

He smiles at you; it’s not the first time you’ve asked this. “Of course. See you next week.”

You say your goodbye and then exit to find Dae. She’s outside the classroom, leaning against the wall as she speaks to someone. He looks familiar and you recall his name to be Yejun. He was with Jeonghan when you first met him.

“You get everything sorted?” Dae asks when she sees you. You nod. “Do you remember Yejun?”

Another nod.

“It’s good to see you again,” he greets with a warm smile.

The first response you have is it probably isn’t good to see you since most people don’t find pleasure in your presence. You’re sure he just said that out of courtesy.

Alternatively, you opt for, “You as well.”

“Oh, did Seungcheol ask you about that dinner with the guys?” Dae wonders to you.

Ah, that’s right. You were going to ask her about that today but got distracted with revising your design.

“He did, but I wanted to see if you are going first,” you answer.

“Yeah, me and Yejun are planning to go.”

You glance at Yejun in surprise. Seungcheol didn’t mention his name.

Upon seeing your expression, Yejun explains, “Jeonghan invited me since I’m helping Dae with her project.”

“Hm,” you hum in affirmation. It makes sense.

“So, are you coming?” Dae questions.

You’re conflicted about what you want. What if this dinner ends like how the lounge night went? You planned to stick with Dae if she goes, but now that Yejun is going, will she leave you? What if something happens and you need her?

“Stop overthinking and just say yes. It’ll be fine,” Dae interrupts your mental questions and gives you a friendly push.

Exhaling deeply, you agree to go.

“Great,” she smiles. “Yejun offered to give us a ride.”

The mention of a ride makes you recall Seungcheol’s offer. “Oh, Ch-Seungcheol actually said he’ll drive us and pay for our dinner.”

You peer at Yejun, recalling he didn’t mention he’ll do the same for Yejun, but you figure Seungcheol won’t mind. At least the ride part. You don’t know if he’ll pay for Yejun too.

Yejun gets the hint at your look and chuckles. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch a ride with Jeonghan.”

“I’ll go with Yejun and Jeonghan,” Dae offers.

Your heart starts to race at the idea of being left alone with Seungcheol again. It wouldn’t be the worst thing, and you rather enjoyed his company, but lately, you’ve been treading on an indivisible balance beam—teetering on feelings you aren’t ready to come to terms with. Maybe you are, but you’re too nervous that Seungcheol doesn't feel the same. Yeah, he tried to kiss you—twice—but that doesn’t mean he likes you. You can kiss people you don’t like. He could be looking for something noncommittal and somehow sees that in you.

Great, now you’re concerned if that’s how he sees you. Someone who isn’t dedicated to one specific person. Does he think that of you in general or in terms of relationships? You just added another reason why you shouldn’t be left alone with him. Way to go, brain. Seriously.

“Actually, I’m sure he won’t mind you both. Let me just ask real quick,” you respond hastily and pull out your phone.

“It’s okay,” Dae says, but you ignore her. You send a message to Seungcheol. You know he’s in class, according to previous conversations, but you hope he sees the text soon.

“It’ll probably be more fun in Jeonghan’s anywa—”

Your eyes shoot down when your phone vibrates.

“He said yes! It’s all good. He even offered to pay for you, Yejun,” you say, a little happier than you should’ve been. Dae eyes you suspiciously.

“Really? Oh, wow. Alright. I can’t turn down a free ride and meal,” he laughs and looks at Dae. “That alright with you, Dae?”

She slowly tears her sight from you and gives Yejun a small smile. “Yeah, it sounds perfect.”

“Awesome. I’ll tell him to pick you guys up first,” you say.

“We can just meet at yours?” Dae offers, but you shake your head.

“I need the extra time to get ready,” you lie. She says nothing at the little fib. She should know you don’t want a lot of people at your house.

“Right,” she says slowly. “Then Yejun, can you meet me at mine? I don’t want Seungcheol driving all through the city since he’s doing us a favor.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

“Yejun!” a familiar, light voice calls. You look around and see Jeonghan a few feet away.

“Class calls,” Yejun sighs and starts to walk toward Jeonghan.

Jeonghan directs a kind smile and waves in your direction. You wave back—one that isn’t as enthusiastic as his, but it doesn’t matter. He should be grateful he got a wave at all.

“You ladies coming to dinner this weekend?” he calls from where he is. He could have easily walked over, but he decides to yell across the room instead. People are starting to glance at you all, and you sigh at his antics.

“Yup! We’re even getting a free meal from your friend!” Dae answers, having no problem with the long-distance chat.

Jeonghan laughs, loud enough for you to hear it and for your mouth to dip down at the sound. Better yet, it isn’t even a laugh. It’s a maniacal giggle. That giggly little bitch.

“Oh? Are you now?” he questions, obviously not needing a hint at who the aforementioned friend is. “Well if he’s offering, I’m going to see if he’ll pay for mine too.”

“Pay for your own, and go to class,” you finally join the discussion. You place a hand on Dae’s arm, ready to drag her away from the angelic devil.

“Trying to keep him all to yourself? That’s not fair,” he replies with an over-exaggerated pout.

“That’s not the reason,” you growl, eyes narrowing in a sneer.

“Well, regardless, he’s got money to spare,” Jeonghan chuckles and slips an arm around Yejun’s shoulder when he gets close enough. “Have a nice day!”

You both watch as they ascend the stairs, their laughter fading off the farther they get.

“Seungcheol’s loaded?” Dae asks, surprised.

It takes you a moment to realize what spurs that question. You’re about to say no, but his car and his luxury clothes say otherwise. Hell, even his cologne shouts “expensive”. Though he could’ve gotten all those as gifts, or even got help paying for some. It doesn’t matter if he has lots of money or not, but you didn’t expect him to. No one you really know is that wealthy.

“I’m not sure. Plus, paying for five meals doesn’t mean he’s rich,” you reply honestly. “It doesn’t matter. We need to go get some fabric.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” she teasingly questions, letting you pull her out of the building and to the parking lot.

“You said you needed to go to the store anyway,” you argue.

Dae smiles. “Yeah, but I never said I wanted to go with you.”

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes playfully. Dae giggles and holds onto your arm tighter.

“You can just tell me you want to hang out with me,” she says.

“I’d rather swallow my pin cushion.”

“Ouch. For a moment, I really thought we had something,” Dae sighs dramatically, clutching her chest in faux pain.

“Alright, enough playing around. Let’s get going.”

Just your luck.

You and Dae visit almost every fabric store that your college is sponsored by. Every single one you have gone to so far has the fabric you want out of stock. Dae offers some that are “close to what you want,” but you don’t want them. The fabric you saw online is what you have envisioned for your piece, and you don’t want to settle for less.

There is one more store on the list, and as soon as you walk in, you make your way to where it should be.

There it is!

The navy blue sheer fabric is calling to you.

You’re about eight steps from it when two girls come into view. You hurry to the fabric, but unfortunately, they are standing in front of it. One girl has her hand hovering over the bolts of fabric in that section, seemingly unsure of what she wants. That’s good for you as it means she doesn’t have her eye on the fabric you want. You just need to sneak in and grab it before she makes up her mind.

“Excuse me,” you say to them. When they turn to you, you recognize their faces. They’re in your class and are participating in the runway project. Tori and Siwon, if you remember correctly.

“Oh, Yn,” Tori says. “Need something?”

Though her voice is sweet, you know her intention is not. You’re aware of the way she speaks about you. Always something about how unoriginal you are because you “stole designs.” That or you pay for people to do your work for you. What pathetic lies. They’re common rumors amongst several fashion students. Although you don’t know if all of them are false for others, you know the allegations about you are.

Your gaze on the blue fabric catches her attention, and she turns toward it. “Oh, here’s what I came for.”

Your heart drops when she grabs it, tucking it under her arm and then looking at you again. Her overly innocent smile has your hands clutching at your sides. You know she did this just to spite you. If she really wanted it, she would’ve grabbed it sooner.

“The area is yours,” Tori says, bowing as if you are royalty. It’s a mocking action, which has you nearly stomping your heel onto her exposed foot in her open-toed shoes.

You take a deep breath and eye the fabric in her hold. There isn’t much of it left, which means there won’t be enough for what you need. Part of you doesn’t even want it if she’s going to use it in her designs.

Rolling your shoulders back and lifting your chin, you say, “No wonder you’re one of the least creative students in class. All you do is take others’ ideas. I doubt you even know what to do with that fabric, but good luck.”

The girls scoff before leaving for the cutting station. You stare after them, fire rolling inside.

“Hey, did you find it?” Dae asks when she stops next to you. She has items in her hands that you don’t pay attention to.

“Yeah,” you reply through clenched teeth. “Then Tori took it.”

“Tori from class?”

You gesture to where she is, smiling at the lady who is cutting the fabric for her.

“I’m sorry she beat you to it,” Dae says.

You shake your head. “She didn’t even want it. She took it because she knew I wanted it.”

Dae glances back to her across the store, mouth set in a firm line.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll lure her and her friend outside and you can snatch the fabric from the counter.”

As much as you like the idea, and appreciate Dae’s support, you shake your head. “I’d probably get kicked out for sabotaging her project.”

“You’re just playing fair,” Dae argues.

“Whatever,” you reply, looking at her arms. “Let’s go check out.”

Dae follows you silently to the registers.

“We can go to another store,” she offers as you wait in line.

“This was the last store that would give it at a discount. I can’t afford it at the regular price,” you explain.

Dae nods grimly. She gently takes the red thread that you’ve been toying with in your hands. “I’ll pay this for you.”

“I’m not that poor,” you sigh and take it back.

She laughs lightly. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I just wanted to make you happy.”

“Thanks. I’ll just find something else,” you conclude, giving her a forced smile.

“And it’ll be better than that cliché navy blue,” Dae says.

“It was a little cliché, huh?” you question. You're grateful for Dae trying to lift your mood.

“Absolutely!”

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averagewriter-inthedark · 1 year

Text

She’s Still Preoccupied With 1985 🎤 | Bob Floyd x Rockstar!reader Imagine

Takes place after the events of TGM

TGM Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Lt. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x modern-day rockstar!reader (childhood best friends/romantic), dagger squad (platonic), Bob x female!oc (past romance), male!oc x reader (past romance), The 1985’s!BandOCs (platonic)

Content Warnings: major fluff, angst, profanity, canon divergence (Bob is born in 1985 in this, making him roughly 34 during TGM & 37 in the year 2022), pop culture references, second chance romance troupe, suggestive content and light smut + implied smut (MINORS DNI!!) inspired by the song ‘1985,’ by Bowling For Soup | Female!reader—afab!reader (she/her) | wc: 17.2k

Premise: Join Lt. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd as he looks back on his fairytale love story with childhood best friend and real life rockstar, who’s set to perform one last time on the country’s most iconic stage, in her band’s final show of their farewell tour.

Note: so after I wrote ‘It’s A Long Way To The Top’ with Maverick x 80sRockstar!reader, I had inspiration for someone from the dagger squad x modern-day rockstar!reader. I was going back and forth between Rooster and Phoenix, but this anon suggested Bob with a rekindled childhood best friend and I thought that was the bullseye. Once again feel free to imagine your friends as your bandmates, I just gave names to make it easier to write. I do not own any of the song or pop culture references, this is for fictional purposes. Let me know what you think! - Bee 🐝

Songs that are real life songs, but are used as ‘your’ songs in this imagine: ‘1985’ by Bowling For Soup, ‘Iris’ by the Goo Goo Dolls, ‘Some Nights,’ by Fun, ‘Pompeii’ by Bastille, ‘Payphone,’ by Maroon 5, ‘Let’s Get Lost,’ by Bats for Lashes & Beck, ‘Where Do Broken Hearts Go’ & ‘Little Black Dress’ by One Direction.

——————————————————

Lt. Robert Floyd had seen a lot in his 37 years of life. Growing up on the plains of Montana, there wasn’t much for him until it came time to leave for college. There, life seemed to pass by quicker than the night sky. He’d experienced the hype of a Navy vs Army football game, getting wasted to the point he hated alcohol. Endless nights of studying that paid off when he received not only his diploma but also the rank of Ensign in the U.S. Navy. Then there was that time he nearly married his college sweetheart only to end things weeks before the wedding because he realized his heart belonged to someone else. In his career Bob pulled Gs with his pilot against the speed of sound in an F-18 and most recently, dogfighting SAMs out of enemy territory.

But no words could describe what Bob felt as he stood on the floor of Madison Square Garden with the people he called his best friends, waiting for the appearance of his one true love on stage.

The love that was once thought to be impossible, until fate was like, “These souls belong together. Once the time is right, I will work my magic.”

17 years prior in 2005, Bob was certain he’d never get the chance to tell Y/n L/n he had loved her since they were fifteen years old after hearing her voice on the radio.

“That was Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Since U Been Gone,’ part of her Grammy nominated album Breakaway released last summer. Clarkson is the favorite to win the award for ‘Album of the Year’ at next year’s Grammys. Up next is a new group recently signed to Capitol Records….here is ‘1985’ by, funny enough, The 1985s”

Something about the name of the group and title of the song had an odd feeling swirl through the then college student. Driving the car he was in was his roomate Derek and their buddy Adrian along with Derek’s girlfriend Willow.

Nothing could’ve prepared Bob for the voice coming through the speakers, the lyrics bringing back the memory of when she showed him the paper with them written down in her semi-sloppy handwriting.

“Debbie just hit the wall, she never had it all.”

“One Prozac a day, husband’s a CPA.”

“Bob, you okay?” Adrian tapped him on the shoulder, “You look a little pale.”

“Her dreams went out the door when she turned twenty-four.”

“Only been with one man, what happened to her plan?”

“This has a good beat,” Willow bopped her head.

“She was gonna be an actress, she was gonna be a star.”

“She was gonna shake her ass on the hood of Whitesnake’s car.”

“My mom could definitely relate to that,” Derek joked, stopping at a red light. He too was enjoying the song. It gave that classic rock feel that the 80s music his parents listened to had. Nowadays Hip-Hop and Pop are becoming the main genres of music on the radio.

“Her yellow SUV is now the enemy.”

“Looks at her average life and nothin’,” *guitar riff* “has been,” *guitar riff* “alright.”

Bob, who’s eyes were wide and heart racing, breathed in awe, “No way.”

“Since Bruce Springsteen, Madonna,”

“Way before Nirvana,”

“There was U2 and Blondie,”

“And music still on MTV.”

“Her two kids in high school,”

“They tell her that she’s uncool.”

“‘Cause she’s still preoccupied,”

Tears spring in Bob’s eyes, wiping them away before his friends could see when Y/n sang the final line of the chorus.

“With 19, 19…1985.”

That was how the future naval aviator discovered his childhood best friend had accomplished her dream. Breaking into the music industry. It’d been nearly four years since he’d seen Y/n, the two parting ways after her father took an accounting job in California, uprooting the teenager and her family from their home state of Montana.

They’d grown up on the same street, both their moms teaching at the elementary school. The two had pretty much gone through every grade together considering their school was small with few teachers. Every year they were in the same class, often sitting next to each other and spending time after school on the playground while their moms finished up for the day. Bob spent nearly every moment with Y/n as kids, becoming best friends when they were only five years old. But it wasn’t until the boy was twelve that he realized what a crush was….and boy did he have one on her.

Cherishing their friendship, poor Bob didn’t say anything about his surfacing feelings for his best friend. Even when the news of her moving was announced when they were 16, Bob remained quiet. It pained him to do so but he’d rather have her in his life than risk losing her if she didn’t feel the same.

In all the years Bob Floyd knew Y/n L/n, music was her life. It consumed her entire being with the young girl always humming a tune or singing along on the radio. When she was given a keyboard and guitar for Christmas, Y/n self-taught herself how to play until they could afford to put her in lessons. Then there were the notebooks.

At first it started as sticky notes with a verse or two, then it turned into loose pages of lyrics before finally the teenager wrote them all into notebooks. Anytime inspiration came to Y/n she was writing it down on whatever she could find. Napkins at a restaurant, receipts from her mother’s grocery run, hell even on her arm Y/n was writing lyrics so she wouldn’t forget. Sometimes she’d have the whole song complete before settling on a title, or a catchy title would come to mind but the lyrics would take time. Bob would always get annoyed when she’d steal his pen from out of his hand, but would let it go, understanding she had to write it down before she lost it.

At a football game he witnessed her unable to find a pen in time to write something on her arm before the lyric faded away. The teenager nearly sobbed right there in the middle of the stands, face in her hands as though to will herself to remember. “Are you okay,” Bob whispered, to which he received a sad groan.

“No….please don’t interrupt my thinking. I’m having a crisis, Robby.”

Y/n’s mom, who mentally still lived in the 80s, was the inspiration for her song ‘1985’, Y/n wrote at 15. Bob could still remember the day she raced up to their reserved lunch table, planting the paper in front of him, “Read this,” she was out of breath, but smiling nonetheless. Picking it up, Bob adjusted his glasses and let his eyes read over the words scribbled down that were separated into: intro, verse 1, chorus, verse 2, chorus, bridge, chorus, & outro.

“Wow,” he reads over the lyrics again, brows raised and feeling a connection to the song. It wasn’t hard to pick up on the fact it was likely titled ‘1985,’ which also happened to be the year they were born. “This is amazing, Y/n. Almost like….wait is this about your mom?” As her best friend growing up, Y/n’s mother was like a second mom to him….so Bob knew her obsession with the 80s and how she had plans to be an actress before she and her high school sweetheart, Y/n’s father, got married after college and had Y/n when they were 24. Then they had her siblings afterward and both changed their course of careers in order to raise them. The line that said ‘husband’s a CPA,’ is what really gave it away considering her father was an accountant. Debbie wasn’t her mother’s name, but even a rocket scientist could piece it together Debbie represented her.

Glancing up, he sees her guilty expression, offering a light shrug. “Is it that obvious?”

Bob never forgot that song. Even with all the ones Y/n showed him afterwards and when they lost touch two years after she moved, he never once forgot the song, ‘1985’.

It was a sad day when she told him the news. They were halfway through junior year, college applications around the corner and setting up for SATs/ACTs when she dropped the bomb, “My dad’s being transferred to California.”

The Coca-Cola he’d been drinking nearly went all over his steering wheel when he coughed, her words sending him into shock. “W-what-you’re moving?!”

“Next month,” she mumbled, head down to hide her face from his view. “My dad is there now looking at places for us. In the meantime Mom is dealing with the house while also applying to schools in the area my dad’s gonna be working.”

“Where?” Bob asks after a moment of silence, allowing him to fully process the news.

His best friend—who he was in love with—was leaving him.

Y/n sighed before replying with a sad chuckle, “Los Angeles. You know I would feel excited, seeing it was my plan to move to L.A after graduation, but I just can’t bring myself to.”

“Why?” Bob says softly with a frown, “This is your dream, Y/n. All you’ve wanted was to go there and audition for American Idol—or whatever that singing show is.” He was trying really hard to cheer her up, pushing down his heartbreak all the while. “This is your chance.”

“Yeah, but….” She glanced out the window, “what if it doesn’t work out? I don’t even know if I wanna go to college—which my mom still scolds me every time she gets the chance because she thinks I’m a fool to wanna pursue music. You know how it is,” Y/n gives Bob a knowing look, “she thinks of her life and wants me to go to school before selling my life away to a 9-5. I know she’s looking out for me, but God, let me make my own mistakes.” Her head leans on the window, “If it doesn't work out then that’s on me. But I’m not gonna give it up just because it seems out of reach. That’s what back up plans are for.”

Silence fills the car, the two letting their thoughts wonder. “Promise me something, Robby.”

“Anything,” he doesn’t hesitate.

“Promise me that even though I’m leaving, we’ll still be best friends. We’ll still write letters or talk on the phone…just don’t give up on me.”

Taking her hand in his, hoping she doesn’t feel the slight tremor as the words he so desperately wants to say are on the tip of his tongue, Bob gives her a look of love which she likely would believe is one of sincerity, “you’re my best friend, Y/n. I believe you will accomplish everything you set your mind to. When you make it big, I’ll be cheering you on every second and until then, we’ll talk every day if we have to,” he makes a face after thinking, “though maybe narrow it down to once a week so my mom doesn’t kill me for the phone bill.”

That makes Y/n laugh before reaching over the console to hug him. Arms go around his neck while his one arm awkwardly wraps around her side.

“I love you, Robby,” she tells him, sending his heart soaring. “You’re the only person I can count on in this whole damn world.”

