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atinylittlepain · 1 month

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Part One

no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc

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joel miller masterlist

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She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.

word count | 4.5K

chapter content info | 18+ angst, discussions of pregnancy, people being WASPy, marital squabbles that become something more serious some of the time, but also real, persistent love

a/n | listen, don't look at me. not gonna lie, it feels good to be back in the ring and i'm excited to share this one with y'all. special thanks to @wannab-urs for beta-ing and for encouraging me along with this one - love ya, twin.

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He looks handsome and he’s getting on her nerves. She looks beautiful and he still doesn’t think it’s a good idea for her to go to this. She knows he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for her to go to this, but she thinks that’s bullshit, kid gloves that she doesn’t need from him, or from anyone for that matter.

He could, but he doesn’t tell her that her left eye is twitching a little bit. Her left eye is twitching a little bit, she blinks hard every time she feels muscle starting to spasm, keeps her face turned away from him and toward the passenger side window.

“What is it?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You keep sighing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“It’s been a long week.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I meant last week then.”

“Are you taking those multivitamins I got you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I checked the bottle this morning and the safety seal is still on it.”

“Cass.”

“What?”

“I don’t think a multivitamin is going to be the thing that makes me feel less tired.”

“I hate it when you say my name like that.”

“Okay, how should I say it?”

“Nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s fine, okay? Let’s just drop it, I don’t want to start the day like this.”

“We’re not starting the day like anything, we’re just having a conversation.”

“Joel, please, I’m not doing this with you right now.” And he asks it before he can think much about it, knee-jerk and maybe a little mean, did you take your pills this morning? Right, going for the nuclear option this morning, she lets out a clipped sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so sharp and he wishes there were a way to pluck words out of the air and swallow them back down. And she knows that whatever she says to that is going to be a failure. If she gets angry, if she blows up, she’s crazy. If she informs him that she did, in fact, take her pills, then she’s a liar, because she did, in fact, not take her pills, so she’s even crazier, right.

“You know, that’s a fucked thing to ask me.” Ring the bell because she’s won this round. He thinks about offering her an apology, a glance while they’re stopped at a red light that only affords him the slope of her cheek and her hair tucked behind her ear with the way her face is turned away from him. He sighs and it makes her shoulders hike up a little higher.

There’s a spiral of pink balloons wrapped around the porch banister when they pull up, and of course there is a spiral of pink balloons wrapped around the porch banister, she thinks, because Tommy and Maria are having a girl, and that’s lovely, and she is going to smile when she gets out of the car because of how lovely that is. Already thinking about what her face will have to do to make that smile happen while he parks at the end of the driveway because they’re a little late, always a little late these days. At least they have a clear and present escape route, he thinks.

“Here, let me.” He does, stays still while she runs her fingers up behind the collar of his shirt to smooth it down, and she thinks that she’s not the only one trying to buy a little more time. Made it out of the car, but still standing in front of the car, he has always liked the feeling of her palms splayed over his chest, hums and thanks her for fixing his collar, leans in for a quick smacking thing of a kiss that she gives back to him all ease, and he thinks that maybe they’ll get to be normal today.

“Remind me again what we got them?”

“Bottle warmer and a set of swaddling blankets.”

“What, they can’t use hot water from the tap like everyone else?” That gets him a clipped laugh from her, and he knows he’s bordering on something tender that could snap and snarl if he says any more, so he takes the laugh and leaves it at that. She laughs, feels stupid for the heat that thickens and closes in behind it and hides the flush from him by collecting the gifts from the trunk. Pastel pink and perfect wrapping paper with thin ribbon curled and bouncing. She briefly considers how it would feel to rip it all to pieces. But no, none of that, because this is Tommy and Maria, and she loves Tommy and Maria, really, she does, so happy for Tommy and Maria. Happy, happy, happy.

Maria is the one who opens the door, all smiles, all round because she made it to the third trimester. He glances at Cass as they enter into the usual greetings and congratulations, leaning hugs and Tommy somewhere in the fray. Cassandra thinks she’s doing a good job of smiling but she can’t really feel her mouth, letting her lungs collapse a little when Tommy pulls her in for a quick squeeze, hey, Cassie, good to see you. And maybe it’s the lack of pills in her system but is he? Is it? Verging a little close to hostage negotiator territory? Talking to her like she’s a skittish horse? Because, apparently, it’s not just Joel, but the whole clan who seems to expect her to have a hard time with this. His and Tommy’s parents smile and pet at her shoulders when they see her, that same so good to see you, as if they didn’t just see her a month ago for the fourth of July barbecue, as if she’s the one who’s–

“I appreciate y’all being here, I know Maria does too.” Everyone in the backyard even though it’s already pushing eighty degrees, linen dresses and blue jeans and fluted glasses filled with orange juice and something a little stiffer. He squints at Tommy, nods, of course, lets his eyes drift out over mingling friends and family, settling on Cass. She’s smiling, mouth moving around easy words in a small cluster of women. Her arm is curled across her stomach, elbow held in hand, drink held aloft. She is doing fine, he thinks, good. And of course she’s doing fine, everything fine, and he’s fine too. Her eyes catch his and her smile stays, and he feels one of his own, there and gone. They are doing fine.

“Is Cass, you know, doing alright?”

“Oh yeah, she’s doing fine.”

She can feel sweat starting to collect along the waistband of her underwear, a cool, nauseous shiver, so terrible running beneath the skin. Someone, she can’t remember the name, a friend of Maria’s, is saying something about tits. Well, she doesn’t use the word tits, no, that word couldn’t come out of her baby pink painted lips. Breasts, and Cassandra curls her lips back into her mouth to stop herself from offering up mammary glands, if you want to be so proper about it, smiling and mmhmming instead about stretch marks and leakage and sore, seaming skin. Not that she’d know anything about it, not really. But all the other women do, something close to sharing war stories, all the space the body can make, and what remains when it’s empty once again. Now that, empty, she knows a thing or two about empty.

“You hear from Sarah lately?”

“You wanna know what I hear from her? Is mom there? And then can you put her on?” Tommy laughs, continuing to make quick work out of carving up another watermelon, pink, pink, pink while Joel enjoys a second to breathe in the air conditioned kitchen. Almost eleven, and they’re going to do cake at almost eleven, and he supposes he doesn’t really know what the etiquette is for things like these so sure, he thinks, cake at almost eleven.

“I guess dad’s advice can only work for so long, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s a freshman in college, man, you don’t remember what we were like at that age?”

“I’d rather not, thanks.” And the truth is he remembers very little of that time. Playing at boy king, at living forever, and then the flashbang burst and bloom, obliteration and letting the shrapnel boomerang back together when Sarah came. And then, he thinks, back out on the porch and squinting at the sun threaded through the branches of an elm tree, then, it was a sort of crawl in those first few years.

What he remembers, very little eye contact from anyone, and wanting it more than anything. Never expecting the father to be the one to stay, the very young, very bleary-eyed father who eventually learned to stop looking for other eyes to meet his. Yes, a crawl, kept his head down until one day, two-year-old in tow in the grocery store, looking at pouches of pureed sweet potatoes and peaches, someone ducked her head down alongside his, looked him in the eye, and asked him if it was his wallet she found at the end of the aisle. For the record, it wasn’t his, but he can’t remember who it got returned to any more. That Tina Turner song was playing over the speakers, he remembers that. What’s love got to do with it, what’s love got to do with a HEB on a Wednesday night? Just enough for him to keep going to the HEB on Wednesday nights, hoping to run into the woman who looked him in the eye and told him his daughter was beautiful and had his smile.

“How many do you and Joel have, Cassandra?” Must have been smiling and nodding a little too well to get that question from Sally, Sammy? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. Maria needs better friends, she thinks, or maybe just less of them for her to keep track of.

“Oh, just one. Sarah started college this year actually.” And the usual sequence of snobbery that follows her sharing that detail. Yes, had her very young, yes, must be so proud, and she is proud, she can mean that yes, at least.

“But she’s not yours, is that right?”

“Excuse me?” Excuse you, Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck you are. Excuse you in your baby blue linen dress and your fuckass bob. Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is, eats her words fast, quick flickers of french tips and well, I just mean, not yours biologically, you know, I think Maria mentioned something about you adopting her when you and Joel got married. Said with that pitch that winches higher and higher with each word like a question going nowhere. She clasps her hands behind her back and digs her nails into the soft of her palms until the urge to throttle Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is passes.