“I love you too, Y/n.” ‘More than what you could possibly know.’ “I’ll always be here for you. Forever.”

He never thought he’d break that promise. But around the time of graduation things became so hectic in Bob’s life on top of the fact he was hurting. Hurting because he loved Y/n, and anytime they would talk on the phone or send letters he was reminded of the fact she was in California while he was stuck in Montana and they could never be together. Bob felt the only way he could save his heart and move on from that love was by cutting contact. It was his fault and he knew it when the letters eventually stopped coming and the phone stopped ringing every Friday. His mother could only relay an excuse to the girl so many times before Y/n eventually gave up. The last letter she sent him came two months after their last phone call, “So much for always being there, Robby. Have a good life, I hope it treats you well. -Y/n.”

He didn’t know what happened to her until two years later when ‘1985’ played for the first time on the radio for the whole world to hear. Tears lined his eyes, the man having to look out the window away from his friends. The flooding of emotion was overpowering, forming a sob in his throat.

She did it. She’s on the radio like she always dreamed.

“That was ‘1985’ the debut single of incoming rock band, The 1985s. Hits the nostalgia I gotta say—I feel we’re looking at some fresh new faces to the scene. Can’t wait to see what they have to offer in the future.”

The prediction of the radio host came true, when in 2006 the group released their debut album Established in 1985. Like their name, it referenced the year all members were born in which included frontwoman and occasional guitar player Y/n L/n, bassist Thomas Quinn, guitarist Farrah Cortez, drummer Xavier Hernandez, and keyboardist Pepper Renolds. All met at the University of California Los Angeles, and funny enough none were students in the music program. They were all in STEM/humanities with Y/n studying sociology with a minor in music, meeting the others when they formed a study group after they all had the same prerequisite classes their second semester.

It was at one of their meetups that Y/n couldn’t help but sing along to Journey’s ‘Faithfully’ and The Who’s ‘We Don’t Get Fooled Again,’ as they played on the little radio in the corner. “Damn Y/n,” Thomas looked amazed, “You got a voice, girl. How come you’re not studying music?”

“Same reason why you aren’t—don’t give me that look, Quinn, I saw that bass in your place when we were there last week.”

Next thing they knew Pepper mentioned she was a pianist who was progressing onto keyboard. Then Farrah said she played guitar and Xavier smirked, “all y’all need is a drummer and you can be a band….oh wait, have I ever told y’all I play drums?”

And thus, the 1985’s were born.

Months were dedicated to them building their sound and learning to be a band all while keeping up with their school work. Y/n was the brain behind all their songs, literally dropping the pile of notebooks onto the table one day saying, “I’ve got at least four albums worth of songs in these…maybe even more.” Working little by little they eventually got the tunes for several that they knew they’d want to release first if they managed to get discovered. MySpace was just starting out and Y/n took it upon herself to be bold, creating a profile for them. She listed her information since they didn’t have a band email set up. That would hopefully come in the future.

It was on MySpace that their lives changed forever.

Roughly after a year of working nonstop to create songs and develop their sound, the band uploaded a video onto the platform for ‘1985,’ in May of 2004. It almost looked like a music video, teaming up with students from the drama programs who were in need of doing their end of semester project. They had someone play Debbie, her husband, the two kids, and a group of extras. Even the yellow SUV Y/n’s mom drove was used as well as a poster of Duran Duran for the line in the second verse. The band would be in clips throughout the video, Y/n singing and playing the guitar. It took them the whole night spray painting a makeshift logo of ‘The 1985’s’ onto Xavier’s drum set.

When they first uploaded the video they were all like, “Even if no one sees it, this was still fun as hell to make.”

But little did they know it was going to be seen by many eyes…..including an executive of Capitol Records.

Y/n was just coming home from her shift at a local diner when she checked her email, dropping the water bottle in her hand and letting out an ear-piercing scream that woke her roommates.

“Y/n, my name is Martin Plaza and I’m a talent exec at Capitol Records. A member of my team came across your video on MySpace and we were impressed by your band and song, ‘1985’. We’d like to set up a meeting if you all are interested and please bring any demos you may have. Email me back as soon as possible or give me a call using the number listed below. Hope to hear from you soon. Regards, Martin Plaza.”

Y/n and the group could hardly contain their reaction at the meeting when Martin and a few members of Capitol Records were visibly pleased with what they were hearing. With so many songs they had recorded, they settled on bringing five, including ‘1985,’ and ‘Some Nights,’ which they were planning on uploading to MySpace next.

Martin and the team had excused themselves briefly before returning with the offer: a six year contract with Capitol Records releasing at least three albums during that period.

You can bet your ass they agreed. Signing their names before the sun could set on the horizon.

Champagne popped that night with Y/n crying against the receiver of her pink Motorola as she informed the news to her family. Her mother cried with her, her dad celebrating in the background while her siblings were like, “Don’t forget me when you become famous, sis.” What made her sad though after the call ended was when she went to dial Robby’s number, only to close the phone with a sigh. It’d been over a year since they last spoke, Y/n unsure where he even was or if he had a cell phone. The only number she knew was his home phone.

Curiosity and slight anger rising, Y/n dialed the number saved as his home landline, not surprised when his mother answered. “Y/n! Why hello, darling, I wasn’t expecting your call tonight.”

“Hi, Mrs. Floyd,” she sniffed, feeling tears prick in her eyes again. Y/n was not used to addressing the older woman by her last name. It felt awkward now to call her by her first. “I know he’s probably not going to come to the phone…but if Robby—Robert is there, could I…could I just speak with him please? It’s important.”

“Oh honey,” that was enough to indicate it wouldn’t happen. Y/n looked up to the sky, heart breaking in two at the fact her so called best friend, who she loved more than anything in the world, had completely discarded her. “Robert is uhh—he’s at the Naval Academy, sweetheart, I can give you his email or cell number—.”

“No-no-no,” Y/n interrupted, stunned by the news. “It’s fine. Uh, just never mind.”

“Honey—.”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Mrs. Floyd. Take care and thank you for your help.” Placing the phone in her pocket, Y/n allowed the tears to flow freely before moving back inside to where the party was. Only she could hardly enjoy it now. Instead she let her feet carry her over to the notebook placed on her backpack, removing a pen hastily from the pencil pouch and scribbling down the lyrics that were screaming in her head. The words that took over the paper went onto become their Grammy award winning singles, ‘Iris,’ and ‘Payphone.’ Iris became so popular it was used in several movies and tv shows after its release in 2006, earning the band the Grammy for ‘Record of the Year,’ to go along with their ‘Best Rock Performance by a Duo/Group’ and ‘Album of the Year’, three MTV moonmen including ‘Video of the Year’ and the American Music Award for ‘Song of the Year.’ Payphone was just as successful, topping the Billboard Hot 100 for 20 consecutive weeks and winning just as many awards as Iris.

Anytime the songs played on the radio or wherever he was, Bob had to change the station or frown until it ended. Deep down, he could feel they were about him—hurting him even more at the realization Payphone was basically saying how Y/n loved him and was trying to move on. Just in the way Y/n sang combined with the lyrics telling a story, it was obvious he had broken her heart. And they weren’t even together. They were just best friends…..who were too stupid enough to not admit their feelings for each other.

His senior year of college Y/n and the group were starting to become big, all the members taking a break from college in order to build their careers as musicians. Often Bob would check in to see how Y/n was, tuning into award shows to watch them perform. Pride and awe filled him watching her sing, living her dream just as he believed she would. He hated that he broke his word to her, and it seemed to affect Y/n whenever she performed Iris and Payphone, putting every ounce of emotion into each lyric.

At 21 Bob had finally entered a relationship with a nice girl from the Naval Academy. The possibility of him reuniting with Y/n was long out of the picture and his friends were getting on him to finally break out of his shell. They had no idea of his connection to the rockstar, but they could tell anytime they were on the radio Bob’s demeanor changed. Abby, a sweet pre-law student at the Naval Academy, was his first serious commitment, the two bonding over similar interests and plans for the future. Hope rose at what it could hold.

Until she and their friends decided they wanted to go see The 1985’s concert.

It was 2007, they’d just graduated and were commissioned to the rank of Ensign’s waiting to be shipped off to their respective duty stations. And Bob was engaged…..but he hadn’t really proposed in the traditional way. It was more of Abby pointing out if they wanted to get stationed together then it was best for them to get married and he just agreed. But a big part of him was hesitant to go through with it.

The news of Abby and their friends' desire to go to the concert made his stomach drop and head spin. Still in Maryland, they had gotten tickets to the show in New York at Madison Square Garden which was only a couple hours away. Abby had went ahead and got them as a surprise for Bob, not telling him until the day before the show.

“You guys go,” Bob initially said, praying she couldn’t pick up on the anxiety in his voice. “I—uh—I’ve got some things to get done—.”

“What things?” She scoffed, shaking her head as she laid out the outfit she planned to wear. “School is over, you aren’t planning to see your family until next week, and you don’t leave for flight school till the end of summer. What could you possibly do tomorrow night, Bobby?” He mentally cringed at the nickname, unconsciously thinking of how Y/n would call him Robby.

This wasn’t a good idea and he knew it. Already he was starting to think of her again. More and more by the second. Feelings were resurfacing, and Bob was fighting them hard. If he saw her on stage it was only going to confirm what he already knew.

That Y/n owned his heart. And no one else would have it. Not even Abby.

In the end, Bob found himself on the floor of Madison Square Garden of all places, wondering just how the hell their friends managed to get the area. The band was touring for their debut album, selling out within seconds and what made it more historic were they managed to get The Garden in their first ever tour. Usually groups/artists had years before they played at the Garden, settling for smaller venues in New York, but the 1985’s had become sensations.

The entire time they waited for the band Bob’s hands were shaking, the man unable to contain his tremor with each minute. Abby asked at one point, but brushed it off as him being excited when he didn’t give her an answer.

He was a little excited….but mostly fucking terrified.

Especially because they were very close to the stage. Like if one of the members happened to walk close to where they were standing they’d be spotted.

Bob should’ve fucking knocked on wood.

When the band came out Madison Square Garden erupted, Y/n belting out the lyrics to their opening number, looking like an actual dream. Her look was more of a modern take on rock n roll but still looked classic. Black leather adorned her body with cutouts to showcase some skin, arms covered in ink from the various tattoos and hips rolling to the beat of the drums causing the crowd to go crazy.

Y/n really knew how to work the stage and make it her bitch.

Bob was mesmerized. Utterly speechless as his eyes glued to the woman he once called his best friend. All he could do was stand there and stare, while willing his heart to calm down by how fast it was beating.

It was to be a two hour show at the least, and Bob didn’t know if he wanted to leave as quickly as he could or wishing the show would last forever. Seeing Y/n up close and performing before a crowd made him feel things he didn’t know were possible. Her dazzling smile, dancing across the stage and playing the guitar was everything he could’ve dreamed for her.

He loved her. Bottom line, Bob loved Y/n like no other.

When their eyes connected 30 minutes before the concert ended, causing Y/n to drop the microphone and throw her off for the remainder of the concert, Bob knew he couldn’t marry Abby.

He wasn’t sure if Y/n recognized him at first, but the rockstar had approached the side he was standing at to interact with the crowd when her gaze landed on his. Eyes widening, Y/n literally dropped the microphone causing the impact to echo through the speakers. Bob’s cheeks went bright red, unable to look away in their 2-second staring contest until Y/n blinked rapidly and cursed.

“Shit,” he saw her mouth as soon as the microphone hit the platform, bending down quickly to pick it up. “Sorry about that guys,” she nervously laughed, eyes glancing at Bob as though to make sure they weren’t deceiving her. A sharp intake of breath indicated she realized it wasn’t a trick. Walking backwards until she was back to the middle of the stage where the band was, Y/n’s tone became flustered, “U-uh, we only got a couple songs left in the show. We’re gonna take a quick five minute break so just hang tight.”

Bob could see the looks of concern from her friends/bandmates as she ran off stage, the group following behind. His heart dropped, rubbing a hand over his face to calm down the anxiety in his veins.

“What the hell was that about?” Derek laughed, “It was like she saw a ghost or something.” Everyone besides Bob agreed, none seeing the way Abby was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

When the band returned for the final act Y/n did her best to not look at the section Bob was in. Unlike everyone else in attendance, the Navy officer could pick up on the fact she was more tense than at the start of the show. Her voice shook lightly when delivering the lyrics to ‘Iris’, although it was as though she was putting more emotion than ever into the song, bringing tears to Bob’s eyes. Y/n also appeared to hold back tears, quickly transitioning the song to their next to avoid breaking down.

‘1985’ was the last in their set, everyone in MSG jumping up and down to the chorus and screaming the lyrics. Y/n smiled the entire time, finally letting a tear slip when the concert came to an end. To everyone it may have looked like the rockstar was overwhelmed with emotion at the fact she just played Madison Square Garden before a sold out crowd. But for Robert Floyd, he knew those tears were because of him.

Especially when they connected eyes again, Y/n’s lip quivering before turning away to hide her face. When she walked off with the band Bob felt his heart go with her.

“You’re hiding something,” Abby said with a soft tone when they arrived back home late that night. It was nearly 3 in the morning, the concert having ended at 11.

Bob tilted his head back, eyes closing to block off the rest of the world, “Please, let’s not do this.” He just wanted to go to bed and sleep the night away.

“You know, I always wondered why your knuckles would tighten around the steering wheel when their songs played on the radio, or why you look like you wanna cry anytime I sing ‘Iris’ at karaoke, why you can’t even look at me when I do,” she lists off, voice slightly rising. “Then there’s that box of letters you hide in the closet. And….and the photo album you won’t even let me look at. We’ve been together for a year, and you have not once told me you loved me.” By now Abby’s voice wavered, sniffing as she continued.

“I’ve been a fan of The 1985’s for close to a year now, but it wasn’t until tonight I actually read up on them. On Y/n…..” she saw how his body reacted, confirming her suspicion even more. “How she was living in L.A when they got discovered, but she grew up somewhere else…..She’s from Montana. The same town as you, Robert.”

“That’s just a coincidence—.”

“She went to the same high school as you!” Abby shouted, pushing off the wall she was leaning against. “You told me your town had less than four-thousand people—and only one high school. She would’ve gone there, Robert—in fact it said her mom was a teacher at the elementary school. The same one your mom taught at!”

By now Bob had enough, mouth tightening as he spoke calmly to his ‘fiancé’, “What do you want to know, Abby?”

“Who was she to you? Don’t fucking say shit like ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’—I saw her look at you,” tears pricked in her blue eyes. “How she looked like she’d been punched straight through the heart. She fucking dropped the microphone—and looked like she wanted to faint! Like you were a walking ghost. And you….you looked the same.” Pausing, she thought back to his face at the concert. There was no doubt Y/n and him had locked eyes, she heard him audibly react despite the noise.

“You looked like someone with deep regret. Someone who longed for a second chance. You looked like someone in love, Robert. Never have you looked at me that way.” Abby waited for him to respond, but Bob was unable to speak, expression unreadable causing her heart to break.

“Just please,” she breathed out, “tell me the truth, Bob. What was she to you?”

Silence filled the room, causing the tension to rise. It stayed that way until Bob finally sighed, face falling as he admitted what she already knew.

“She was everything. She is everything.”

When it came time to ship out two months later Bob was not the married man he expected to be. In all honesty, he was relieved. That night the argument had ended with Bob telling Abby he couldn’t marry her—he’d be hurting her even more if he followed through with it. Never could he love her the way he did Y/n and wouldn't put her through that. Going their separate ways was for the best. Even though he’d likely never be with Y/n, no one could compare to her.

Abby was angry as one could expect but part of her knew it was for the best. What good was it getting into a loveless marriage? She almost resented the rockstar, feeling like she could never enjoy the 1985’s anymore knowing the man she thought she spent the rest of her life with was hopelessly in love with his former best friend, who was the frontwoman of her favorite band. But then Abby took some time to think, and felt her heart break for Bob. She couldn’t imagine what it was like loving someone you couldn’t have.

Ending their engagement and agreeing to be friends, Bob told stories about growing up with Y/n—even bringing out the letters and photo album for her to see. It amazed the woman, flipping through the pages to see the singer when she was a child and teenager. It was almost funny to see how polar opposites the two best friends were, Y/n with her 80s band t-shirts and ripped jeans next to a Bob in his cowboy hat and flannels. As teenagers Y/n dabbled more in the grunge makeup. One photo made Abby laugh as it showed Bob with black eyeliner and glitter on his cheeks.

Coming across the end of the album was a half of a ‘Best Friends Forever’ necklace taped to the page. Abby frowned, “What happened between the two of you?”

This was a question he never thought he’d answer, thinking he’d go the rest of his life without anyone finding out his history with Y/n.

“After she moved we stayed in contact for about two years. We’d call every Friday—send letters from time to time ....” He paused, biting his lip as the frown took over. “But I stopped responding and answering.”

“Why?”

“It hurt too much,” he admitted, hating the way his heart clenched. “I never said anything because I didn’t want to lose what we had,” he looked to the ground, “but then it just became too overwhelming and I thought if we….if we drifted apart then I eventually could move on.”

Abby is silent, glancing at the picture of him and Y/n before looking back at the necklace, “Wanna hear something, Bob? Something you probably won’t believe, but I promise you it’s more likely than you think?” He looks up from the floor, brow raised slightly.

“What?”

“I think Y/n loves you.”

“Not in the way you think, Abby,” Bob deflects with a shake of the head. “And she definitely doesn’t anymore—she hates me no doubt.”

“No, listen to me,” she closes the album, setting it aside. “When did you two stop talking?”

“Around fall of 2003,” he tells her, look of regret in his visage, “in 2004 was the last time she phoned the house.”

Abby thinks back in her research of the band, shoulders dropping slightly, “That’s when they got signed to Capitol Records. ‘Payphone’ and ‘Iris’ came out last year, but Y/n said in an interview she wrote them the night they were signed—which had people confused because they’re sad songs that were written on a night that was supposed to be happy. Don’t you see?” She waves her hand at his now confused gaze, making her huff. “She probably had called your house hoping to tell you the news! Anyone who hears those songs knows it’s about heartbreak. And not the type of heartbreak you get by a friendship disintegrating, Bob. That’s the heartbreak when someone you love with your entire soul hurts you.”

“Abby please,” Bob pleads with her, water lining his eyes. Falling silent the woman leans away, solemn in her expression.

“All I’m saying is she loved you more than you think. And judging by her reaction to you tonight, I think I’m right when I say Y/n would give anything for you to talk to her again…..”

For years Bob thought about what Abby had told him that night they broke up. It kept him up at night especially when The 1985’s came up that day either in conversation or on the radio. There were times he was tempted to write a letter, but life would get crazy with the Navy and then in 2011 he was invited to Top Gun.

Devastated couldn’t even be the right word to describe how Bob felt when it was revealed Y/n had eloped with a Hollywood heartthrob. Not a fan of social media, Bob had just returned back to his squadron after graduating from Top Gun to turn on E! News where they were covering the story.

“Wedding bells are in store for rockstar Y/n L/n of The 1985s and actor Enrique Lorenzo from The Walking Dead. The two have been spotted throughout the year looking cozy at award shows and Lorenzo attending The 1985’s concerts in L.A and Atlanta. An inside source has gotten word the two applied for a marriage license two days ago and earlier this morning had a private ceremony with close friends and family in West Hollywood. Neither has confirmed if they have in fact tied the knot, but I would keep your eyes out. In the meantime, congratulations to the happy couple and we’re looking forward to seeing Y/n’s ring.”

It seemed like all the air had left Bob, turning off the tv in a flash but still pointing the remote as he stood stunned. Then his phone buzzed with messages.

“Honey, just checking in. Call me when you get home,” was from his mom, trying to avoid the obvious elephant and would rather discuss it over the phone.

“Have you heard the news?” Abby wrote. “I’m so sorry, Bob.” He actually appreciated that she wasn’t walking on eggshells. That she was upfront with him. Though it’d been over four years since their breakup, and Abby was now married with children, the two remained friends and often checked in with each other occasionally.

“It was bound to happen some time,” he replied before turning off his phone so he couldn’t receive any more messages.

The rest of the night he was pretty much a walking shell, then as the years went on Bob closed himself off. Hardly did he date, and when he did they only lasted a few months before the girls realized he was not ready for the commitment they were wanting. Some understood, others were more aggressive when spitting out their feelings. Never did he admit why he couldn’t love them the way they wanted. The only people who knew who his heart belonged to were Abby and his family.

2015 Bob was transferred to Lemoore when the news broke that Y/n and Enrique had divorced after nearly four years of marriage, however, they had been secretly separated for almost a year before it was finalized. Cursing mentally, Bob couldn’t help but feel a slight relief—which was completely fucked up knowing Y/n was going through a difficult time and here he was silently celebrating, as though he really had a chance now to make things right.

That should’ve been his sign to call her mother and ask for Y/n’s number, with the hope she’d give it to him. But then Bob felt it was too soon. Her divorce had just been finalized, he didn’t know the exact reason despite the former couple citing irreconcilable differences. Whatever it was, Bob wasn’t sure he wanted to know but at the same time couldn’t help but be curious.

He’d get his answer almost two years later in January of 2017 when he flew home to Montana to celebrate his birthday. It was his 32nd and his mother literally begged him to come home so they could all be together now that Bob’s sister had recently had twins and were there to visit. Wanting to meet his nieces, the WSO relented and booked a flight for the weekend after confirming his leave.

Suspicion filled him with the way his family was acting when he arrived. Almost like they were excited but nervous, which only confused the officer. He was in his service khakis, pulling his cap off when they got inside and removing his windbreaker before setting it on the coat rack.

That’s when he saw the black suitcase in the corner.

“Who’s is that?” He asked with a raised brow, noticing his mother slightly tense. It wasn’t a luggage he recognized as one of theirs, and it was as though it had just been placed there.

And his sister had already unpacked in her old room. So it wasn’t hers.

Blushing, his mother tried to find the right words, “Oh-um, It’s—.”

“It’s mine.”

32 years had gone by in Bob’s life and never did he think he’d experience anything close to cardiac arrest. But hearing Y/n’s voice, so close as though she was behind him, made him think he was about to die right then and there.

Then he turned around, slowly, heart beating so fast it was about to explode from his chest, and she was there. Standing at the end of the staircase in a beautiful black leather dress with matching knee high boots, her hair slicked back into a bun and minimal makeup showcasing her gorgeous face.

She was ethereal. Absolutely breathtaking.

The last time he saw her in person was when they were 22, before that was 16. Here she was a grown woman who’d been through a hell of a life. She looked beyond gorgeous, and Bob felt the heat rise to his cheeks.

Only her gaze was not as warm as the emotions Bob was feeling. Honestly he felt like he could be six feet in the ground with how she was looking at him. Betrayal, heartbreak, anger, but underneath it there was love and hope.

“Hello, Robert.”

He didn’t even know how to react. All he could do was stand there, speechless with his mouth slightly agape. Eventually he just breathed out, “Y/n.”

Stoic, Y/n glanced at his mother, “Mrs. Floyd, could you please give us a moment.”

“Of course,” the older woman nodded, bidding her son a glance, “We’ll all be out on the porch.”

Nodding in thanks, Y/n waited until she and everyone in the house had moved outside before facing Bob again. Chills ran up his arms when she let her eyes trail over his figure, remaining emotionless.

An awkward silence passed, neither really knowing what to say. Bob was hesitant to break it, hoping she would but Y/n just continued to stare at him. Both unable to form the words.

Finally he tried to say, “y-you uhh, wow.” He swore he heard her scoff under her breath.

“Yeah, wow,” her tone broke his heart, but then again Bob couldn’t blame her. After all, he’s the reason they drifted apart. When he didn’t reply, instead glancing to the ground, she scoffed louder, “That’s all you can really say? ‘Wow’? After thirteen years, Robert, all you have to fucking say to me is ‘wow’? No, ‘I’m sorry,’ no ‘I can explain everything.’”

Anxiety rising, Bob sighed which only made her angrier. “Y/n, I-I—.”

She couldn’t stop herself, “Why?” The question haunted her for over a decade. “Why did you just throw me away like trash—a-after everything we’d been through? You owe me the reason why you broke your word to me and made me feel like shit. I have waited and waited for years, Robert, hoping you would call or send a letter but now I’ve had enough so you can’t run away from me now. So start talking.”

“Y/n, I didn’t mean for y-you to feel like that,” he tried to explain, but the words were not the best, causing her to explode.

“How else was it supposed to make me feel!?” She threw her hands out. “That’s how it came off as to me! ‘All always be here for you,’ my ass, Robert. You remember telling me that? It was only two years—two years of us doing so well with the distance—I was even planning on surprising you for fucking Christmas and then it was just gone in the blink of an eye,” snapping her fingers, Y/n emphasized her point. “No explanation, no warning. Nothing to tell me you didn’t want to be friends anymore, having your mom give me excuse after excuse why you wouldn't come to the phone.” She pauses to calm herself, her tone kept rising with each word.

Bob takes the moment to speak, “It’s…Y/n, you have to understand it was never my intention to hurt you,” when she made a sound of, ‘yeah right,’ he rushed out, “Please! I fucked up, I know I did and I’ve regretted every second of it since then—and as much as I wanted to reach out and apologize, explain to why it happened…I just felt so ashamed and then I heard you on the radio,” a sad smile comes to his lips, seeing her stiffen at the mention of her debut. “And when I heard your voice, I just thought that was it. You didn’t need me anymore and believed you would forget about me eventually.”

“Forget about you?” Her tone went soft, eyes glistening. “You were my best friend—since we were fucking five, Robert!” He flinched, shame filling his veins. “We did everything together, I shared everything with you. My music—some of which were inspired by the fucking things we did,” the confession had his eyes widened a bit, “You think I would just forget all of that? Thirteen years worth of friendship down the drain? Sorry, but I’m not like you—I wouldn’t just ditch the only person I trusted most in this world because I was starting to become something. Did your mom tell you I called?” She suddenly asked, not letting him answer before she was ranting again, “It was almost a year after you threw me to the winds. The night I fucking met with Capitol Records and got offered the opportunity of a lifetime….I wanted to share that with you. Despite the fact we hadn’t talked for almost a goddamn year, I desperately wanted to hear your voice and tell you I did it,” her voice cracked at the end, causing tears to prick in Bob’s eyes at the sight she was fighting back her own.

“That I did it,” Y/n held back the sob threatening to escape. “You were the only one who believed in me, and I couldn’t even share that with you. Because you didn’t want me in your life anymore—and you know what that’s okay. Friendships come and go, but you couldn’t even give me the fucking respect to tell me. And then you come to my show!” Now she was shouting, “Yeah I know that was you, don’t even try to deny it. It may have been four years at that time but I know damn well that was you in New York. I cannot fucking believe you would come to my show and not even tell me! And then to not reach out after was a fucking slap to my face.” Her breathing was starting to get heavy, the woman pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t even recognize you honestly. The Robert I knew would’ve never hurt me like you did. He would’ve at least shown me some respect. He wouldn't leave me to wonder what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said sternly.

“Well it doesn’t feel that way now does it?” She said just as harsh, “Why?”

“Y/n, it’s complicated,” he put his hands to his neck, looking at the ceiling as he started to lose composure.

“Then tell me why!”

“Because I fucking love you that’s why!”

The words had left Bob’s mouth before he could stop himself. Silence ignited, the WSO covering his mouth with a hand as he went pale, staring at Y/n whose own mouth was parted. The confession had hit her full blast, causing her to stumble back as though she physically felt them possess her. A shaky hand came to her own mouth, looking away from the man when her eyes closed allowing the tears to spill on her cheeks.

“I love you,” Bob whispered, mirroring her expression. “I’ve loved you since we were fifteen, Y/n. I knew I felt something when we were twelve, but I just brushed it off thinking I was confused. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about you—and what we could have. But I didn’t want to lose you if you didn’t feel the same.” Opening his eyes, they locked on hers. God even when she cried she looked beautiful. “When you left…I thought it would be easier to move on. But then we talked every week and the feelings wouldn’t go away. No matter how much I tried. You took my heart with you to L.A. and you’ve had it ever since.”

He waited for her to respond, chest on fire with how bad his heart was racing. Fingertips were going numb as Bob stared at her with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t go back in time and change it as much as I wish I could. Please know, Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for hurting you. I won’t ask for your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it. I won’t blame you if you walk out that door and we never see each other again. But just when you do, know that I’m truly, deeply, sorry.”

Time seemed to slow now with the two adults staring at each other. Now that it was all out in the open, Y/n seemed to be processing the whole thing. Bob couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Unbeknownst to him, Y/n’s brain was screaming, as was her heart. Lips quivering, the woman sniffed.

“You love me?”

“I do,” Bob signed after a moment. He no longer could keep it in, feeling the immense relief at being able to finally say it aloud.

“For years?”

“Almost seventeen.”

“Seventeen,” she repeated with an unreadable tone. “Y-you, I thought—your mom told me you were engaged.”

“That was in college,” he explained softly. “She was at the show with me that night. Saw how we reacted to each other and realized things I tried to hide. I ended things with her—I couldn’t trap her in a marriage that would make her unhappy—make me unhappy. She understood after a while and we stayed friends.” Bob rubbed his jaw, adding, “everyone else that came along was the same. I couldn’t love them the way they wanted me to. My heart wouldn’t allow it.”

Y/n leaned her head against the wall behind her, gazing at the ceiling, “A-and you were just going to go through life alone? Never planning to settle or be happy?”

“What good would it be hurting someone by committing to them when I couldn’t offer everything they would give me in return. They could love me, but I couldn’t love them, Y/n, and that’s unfair.” He wiped away a tear that slipped from his eye, no doubt his irises were red, “I’d rather be alone than do that to someone.”

She took a sharp inhale at that, more tears falling. “You should’ve told me,” her voice cracked, making him look away. Only to freeze when she said in almost a whisper, “Because we could’ve had all this time.”

“Wh-what?” Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or did she really just say what he thought she did?

Y/n chuckled, but it was more of laughing at how sad the situation was. Shaking her head, her eyes stayed on her boots as she said, “Did you ever wonder why I rejected Tyler Davies when he asked me to homecoming junior year, insisting I wanted to go with you instead?” Tyler was the quarterback of their high school football team. A senior, who asked Y/n to the dance and became the talk of the school when she said no. Many were jealous she even got his attention, riddled with shock she would reject the star player.

“Because you felt sorry for me I didn’t ask anyone?” He asked like it was obvious, causing her to huff.

“Because I wanted you to ask me,” his heart skipped again, “And whenever Melinda Perry would flirt with you in government I would literally send her daggers because of how jealous I was. Why do you think I warned you not to go out with her when you asked for my advice? Yeah I knew she was a snake to most of her boyfriends, but I was also selfish because I didn’t want you dating someone else. God, Robby, you were so blind. Even with your glasses you still couldn’t see that I loved you.” It was though he was on cloud 9, disbelief at what he was hearing.

Y/n loved him. At least she did when they were teenagers.

The next question couldn’t even form in his mind before she was lifting her head back up, shrugging when allowing the confession to fall from her lips. “And as much as I want to hate you right, I can’t bring myself to. Because I’m still hopelessly in love with you, Robby.”

Now he was the one stumbling back. “Y-you do?”

“I do. I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.”

He didn’t recall much that happened after that. Just that his feet were carrying him over to her, cupping her face in his hands and moving their faces close together. Lips just barely brushing over, he waited for her to make the next move. Y/n wasted no time, pressing her mouth to his and the two felt the eruption of warmth and love consume their bodies. Her arms around his neck, her fingers ran through his blonde hair causing Bob to groan. The sound made her gasp, allowing Bob to slip his tongue past her lips and heat up the kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, bringing them back together.

“I love you too.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” His arms went to cradle her, pressing her against the wall. She simply nodded before kissing him back, “I forgive you, Robby.” God he missed that name. Only she could make him feel some type of way when she said it. He chuckled when she added, “Even though I should slap the fuck out of you.”

It was a miracle they made it up the stairs and into his childhood bedroom which was now a guest room. He had to remember to lock the door after setting her on the bed, praying to God his family would stay outside. There was music playing from what he could hear through the window so it made things easier when the two got lost in each other.

Clothes scattered the floor, kisses and hushed whispers shared between the two. Bob worshiped Y/n, letting his mouth kiss along every inch of her, trailing down any tattoos that coated her skin and paying extra attention in the places that brought her the most pleasure.

When he entered her they both sighed in bliss, moving as one until they reached a climax that brought them both to tears. All the time Bob whispered how much he loved her, Y/n repeating it each time. She moaned with each thrust and whenever she pleaded with him to do something Bob delivered it without hesitation. With her leg over his shoulder, chests pressed and mouths attached together the officer believed if he died right there it would be with a smile on his face. They came together, Y/n gasping his name as he eased them through their climax. When it was over Bob leaned down to capture her lips, wiping away her tears before removing himself to clean her. They basked in the afterglow, Y/n laying her head on his chest while he lightly traced the tattoos on her arm with his finger.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked, making her humm in response. “Enrique…”

The woman made a sound, lifting her head to gaze at him. “Enrique and I had been friends for some time—and we did drunkenly hook up once to get the sexual tension out of the way but that was it,” Bob controlled his reaction, though he couldn't say anything for he too had his fair share of one night stands. “The band’s contract was renewed and The Walking Dead was just starting out. The label and his producers thought it was a good idea for us to be seen together. Just to bring in some press for our upcoming album and the show. But we never felt anything more than friends for each other.”

Bob sat up a bit, causing her to lean on her elbows as she rested on her stomach. His expression was unreadable, “but you two were married.” Again Y/n let out a sigh.

“Enrique and I were friends so we shared things. He confided in me, I confided in him—Enrique was in love with someone who he couldn’t have. Ring a bell?” She raised a brow at him. “I was in the same boat. Just like how you said you couldn’t bring yourself to love anyone else, I couldn’t either. But at the time I thought you were married, Robby.” That had his eyes widened. “I called your mom after the concert that night, hoping to get to you and she told me you were engaged. So when I met Enrique and we both were going through the same thing, we thought ‘instead of being miserable alone, let’s be miserable together.’ Our publicists hated the idea, but we both believed we wouldn’t get our fairytale ending.”

Something in the way she said that last sentence had Bob think about Enrique Lorenzo. Most recently it was revealed he was in a relationship with fellow costar Simon Zahir, coming out as bisexual to the world with an instagram post of the two sharing a kiss.

“So you married him even though you didn’t love him?” Kinda like how he almost did with Abby. It made Bob frown thinking about it.

“I did love him, just not the way a wife should love their husband. And he understood because he couldn’t love me the way a husband would their wife,” she sadly smiled, “It was a mutual understanding where we would go and support each other at premiers and award shows, kiss for the cameras, all that was needed to show the media we were a happy couple. But behind closed doors we actually lived separately.”

Hesitant to ask, Bob waited a moment before saying what was on his mind the last couple years. “What made you two divorce?” The question made her give a small smile.

“Simon confessed to Enrique he loved him after they finished filming season four, and that he and his wife were divorcing. When Enrique told me… I could just see the hope in his eyes, and who was I to deny him his chance at happiness just because I didn’t want to be alone. It would have been selfish of me to. No, I told him the first thing the next morning we’d file but our publicists called and asked to wait until Simon was divorced before we went through with ours. That’s why we were ‘separated’ for a year,” she put quotes around ‘separated’. “We didn’t want to cite irreconcilable differences since it was a mutual decision, but the lawyers thought that was the best route to go.”

Bringing a hand up to caress her cheek, Bob asked the second question he wanted to know, “What made you come here?” She leaned into his touch, “you said you thought I was married. How did you even get here?” The last question was more due to the fact The 1985’s were currently on tour. It was another reason why he was so shocked to see her there when he arrived.

“We played in Helena last night. After the show I had this feeling I needed to come here, so I called my mom to get your mom’s number. That’s when she told me you were flying in today.” Her face turned to one of guilt, “I sorta feel like a bitch because tomorrow is your birthday and I came here knowing there would likely be an argument. Even though I thought you were married, I just really wanted to know the truth. It was eating me up. And with that feeling I needed to come here again after so many years, it sorta felt like a sign—if you can call it that.”

Leaning more into his hand, Y/n added, “I didn’t come with the intentions of winning you over or anything—especially under the impression you were married. I wanted answers, that was all. Although,” she kisses his wrist, “I’m not complaining with how things turned out.”

“Me either,” he agreed with a laugh. As he moved in to kiss her, a knock on the door interrupted causing the two to look like deer in headlights.

“If you two are presentable,” it was his sister, “then we’d be happy if y’all joined us for dinner sometime soon. But by all means, take your time.” She ended with a cheeky laugh before footsteps indicated she had walked away.

Bob let his head fall back into the pillow with a groan while Y/n giggled. She went to get up, but the man wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled into her neck. “I’ve waited too long for this.” Humming, he felt her hands go to his air, maneuvering them so he was on top of her.

Y/n gasped at the feeling of him becoming hard again, causing Bob to smirk as she wrapped her legs around him to offer assistance. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

In the haze of it all and as the weeks passed, the two began to live the life they dreamed of with each other. Neither realized they had forgotten protection that night….until Y/n was puking on the tour bus and counted the days since her last period.

“Look at me,” Bob held her hands. They sat in her hotel room in Sacramento, the band finishing out their tour in California before setting to work on their next album. When she called him that morning about her possibly being pregnant Bob got in his car and drove straight there. Thankfully it was a Saturday so he was off and had great timing. Pepper was kind enough to give her a spare pregnancy test she had on her, so Y/n waited until Bob arrived to take it.

Relieving herself on the stick, she kept it in the bathroom to wait for the results while she sat with him on the bed. She was crying, unsure how to feel. Part of her was excited at the idea of being pregnant and having a baby with Bob, but also feared it was too soon. They had just started dating, she was on tour until the end of the month, and they had been keeping their relationship quiet from the public so she was scared of what could happen.

For the WSO, he was going to be happy regardless of the outcome. “Look at me, Y/n. Everything is going to be okay. I am not leaving you—I swear to you, baby. If that says positive, then believe me when I say I will be the happiest man alive,” she whimpered, making him press kisses her cheek lovingly, “We’ll get through it together. You’re gonna be done with the tour in a few weeks and then we can take it from there. And if it’s negative then that’s completely okay too.”

When the results did come, the stick reading in small letters pregnant, the couple cried together with Bob pulling Y/n into his lap. “I love you—I love you,” he kissed all over her face, her cries turning into giggles. “It’s going to be okay, Y/n. I’m so happy, darlin’. So so happy. I want nothing more in this world than to have a baby with you. You’re going to be the best momma ever. I know it.”

October of 2017 brought Marcel Brandon Floyd into the world. Keeping her pregnancy a secret, no one besides the band and their families had knowledge of the birth of their son. Thankfully Bob’s identity was still hidden, both very careful to not let paparazzi catch them together. Especially with Y/n being pregnant they didn’t want to add on the stress of the media discovering their relationship. They planned to announce it on their own at some point once the baby had arrived.

It wasn’t until Marcel was roughly a month old that Y/n posted an Instagram picture with his tiny hand wrapped around her finger, ‘my world has arrived 🤍 10.20.17.’ The announcement had Y/n trending #1 on Twitter and talk show hosts calling to have her on the show. Y/n declined, she only really made television appearances with the band if they were performing, but that was only when they released new music.

Around the holidays was when Bob proposed. They were sitting by the fire, Y/n in his lap with Marcel in her arms when Bob simply said, “Marry me.”

At first she thought he was joking, but then he removed a velvet box from his pocket. Her eyes watered, “Are you serious?”

“More than I’ve ever been. You’re my person, baby. I’ve waited for this moment my whole life—and I won’t waste another second. Marry me, Y/n. Be my wife and I promise to love you even after death.”

He truly meant it when he said he didn’t want to waste another second. After she said yes, they put Marcel to bed and Bob made an appointment at the courthouse, both agreeing to get legally married and wait for a big ceremony some other time. They made love all through the night until the sun rose. In the morning the little family and the band gathered in the courthouse and tied the knot.

Y/n already knew the media was going to have stuff to say about her when the news broke. This was her second marriage, also happening in the spur of the moment like her first one. Only this time around it was with her soulmate so the rockstar couldn’t give a fuck what they had to say. She and Bob were coming up on a year, had a child, and planned to spend every second of their lives together. She loved him with every ounce of her being.