“Yeah, well, she’s not mine in that way. But I’ve been in her life since she was two so, I think that matters a little more than if she slid out of my vagina.” Shit, slipped, should not have said that, gets a glossed gasp from the peanut gallery and she’s just glad Maria is off hostessing with other people right now, not bearing witness to the way she just slaughtered this conversation with the sharp of her words. Excuse her Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck you are, and excuse her, all the rest of you, she needs to get out of the heat, out of the sun, out of whatever this is.

He knows what looks mean what by now. A pinched brow, a frown that’s just barely a frown. She breezes past the kitchen with one hand pressed high against her stomach as if to make sure the rise and fall is still happening. Says her name once and she waves a hand behind her, already halfway down the hall and not turning around now, sorry, just need the bathroom. Tommy’s eyes do that thing, that softening, slipping thing, looking at him and not asking the question, though it hangs in the air somewhere between them. He excuses himself, walks slowly enough that the bathroom door is already shut and locked by the time he gets to it. The faucet is running, all he hears when he says her name again, feeling like a perfect fool knocking on the door. Not the first time this has happened, and she feels more foolish every time it does. But he’s already asked her if she’s taken her pills today so at the very least, that question is out of the way. Or maybe he’ll ask it again, and maybe she’ll break something, and then report back to her OB-GYN who, for some reason, is the one prescribing her these pills, and tell her OB-GYN that she’s getting crazier and needs more pills that she’ll forget to take. Repeat ad nauseam. No, she thinks, too tired for any of that, two years too tired. She presses her fingers into her temples and closed eyes until the throb in her skull begins to still.

“Do you want to go home?” He doesn’t know how to handle this, not really. Seems to get it wrong more often than not, and sometimes his own frustration turns into meanness that makes it worse, he knows that. He doesn’t know how to deal with her any more, she knows that. The truth is she doesn’t even know how to deal with herself any more, everything always raw and hurting, blistered brain and aching heart and wilting like a frail, flimsy thing. She does alright keeping it tamped down most of the time, keeping it cool and closed off. But, there are times when it flares, like a thin flume of disease nested somewhere deep inside of her. During things like these, around people like these, and the month of April, forget about it.

“I said something a little awful, I think.” Sheepish, the door still only cracked, enough that he can see that she isn’t crying so, little lift of relief in his chest, at least.

“What’s that?” He slips in through the half-opened door and she lets him, shuts the door behind him and tells him, may have snapped, may have used the word vagina. It’s a relief to hear him laugh, a single breath of it like he’s not sure if he should. He touches her hand, her wrist, her elbow, little pulse points, half a tired smile.

“There are worse words to use.”

“Could have said cunt.” She shrugs and you’d think he’d have gotten used to her surprising him like that after sixteen years together, but it’s still a giddy little shock to the system, her brass and brash. Like another vital sign, so long as she has her fang she’s fine, at least he thinks so.

“Yeah, that.” He laughs again, coughs, heat flushing down fast in his face and there’s a quick kick in her chest at the sight, something dormant getting stirred up. She likes that look, coaxing that look out of him. The first time, way out of line and out of place, she thinks. Fresh out of college and buying condoms and pretzel rods at the HEB down the block from her apartment and she shouldn’t have, pretty guy, man, father with pretty brown eyes and a little girl in the seat of his shopping cart with pretty brown eyes like his and she shouldn’t have. Thought she was so smooth, pretending like the wallet she showed him wasn’t hers, like she had found it on the linoleum floor, yeah, so smooth, just looking for a reason to shuffle down the baby food aisle and talk to pretty guy, man, father. That same flush, that same smile, little shock, though he had caught her too, taking a sharp glance down at her basket before she could tuck it behind her legs. And then her turn, little shock when he made some joke about little late for me, for that, shrug and smile and yes, she thinks, she didn’t exactly love him right then and there, but whatever comes right before love, it was that.

“Listen, if it’s getting to be too much for you we can–” Wrong, all wrong, sound in the back of her throat like a scoff that’s how wrong those words were.

“Why does everyone seem to think this is too much for me? It’s a fucking baby shower, not a, I don’t even know what. I’m fine, it’s fine. It’s Tommy’s and Maria’s day and I’m so happy for them that they’re having a–” It catches her off guard, the way the sound gets stuck in her throat, not quite a sob, but verging on it, hiccuping out the rest, a baby. He reaches for her arm again but she jerks it away, hands clasping opposite elbows, all tucked in on herself.