On instagram the picture posted was of their rings followed by one of them kissing where his face was hidden. “I’ve been keeping a secret from all of you. In January I reunited with my childhood best friend, who I was in love with way before The 1985’s were even thought of. Things happened in life causing us to drift apart, but we recently found our way back to each other and I plan to never let him go. He is my second half. The person I was meant to grow old with. I can’t put into words how happy I am and with the birth of our son, our little fairytale seems to be working out. Some of you may think this is all too fast but let me tell you this, we’ve waited a long time for this moment. I ask that you please respect our privacy and thank you to all who have supported me over the years. Much love, Y/n ♥️”

For almost two years the two kept their relationship under wraps from the media. Then in October of 2019, just before Marcel’s birthday Bob was called back to Top Gun. It’d been several years since he graduated from the program, surprised they even wanted him for the mission. With how timing was the WSO would have to report to Fightertown a couple days after his son turned two. Y/n had a beach house in San Diego, deciding her and Marcel would stay there while Bob was in his detachment and what made it better was Xavier and Farrah—who fell in love over the course of their years as a band— were both from San Diego, both currently there while the band took a small break. Bob would have to stay on base with candidates, but after training ended he’d come to the house to be with them.

Pepper and Thomas were back in L.A, but we’re working on beats for their upcoming album and sending the three what they had for them to add on or scrap if they felt it didn’t fit. They had a meeting with the two Zoom with Xavier and Farrah and their two young kids at Y/n’s place the day she got the call Bob was in an accident.

“Hello?” She answered the phone, moving to the side away from where Xavier was drumming. Marcel was in his little playpen, a pair of baby earmuffs over his ears to protect them from the loud noise.

“Hi….” The guy on the opposite end let out a soft chuckle. “I’m looking for uh, Y/n L/n?” His tone was that of someone who found it funny he was asking for someone he definitely thought wouldn’t be on the other end of the phone. Like he saw the name on the card and said, “there’s no fucking way this is the guy married to Y/n L/n,” but because of his job he had to call the number anyway.

“This is her. Who am I speaking to?”

The man went silent for a moment, before clearing his throat. “This is Lieutenant Royce from NAS Miramar medical group,” Y/n’s heart picked up as dread filled her, “Can you confirm you are the spouse of Lieutenant Robert Floyd.”

“Yes,” she rushed out. “I am. Is he okay? Did something happen?” Closing her eyes, she prayed she wasn’t about to receive the worst news imaginable. No, Bob had to be okay.

“There was an accident with his F-18 this afternoon, he had to eject—.”

“Excuse me one second,” she apologized before bringing the phone back slightly to yell at the drummer, “Xavier! Stop drumming for five seconds—I need to fucking hear right now!” The man winced as he mouthed, ‘sorry’ catching the ashen look on her face. Both he and Farrah set aside their instruments, watching Y/n turn away to speak again, this time more calmly. “Please repeat that for me, Lieutenant.”

When Royce heard the name of The 1985’s drummer being shouted at, the Lieutenant nearly forgot what he was calling for, “U-uh, yes. There was an emergency ejection in your husband’s F-18 this afternoon during training. He is okay minus a few bruises, but he will be staying overnight in our facility for observation.”

“Oh my gosh, okay,” she breathed in relief, bringing a hand to her mouth to calm herself. “Is there any way I can see him?”

“Do you have a dependent ID card?” She tells him yes and he says with a light cough, “Then yes you can come onto base and see him.” Royce gave the address, still finding it hard to believe he may have been talking with the frontwoman of the most popular rock band in the last 15 years. He really thought it was just someone who shared a name with her. But then again, they sounded very alike.

Thanking the officer, Y/n wrote down the address and rushed to grab her purse. “I have to go to base—something happened with Bob. Can you guys watch Marcel until I get back?”

“Of course,” Farrah told her, “go go, we’ll stay here and clean everything up.”

Practically speeding onto base, it was the first time she ever had to use her military ID, which had the guard at the front gate jaw drop. He maintained professionalism, scanning her card and nodding to the rockstar. As much as he wanted to ask for a photo the guy could tell she was in distress and it wasn’t a good idea. “Have a good day, Ms. L/n.”

“Thank you, sir. You too.” She waved apologetically, recognizing the look she often got from fans. Had the situation been different she would’ve happily chatted a little longer.

It was the same when she got to the infirmary. The receptionist, who looked to be in her mid twenties, dropped the apple in her hand while other young servicemen were doing double takes and whispering. “That’s fucking Y/n L/n.” “Are you sure?” “I’m serious! I had a huge crush on her in college. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

“Hi,” she offered a small smile, aware the guy to her left had his phone out trying to sneak a picture, likely tweeting the fact she was in a Navy hospital. “I’m looking for my husband, Lieutenant Robert Floyd. I received a call from a Lieutenant Royce saying he was here.”

Upon hearing his name, the gentlemen seated behind the girl with his back to her spun around, eyes bulging when they landed on Y/n. The chair almost fell when he stood abruptly. “T-that’s me. Yes I’m the one who called you, Ms. L/n. If you would follow me I’ll take you to him.”

“Thank you,” she walked behind him, ignoring the whispers and comments made by those around. By now TMZ probably got tipped off, she could already feel her phone buzzing—no doubt from her publicist wondering what the hell was going on. She made a mental note to call her back later to explain.

Royce knocked gently on the door before opening it, “Lieutenant—oh you have visitors I apologize,” he glanced over his shoulder to Y/n, still in disbelief on what he was about to say. Turning back to Bob, Royce gives a nod, “your wife is here.”

“She is?” Y/n heard Bob, and some murmurs of voices going, “Wife?” “When the hell did he get married?”

Pushing past Royce, thanking him briefly, Y/n entered the room only to stop short at the several pairs of eyes landing on her. Off to the side she saw a man with a buzz cut drop his bag of chips, choking on the one in his mouth, “What. the. fuck.”

The two standing in front of the bed—mouths agape—parted away allowing Y/n to see Bob sitting with his flight suit unzipped and tied around his waist. Exhaling in utter relief the woman rushes to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, Robby.” She felt his arms go to her waist, pulling her closer as she hid her face in his neck. Y/n could literally cry with how happy she was to see him in one piece.

“I’m okay, darlin’.” He rubbed her back, aware his fellow aviators were staring at them with mixed expressions. They looked confused, disbelieved, shocked, and in awe.

The quiet, reserved, yet sometimes sassy WSO is married to the woman who's been ruling the radio over the last decade.

Who had seven fucking Grammy’s under her band’s name.

Pulling away, Y/n ran her hands along his shoulders, checking for any visible wounds. “What happened? Lieutenant Royce told me you had to eject?”

“There was a bird strike,” he explained, taking her hands and soothing them with his thumbs. “We lost both engines—Phoenix tried to get back control but we were going too fast and couldn’t save the jet. Had to eject at the last second—we’re okay though, I promise. Just a little shaken.”

“Thank God you’re alright,” she sniffed, hugging him again while kissing his cheek. “Leave it to you getting in an accident that makes me use my ID for the first time.”

“How was that?”

“Interesting. I was tempted to run the gate because I had no patience, but controlled myself. Getting arrested would not have been good.”

“No it wouldn’t,” he chuckled, pressing his lips to her forehead.

The clearing of someone’s throat ended the moment, Y/n removing herself from Bob to face the group of aviators who were still speechless by the scene. Smiling shyly, Y/n took in each of them. “Hello, I’m Y/n.”

“Oh we know who you are,” Fanboy said with awe, groaning when Payback smacked his shoulder with a disapproving look. “Sorry that was not the best thing to say. What I-I meant was we’re all fans of your work.”

“And by that he means we were all jamming to your music on the tarmac just yesterday, not understanding why Bobby here looked so smug when Seresin said he could totally get a shot with you if he ever got the chance,” Rooster added on, resulting in the blonde pilot to glare at him before blushing when the others started to laugh.

“Well now I sure as hell won’t try—I’m not that shallow to hit on a married woman, Bradshaw. Made that mistake ages ago and it was not pretty. Anyways, sorry Bob for what I said,” he held a hand up, “but let me be the first to say what a fucking G you are. And Y/n, it’s an honor to be in your presence. Big fan.”

Y/n raised a brow, smirking to her husband to see his reaction. He sure did look smug, keeping his arm around her waist. “A fucking G, huh?”

“He’s the one who said it,” he smiles before noticing she was alone when she arrived, “Where’s Marcel?”

“With Xav and Farrah. They were at the house when I got the call—we were working on some songs.” In the corner of her eye she saw Coyote and Fanboy visibly react to the mention of her bandmates.

“Forgive me for asking,” Phoenix finally spoke from her bed that was seated right next to Bob’s. “But weren’t you two childhood best friends if I’m not mistaken? Sorry if it’s too personal, but I remember seeing your post on instagram two years ago and I thought it said something like that.”

The couple smiled, confirming her wonders. “Yeah,” Bob looked at Y/n with love in his eyes. “We grew up together. Took a hell of a long time before we could get our chance at love, but it was worth the wait.”

For almost an hour the aviators learned more about Y/n and Bob’s relationship, literally saying it should be a romance novel with what life threw at them. The hopeless romantic in Phoenix couldn’t help but awe, feeling so much happiness for her backseater and the rockstar she’d been listening to since sixteen. They truly were the ultimate love story.

When it came time for the mission with Bob and Phoenix selected as one of two foxtrot teams, Y/n held onto him the entire night prior to him shipping out. He made love to her for hours, very slow and sensual ensuring she felt every inch of him. And when they climaxed a tear spilled from her eyes, “You better come home to me.”

He kept a picture of her and Marcel in his pocket the entire time. Before the jet took off of the carrier Bob gave it a small kiss before keeping it safe in his flight suit. The second they got back after successfully completing the mission he called his wife to tell her he was coming home. She practically catapulted into his arms when she picked him up from the docks, not giving a shit that the paparazzi had followed her there. By now the whole world knew who Bob was to her.

The rest of 2019 seemed to go by in a blur. They first thought 2020 would be the best year of their lives when it was discovered Y/n was pregnant again, having conceived the night Bob had left for his mission. She was just at the end of her first trimester when the entire globe shut down. When the rumors spread of a possible pandemic with the outbreak happening across the ocean, the 1985’s all took up camp in San Diego now that Bob had become an instructor with Phoenix at Top Gun. Thomas and his fiancé, who was an actress, didn’t mind moving, neither did Pepper and her girlfriend. The group were working on their sixth studio album and had celebrated 15 years as a group.

But they were starting to get burnt out, thinking it was time to go on hiatus.

Concerned with the virus and what it could have on her pregnancy, the two were very strict on keeping up with covid restriction. For at least three months Bob was working from home, the base shutting down with only certain personnel allowed on. Marcel was still too young to be in pre-school and daycare wasn’t needed since Y/n was home most days. And when she did have business meetings to attend or studio sessions he often traveled with her. Zoom became their best friend during the lockdown, with meetings happening frequently at the beginning to figure out what they were going to do going forward.

Y/n spent weeks going through what were the best records to put on the album. If this was going to be their last for a while then she wanted it to be their best. Two songs she knew she wanted were ‘Pompeii’ and ‘Little Black Dress’, while the other 13 were going to take time to decide. ‘Pompeii’ could definitely have people relate with how this lockdown was making them feel. On the other hand, ‘Little Black Dress’ was mostly for her, inspired by the time Bob went absolutely feral when she walked into the room wearing a little black dress.

It was one of her favorite memories.

And so the months went on and before they knew it they were welcoming a baby girl in July—right smack in the middle of a pandemic. The whole ordeal was unlike anything they ever imagined. Only Bob was allowed in the room, not even their son could come visit so little Marcel didn’t even get to meet his sister until days later. He was with Y/n’s mother who traveled down from L.A and quarantined in the weeks leading to her due date. Y/n hated hospitals, looking forward to bringing their daughter Brenda Rose home. Unfortunately no one else in their family or friends could meet the baby girl until spring of 2021 when things were starting to settle out.

That was also when The 1985s made the decision to go on hiatus, planning to release their album that summer before going on a final tour in 2022.

“This just in, pop rock group ,The 1985s, have announced a hiatus following the release of their upcoming album End of An Era set to drop at the end July. Frontwoman, Y/n L/n, posted on her Twitter a photo of the group in a sweet embrace with the caption, ‘when one chapter ends, another begins. Join us in 2022 as we say goodbye to the stage—thank you to everyone who has supported us since we were kids on MySpace. We hope to see you as we close this chapter in our lives, but don’t worry, the future can always surprise you. In the meantime, as Elvis would say, ‘The 1985s have left the building.’”

“It’s a sad day for fans of Grammy award winning rock band The 1985s. Earlier it was announced they are going on an indefinite hiatus once completing their impending world tour for their sixth studio album. Formed in 2003, the 1985s skyrocketed to the Billboard charts after debuting with their single ‘1985’ in 2005, going on to dominate the late 2000s and early 2010s with features on The Twilight Saga: Eclipse soundtrack, the 25th anniversary of We Are The World to raise charity for the Haiti earthquake, and accumulating a total of seven Grammys including taking home the big three: ‘Record of The Year,’ ‘Song of The Year,’ and ‘Album of The Year’ in 2008 for their second studio album Sugar, Spice, and A Little Bit of Rock ‘N’ Roll. The announcement of the hiatus has succeeded the news of bassist Thomas Quinn tying the knot with longtime girlfriend, Oscar Winner Amelia Bandera, who recently revealed she was pregnant with the couple’s first child. Last year frontwoman Y/n L/n welcomed a daughter with her husband—the couple’s second child since they wed in a private ceremony in 2017. And word on the street is keyboardist Pepper Renolyds is looking to adopt with partner Jenna Langdon. The married pair of the band, Xavier and Farrah Hernandez have had two children following their wedding in 2010 and have hinted at possibly wanting to have a third. It is unsure when the group is likely to regroup after 2022 comes to an end, but one thing is for sure: The 1985s have embedded their name as one of the bestselling groups of the 21st century. I’d say we could be looking at a possible induction to the Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame in the future, and a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”

Now here they were, November of 2022 at Madison Square Garden to take the stage one last time. Would they ever come back? Probably, but it would be some time before they did.

So they were gonna go out with a bang.

“I have twenty minutes until my ass needs to be on stage, Robby,” Y/n mumbled between kisses, back pressed against the door of her dressing room. His mouth went to her neck, roaming his hands all over her body that was covered in her usual leather, “That’s plenty of time.” The response had her giggle, moaning when he attacked her sweet spot making him smirk.

“Then you better do double time…we’re on the clock.”

Her glam team was going to be pissed when she came out with messy hair, glistening of sweat, and slightly smudged makeup, but she didn’t care. Not when her husband was rocking her world as he had her bent over the couch. His chest pressed to her back and hair in his fist, whispering absolute filth into her ear—saying he was going to have her on stage full of him and only he would know. But Bob also gave words of praise and love.

It wasn’t the first time he snuck backstage to rile her up before a concert. When they started the American leg of the tour in California he was at almost every show and would bring her flowers. Sometimes the kids came along, other times they stayed with Phoenix, but each time Bob would either get her pent up by teasing her as the minutes counted down…or would full on rail her. He'd be lying if he said he didn’t get off on the thrill of almost getting caught….or the fact anyone passing the dressing room could figure out what they were making their own music.

This time around in The Garden their kids were with Phoenix and Rooster, who were all waiting to get to their spots on the floor after wishing her and the band good luck. The others were already there, ready to have the time of their lives with the sold out arena. Bob needed to hurry because the stage manager was going to be knocking on her door any second.

They finished with minutes to spare, out of breath and panting with a light layer of sweat coating Y/n. Fuck she looked sexy in her leather and messed up hair, glistening as the light hit her. A smug look took over Bob, winking at his wife who just shook her head with a smile, “I’m gonna miss that now that the tour is over.”

“Don’t worry, baby. We still got after party.”

The rockstar ushered him out when the stage manager appeared, the aviator delivering a smack to her ass as he told her good luck. She smacked his in return causing him to yelp, “Naughty boy.”

Yeah he got some looks from his fellow officers when they got to the floor, Jake whistling under his breath as he went to check his watch. “Jesus Bob, you two were at it for a while. Were you trying to go for baby number three? I hope she’s able to walk on stage.” The comment had Phoenix slap his shoulder, “Can you not? We have kids with us,” she gestured to not only Bob’s children but also Payback's ten year old son and Hondo’s seven year old daughter. Then there was Mickey’s girlfriend carrying their toddler with baby earmuffs, the same Brenda and Marcel were wearing. “My bad,” Jake said, though the smirk remained on his face when Bob sent him a wink.

When the show started it was the most amazing thing any of the squad had witnessed. Some of them had seen the band in their college days, but it was obvious they were gonna top what they did ten years ago. There was a light rumble to Madison Square Garden with how loud it was. Flashing lights and smoke covered the stage, the countdown with a video montage hitting zero before The 1985’s opened with ‘Where Do Broken Hearts Go,’ sending everyone who was still sitting on their feet. Bob put Brenda on his shoulders, Rooster doing the same with Marcel who were clapping and pointing to their mother, “Mommy!”

“Now, I’m searching every lonely place,” Y/n belted out the first line of the chorus, moving down the stage’s elongated platform that split the floor. “Every corner calling out your name. Tryna find you, but I just don’t know.” Xavier hit the drums with Farrah’s riff, Y/n holding a hand to chest, “Where do broken hearts go?”

“Are you sleeping, baby, by yourself? Or are you giving it to someone else? Tryna find you, but I just don’t know,” Pepper and Thomas joined the vocals, “Where do broken hearts go? Where do broken hearts go?”

When the song came to an end, Y/n let the audience scream for a moment before introducing the band. “Madison Square Garden!! New York City!!” The crowd screamed again, smiles on every member. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, theys and thems and anyone in between…. welcome to the ‘End of An Era’ world tour—our final show as we close out an actual end of an era,” Y/n moves closer to her friends with a sad laugh, hearing the sounds of protest from some fans.

“Let’s start off by introducing ourselves…..Mr. Thomas Quinn on the bass!” Tom hits some chords against the audience’s cheers, Y/n doing a little dance off to the side. “Miss. Pepper Reynolds on keys everyone!” The former pianist lets her fingers move along the keys, grinning wide and waving when she finishes. “Show me what you can do, Ms. Farrah Cortez,” the guitar solo sends the crowd into a frenzy, which only increases when Y/n introduces Xavier. “And last but not least, Mr. Farrah Cortez,” laughter rings out before she corrects herself, “I meant Mr. Xavier Hernandez,” the drums go crazy when his last name leaves her lips. She waits till he’s finished to do a bow.

“And I’m Y/n L/n,” she has to pull her mic away to hide her laugh, cheers ringing from every corner in the sold out stadium. “And we’re The 1985s.”

The energy throughout the concert was insane. Even during intermission and 5-minute breaks the audience was having a blast. The dagger squad, plus Hondo and even Maverick were dancing and singing along—the older man getting a literal PowerPoint lesson from his former students on everything there was to know about the group.

Y/n was very entertained when Bob told her that night, saying Maverick aced his test they’d given him. “You gave your old instructor, the famous Captain Mitchell….a test on our band and music? And he got a 100%?” His little nod and smile had Y/n jump in his arms, kissing all over his face, “You’re so fucking adorable, Robby. I love you so much.”

The first part of the show was mostly dedicated to songs on their most recent album, including ‘Pompeii’ and ‘Little Black Dress’. The latter had Bob blushing mad during the set, especially when Y/n came over to where they were at, eyes on him and curing a finger to get him to come to the edge of the floor. There the stadium exploded when she practically laid on the platform to lean over and kiss him, the cameras catching the scene to display on the giant screens.

Blowing kisses to her kids, she got back up and finished the song, smirking at how the dagger squad were whistling and howling in cheers. “Sorry I couldn’t help myself,” she giggled, moving back to her bandmates to prepare for the next set.

Though the tour mainly focused on their songs from their latest work, they called back to some old hits, including ‘Let’s Get Lost,’ which was written for the third Twilight movie soundtrack. “We got any Twilight fans here tonight?” Y/n chuckled at the screams, “I got one thing to ask then….Team Edward or Jacob?”

‘Some Nights’ was one of her favorites to perform, feeling a wave of nostalgia each time she did. It was a fan favorite as it was their second single ever released. The band harmonized on the track, all of them showing off their vocals with the ‘Oh come on,’ part of the song.

Y/n was hesitant to sing ‘Iris’ and ‘Payphone,’ considering they were about her husband, but he assured her when they were planning the tour set list that he wouldn’t be offended. They were some of her greatest works, the audience should hear them.