“It’s okay if it’s not fine, you know, nobody is expecting you to–”

“Nobody is expecting me to keep it together, right?”

“Would you let me finish speaking?” No, never winning any points for patience, ever. Not too many for thinking before he speaks either. Her face crumples for a breath, if that, smoothing back out with a scoff, I’m so sorry, Joel, what were you going to say? No, not normal, not today. He wonders briefly how long they’ve been in the bathroom now, and whether they’ve been speaking loudly enough to draw attention to the fact of how long they’ve been in the bathroom now.

“You know what, forget it. If you say you’re fine then I guess you’re fine. Can we just get through fucking cake and leave, please?” She’s very good at this, at turning herself off, something cool and distant slipping over her eyes, her face, shoulders rolled back sharp. Of course, she says, whatever you say, she says, doesn’t give him another glance as she opens the bathroom door.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t standing here long, just waiting to use the–”

“Cunt.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Cut– I had a cut and I needed Joel to look at it but I’m fine, right, Joel? Aren’t I fine?” She doesn’t give him a chance to answer that, doesn’t give Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is a chance to say any more either, already moving past both of them and back toward the sound of laughter and cake, fucking cake about to happen.

He needs to keep his mouth shut, all he can figure. Keep his mouth shut and maybe, maybe, they’ll get through fucking cake without any more seams splitting. Nothing like this when Sarah came, no balloons, no perfectly frosted and tiered cake with a whole cluster of people around it, and he thinks briefly that maybe he’s the one who isn’t fine being here. Like an ache, or an absence, a place inside of him that has been scooped out and left empty. He doesn’t let himself get sad about it often, mostly because he’s too busy being angry about it with (at?) Cass. But he feels it now, a sinking, swimming feeling that weighs everything down, slow to smile when Maria hands him a plate with a slice of cake on it.

She takes a plate and pushes around globs of pink icing with her fork for a while, standing in another cluster of people she doesn’t really know, one of the women commenting on how good she’s being when she sets her plate down on the kitchen counter, smile and laugh, though the truth is she’s not sure she could stomach pretty pink icing right now. A small mercy when Tommy steps over alongside her and effectively relieves her of having to continue pretending to be interested in a conversation about kitchen remodels.

“Looking a little green, Cassie, you alright?”

“I think the heat got to me, but I’ll survive. Congratulations again, you guys are going to be great, really.” And she hopes he interprets the pitch, the little catch of her words as a good emotion that is entirely for him and his family. Not anything else, not anything that would be entirely ridiculous and well, crazy, on her part.

“I just want to say thank you again for giving us all that furniture, and the clothes, we really–”

“Oh of course, Tom, you did us a favor taking all that stuff. It’s not like we were going to–” Going to what? She doesn’t finish that sentence, and Tommy doesn’t need her to, already nodding, already that look in his eyes that she has come to recognize as thinly-concealed pity. Not like they were ever going to have a use for that furniture, those clothes, not again, not after. A foreclosed room in their house that stayed as silent and shut up as a tomb, and then the happy, happy, happy news from Tommy and Maria and of course, they said, take whatever you want, take it all, actually. The room is empty now. The door stays closed.

He wants to leave and he wants to leave now. The walls creeping in closer and that hollow thing in between his ribs starting to ache and twinge. He catches her eyes from across the room and it takes little else for a knowing to pass between them, both of them already moving, already starting a string of polite goodbyes, friends and family, sorry, yes, really have to go, it’s becoming hard to breathe, really have to go.

Early in the afternoon and the sun so bright it makes him a little dizzy when they step outside. He follows the sound of her heels on the sidewalk back to the car, relief in the closing of the door, in settling into the driver’s seat.

She feels like her brain is deflating in her skull. Enough normal for the day, don’t ask her for any more than that. She props her head in her hand and lets her eyes unfocus, turning the suburban streets they're driving through into pale blurs of minivans and basketball hoops. And there is little fanfare to what happens next, she glances at him once, then looks out the window, hears a metallic clink, and when she looks at him again, there’s a cigarette dangling from his lips. It’s so absurd, so out of nowhere, that she has to laugh.

“Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t know. Tommy’s a bad influence.”

“Tommy quit.”