They even covered the iconic, ‘Don’t You Forget About Me,’ from the Simple Minds—most notably from the movie The Breakfast Club. “I hope you never forget about us, New York,” Y/n said when they finished, “Cause we’ll never forget you.”

Finally they were coming down to the final ten minutes and they had yet to play the song that started it all. “As we come to the end of tonight’s show, we just wanna thank each and every one of you for the support and love you have shown us tonight and through the years. None of this would’ve happened without you all—and we cannot thank you enough for sticking by us, you all play a giant role in what we do. And we’re going to miss you the most as we close this chapter in our lives,” Y/n pauses, feeling the tears prick her eyes. Glancing at her friends, she could see they were fighting back their own. They knew it would be an emotional night, and now they were minutes away from stepping off the stage for the final time.

“We started this journey when we were only seventeen and eighteen—and it’s been a hell of a ride since. Next year marks twenty years since we became The 1985s, seventeen since we made our radio debut, back when MySpace was still a thing,” she has to laugh at that, “What better way to end this tour—end this chapter, than by traveling back in time to the year that started it all.”

The reaction in the dome had little Brenda have to cover her hands over her muffs because it was so loud, Bob holding her on his hip and asking if she was alright. “Loud,” she said in her small voice, causing him to mentally awe.

“I know, baby, it’s loud. But the show is almost over and then mommy will be done, then we go home. Can you hold on for one more song? It’s your favorite one,” Brenda’s eyes brightened at the mention of her favorite song, nodding frantically making him laugh. “Okay munchkin, I expect to hear you sing along—except don’t say the bad word in it, understood?”

“Yes, dada.”

Phoenix was jumping up and down with Marcel in her arms, head banging with the little boy along with Rooster and Javy. Everyone was in delight, rockin out to the final number. Brenda sang along with Bob, the crowd harmonizing with them.

“She’s seen all the classics,” Y/n belted the second verse, hands moving on her guitar, “She knows every line. Breakfast Club, Pretty In Pink, even St. Elmo’s Fire.”

“She rocked out to Wham, not a big Limp Bizkit fan. Thought she’d get a hand on a member of Duran Duran.”

Her and Farrah were leaning their backs against one another, “Where’s the mini-skirt made of snakeskin? And who’s the other guy that’s singin’ in Van Halen? When did reality become TV? Whatever happened to,” she hit a riff, “sitcoms,” she hit another, “game shows? Sing it!”

The entire squad, the kids, and Madison Square Garden echoed, “ON THE RADIO!”

“Was Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana there was U2 and Blondie, and music still on MTV. Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she’s uncool. ‘Cause she’s still preoccupied with 19…19…1985!”

Her mini solo before the bridge had the crowd wild. Smiling the entire time, Y/n even went to the side where her friends and family were, making them all go crazy. “She hates time, make it stop. When did Motley Crue become classic rock?”

“Classic rock,” the band repeated.

“And when did Ozzy become an actor? Please make this stop,” Y/n hit a riff, “stop,” another, “stop!” Only the cheers could be heard during the slight pause before Y/n brought her hand back on the chords.

“And bring back Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana. There was U2 and Blondie, and music still on MTV. Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she’s uncool. ‘Cause she’s still preoccupied—sing it!”

“1985!!!”

“One last time Madison Square Garden!!” Not a single person in them dome didn’t sing along, everyone shouting the final chorus at the top of their lungs.

“Since Bruce Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana. There was U2 and Blondie, and music still on MTV. Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she’s uncool. But she’s still preoccupied, with 19….19….1985!!!”

All the band members continued playing an extended outro, lights flashing all around as the crowd whistled and screamed. Y/n ran over to each side of the stage before coming to the middle, waving a hand to her band who were still going hard on the instruments before raising it and finally bowing.

On the floor, Brenda still in his arms, Bob wiped away the tears falling from his cheeks with his free hand. His friends were cheering, the entire scene overwhelming for the WSO as he stared at his true love as she took her final bow. Y/n was also crying, as were her friends when they finally closed the show shouting, “Madison Square Garden—New York City we love you! Thank you so much for being here with us and being the best crowd ever. Safe travels wherever you’re going and we hope all your dreams come true. Until we meet again….as Elvis would say, The 1985s have left the building!”

The crowd was still screaming, the five adults coming to the middle of the stage holding hands in the air before bowing. Then they all met in a tearful embrace, Y/n full on sobbing with Farrah and Pepper, overcome with emotion that it was all over. Waving to the crowd, they spotted dozens of fans in their line of vision crying, some even throwing flowers onto the stage. They all went to each side of the platform to blow kisses and wave, until finally walking off into the arms of their crew who’d been with them since 2005–where another heartfelt moment took place.

As soon as their families made it backstage, Y/n was dropping to her knees to allow Brenda and Marcel to run into her open arms. “My babies!!” Peppering kisses against their cheeks, Y/n held them tight as they said words of praise. “You were amazing, mommy!” “That was so fun!”

“Thank you, baby,” she kissed Marcel’s head, looking up to see Bob staring at her with absolute love and admiration. Gently moving him and Brenda to the side, Y/n stood up, only to squeal when Bob’s hands went to her thighs to lift her up, spinning them around.

“You were incredible!” He exclaims, stopping still but still holding her up. Their lips met in a searing kiss, “absolutely spectacular.” Her hands came up to cup his face, deepening the kiss as their children wrapped their arms around Bob’s legs. It was like they were in their own little world, oblivious to everyone celebrating around them. The band were with their kids and partners, the crew were popping off champagne.

“I love you so much, Robby,” she said against his lips, kissing him again when he said, “I love you too, baby. More than anything in this world. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

When they pulled away, Y/n was a flustered mess, mirroring that of Bob who was looking at her like she was a goddess. “Don’t give me that look, Floyd. Not until we get to the hotel.”

“Can’t help myself, darlin’,” he chuckled, adjusting her in his arms before giving her another kiss.

“Eww,” Marcel groaned, making the couple laugh into the kiss. Bob set Y/n down, but pulled her close as Brenda and Marcel squeezed in between them.

“So what’s next then?” Bob whispered in her ear. “I know you can take the girl out of rock n roll…but she’ll always be a rockstar.” Y/n laughed, pulling away to gaze deeply in his beautiful blue eyes that she fell in love with as a teenager.

“Now, we live our lives. One day at a time. Together.”

Y/n really needed to thank her mom one day. It was because of her that the woman got to live her dream. After all, she was the one still preoccupied with 1985.

……….

TGM tag list: @avaleineandafryingpan, @caitsymichelle13, @poppyalice2001, @cutelittlepotatofry, @luckyladycreator2, @americaarse , @elenavampire21

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wildemaven · 1 year

Text

Duality Of A Man: Pt. 2

Pairing: Joel Miller/Frankie Morales x F!Reader / AU

WC: 2300

Warnings: T; Mentions of killing, death, birth, birth trauma, food; If I’ve forgotten anything please let me know.

A/N: Firstly, It’s here! Secondly, read part one before reading this or none of this will make any sense to you. I was so worried about having a two part story, mainly because I didn’t want this second part to not contribute to how the first part ended. So I’m really hoping the intensity carried over to this part. Like I mentioned in the first part, this is an alternate universe but I still tried to use storylines from both characters to piece it all together. In it being set in an alternate universe, I fudged the timeline and ages so it made more sense to the Joel’s past— he’s roughly 38 in this verse. Like always, this is not beta’d and all mistakes are made by me! Enjoy!!

Masterlist / Part 1 / Part 3

“Fuck!”

You’re both frozen in the moment. The tension palpable.

A heavy sigh leaves his throat as his head falls forward, a hand scrubbing down his face. The one thing he’s kept from you, now barreling back into his life.

He straightens himself back up. Looking at you, your features distressed and tense. It’s then he notices the faint glimmer of a tear rolling down your cheek.

“Sweetheart, lemme explain.” The heavy silence broken by his thick drawl.

“Joel, what—“ Your hands wiping the at the wetness. “Is that even your name?” You question him.

“No— well, yes technically. But no, sweetheart it’s not. But if you give me a chance I can explain everything to ya.”

He starts to take a step forward, his arms extending out to you.

“I— I need a minute, please.” Your hand shooting up to keep some space between you. “Just—“ You turn and walk to the kitchen, hoping for more time to wrap your head around all this new information.

Joel is not in fact your Joel. He’s married? Your stomach drops at the thought of being the other woman. You catch yourself on the counter, your arms barely keeping your shaky form upright, knuckles white as they grip the edge of the cold stone.

You close your eyes and focus on your breathing, taking a moment to slow your heartbeat.

The shuffle of Joel’s boots against the tiled floor as he enters the room breaks your trance.

“Sweetheart—“ His voice barely above a whisper, pleading for your attention. You wipe the remaining tears that have fallen before turning to him. Leaning back into the counter, arms cross in front of you as you mentally prepare yourself for the explanation he’s about to give you.

“What’s your real name?” You begin to question him first.

“Francisco— Francisco Morales is my real name. Everyone called me Frankie though.” He explains.

You attempt to swallow the lump that’s formed in your throat as you turn your head, glancing out the small window above the sink, life still moving forward outside as yours stands still within these walls. Trying your best to hold back the onslaught of tears that have started to form. Your Joel isn’t your Joel. He’s Francisco, Frankie.

“Who is Kelli and why was she on our front doorstep explaining to me she’s your wife? That she’s been needing to talk to you for years? Fuck Joel! I’m no fucking home-wrecker!” Your voice slightly laced with aggravation at the thought of coming between someone’s marriage.

“It’s not like that sweetheart.”

“Then what the fuck is it like Joel? Huh? What am I suppose to think when I have this woman telling me she’s your fucking wife?! Please explain that to me!”

“I will. I will explain everything to ya. But ya gotta know, I never meant to lie or hurt ya. Ya gotta know that babe.” His jaw shifting, a nervous tick he has when he feels most vulnerable. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him, because you still love the man standing before you.

Of all the qualities about Joel, his honesty was one of his best. He didn’t beat around the bush, he always gave it straight. And even now, you can sense the truth is what he’s about to deliver to you.

You nod in agreement, because you know this about him— he would never do anything to deliberately hurt you. He’s a protecter and cares deeply.

“Go on then. Tell me everything. Help me understand, please.” Your voicing cracking, encouraging him to continue.

He props himself up against the counter across from you. One arm crossed, his elbow of the other resting on it, thumb tracing back and forth on his bottom lip. Contemplation and worry weighing heavily on him as he tries to decide where to start.

He looks up at you, and it pains him to see the hurt in your eyes by his doing. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and then tells you everything.

“I joined the army when I was 18. I was shit in school and didn’t think I would amount to anything, so the first recruiter to catch my eye had me signin’ up on the spot.” He hasn’t talked about his past to anyone and now here he is spilling it all for you in your shared kitchen. “Became a helicopter pilot and spent the rest of my time enlisted flyin’”

“Did a few tours after I joined. I was overseas more than I was home at that point. When I got back after my last deployment, I met Kelli. She was a friend of a friend and we’d hit it off. I knew instantly that she was the one.”

You wince at his words, ‘the one.’ This was nearly 15 years ago, but hearing him say that he had fallen in love and married the love of his life is a pain you’d never expected to feel waking up this morning.

“We married after only knowing each other 6 months. We were good— we were happy.” He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of this.

“A couple years later, a few army buddies of mine convinced me to do this off the record recce— they needed a pilot. The pay out was hefty and I knew it would help Kelli ‘n I out a ton. She wanted to by a house, but we couldn’t afford it on our incomes combined.”

He takes a minute to let his thoughts sit for a bit. You haven’t said a word since he started talking. He’s not sure if you’re trying to process it all or contemplate how you plan on leaving him when he’s finished.

“We fought about it for a week, she didn’t want me to go. It was in Colombia and I’d have to go silent while I was gone. She said she wouldn’t be there when I got back.”

“The recce was supposed to be a quick in and out— It wasn’t. We had to kill men, bad men, one of them this big time drug lord. We didn’t get the money and lost one of our own on our way home.”

“I’m so sorry Joel.” Your empathic response hits him hard.

“When I got back Kelli was gone, just like she said. I was broke and alone, I hated myself for what I did.”

“Joel—“ Your heartbreaking at his admission. You want to comfort him and show him that despite everything he’s telling you, you’re still here for him.

“No!” It comes out harsher than he means, and he hates the way you flinch at it. “No, let me finish. You need to know everything.”

“The consequences finally caught up to us a year later. Men were after us and we had to go into hiding. We were able to get some strings pulled from some higher ups. Set us up with new names, social security numbers— washed us of our previous lives. Came out here to Texas to start fresh, create a life for myself.”

There’s a pregnant pause, but your intuition tells you there’s more.

“Tommy, he’s not your brother, is he?”

“No.” He shakes his head at your question. “He’s my cousin, on my dad’s side, I was able to get his last name. He let me crash on his couch for a bit until I was able to set some roots down. Everyone just assumed we were brothers so we didn’t see the need in correcting them.”

“And Sarah— Is she Kelli’s?” The question subdued but one he hasn’t answered yet.

“No, Kelli never wanted kids— which is fine, her right.” He sighs, shoulders sagging as the weight begins to lift with each word he speaks. “I met Sarah’s mom not long after I moved here— wasn’t anything serious. After a few months she’d found out she was pregnant. I told her I wanted to be apart of the baby’s life and we planned to try and make it work together, for Sarah’s sake.”

He stops. The pain in his eyes is too much to witness from where you were. You close the distance between you and him, cupping his face with your hand, his eyes flutter closed as he leans into it.

“It’s okay—” You lift his gaze to yours, grounding him in that moment. “It’s okay baby!” He nods in return.

“Her mom died while giving birth. It was the most devastating thing I’d ever been through.” A sob cracks in his throat, the tears streaming down his distraught face. You pull him in close, arms wrapping around him, cradling his head with one hand as he tucks his face into your neck.

He’d never shared what had happened between him and Sarah’s mom, and you never felt the need to pry it out of him.

You both stand there for a while. No words exchanged, letting him continue on his own.

The stereo still filling the room with its static resonance muffling the quiet cries pouring into your shoulder.

“Hey—Hey look at me.” Joel’s head slowly lifting from his place of comfort. Your fingers gently work at wiping away the tears, the pain still lingering in his expression. “I’m so sorry Joel. I can’t imagine having to deal with all that, to then have to shut that part of you out. Thank you for telling me, for being honest about all of this. I’m here though when ever you need to talk about it okay?”

“I should be the one apologizing sweetheart. You’re taking this too well for someone who just had 15 years worth of secrets thrown at them in the last 30 minutes.”

You can’t help the soft chuckle that you give him. Your thumb softly caresses his cheek, “You should know I don’t scare that easily by now Miller. Yeah, it was a complete shock to have this all dropped on me— but I don’t think of you any less. I vaguely remember telling you on our first date 5 years ago, I’m tougher than I look.”

That makes him smile.

“Does Sarah know? About all of this?”

“No, none of it. I’m just dad, grumpy Joel Miller to her and Tommy’s her uncle— she knows nothing different. She knows about her mom though, told her when she was old enough to ask why she was the only one in school with out one. She took it pretty well.”

“She’s a smart kid, she takes after someone I know.”

“Me?”

“No, me!” You swat at his chest playfully.

His eyes roll, but he knows you’re right. You’ve been in their lives the better part of 5 years now. The closest thing to a mother figure Sarah’s ever known. And he’s grateful that you treat her with as much love as you do.

“Okay, so that only leaves one question. Why now? Why come all this way to find you if she’d left you high and dry all those years ago?”

“I’m guessing to have me sign some paperwork. We never officially divorced— legally we’re still married.”

“Hmm. That would make sense I guess. She left her number to give her a call. Maybe sign those papers so I don’t feel like I’m meddling in someone’s marriage.”

That garners a hearty chuckle from him and he agrees to give her a call— officially put his past behind him.

He leans in, his lips crashing into yours, pouring his heart into the kiss. It’s tender, yet you can feel the love he’s trying to convey through it.

The creak of the front door signals Sarah’s arrival home.

“Hey! I’m home!” She announces herself, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, giving a questioning look at you and Joel still holding each other.

“Did someone die?!” Her hand clasped against her chest and she gasps. “It was Mrs. Adler wasn’t it?! I’m gonna miss her cookies!”

“What? No! No one died!” Joel says as you try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest.

“Then why do you two look so— depressed?”

“We’re just having a— moment?” You try to sound confident in your words and you think she’s bought it, but her cocked eyebrow says otherwise.

“A moment? At 10 am on a Sunday—“ She continues looking between the both of you. “In the middle of the kitchen? You two really need to work on your lying skills. I’ve heard a 5 year old sound more convincing than what I’m hearing.”

“Alright!” Joel pushes off the counter, hands clapping together to bring the discussion to a close. “That’s enough outta you young lady. Go on upstairs and put your stuff away, we’re going out for burgers and ice cream in a bit. Make sure you take a shower, wash off that sass you brought home with ya.”

She retreats without a comeback, the ploy of some good food and dessert is enough to get her moving.

You’re both still standing in middle of the kitchen, a comfortable silence washing over the both of you. “We’re okay, right?” He asks you, normalcy already settling back into the present. “Yeah Babe, we’re okay.”

“So— What am I suppose to call you now?”

“Call me? ‘m not followin’.” Confused and unsure what you’re asking.

“Ya know, just wanna make sure I’m screaming the right name later on tonight.” You say with a cheeky grin.

“Is that so?!” He lurches forward, grabbing at your waist as you try to make your escape, but his arms are quicker than your legs. “Woman, you are a menace!” He growls into your neck, gifting you a few nips as he tickles your sides.

Your arms flailing about as you try to hold him off, your head thrown back as you laugh in defeat. It’s his favorite to see you so carefree and happy, he’s grateful he’s the one on the receiving end of it.

Your hands locking behind his neck, pulling yourself up to him. “Yeah, but I’m your menace Joel.” You whisper against his lips.

“Mmmm, that you are sweetheart. I love you.”

“And I love you.”

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #Joel Miller #tlou au #Frankie morales #Francisco morales #Pedro pascal #TLOU #triple frontier #wildemaven writes #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #hbo the last of us

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tbmunson · 2 years

Text

Pile of Leaves - Gareth Emerson x Fem!Reader

Day 11 of 31

Summary: You and Gareth hang out while his sisters play in the leaves

Warnings: Literal fluff.

WC: 500

October Masterlist

Being neighbors with your boyfriend had its perks. The one you were currently enjoying was being able to watch him work in the yard from your window. He was raking the falling leaves into a pile, more than likely at the request of his parents. You smirked when he looked up into your window, catching you watching.

He gave you the 'come here' motion with his finger, beckoning you to him.

You blew him a kiss and slipped your boots on before bouncing out of your front door and over to his yard. "Hey, lover boy. You rang?" You grinned, leaning against one of the trees partially responsible for his work.

He stopped his work and nodded. "I'm lover boy now? Since when, babydoll?" He rested his chin on top of his hand that was covering the end of the rake.

You laughed and shrugged. "I guess since you started calling me babydoll." You replied, reaching out for the tool in his hand. "Go get the girls. There's enough for them to jump in." You gently pulled the handle closer to you until you could press a quick kiss to his lips.

He stopped you from moving away when you tried, deepening the kiss a little for another moment. Gareth loved you, but knowing you were fond of his 7 year old twin sisters made him love you even more.

You smiled widely at him as he pulled away. "Go on, lover boy." You laughed before kissing his nose, which was a bit chilly and red due to the crisp autumn air.

"Yes ma'am." He replied, leaving the rake in your hands and walking into his house. A few minutes later the front door opened and two pink marshmallows thundered your way.

You laughed at the way the jackets engulfed the girls as they yelled your name. "Hey! You guys having a good day?" You asked and your knelt down to receive their hugs.

Lisa nodded and quickly explained how they had been watching Care Bears before Gareth came and got them.

Kelly interrupted stating that they were excited for finally wear their new jackets because it was cold.

"That's so awesome. I wish I had one like that. It's going to give you guys some extra padding for the leaves too, you know." Your face moved with expression in they way you would when talking to kids.

Gareth rested against the tree as you interacted, falling deeper and deeper in love with you every time you smiled or laughed, making his sisters do the same. His whole world stood in front of him in the form of the three girls that had stolen his heart. "Let's get to jumping, huh?" He asked, breaking into the conversation.

Your mouth opened and your eyes went wide. "I think it's time, right?" You asked the girls, pushing to stand up.

"Yes!" They screamed, bouing on their feet.

You and Gareth had only managed to jump in the leaves a total of two times each in the near hour you'd spent out there. Most of your time was spent helping the girls out of the leaves, or raking the leaves back into a pile.

You weren't mad though. Not in the least. You were thrilled to be spending time with Gareth and his sisters.

#gareth emerson fluff #gareth stranger things #gareth the great #gareth emerson #gareth emerson x reader #stranger things #stranger things fluff #flufftober22 #flufftober 2022 #flufftober #flufftober2022 #flufftober 22

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p-muffin · 1 year

Text

Death is at Our Door Pt. 1

Pairing : Joel Miller x Reader

Next Part

Warnings : Death of a loved one.

WC:2.2k

Summary :

Fort Vancouver, a happy and peaceful community in the north west. Y/n a kind, strong, and fierce woman. The world is peaceful for her and the people in her small town. Although when an unknown man and immune young girl are brought in from a clicker infested library, the pair bring unwanted visitors to the Forts front gates.

The fort of Vancouver Washington started as a settlement for the colonies when they came north and became a large trading post for the Hudson’s Bay Company. As the years went on and Vancouver grew, the fort became a well-known historic site. The great 20-foot walls ideal for the world ending. Just about five buildings were saved throughout history. As the fort became a settlement once again in 2004, the survivors added well over twenty new buildings/homes inside the walls.

Washington was known for its large and bruting Evergreen trees, the thick and sturdy wood perfect for building. The people were proactive in getting homes built for the remaining survivors. Carpenters, electricians - the old and young helped structure the cabins, drawing energy from the old Bonneville Dam. The homes were lit up with old grandmother lamps and string lights. A crisp woodsy smell filling each home beautifully. If the people needed paradise, this was it. Besides Jackson this was the most comfortable it got.

The leader, Vance Kelly – a humble but strong man, encouraged the people to build a log wall around the garden that laid outside the main gates. The fort had a well-functioning garden for decades before the world went to shit. Involved heavily with the public, it was basically a self-sufficient town. As Jackson Wyoming was flourishing, so was the northwestern community. One key difference being the lack of security from Clickers.

The hunting party was successful ninety nine percent of the time, getting most clickers and using whatever explosives they could find to dial down the infected rates. Vancouver was a large city before this. Almost one hundred and fifty thousand residents. Not including Portland’s large numbers. Vance was very forward about how things outside the community would go, the infected would be slaughtered – fully infected or not. No risks to be taken when it came to the town’s safety.

But, year after year the people of Fort Vancouver became strong and well equipped. Gathering supplies to feed and warm the group of one hundred-something people. Life was peaceful.

The autumn leaves spun in adolescent circles as they fell softly to the grassy ground, crisp air biting at y/n’s skin. A soft chuckle escaping her chilled lips as she walked down her rocky street. Pebbles popping under her worn boots. The woman clutched her thick Carhartt coat to her chest as the air nipped a little too much at her spine. Sun catching in her eyes, she kept her steady pace down to the gardens. People of the community waving as she passed by, gifting small smiles and nods as she continued.

Fort Vancouver was beautiful, only about three miles from her pre-outbreak home. The community members were hard working and skilled in protecting the haven. They had everything they needed to keep life peaceful. They did thorough checks when someone would go on a run and so there were never any cases inside the walls. Y/n was considered a lucky one, most of her family making it. Only her youngest sister perishing a month after everything went bad. Lost her to the nasty fungus.

The large garden came into her view. Birds sung in the trees above her, singing hopeful songs. Head falling back to gaze up, a shy grin grew on her cheeks. A quiet whistle leaving her cranked throat to sing back. Chuckling, she walked down to the potatoes. Gripping the plant tightly in her palms, she ripped up with little force. Dirt covered potatoes filled in her little woven bag y/n carried on her forearm. Turning swiftly on her heels, her feet led her to George – the garden trader.

“Good afternoon Ms. Kelly.” He smiled; hands folded in front of his old body. “Just the potatoes?”

Gazing down, she counted out loud. “I’ve got three potatoes and have three OPDIVO’s for Cheryl.” Y/n pulled a small plastic bag from her back pocket. Three little pills hanging loosely.

George’s eyes grew wide, the heavy stress falling from his shoulders. His wife now not having to worry as much about if she is going to pass from the cancer. “Thank you, y/n. Really.” He kindly smiled at the woman. Hands squeezing her own. He needed them.

Nodding politely, y/n walked off with her groceries.

Y/n was sweet, kind, and welcoming. When The neighbor lady had gotten too old, y/n took her in. Housing her within her family’s quarters. Now this old lady – Linda. Was of Irish descent and would beg for a colcannon potato, so as the oldest daughter of her family – Y/n would cook for Linda. Creating her own recipe and holding it quite dearly in her heart. The long afternoons when her and Linda would sit on y/n’s porch and laugh about stories they had come to write.

Her feet carried her to the steps of her cabin. Cabin number one, the largest home for the first family to arrive. The Kelly’s. The door swung open, hitting the logs softly as she scrapped the mud off her brown boots. Peering around, the house was quiet. Too quiet. Soft eyes gazing through the house, she didn’t notice anything out of place. They must be working, she thought to herself. Shrugging it off, y/n set the bag down on the wooden table.

Peeling off her layers – a scarf, her Carhartt jacket, and beanie. She smiled seeing her dads name written lazily on the tag. Vance. Her father was always up her ass about her layering, Vancouver was cold for about seventy-five percent of the year. Only summers giving warmth. The rest of the year gloomy and chilly. He had given her the beloved coat a year ago, when she had come back from gathering some seeds from a nearby abandoned nursey. The coat she adorned torn to shreds, blood staining it from the nasty rose bush she had admired.

Unfortunately, she didn’t gain a cool story from her trek. Just a sob story about how a rose bush jumped out and attacked her favorite coat.

The front door opened with a sharp squeak, the sound piercing y/n’s ears. Turning from the coat rack, her brothers wide frame stood in the doorway. Body stiff and eyes gazing off like a deer in head lights. Jacob, the warrior of the family. Never seemingly scared, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

Y/n’s hands reached out for him, her feet gliding her body to his. “J-Jacob?” Her voice almost at a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flickered to her; head hung low. Breathing shot and slow. “Cory.” He paused, licking his bloody lip. “They got Cory.” Chokes of tears belted out, tears starting to pour down his beaten face as he came to terms with the death.

Cory was Jacobs best friend, brother if you will. Y/n had known him since her father welcomed his family in. “Oh Jacob, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes searched his face for a moment. “Are you bit?” Words like stone, y/n needed to be sure.

His lips folded together, disappearing as he sobbed. A small shake of his head soothed her.

Thank God.

Jacob tripped into y/n’s open arms; body heavy as he cried out. He hadn’t cried in what felt like ages, but y/n knew he needed to. Otherwise, he would bottle it up just like when their younger sister Opal died. He sat locked up in a hotel room for days, unable to come out and face the cruel world. That’s when he came to fight for his family, stuffing Opals passing away in the back of his mind. He decided he needed to be the savior of his family, he needed to fill what he had lost.

A loud sigh left y/n’s lips as she guided him to the couch, plopping him down besides her own body. His whimpers filled the air. She hadn’t seen him this bent out before, honestly, she was surprised he went to her and not his girlfriend.

He grew quiet for a moment. “Do you think Ella is wondering where you’re at?” Y/n mumbled.

Sighing he sat up from her shoulder. “Probably. Thank you, bug.” Jacob croaked. Standing, he ruffled at his younger sister’s hair.

The next morning was colder than the one before, temperatures dropping quickly for the coming winter. Beautiful morning songs unsung, the birds flying south to warmer weather. Drapes feathered at y/n’s face as she slept like a milk-drunk kitten. Arm thrown over her head, she was the most comfortable she’d been since, well ever.

A crisp morning wind shot under her blanket, shooting herself awake with a deep shiver. Teeth grinding as her eyes stretched open. Room dimly lit by the morning sunrise; her body rose from her laying position like an infected. Fingers rubbing the sleep away, y/n stretched her long legs out. Toes tapping the end of the vintage bedframe. Beautiful morning.

“Vance!” A deep voice called, snapping y/n from her morning thoughts.

Peering out the second story window, she saw Bobby shouting up at the window besides hers. Weird, he never was so intrusive. Y/n’s eyes furrowed as she leaned out of her window.

Raspy still, she spoke out. “What’s up Bobby, I think dads showering.”

His eyes were heavy, the look of alert written all over his aged face. “A man and a girl were found about 500 yards out; we need your dad’s permission on something.” Lies. Y/n thought.

“If they’re not infected, they are not to be killed.” Her voice dripped with anger, Bobby was known to make rash decisions and the fact that he was here asking to murder two people was shocking.

A scoff left his lips, head shaking in humor. “Why don’t you come with Vance, you should see this too.” Hands on his hips he gazed one more time at her father’s bedroom window. “Tell him to hurry his old ass up.” With that Bobby was vanished.

The woman jumped out of bed with anticipation. The plaid boxer shorts hugging her waist as she raced to the bathroom down the long hall. Water splashing loud and pools of steam pouring out from the door’s cracks. Her fists pounded on the wooden door; eyeballs shut tight.

“Dad there’s an emergency at the gates!” Y/n’s voice rang high, the shower squealed off. “Bobby said two people showed up, wants us both down there.” She continued, running back down to her bedroom.

Y/n threw a grey hoodie, green flannel, and her carpenter pants onto her muscular body. Strapping her custom knife holster onto one of her thighs and her leather Smith and Wesson Pistol holder to the opposite thigh. Slinging her thick boot socks over her feet, y/n’s favorite pair of old doc martens covered the layer. Bent over, her hair fell to the front of her face – blowing it from her eyes.

Standing upright, she placed the gun into its holster. The wind creeping in once more as she turned to walk out of the cozy room. Vance doing the same, the pair in sync shuffled down the stairs. Feet clamoring the wooden steps, the two trudged down the streets to the front gates.

People gathered around the medic building, just next to the main posts. Vance softly made his way through the crowd, y/n following behind her father. The building was small, only three rooms inside. They made their way in, past the small waiting room. Bobby stood in front of the far-left room; arms crossed over his broad chest. Bobby’s rifle strapped tightly to his front.

Vance looked around before he spoke up. “What’s going on, Bobby?”

Bobby gazed down at y/n, licking his lips as he started. “A man probably early to mid-fifties.” He moved from in front the window, a man gruff and grey laying on the bed. Y/n’s eyes stared down at him, intrigued by the man. “He has a concussion and a stab wound on his left thigh” Bobby scratched his beard. “He’s not the special one though.” The group shifted their focus to the young girl strapped down to the bed across from the man. Soft chocolate brown hair surrounding her little body, pale skin freckled innocently. “When we tested them, they both came up not infected. When we checked for injuries, she had a bite that looks like it’s been healed for a while.”

Y/n’s father peered over at Bobby, eyes wide and worried. “Bobby, what if it was a false test?!” His voice not raising a whisper.

Bobby sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We did blood tests and the scan.” He paused. “Shes immune.”

The Inspiration board for this story

#joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine

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zmediaoutlet · 9 months

Text

a vessel

pairings: Sam/Dean(na), Dean/Lucifer, pining!Cas warning: non-con length: 2700

What if Jack wasn't Kelly Kline's son, but Deanna's?

---

Deanna can't stop chewing her thumbnail. It's down to the quick, smarting, but she keeps sticking it in her mouth anyway, biting at it anyway. A rush of coppery salt makes her jerk and blink and finally tear her eyes away from the tome of celestial theory. Red riming the bed of the nail. She could get up and get a band-aid but it'll have to wait because Sam, the stupid self-sacrificing idiot, is in a submarine seventy-three years and an ocean away from her, and nothing really matters but getting him back.

"Him and the Hand of God," Castiel says, extra-gravelly like if his voice is even lower she'll take it more seriously.

"Yeah, Cas," Deanna says, but she doesn't know why he bothers with clarifying. Like they haven't known each other for almost a decade. Like he doesn't know what her priorities really are.

Sam shouldn't have gone. Of course there was no choice but to let him be the one to go. Not the first time she's wished she was born a guy. A submarine in the forties full of male soldiers—no way she'd be able to sneak around, find what needed to be found. Of course, his stupid hair would make him stick out like a sore thumb, too, so technically—but he'd only given her that so-patient look, waiting for her to come to the obvious conclusion. For all the arguments to the contrary over the years, she isn't actually stupid.

They'd hugged. Nothing else, not with Castiel right there watching, waiting almost impatient, and he'd wrapped careful arms around her shoulders and pressed his lips down against the top of her head. She can bring to mind exactly how he smelled, right in the center of his chest. The shirt he'd worn for two days, the faintest trace of rain-fresh deodorant but also the smell of his skin. Salt. She'd said told you you should get a haircut, and he'd huffed and said, yeah, and then kissed her hair brief and easy, and stepped back to where Cas was waiting with that hard strange light in his eyes. Getting ready to jump. See you soon, Sam said, and Cas clamped a hand on his shoulder and then—

She blinks hard at the book. It's gone blurry. Her thumb hurts, and she sucks it clean of the blood and then wipes her hands hard over her face, pissed at herself—there's work to do, there's no time for this shit—and on the next page, there it is. A spell.

"Can you do it?" she says, dumping the book in front of Cas. "It calls for the power of an archangel, but—"

Cas looks it over. Irritated at first—he has been since he came back sogged out from the ocean, which Deanna did find entertaining until she realized what it meant and bloomed into full-on panic—but then considering. "It can't hurt to try," Castiel says.

Her gut's one hard furious clench. She thought he'd say something sadsacky and Cas-like, something about his powers being fragile. "I don't know how much time he has," Deanna says. Cas ignores her, looking at the ingredients. "The whole time travel thing—do you know how long we have, until the sub goes down?"

"We have time," Castiel says, barely looking at her, and she—how does he know? How can he possibly?

The majority of the ingredients are simple if gross, fetched from the catalog in one of the archive rooms. She washes her face in cold water in the WC and puts her hair up in a half-bun and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyelashes dark spikes like she's been crying. Her lower lip so bitten and chapped she might as well be a kid again. When she remembers telling Sam, who kept chewing his lip, hey, quit it, use Blistex like a normal person, and had tugged his lip out of his mouth so many times when he was fourteen that he'd bitten her thumb once in pure bitchy retaliation. He'd stopped, though. All that work to get him to grow up and she couldn't, couldn't. Wouldn't.

In the library Cas is working, steady. Willing to try, no matter what. No matter what else has happened between them she loves him a little, for that. Only—

"Cas," she says, helpless. He dumps vervain into the steel bowl, ignoring her. "You're not strong enough. It isn't going to work."

"Deanna," he says, rough, and pauses. He picks up the butcher knife, dragging the preserved brain closer. "Have faith."

Where has he been. As though there were any point in having faith in anything but—Sam, and sometimes, on occasion, what Sam and her could do, together, and when all else failed what their friends could manage. She presses her fingertips to her eyesockets, pressing hard just under the brow bone, and she wants—more almost than anything she wants—to go back. When their problems were easier. Just a quick apocalypse or two. Sam at her side, the two of them turning to people who knew better for help—like standing in Bobby's house, getting easy answers. Getting an eyeroll and getting called stupid, but the answers came anyway, easy-peasy.

Her eyes open. Bobby.

"Wait," she says. Cas sighs. He drops the mangled flesh into the bowl. "Wait, you—we can power you up."

"How," he says.

"Use me." Cas pauses, still holding the knife. Deanna drags in air, certain. "You touched Bobby's soul, way back then, to get me and Sammy back from the past. Use me, take—whatever you need. However you gotta power up, so you can do that spell and you can get Sam back. You can do that. Can't you?"

"I… can," Castiel says, looking down at the bowl of reagents. "But I'm sure I don't need to, Deanna—"

"You can't be sure," Deanna says, quick. She comes close, sets her hand on his sleeve. "Cas, please."

Later she'll know it all went wrong—there. Right then.

Cas laughs. He never, ever laughs.

Deanna steps back. Instinct, inbuilt from age four. "What?"

"It's so strange," Castiel says. He turns, leaning his hip against the table. Weird and casual. "I'm working so hard to get Sammy back, and I'm letting you boss me around like—what, like you're interesting? You've got the connection to Amara but there's nothing about you that's ever, ever mattered to me. Isn't that funny."

His voice odd, high. Deanna takes another step back and runs into the other table. She grips the edge of it with one hand.

Castiel drops the knife onto his table and then he's—there, crowded up against her, his hands hard on her wrists. Bruising, shocking strength. She doesn’t breathe, looking up into his eyes. Unfamiliar blue.

"I always focused on Sam, you know," Castiel says. He smiles down at her, shrugs. "Girl that got away. Just hated him to bits. But you, you were always just the irritating little gravel in my shoe. Little bitch that Sam kept pining after, making him say no to everything I wanted to do. Even when I finally got in there, it was you that caused all the problems. What was it he saw in you? I never could figure it out. When, to me, you're just some stupid slut who never served her purpose. My brother never even got to take you for a ride, so what is the point of you?"

Her tongue, caught fat and shocked in her mouth, finally unfreezes. "I don't know, Lucy," she says, her voice coming from some distant place. "Must be above your pay-grade."

Lucifer smiles wider, all teeth. "Took you long enough, dummy," he says, and then backhands her so hard she falls back against the table, the legs screeching a foot backwards on the floor.

Pain's nothing—it rings in her skull, blood sluicing down from her nose, but so what—and she knows, knows, there's an angel blade on the bookshelf under the scimitar and there's another on the bar, by the crystal decanter she hasn't refilled in too long—and even if they won't work on Lucifer, at least it'll give her time—and all that goes through her brain in quick flipbook succession, knowing how to roll off the table and lunge for the bar and grab it and spin and stab him in the chest, in the fucking brain if she has to, no matter whose body he's in—but. This isn't Cas, this is an archangel, and he knocks her back to tabletop in an instant, crushing her down into the wood, not letting up. She blinks hard, tears smarting, and Lucifer arranges Cas's face into a little playact of pity, looking down at her.

"Aw, sweetheart. Feeling tough?" he says.

She lets her head thunk back onto the table. Rage ripples down through her throat and lungs and gut, chased with a liquid shot of fear. She wants the mark back on her arm. How she could tear into him, with the blade back in her hand. No matter the consequences that'd follow.

Lucifer looks all over her face, clearly entertained. "Well, that is kinda fun," he says. He transfers her wrists to one hand, squeezing so hard the bones feel like they're going to snap any second, and flicks her hair back away from her face. Smiles, softer. More awful. "You know, Cas said yes to this? He knew I was your only shot at fighting back Amara. First decision he made that wasn't grade-A idiot. But you know that wasn't the only reason. Don't you?"

Deanna breathes shallowly. The cage. Sam stuck in there, all her terror proved true, and when she broke in Lucifer beating them both bloody, her bones shuddering and Sam nearly gone and Cas shoving Lucifer away from them, from her, and—she can't—she was holding Sam, curled over him like she could protect him from what was coming, and Cas said—Cas—

He drags cool fingertips down her cheek, denting the skin. Down her throat, hard enough it hurts. "All those dumb protective urges," Lucifer says. Cas's fingers on her collarbone, and then dragging at the collar of her henley. Revealing the edge of her bra. Her heart thuds thick and slow and calm, a vast coiled beast under her skin. Lucifer's lips twitch. "All that envy. What he'll never get. And he just wants to protect you, anyway, you know that? You and Sammy. He knows. You know that, right? About you and your brother."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Deanna says. Wishes, immediately, that she hadn't. Another stupid instinct from all those years in the dark.

"Honey, you're dumb but you ain't that dumb," Lucifer says. His hand drags down, glancing over one breast and then down to her stomach. It sucks in without her say-so. "So," he says, soft. "I'll get your brother back, so I can take the Hand of God out of his big mitts. Then I'll gut him, because I am so, so tired of that stupid hangdog face of his. And I'll keep you safe and sound in my palace, a caged kitty while we work out how to take out my bitch of an aunt. But I think, first, it's only fair to give Cas a little treat, for the favor he's done for me—letting me free to take out Mork and Mindy, once and for all." He drags her hips to the edge of the table in a hard cruel haul, and smiles at her. "Mindy was kinda hot, don't you think?"