“Well then I did him a favor finishing off all his packs.”

“Joel.”

“Yes?”

“How did I miss you picking up smoking again?”

“It’s not like I do it around the house, I know you don’t like the smell.”

“Oh, but you’re happy to trap me in the car with it?”

“The windows are down.”

“Secondhand smoke.”

“Would you prefer to get out at the next red light?”

“You know, you’re probably gonna die before me. Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m serious. Statistically speaking, men die first–”

“I wonder why.”

“Cardiac events.”

“That tracks.”

“You’re already two years older than me and now you’re doing shit like this and I’m probably gonna be like, sixty-eight and a widow, and then I’ll die of stress from being a sixty-eight-year-old widow.”

“Are you done?”

“Oh fuck you–”

“Hey.”

“No, what next, huh? Are you gonna ask me if I took my pills again?”

“Well, did you?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Jesus Christ, Cass, it’s like you don’t even want to get better, you don’t even try.” Silence, she doesn’t fire back, doesn’t make a sound, her lips parted around a wordless frown. The only noise is the turn signal clicking as he pulls into a gas station, his heart sunk down low in his chest, shrinking back in on itself. Too far, too mean, and not even knowing what he was saying until he said it, until she was looking at him in a devastated crumple.

He parks beside a pump but doesn’t get out, doesn’t move at all, really. Waiting. For what, he isn’t sure. When he looks at her again, that stricken look is gone, something slackening, something tired settled in its place.

“Do you remember when you stopped shaving and you asked me if your beard looked stupid and I told you it didn’t?”

“Uh, yes.”

“I lied. Your beard does look stupid.” And with that, she’s out of her seat, out of the car, and clipping fast toward the convenience store, not sparing him another look. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

The light flickers a little in the convenience store bathroom when she flips it on, locking the door behind her just as the first sob shudders up and out of her throat. She doesn’t look in the mirror, she has no use for that, just grips the edge of the sink and allows herself this, a few minutes to get the worst of it out.

He had finished pumping gas ten minutes ago when she comes back out with a bottle of snapple lemonade tucked under her arm. She has been crying, he can see. He doesn’t know why she always hides it from him. It catches him off guard when she walks around the front of the car to stand in front of his rolled-down window, something bordering on sheepish in the set of her expression, her eyes doing a quick loop from her feet back up to him.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t think your beard is stupid.”

“Okay.”

“I like it, think you look handsome with it.”

“Honey, will you get in the car, please?” She does, offers him the bottle of lemonade and they both take a swig, waiting for whatever words are supposed to come next. A car honks at them, still at the pump, and he has enough sense to wave an apology behind his head and pull over into a parking spot instead.

“I’m sorry for what I said. Cass? That was a stupid thing for me to say. I didn’t mean that.” She wants to say no, not a stupid thing to say, not unfair, not really. But that would be an admission she doesn’t want to make, so she nods, accepts his apology, both of them having a hard time looking at the other, suddenly so interested in the brick wall of the convenience store.

“We can’t keep doing this.” She doesn’t realize how much she means that until she’s done saying it. Finally saying it, this truth they have been scrapping and snapping around for months now. He says, no, we can’t, and she braces for impact, anticipating the worst, the nuclear option, and she wouldn’t blame him for it. But that blow doesn’t come. He takes her hand over the center console, as simple as anything, and she is reminded again of how much she loves him.

“Something has to change.”

“I think so.”

“We can figure this out, can’t we?”

“It’s us.” As if that’s an answer, though he still nods, repeats it back to her, it’s us. It’s them. They can’t keep doing this. They have to change. They can figure this out, can’t they?

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller au #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!oc

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 10: Through The Dark] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, pregnancy, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, AND NO OTHER CLUES, HAPPY READING!!! 🥰

Selected Chapter Quote: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

Word count: 6.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

Thank you for loving the insane and incomparable Comet fam. I hope you enjoy the series finale. 💜

Night sky, string lights, reverberating bass, warm wet verdant air like the earth the dinosaurs knew, swampy and thick with beasts. With his lazy, dreamlike smile—a kind contagious glow, pink sunburned cheeks that match the clinking Salty Dog in his hand—Aegon says: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

You won’t tell him the whole truth. But you’ll tell him part of it. “Sigmund Freud.”