He flips her onto her stomach. Maybe he thinks that's more humiliating. She breathes slow. Not like it's the first time. Her belt snaps. Her jeans and panties hauled down to her knees. She braces her boots on the floorboards. Buzz of a zip. "Wow, not the most embarrassing vessel in the world," Lucifer says. She wants to say, Cas. Cas, stop. It's me. Cas, you can stop, it's me, please, don't let him, don't let him do it, you don't want to hurt me, Cas, can't you—can't you take control, take some goddamn responsibility, Cas, please—except there's no point in saying anything like that because if Cas were going to stop it he would have stopped it, already, and while she's thinking that his cock blunts stupid up against her, already hard, and she opens her eyes wide and sees every fleck and color of the woodgrain and then it's shoved inside. Thick. Not the thickest or biggest but she's dry and it hurts. Of course it's meant to.

She grips the edge of the table, takes it. Her hipbones grind into the wood. "Don't be afraid to make some noise," Lucifer says. He grabs her hair, pulling her face away from the safe shadow of the table, hauling her back onto Cas's dick. "We gotta make a nice highlight reel for Castiel, don't we?"

Like he's taking a walk in the park. She braces, tilts her hips so it hurts less. Because her head's been pulled up she keeps her eyes fixed on the telescope, at the far end of the library, and lets the room bob dizzily between each pummeling thrust. Her toes curl, scrunched inside her boots. Her heart a distant, steady drum.

"You're good at this, huh?" Lucifer says. He's not. His hips move like a piston but there's no imagination, either to make it hurt more or to humiliate her by making it good. Never was human and apparently never bothered to learn, either from Cas or Sam or poor doomed Nick, all those years ago. Just hard meat, cramming in where she's soft, over and over. Slick now because that's how bodies work. She doesn't know if he's ever done this before, in any body, but Cas is hairsbreadth from being a virgin so it can't take that much longer.

Sure enough: "Let's give him a show," Lucifer says, and pulls her upright by the throat. His breath coming in odd little puffs. He's not choking her but the clutch is hard enough to make her dizzy. She squeezes her eyes closed and focuses: the pole slotting in and in and in, the grip around her right wrist, the bruises throbbing up on the bend of her hips and now maybe on her thighs where she's getting crushed against the table. His chin over her shoulder, prickly stubble against the side of her neck, his voice soft while he says, "We better show Sam, too, before I kill him. Make sure he really sees. Big sister, dripping. Just like he used to, you know? Back then, when we were roomies."

She makes a sound. Not meaning to but the air chokes in her throat. He squeezes hard, laughs high and goofy.

"You're all so easy," Lucifer says, laughing, and then he pulls her in tight and pushes her own hand over her crotch and says, "Feel that," while he jerks inside, coming. She can't, other than the thickness. It should be—boiling hot, like the demons used to be, but then again he's an angel. Despite everything.

When he pulls out there's a sting. He pushes her hand down further, cups against the loose-wet gap, and she feels that first trickle, dripping. Thick.

"Too bad Michael never got to try you out," Lucifer says, soft against her ear. She opens her eyes. The library, the telescope. A little smoochy kiss against her neck. "Would've been fun to break you both in. Oh, well."

He shoves her. Deanna catches herself against the table.

"Ooh, stay just like that. Be right back, lickety-split."

A flutter, like wings. How didn't they notice that before?

She pulls her hand out from between her legs. Sticky. No red. She's surprised, considering, but then Jimmy Novak's dick wasn't all that big. Her breath and heart and mind are still slow and calm as a hibernating snake. In her pocket, a knife. She drags her jeans mostly up, folds her fingers around the silver handle. Angels and blood. Her thumbnail stings, where she tore it.

The wingbeats come again and there's Sam, in an old-time sailor uniform and his face pale and his eyes going right to Deanna, ignoring the danger at his left side.

"Dee?" he says, taking her in, and then steps forward. His face changing, seeing what was left for him to see. Behind his shoulder Lucifer smiles at her, broadly satisfied. Happy to win the battle, no matter the ultimate stakes of the war.

#my writing #wincest #dean/lucifer #non-con #shinelikethunder #i think this was your idea #really thinking about writing a longer-form version of how that'd go #but this is like -- the prequel #and what a perfect opportunity on timing

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dilemmaontwolegs · 11 months

Note

Hi,love ur stories 😍

I was wondering if u could do one based on 'I see the light' from tangled, where they meet at a mutual friends wedding or something, she was singing the song where she has the most melodiest voice and (charles, max or Pierre) somehow 'fall in love' at first sight of her along with her voice. Thx 😊😍

This was cute 💕 I hope you don't mind but I changed the setting a little bit.

Tangled Up In You || MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x singer!fem!reader Warnings: fluff, slight angst with his ex, more fluff WC: 2.2k

F1 Masterlist

Children were known to be resilient creatures that could adapt well to changes but Penelope had struggled to understand why her and her mother no longer lived with Max. It had been six months and still she asked where her ‘Maxie’ was and why he couldn’t come with them to their new home.

So, it came as no surprise when she was asked who she wanted to invite to her 4th birthday party that Max was at the top of the list.

“...you don’t have to come, I can say you are busy-”

“No, I’ll be there, Kel,” Max interrupted as he put the call on speaker and added the event to his calendar. “Is P there? Can I talk to her?”

“Sorry, she’s with Daniil picking out her princess dress. The theme’s Disney, of course,” Kelly laughed softly before she sighed. “Are you sure you want to come, or are you just being nice?”

“I want to come. I miss our tea parties, and standing on tiny pieces of lego.”

The silence on the line lingered for a moment before she couldn’t help asking. “Do you miss me?”

This time it was Max who sighed. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

He hung up before she could apologise again. Somehow she always turned a conversation back to their relationship, but that wasn’t something Max would ever entertain. If the man knew one thing from his life of racing it was how to move forward and when the three year relationship he had run its course he had taken time to reflect, just like those post-race debriefs, and planned to use it as a lesson learned for next time.

Kelly had overdone it as usual.

The largest ballroom of Hôtel de Paris had been transformed into a set straight from Disney and filled with actresses dressed as Penelope’s favourites princesses.

It was easy to spot P when Max walked in because her excited squeals were impossible to miss and he followed the sound to the front of the stage where she was jumping excitedly.

“Maxie!” she screamed, running and jumping at him trusting he would catch her.

“Happy Birthday, P,” he grinned as he lifted her up into a hug. “I can’t believe you are two years old already.”

“I’m four, silly!”

“No, that can’t be. You can’t possibly grow up that quickly.”

“I can! Have you seen my princesses? My favourite one isn’t here yet but mummy said she’s going to be here any minute.”

Max scanned the room for the princesses and saw the usual ones like Cinderella, Snow White and Aurora. “Is Rapunzel still your favourite then?”

Penelope nodded with a big toothy grin. “She’s so pretty. I want to be like her when I grow up.”

Max put her down carefully and straightened the tiara sitting on her perfectly styled hair. “You are already prettier than everyone here, P.”

“There you are,” Kelly greeted Max as she left another conversation to join them, kissing his cheeks twice just a little too close to the corners of his lips. “Just in time too. Sweetheart, look who’s here.”

Penelope screamed as she spotted Rapunzel taking the stage, a long golden braid adorned with flowers hanging all the way down her back. “It’s her, it’s really her,” P squealed as she squeezed Max’s hand. “She’s beautiful.”

Max was in a state of shock as his jaw fell slack. “She is.”

The lights of the stage dimmed until only a single spotlight cast a warm glow to her skin, the braiding of hair around her head appearing like a golden crown, or more accurately, a halo.

Max recognised the song in an instant, remembering the evenings spent on the couch watching Tangled, P dancing across the living room floor as she sang her little heart out. The memory brought a smile to his lips and it only grew wider as the angel on the stage began to sing.

You double checked the wig was held firmly by the pins and not a strand of hair was out of place before running your palms over the dress to make sure there wasn’t a single wrinkle on the pastel pink material. Satisfied you were ready, you hooked the small microphone and earpiece into place and nodded to the sound engineer to start the cue.

It was no difficult task to smile brightly as the music began and you twirled out onto the stage, you lived for these days. Seeing the excitement and joy your performances made the children who witnessed it brought joy to your life. Seeing their eyes widen and their jaws drop was what motivated you to channel even deeper and give your all to the act.

All those days watching from the windows All those years outside looking in All that time never even knowing Just how blind I've been

You spotted the birthday girl at the front of the crowd and plucked a bright flower from the braid, kneeling down to tuck it behind her ear. Her smile widened and she could hardly stand still as she trembled with excitement.

You waved a hand to the ceiling and the projector illuminated it with a thousand little glowing dots and a surprised gasp whispered across the largest crowd you had ever sung to.

Now I'm here, blinking in the starlight Now I'm here, suddenly I see Standing here, it's all so clear I'm where I'm meant to be

You smiled at the little girl once more before spinning on your toes beneath the twinkling lights, the tulle skirt billowing around you as if you were floating away with them.

Around the room, the other casted characters were turning on their lanterns and raising them into the air on near invisible strings. You could perform this set a thousand times and never tire of seeing the crowd's reactions to the lanterns floating into the night sky.

And at last I see the light And it's like the fog has lifted And at last I see the light And it's like the sky is new

You scanned the crowd while they were in a state of wonderment looking up, but there was one man who wasn’t. He still held the same unblinking look of awe but he could have been oblivious to the lights the way he was staring right back at you.

There was something about the look that almost knocked you off your feet as your stomach flipped and heat burned on your cheeks under the intensity. His eyes, a pale shade of blue, drew you closer to the edge of the stage and his foot lifted as if he were to follow.

And it's warm and real and bright And the world has somehow shifted

His lips moved like he knew the words by heart and you nearly missed the line as your heart skipped a beat. The rest of the crowd faded away as you knelt back where you had been and pulled another flower from your hair.

All at once everything looks different Now that I see you

He leaned forward and you tucked it behind his ear, your fingers grazing his jawline as you retreated. You were so absorbed by his shy smile and the blush highlighting his cheeks you didn’t notice the woman standing to the side of him. For a moment, before you caught yourself, it was only him that you sang to and only him that you saw.

“Please, please can I?” P begged her mother to go and see Rapunzel but after the breathtaking performance she had been in a mood and withdrew her hand from her daughter’s.

“No, your cake is going to be coming out in a moment - I need to be here to show them where to put it.”

Tears welled along the four year old’s eyes and her bottom lip trembled before Max stepped in. “How about I take her?”

He had been watching the stage entrance for any sign of movement since her song had ended and it was hard to hide the disappointment when she didn’t return for another. He could still hear her voice and was busy committing it to memory in the hopes he could use the sweet, melodic sound to calm his racing mind when he lay awake alone at night.

Max couldn’t explain how utterly obsessed he had become or how he wished he knew what delicate perfume it was he had inhaled when she touched his face. He ran his hand along his jawline, following where her fingers had been under the guise of a scratch, and he was glad he had tidied his beard up for the event.

“Of course you would offer that,” Kelly bit back, pulling him from his thoughts as his hand fell away from his face. “Whatever, do as you want.”

Penelope understood the permission but missed the sarcasm and Max sighed to himself as he took P’s hand and made their way to the curtains that hid the makeshift backstage area.

“Rapunzel!” P squealed as she rushed forward, towing Max to keep up until she barrelled into the princesses legs and wrapped her arms around them. “I love you.”

You had almost begun to pull your wig off when you heard a little girl call out. You turned just in time to catch her as she grappled you into a hug and you laughed softly as you tucked her hair back behind her ear to see the flower you had given her.

“Aren’t you the sweetest little girl,” you giggled as you knelt down to her height and took in the sight of the man who followed her, his hands tucking into his dress pants. You drowned in the eyes that had held you captivated before tearing yours away and swallowing the disappointment that had crept up your throat. “I hope you are having the most magical birthday with your father.”

The birthday girl looked up at him with a laugh. “This is my Maxie.”

You tried to hide your confusion but he obviously saw it as he scratched the back of his neck, the material of the shirt he wore straining as his biceps tensed.

“Uh, I am, was, her step-dad,” he corrected as he gave the girl a small sad smile before offering his hand to you. “It’s just Max, or you can call me Maxie too, I guess, if you want.”

You smiled in amusement as you shook his hand, the touch lingering a little longer as neither of you made an effort to pull away.

“I’m Rapunzel,” you said as your eyes darted to Penelope.

“Right,” he chuckled and let his hand fall back to his side as he looked at her too. “Your cake might be waiting for you, P. Do you want to go check?”

“Can you come?” she asked you with big round eyes.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but Eugene has probably got himself into trouble without me, so I should really be going. But I must thank you, it was an absolute delight to celebrate your birthday with you. I love getting to spend time with a fellow princess.” You swung your braid over your shoulder and the sweet scent of the fresh flowers filled the air. “You can have as many as you like.”

It took all your concentration not to look at Max when that was what you really wanted to do, especially when he knelt beside you and helped Penelope to choose which flowers to take. His arm brushed against yours and you nearly lost your balance from the deep breath you took of his mouth watering cologne.

Eventually she was happy with the dozen bright blossoms she cradled in her arms and thanked you before rushing to take them back to her mother. “Come on, Maxie!” she called without looking back to see if he was following.

He rose with a sigh and you hissed as your head was tugged sharply by the pins. “Shit, sorry,” he murmured as he saw his watch had got caught in the braid. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, it actually happens more often than you would think.” You rubbed the back of your head where the pain was worst and double checked the birthday girl was gone. “I’m Y/N.”

He repeated it with a smile as he slipped the watch off his wrist to use both hands to untangle it from the golden threads. “Would you let me take you to dinner to apologise properly?”

If you were wearing your microphone it probably would have picked up the sound of your heart from how quickly it started pumping. There was no denying this attraction between you and you could see he was equally affected by it too.

“No, I told you it’s alright,” you started, taking his hand when his shoulder slumped crestfallen. “But, you can buy me dinner if you want to make it a date?”

A bright smile broke across his face and you couldn’t help smiling back knowing it was because of you. “Tonight?”

You nodded as you reached into the hidden pocket in the dress and passed him your phone to enter his number before he sent himself a message to get yours. “You might not recognise me without all this,” you joked as you started to pull the pins out of the wig and freed your natural hair.

He chuckled and shook his head as he found you even more beautiful than before. “There’s no mistaking those eyes, I would recognise them anywhere.”

#max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #formula one imagine #formula one fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #f1 imagine

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medusapelagia · 7 months

Text

Eddie's Month Day 6 + Whumptober Day 15

written for @eddiemonth and @whumptober-archive

Prompts: Eddie’s month day 6: Crush | You Could Start A Cult - Niall Horan| Sincere

Whumptober day 15: “I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.” Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

Rating: Mature Relationship: Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington WT: injuries WC: 1544

Eddie Munson wasn’t a man of faith.

Even if half of the school thought that he was a devil worshiper the only true religion that Eddie was always devoted to was: Steve Harrington’s cult.

Yes.

The King of the Freak had a massive crush on the Keg King since middle school.

He attended every single match of the basketball team and it wasn’t because Mrs. Kelly recommended him to go and make some friends.

He never did, obviously, but he kept enduring every basketball game because he loved to see Steve Harrington all sweaty, running from one side of the gym to the other with a stupid orange ball. It was worth attending a game where they were tossing a ball into laundry baskets.

That's what he called it: the laundry basket game.

He used to make fun of the team, but never of Harrington.

Tommy, Andy, Jason, he had some words for them and their exchange of opinions usually ended with a black eye and some bruises, but it was worth it. He could keep coming to every game, make fun of the jocks, and look at Harrington.

Things became harder when Steve fell in love with Nancy.

Eddie could tolerate the stupid girls Steve used to hang out with, he knew too well that their love stories were never going to last.

But Nancy?

Nancy was different.

And Steve was different when he was with her.

A few months and not only did Steve stop hanging out with his old teammates, but he became a completely different person.

No more fancy parties, no more bullying freshmen, Steve was a new man.

A man who was desperately in love with Nancy Wheeler, and even after she broke his heart with a hammer, he kept being his new self, a kind and lovely guy, searching for his happily ever after.

What Eddie was really unable to understand was how it was possible that Harrington's happily ever after came in the form of Robin Buckley, whom Eddie had deep suspicion was a lesbian.

But they were fucking perfect together and he finally stopped to light candles at Steve’s altar.

He convinces himself that someone else is waiting for him.

Someone easier to love.

Someone who would love him back.

That's how he starts a new cult, or even better, his personal Munson doctrine.

After all, Steve Harrington graduated the year before, so he is not going to see him anymore, right?

***

“Holy fucking shit!”

Eddie stares at the rip in the ceiling of his trailer where he can still see the other dimension.

“We were there… we were fucking there!” he says in astonishment.

“Yes. We were, and we have to get away from here as soon as possible.” Robin replies looking at the door of the trailer.

“How?” Dustin asks “We came here biking and… Steve, buddy, are you ok?”

Eddie quickly turns and sees the boy wobble.

“Hey, hey.” he calls, getting closer to the boy.

“I’m fine.” he replies.

Eddie quickly takes notes of his injuries.

Bat bites, strangulation, and bare feet are definitely not a good mix.

“Yeah, I know you are, but I think it’s better if we clean these wounds, uh?” Eddie tells him, dragging him toward the bathroom.

“Wounds? Which wounds? What happened? Why is no one telling me anything?! Steve! Steve!” Dustin calls, but Nancy stops him.

“Eddie is going to clean his wounds and I assure you that you don’t want to see them. Why don’t we go to Max’s trailer to make some coffee? We need to be lucid to make a new plan.”

Everyone agrees, the only one who hesitates is Robin.

“You are going to be ok, right? No rabies?”

Steve groans “No rabies, I swear. But I think I need a quick shower and I don’t think you are really looking forward to it.”

Robin sighs, then glares at Eddie “I want him back in one piece, ok?”

Eddie nods, and when everyone leaves, he shares a look with Steve “Your not-girlfriend is really scary.”

“Platonic soulmate.”

“Oh. That. So Nancy is the physical soulmate?” he asks, trying to make small talk.

“I’m still on the fence about that. I mean… she broke my heart more than once so…”

He got a point, so Eddie nods, then he looks at his bathroom “Do you think you will need some help or…”

“I can wash myself just fine.”

“Don’t tell me that you are shy, Harrington. I thought you were used to taking showers with boys. Isn’t that the way you jocks build a sense of camaraderie?”

Steve snorts “You seem to know a lot about lockers even if I never saw you in one.”

“No lockers for me. Only closet. Especially the janitor's. My favorite, to be honest.” he replies, offering his arm to Steve to stabilize him.

“Was I a dick to you?” Steve blushes and looks away from him.

“In general? Yes. But nothing different from the other jocks. You didn’t try to cut my hair with some scissors or other shit like that.”

“I’m sorry. I was…”

“You were?”

“Scared. And lonely. I just wanted to fit in, you know.”

Eddie nods.

He wanted to fit in too, at least at the beginning, but then he understood that he wasn’t living in a fairy tale and no one was going to offer him a hand.

“Now, I don’t think we have had hot water for the last few months, but maybe you’ll be lucky.”

“No hot water? But it’s March and… shit shit shit! This is cold!”

“Told you! Be quick!”

The gunk from the lake and the Upside Down falls into the drains, a mixture of mud, blood, and only god knows what.

Eddie sighs while Steve whimpers, shivering from the cold, and quickly helps him out of the shower.

“All done. Now sit here, I’ll get some clothes for you and the first aid kit.”

Steve doesn’t complain but his face is a pain mask.

Eddie takes the first aid kid from his room and Steve shakes his head “Your kit is too small. If you are going to join us in this shit you are going to need a bigger one.”

“It works just fine.” Eddie replies, but he looks at the bandages, wondering if there is enough to address all the wounds.

“One time the kids tried to take care of a concussion with some colorful band-aids.” Steve remembers, smiling at the thought.

“So it’s a habit of yours getting injured?”

“Not a habit, but I’m the oldest so I have to protect them, you know?”

Eddie doesn’t know.

He is the oldest and he wouldn’t have jumped in that fucking lake for all the money in the world. And still. He did it.

Steve misinterprets Eddie’s silence and adds “It’s fine. I don’t need you to help me. I can handle things myself. It’s not my first rodeo, Munson.”

Eddie has patched people before, but never the boy whom he was secretly in love with.

“Hey, you ok?” Steve asks and Eddie laughs.

“Are you asking me if I’m ok? For real?”

He nods “You saw a girl killed in your home and faced monsters for the first time in your life. I know from first-hand experience that it’s not easy.”

Eddie stares at him astonished, the he tells him “Take a deep breath. This is going to sting.” while pouring some disinfectant on his wounds.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

“Deep breaths, Harrington.” he reminds him, while the other boys grab the toilet seat so hard that his knuckles whiten.