Aegon is intrigued, raised eyebrows and a crooked grin. “The guy who thinks everyone wants to fuck their mom?”

“You would have liked him. He did a lot of coke.” You take a swig of your Salty Dog: rosemary, grapefruit, the singeing bite of gin. “He was the founder of talk therapy. And, yeah, some of the things he wanted to talk about were…unorthodox. Misguided. But still…”

“He just wanted to talk,” Aegon says softly, understanding now.

“This was the turn of the century, okay? This was back in the days when they were pulling people’s teeth out, locking them up in asylums, injecting them with diseases, cutting off parts of women that made them unruly, ungovernable, immoral.” You shudder. “And Freud said no, just talk to them. Just figure out what demons they have chained up in their skulls, dark dusty corners buried way down deep, and help them figure out how to move forward. It’s not about having a cure, a pill or a scalpel. I mean, how ludicrous would that be, thinking I was walking around with some failproof silver bullet to make all the pain of existence vanish? That’s insane. It’s about listening to people, and caring about people, and shining a light on what part of them already knew was there. I don’t have a cure for anybody. Not a single goddamn person on this planet. But I can help them find their own.”

Aegon watches you, contemplates you, studies you like something rare and fleeting. “You are going to be one hell of a therapist.”

“I don’t know about that. But I hope so.”

“I’ll find you. Maybe when you’re done with school you can work on me. I’d keep you busy, I guarantee it. I’m like Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Ghosts everywhere you look.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You are never going to remember me.” He is never going to remember this place, this time, the way he shared his light with me like a long-lost comet clipping by Earth.

“I might,” Aegon says. He sips his Salty Dog with his elbows propped on the table, his blond hair whipping in the indigo wind, grains of salt on his lips, reflections of string lights like stars in his eyes. “I really think I might.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your arms thrown around his neck, your face buried in his black t-shirt, inhaling smoke and dust and the coppery sharpness of his spilled blood. You are sobbing uncontrollably, gasping, shivering, wild prideless tears and clawing fingers. Jace’s words circle in your skull like a moon around its planet: Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret. Aemond is trying to calm you, to quiet you. His hands—large and dangerous and bloodstained and careful—are on your back, in your hair. You have to explain, to repent. You have to make him understand.

“I didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” you moan into him, a jagged rush like a hemorrhage. “I swear to God I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t trying to trap you or fix you or use you. I’m in love with you, Aemond, I wanted you, and I still want you, and I thought you would hate me and I was terrified and I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you,” he’s saying, and more that you can’t catch; his words are a tide, flowing in and fading out. Now there is pain, deep and sharp and collapsing. Aegon is standing a few yards away, tears flooding down his sunburned face; they clear tracks in the dust that coats him, that coats everyone, that sticks to the blood on your legs. Cregan has pushed the others back, but still, you can hear their incorporeal voices: Jace asking what’s going on, Rhaena explaining, Baela shrieking, Criston shouting orders. Now Aegon has a rough hand on Aemond’s shoulder and is telling him something—insisting upon something—but you don’t know what. Language escapes you; language abandons you.

There are sirens and flashing lights the color of rubies, roses, tangled arteries. Aemond scoops you up and carries you towards them. There is only enough room for one person to ride in the ambulance with you; there is no discussion of who it will be. The rest of Comet has to wait for the Escalades to arrive at your parents’ farm. You do not try to steal a glimpse of the damage, felled trees and scattered fence posts, dead cattle and pillaged earth. You are filled with enough wreckage already; you are built of it, bones made out of bent nails, nerves of barbed wire.

Needles into your arms, chemicals into your bloodstream: something that deadens the pain and muddies your thoughts, makes them slow and heavy and unpanicked, like you are watching this happen to somebody else. In an exam room, nurses strip your clothes away and wipe the red from your skin, routinely, absentmindedly, as if it is of no consequence, as if the future you had taken for granted has not just been drowned, immolated, eradicated from existence like a dying star. They give you underwear fitted with a bulky postpartum pad—the same used by mothers of living children—and a hospital gown that Aemond marks with bloody fingerprints when he touches you. Then the nurses leave you to wait for the doctor with your IVs and your fogbank mind and your glazed eyes that stare blankly at the sterile white walls.