“Deep breaths, you are doing great.”

“It doesn’t feel like that.” Steve complains.

“I guess it doesn’t but you are taking it like a champ.”

“You used to call me like that in high school.”

“Uh?”

“During physical education.”

“Oh, that. Well, I wasn’t exactly mocking you…”

“Oh, yes you were. Fuck.”

“Maybe. But it’s part of my charm.”

“Is it now?”

“What? Don’t tell me that you can resist the charm of a man who plays guitar and makes the funniest jokes!” he wraps Steve’s waist and his fingers linger on Steve’s torso for a moment too long.

“I don’t think I know what I find attractive right now.”

“Understandable.” Eddie looks at his bathroom cabinet “Listen, man, I have some painkillers or… other things that could help you with the pain if you want them.”

Steve shakes his head “I’ll be fine."

Eddie stares at him, unconvinced, but goes back to his room and comes back with a beaten pair of rebooks "It's these or Wayne's working boots."

"They are fine, thanks." Steve stills for a moment, as he is searching for the right words, and then he asks him "Can you… Can you help me get to Max’s?”

Eddie nods, holding Steve tight, breathing his scent mixed with his cheap body wash while he helps him get to Max’s trailer.

He, Eddie the Freak Munson, is holding Steve the Hair Harrington.

He is holding Steve Harrington and the boy is not a douchebag.

Oh, and monsters are real. But right now, that info feels like the most normal thing in Eddie’s life.

Maybe he should resume his old Steve Harrington’s cult.

#whumptober2023 #no.15 #suppressed suffering #I’m fine #I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.#stranger things #fic #injuries #stranger things fanfic #my fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #eddiemonth #eddiemonth day 6 #medusapelagia

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brewsterispunkk · 2 years

Text

sunshine state.

PART FIVE: FORTUNATE SON

pairing: benny miller x f!reader

WC: 4k !

warnings: PTSD (this one is rough, friends). dumbasses in love, we get some of Benny’s POV here ;)

summary: benny is living with reader, when a hurricane hits further up the coast, causing a week of perpetual thunderstorms. what could go wrong?

a/n: a shorter one before things REALLY heat up. And recently sunshine state has received a lot more notes and exposure so: if you’re new, hi!! i love u and I’m so happy ur here with us! as always, notes and feedback is so SO appreciated! xx, L

PART FIVE: FORTUNATE SON

Benny would never admit it, but his PTSD was getting worse.

He’d never say it out loud, and it was easy for him to hide it. He was good at hiding a lot of things. He was good at hiding how insecure he was about his attention span, he was good at hiding how much it hurt that his brother’s fiance hated him, he was good at hiding how his best friend made his insides feel like they were on fire and his heart feel like it was going to beat out of his chest. He was even better at hiding how nervous he was all the time.

Ever since his nightmare at the beach house, he’d felt that familiar pit of anxiety in his chest knotting and knotting in a way it hadn’t since when he’d first gotten back from his time in the service.

His PTSD came and went.

When he’d first gotten back, it was awful. There were days at a time when he got no sleep at all; either he’d wake up screaming his throat raw, or he couldn’t close his eyes long enough without the images of war seeping in. That was a time he tried not to remember. It was right after Kelly had left, leaving him with a half- empty apartment and trust issues. Depression hit, and most days it took all the effort he had in him to even get out of bed to make a meal. He’d been on a one-way flight to hell.

It had been Will and Frankie who pulled him out of it. Pope was still in the service, taking another tour god-knows where, and Will and Frankie had already been out for a few years. They knew the signs to look for.

It had taken weeks for Benny to be convinced to get help and finally go to therapy at the VA. After a particularly drunken night, he’d hit rock-bottom, sobbing into Will’s arms in the bathroom. The next day, he’d made the appointment.

Since then, there had been spurts; weeks or days at a time where he’d feel a little more on-edge than usual, where a car backfiring would send him into a fit, where he couldn’t sleep because of the flashbacks. But it was nearing on a week since the storm, and he still felt on edge. He was holding his breath for it to pass.

The doorknob turning pulled Benny from his thoughts.

He looked down into the pot on your stove, and cursed when he saw the broth there boiling.

“Shit,” he hissed, hoping it wouldn’t affect the soup that much. He poured in the chopped vegetables and set the stove to simmer, covering the pot with the top.

“Hey,” you sighed, finally back from work. “What’s all this?”

“Ah, It’s supposed to be dinner.” He smiled. “If it turns out alright is to be determined.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.” You shook your head, reaching down to give Salem a scratch behind the ear as you toed off your shoes. “I’m gonna go change, ok?”

“Alright!” He called after you, leaning on the counter.

How you were always so encouraging was beyond him. You were optimistic of everyone, but especially of him in a way that seemed so effortless. Like you weren’t even trying to be that way, you just were. It made his chest constrict. A purr from his feet caught Benny’s attention.

“Oh, you.” He said sarcastically, eyeing the black cat perched in front of him. She was glaring at him, and Benny didn’t care what you said, but she did it on purpose. He was sure of it.

Resting bitch face, my ass. He thought, recalling what you’d called it, as the feline swished her tail at him.

Her green eyes regarded him coolly, judging him as if she could read his mind.

“In your dreams,” he imagined her saying as he watched the hallway you’d retreated to. Hell, even your cat knew you were too good for him.

He snorted at his thoughts. Maybe he was going crazy.

Suddenly, thunder rumbled, sending a thrill of dread down Benny’s back. He looked out the small kitchen window above your sink. The clouds looked darker than they had earlier, and no blue could be seen in the sky. A hurricane had hit land further up the coast a few days ago, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the fallout made its way here, but that did nothing to dull the anxiety he felt staring the storm down.

“Jesus,” you called from your bedroom, emerging in sweats and a T-shirt. “I wasn’t expecting the storms to get here so quickly.”

“Yeah,” he added lamely, eyes still on the clouds.

“At least the hurricane didn’t hit us, right?” You asked, making your way over to him. “Hey,” your hand hit his shoulder, and your concerned eyes met his. “You okay?” You asked.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, looking at you, hoping his eyes didn’t give away his obvious anxiety. You cast him an unconvinced look that held no real venom.

“Yeah, okay, big guy. Go shower or something, let me deal with this.”

“No, no.” He said with conviction, knowing that the last thing he needed was to be alone with his thoughts. He knew you were just trying to help, but still: the thought of leaving the task at hand made that familiar thrill of anxiety course through him. He caught your surprised look out of the corner of his eye and sighed. “No. This helps and,” he paused. “I wanted to do something nice. To say thank you.”

All of a sudden he felt sheepish, looking down at the recipe he’d stolen from one of your cookbooks. He felt your eyes on him but didn’t look up. He was too scared he’d find pity. You sighed.

“Okay,” your voice was a tad softer. “But you need to use egg noodles, not angelhair.”

His eyes met your amused ones and he chuckled, grateful that you were treating him normally.

That was something he never could quite get over with Will; he knew he meant well, and that he got it, but whenever his PTSD would act up, he’d handle Benny like he was delicate. Like he needed to be fixed, to be handled like fine china. It wasn’t like that with you.

You moved out of the kitchen, Salem at your heels, and flopped down on the couch. Outside, thunder rumbled, and he felt his heart speed up.

This was gonna be a long night.

“It’s my turn to pick the show!” You called, and he groaned. If he had to sit through one more episode of New Girl, he was gonna lose it. And not because of the storm.

“Please tell me it’s not—“

“It’s New Girl!” You laughed, knowing exactly what you were doing. “Consider it revenge for Rick and Morty.”

He rolled his eyes fondly, feeling his chest decompress the slightest bit. A warmth replaced it and he caught himself smiling to himself as he stirred the noodles into the broth.

Shit. He thought to himself. I’m in deep.

- - - -

It was half past two when you stirred awake, a particularly loud crack of thunder waking you. You jumped as another sounded.

You shook your head and burrowed back into your pillows, mind set on getting back to sleep, before you started.

Benny.

You slid out of bed, bare feet hitting the wood floor as you made your way down the hall. You tried to be as quiet as possible—on the off chance that Benny actually was asleep, you didn’t want to disturb him. As you got to the end of the hallway, you heard the muffled voices of the sitcom on the television.

The first thing that you noticed was the fact that Benny hadn’t pulled the couch out into a bed yet. You’d told him multiple times that he really didn’t have to fold it up again every morning, but he insisted—something about not intruding on your space or whatever. He sat in the middle of the couch, bleary eyes trained on the TV. It seemed he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight. The second thing you noticed was that the show playing on the TV at near nonexistent volume was New Girl.

Checkmate, Miller, you thought smugly.

You walked over to him, sitting beside him on the couch, pretending to be invested in whatever Nick and Schmidt were arguing about.

“Hey,” you offered lightly, not knowing if he was in the mood to talk or not.

“Hi.” he said, sounding beaten down. It made your heart ache for him because god, it was tearing you up to see him like this. You sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder, offering the best form of comfort you could. You thought you felt him relax a bit at the contact, which made sense, because Benny’s love language was physical touch.

“Not planning on sleepin’ tonight, then?” you asked, genuine. No judgment involved.

“Yeah, no.” the words came out sounding choked in his throat. “I, I don’t,” he stopped, as if thinking for the right words. You lifted your head and looked at him, prepared to lend your ear. “I don’t think I can deal with the dreams tonight.” He sounded defeated, and your heart broke.

You nodded.

A few more moments of silence passed before he spoke up again.

“It’s fuckin’ ironic.” His voice was dry, bitter.

“What is?”

“So many people, so many,” he continued. “Like to thank me for my service. For serving my country or whatever. For being ‘brave.’ They call us brave. But I can’t even sit through fuckin’ rainstorm without getting confused and thinking I’m over there again. Pretty fuckin’ brave.”

You grabbed his hand, squeezing like you were the one going through it.

“It’s not fair,” he said after a minute. “I get a pension check once a year and in exchange I have to deal with all this shit alone.”

You stayed silent, because you didn’t know what to say. He was right; it wasn’t fair. It was horrible to you—that someone as kind and happy and pure as Benny was having to put up with this. If you could have taken it away, you would have. Instead, you just squeezed his hand and put your head back on his shoulder.

After a few more minutes of watching the TV screen monotonously, you spoke up again.

“So, no convincing you to try to get some sleep?” you asked casually.

He craned his neck to look down at you, a guilty look on his face. His brows were pulled together tight.

“I don’t think so, honey. M’sorry,” he said apologetically. You shook your head.

“You don’t have to apologize, Ben.” you murmured. “I’m not tired either, I’ll stay up with you.”

He sighed, not believing you.

“Honey, you don’t have to–”

“I know, dingus.” You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and to you it was. “I want to.”

He shook his head.

“Alright, then.” he said, before muttering under his breath, “stubborn.”

“I heard that.”

“And?” he challenged. You rolled your eyes and pinched his thigh, all of a sudden invested with what was happening in the show.

“Just shut up and watch the show.” The order held no real venom. The only response you got was a chuckle, as the both of you turned your attention back to the TV, waiting to see if Schmidt would be successful in wooing CeCe.

“You’re wrong, you know,” you spoke as the credits rolled, catching Benny by surprise. He tilted his head a little, not taking his eyes away from the screen as he pressed ‘play’ on the next episode.

“Wrong about what?”

“Not to sound like a broken record here,” you sighed. “Or, like, be too cheesy, but you’re not alone, Ben.” you paused, waiting for him to say something, but panicking when he didn’t. Your mouth moved faster than your brain, just spitting you what you meant. “You–All this shit you’re dealing with, it’s awful, like, insanely awful, and I’m not gonna pretend like I know what it’s like at all, but you’re not alone. I love you, but that’s the biggest load of horse-shit I’ve ever heard. You’ve got the guys, and you’ve got the people at the gym who love you, Ben. Your students worship the ground you walk on, and I’m pretty sure that girl Patricia is, like, in love with you or something, but that’s not,” you took a breath, feeling his eyes on you but too scared to look up. You exhaled, trying to calm your nerves, and hoping that at least some of that made sense. “And you’ve got me, Benny. I’m not going anywhere unless you, like, shun me or something. You’re not alone.” You added the last part quietly, bashful all of a sudden.

When he didn’t say anything, you cleared your throat.

“Sorry if that was out of line–”

“Thank you,” his choked up voice cut you off, and you finally looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, and he was looking at his lap, sniffing like he was trying to hold back tears. “I,” he paused. “Thank you.”

You just hugged him, letting him bury his face in your shoulder. You pretended not to feel the moisture from his eyes seep through your shirt.

You let him be the first to pull back, letting him set the pace. Besides, if it were up to you, you weren’t sure you’d ever break the hug. Being that close to him was addictive.

He pressed play on the TV, watching the show with more relaxed attention; his shoulders had relaxed a bit.

You smirked, your head on his shoulder again.

“I told you I’d convert you,” you said smugly.

“Hmm?” he hummed, not quite catching your meaning.

“New Girl is so much better than Rick and Morty.”

“Oh my god,” he laughed, and it sounded even deeper and fuller than it usually did, the sound hitting your ears differently with your head on his shoulder. “Just shut up and watch the show,” he added fondly, parroting your own words from earlier back to you. You couldn’t help the stupid, stupid smile that came across your face.

You didn’t go back to bed, no matter how many times Benny insisted you needed sleep. Once, around 3:30 am, you’d yawned and he’d nudged you, chuckling.

“Get to bed, honey. I’m keeping you up.”

You’d just jutted your chin at him, rubbing at your eyes.

“Don’t order me around in my own house, Miller.” you’d said sourly, and that was that. He didn’t argue.

And by four a.m., you were out. Completely dozed off, hands clutching Benny’s arm and face smushed into his shoulder, completely missing the way he was looking at you like you hung the moon.

- - - -

It was half-way through the week when Benny found himself curled up on your bathroom floor, knees to his chest, eyes wide, and breathing stuttered.

It had been stupid. So, so stupid.

He was getting ready for the day–it was half-past nine, and he had a class at 10:30. He’d slept in a bit, but he didn’t mind. The six hours of sleep he had gotten had been the most he’d gotten in days, and he’d take what he could get. He’d been reaching for his pomade for his hair when his elbow slipped, knocking over your metal hand-mirror from the counter.

It had hit the tile with a loud crack, and in an instant, Benny was on the ground, hands pressed to his ears.

The flashbacks varied. Sometimes, he was in a jungle somewhere, bullets flying from the brush and he couldn’t see. Other times, he was in a desert, the dry heat burning at his eyes as he watched his comrades fall. Once, he was underwater: a memory from a training drill gone wrong in which he’d almost drowned.

This time, it was the desert.

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw visions: the gold slope of a dune, Will’s pained expression as blood poured from a flesh-wound, his friend from bootcamp shot through the head, eyes wide and unseeing.

He gasped when he felt something warm and wet against his arm. A curious meow sounded from next to him, and his frantic eyes opened to a furry black head tilted, close to his. Salem pawed at his arm, claws extended only a little bit, until he dropped his arms completely. His breath came a little slower now.

She gazed at him annoyedly, as if to say, “really, this is what you called me in for?”

She meowed again, brushing up against him this time, her soft head rubbing against his knee. Benny couldn’t believe it; this was the closest the cat had gotten to him without her trying to either pee or inflict some kind of bodily harm on him. He liked it.

Shit, shit, shit, he thought to himself, forcing his eyes open. He frantically looked around the room, trying to focus on anything enough to distract himself.

His breath was still labored, and every time he blinked he saw it; the blood, his friend’s wide, lifeless eyes. He clenched his fists, trying desperately to remember what he learned in therapy, or the breathing techniques Will had taught him, or your voice talking him down, or anything, but he couldn’t. His mind, and his lungs still thought he was over there, fighting for his life, and his body was in panic mode.

He was surprised to find Salem still beside him, her tongue still licking his arm. Her small, dark figure sat beside him, her eyes trained on the door, as if on guard. Her tail swished every now and then, brushing up against his back, and he thought that sitting like this she looked more like a companion than a pest—vigilant and loyal.

I could get used to this, he thought.

Then, all of a sudden, he realized that the pit of panic in his stomach was nearly nonexistent, banished by Salem’s presence beside him.

He looked at the cat in shock, and she just stared back. Her green eyes were knowing, he thought, almost smug. No wonder you swear she understands you. As if hearing his thoughts, her tail swished, and with a purr, she turned around and strutted out of the bathroom.

Benny sighed, all of a sudden tired from the ordeal. He decided he’d call off from work today–give Lance something to do other than sit on his ass and check out minors for a living. But for a minute, he just sat there, perplexed and a bit amused, at what had just happened.

- - - -

The next curtain didn’t fall until a few days later.

The days had passed slowly from your point of view, though you knew it was probably the opposite from Benny’s.

You knew that it’d been hard on him. He hadn’t been open about it since that night a few days before, but you knew the signs—no matter how good the thought he was at hiding it. There were times you’d catch him staring a bit too intensely into space, or gripping the table too hard, and you knew. Luckily he’d been able to sleep the past few nights— or at least had been willing to try. If the bags under his eyes were any indication, though, you’d venture to say that he hadn’t been sleeping much.

And unfortunately, the storms had gotten worse. The hurricane was a category 4, which meant that the fallout would be more intense than a few light showers. They were supposed to pass by the weekend, but even that was wishful, in your opinion: bad weather had a habit of sticking around for longer than it was supposed to in Florida.

Tonight was the worst storm yet.

The wind howled and the windows creaked in your shitty apartment and you tossed and turned.

It’d been a hard day at the museum: your boss getting on your ass to file new artifacts while also expecting you to do the secretarial work at the front desk. Jen had called off again, and Will, like always it seemed, hadn’t shown up. His presence was practically nonexistent there nowadays. In fact, he only volunteered on Saturdays, which you had off, so you only really saw him at events with the guys. You all were still worried.

It was near midnight when you heard your door creak open. You didn’t need to look to know who it was; Salem was much quieter when sneaking into your room at night. It had to be Benny.

You sat up in your bed and he froze in your doorway, the throw blanket from your couch clutched in his hands. His eyes were wide in the dark of your room. He’d obviously thought you were sleeping. Your eyes held his for a moment, before you scooted over in your bed wordlessly, opening your covers for him. He sighed, before laying down in your bed, pulling the covers up to his chest.

You reached down to his hand, giving it a squeeze in reassurance. He squeezed it back two times consecutively, like a heartbeat, before letting go. You sighed, rolling over on your side, trying to get back to sleep.

You tried to fall asleep like that for what must have been thirty minutes, but couldn’t, acutely aware of the presence of the man beside you.

Your bed was a full, so while it wasn’t small, it definitely wasn’t too spacious—especially considering the size of the person you were sharing it with. You felt like you could feel his every breath. You stopped when you felt him trembling.

You turned over, facing him, to see his back, his shoulders shaking. You reached out, turning him over to face you.

His face was beaten down, and his expression held embarrassment. You wanted nothing more than to smooth the lines on his forehead away, to ease whatever pain he was feeling.

Your eyes held his for a moment.

“Benny,” you whispered, though the only two people in the house were you two. Your hand was still in his, squeezing in silent support.

“M’sorry,” he whispered back shakily, and you just shook your head, pulling him closer to you wordlessly.

The two of you folded together, easily, nicely, as if the two of you had been sleeping like this every night since the beach. His head found your chest, right beneath your collarbone, as he half-layed on top of you.

His shoulders shook for a moment as he sniffled into your collarbone. Your hands found his hair without thought. Subconsciously, like you always were longing to do. You hummed something–a song from your childhood as you smoothed his hair, no words being spoken between you two. Neither of you needed to. You were there for him—if this was what helped him ground himself, then you’d be there. No questions asked. Like you knew he’d be there for you. And you were glad that Benny trusted you like this: trusted you enough to show you the most vulnerable parts of himself.

He breathed shakily into your shoulder, his breath humid and warm against your collarbone. His shoulders relaxed a bit, and you knew that the worst of it had passed. Still, as another crack of thunder and flash of lightning hit, he’d jolt, and stiffen up. One of his legs curled around yours and his arm came around your waist, his shoulder resting just in the middle of your ribcage.

As you thought of what must be running through his mind, your grip on him tightened. If you could take it away and give him only dreams of joy and love, free of heartache, you would. As he finally dozed off, you sighed. You relaxed back into your pillows, the restlessness finally leaving you, and drifted off to sleep.

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