Aemond is smoothing back your hair from your face, and you are reminded of how he held Aegon when he was dying on your bedroom floor in the MGM Grand. You remember once thinking that Aemond is like storms and rogue waves, and that’s true; he turns lethal and then goes kind again, strikes and then soothes. He says once you are alone, each word painstakingly chosen: “I’m sorry that because of how I’ve acted, you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I lost the baby.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I must have. I’m bleeding too much.” You can feel it, blood and clots that ooze, gush, drain away leaving you cold and hollow.

The exam room door opens, not a nurse or a doctor but a man in khaki cargo shorts and a filthy neon green tank top and matching Crocs, clop clop clop. “Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, sad and gentle. He holds up a venti-sized plastic cup. “I brought you a Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino.”

You blink groggily, not knowing what to do with it. Aegon puts the clear cup in your hands, the green straw between your lips. It’s sugary, cold, rich, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. It brings you back a little bit, a few unsteady steps towards the real world.

“Where the fuck is the doctor?” Aemond asks him.

“The nurse said she’s on her way. They’re understaffed.” Aegon shrugs apologetically: Missouri bullshit.

“You get somebody in here, right now.”

“What do you want me to do, threaten to stab medical professionals?! How about you punch some of their teeth out, I bet that would help.” Then Aegon sighs shakily and covers his own face with his hands. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t mine, you know?” Wasn’t, isn’t, will never be. “We haven’t…not since…it’s not…” He looks at Aemond with large, shining, ocean-blue eyes. “It’s not possible. You have to know that. You can’t be the way that you are sometimes. You don’t get a few weeks to come around to doing the decent thing. You have to believe her.”

And Aemond says softly: “I do.”

The door opens again and a doctor steps through it, mid-forties, thick black-rimmed glasses, dark hair secured in a businesslike low bun. Aegon ducks out of the room; the doctor gives him a brief quizzical glance before introducing herself to you. You can’t seem to latch onto her name. You answer the questions she asks you as she readies the ultrasound machine: ten weeks along, blunt force trauma to your back, where and how it hurt before the pain was drugged out of you. She unfastens a tie on the side of your hospital gown and opens it just enough to spread the cool gel across your belly and then glide the transducer through it. She peers at the grainy screen. She’s checking for a heartbeat; she’s checking to see if you’ll need a D&C to help expel a partial miscarriage so you don’t go septic.

“I lost it,” you sob, breaking down again. “Aemond, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” He kisses your temple and then rests his forehead against yours, tears glittering in his river-clear right eye.

“Well,” the doctor says with practiced, vaguely sympathetic composure. “You lost one of them.”

You look to her, not understanding. “One of…?”

She angles the monitor so you and Aemond can see. “Fraternal twins often have separate amniotic sacs and placentas. So depending on the positioning of the fetuses, it is possible to miscarry one but not the other. This one on the left here…” She indicates it with her index finger. “It’s…it’s no longer viable, unfortunately. You’ve already passed most of it. But this one on the right…” She squints at the screen, repositioning the transducer. “From what I can tell, it seems to be holding on. Let me see if I can…” She moves the transducer around, pressing it into the yielding flesh of your belly. And then you hear it: a fierce defiant drumming, a whistling like wind through leaves. “I thought so,” the doctor pronounces, smiling. “There’s the heartbeat. The pulse is approximately 155 beats per minute, which is typical.”

One of them? I didn’t lose one of them? “Aemond…?”

When you turn back to him, he’s staring at the flickering black-and-white whirls of bones and blood flow on the ultrasound screen. And the expression on his face is one that you’ve never seen from him before, serene like when he’s with animals, awed like when he studies the galaxy, and something else too, a great shifting, a clicking into place, tectonic plates and ocean currents and storm clouds unraveling into clear skies. “It’s alright?” he says, not taking his eye from the screen.

“It is,” the doctor confirms. “Measuring a little bit small for ten weeks, but that’s to be expected for a twin. I don’t think you’ll be able to tell the sex for another month, but it’s alive and well.” She freezes the image on the screen, sets the transducer aside, and cleans the gel from your belly. “Based on my experience, in cases like this, I’d say there’s a better than 50/50 chance the surviving fetus can be carried to term.”

You say: “What can I do…? I mean…there must be something I can do to help it…to help it live…”

“We’ll give you medication to stop any residual uterine contractions and antibiotics to prevent infection. I’d like to admit you for observation, just for a day or two. And I would recommend bed rest for several weeks. Until you’ve reached your second trimester, at least.”

“Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“And sir, you’re…” The doctor peers at Aemond through her glasses, really scrutinizing him for the first time, his brutal scar and his blind left eye and his stillness and his wonder. “You’re the father?”

Aemond nods, still gazing at the screen like a constellation in the night sky, like a comet only glimpsed once in a lifetime. “I am.”

The doctor beams. “Congratulations,” she tells both of you. And then she leaves to arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says. “When the band flies to New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll stay here with you.”

“No, Aemond.”

“I’m staying. I’m not going to leave you. You need me, the baby needs me.”

“No,” you say again. “What we have now is wrong. It’s painful and volatile and doomed.” You lay your palm against his scarred face, and he doesn’t finch away. “You have to figure out who you are after Comet. And so do I.” Tears in your eyes, tears on your cheeks; but on your lips is a soft, patient smile. “Aemond, I don’t want me and the baby to be a distraction from the work that you still desperately need to do. I don’t want to be a temporary fix. I don’t want to be your life raft. I want to be…if I’m going to be anything to you…” Your thumbprint ghosts across his cheekbone, tender, reverent. “I want to be your home.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak; drops like rain spill down his right cheek, dyed pink by blood from the fresh lacerations that riddle him, new scars and ancient pain.

“What are you thinking?” you say.

“I’m thinking that you’re right. I fucking hate it, but you are.” He swipes away tears with one bloodstained hand, then he settles it on your not-yet-showing belly, a place of ruin, a place of hope. “When can I come back?”

“When you’re ready. And only you’ll know when that is.”

The exam room door opens again, and your parents rush in like water through a cracked dam. They are frantic and fretting, peering around bewilderedly.

“Lord almighty, what the hell happened?!” your dad booms; and your mom doesn’t even think to chastise him.

“I’m okay, Daddy.”

“You got hit by somethin’? Are they gonna do an x-ray? Your mother and I finally made it back home from church, trees and power lines down all over the place, and that boy was waitin’ on the front porch to tell us where you were. You know, the big one. The one with the godawful ponytail.”

“Cregan,” your mom offers.

“Cregan,” your dad says.

“It’s a man bun, Daddy. How’s the farm?”

“We ain’t too bad off. A couple cows dead, half the herd out wanderin’ since the pasture fence blew away. Me and the dogs gotta bring ‘em on back, but your mother and I had to see you first. Did they check you over good? Can you come home today?”

“Sweetheart, there’s…” Your mom’s voice is alarmed. “There’s blood on your gown, on your face, what happened?”

“Well, I, um, the thing is…” You try to tell them. You begin crying again instead. As you sniffle and avert your eyes—afraid, ashamed—Aemond stands and extends one large, scarlet-streaked hand. Your dad shakes it tentatively. And then Aemond explains for you: the child you’ve lost, the child you’ve kept, what has to happen next.

“I am responsible,” Aemond says as they gape at him, half-ecstatic and half-horrified. “And I know that this didn’t exactly happen in the traditional way, and I know that there is a lot of work left for me to do to prove myself worthy of your daughter. But I hope in time you’ll be able to forgive me. Because it seems that we’re going to be family.”

Your mom squeals and hugs Aemond. Your dad hugs you. They stay until you are settled in your own private room—small bed and clean sheets, drugs trickling into your veins—and only then do they listen to your insistence that you’ll be okay until morning, that they need to go home to take care of the farm. They leave with their arms around each other, exchanging murmurs like vows. Then Aemond asks if you feel well enough to see the band. They want to say goodbye.

“You’ll miss me,” Jace says confidently, then swoops in to smack a kiss on your forehead before anyone can stop him, bouncing dark curls and smirking mouth. Aegon jabs him in the ribs, Criston rolls his eyes, Aemond glowers like he’d enjoy putting Jace in need of another 28 dental implants. “If you ever get sick of mentally ill blonds, just let me know. The kid doesn’t change anything. I dig MILFs.”

“Thanks, Jace. I guess.”

“We’ll still see you around, right? You’ll visit us, we’ll visit you?”

“Yeah. I won’t disappear.”

“Good.” And then again, more somberly: “Good.”

Rhaena is dabbing at her gentle, doe-like eyes with a Kleenex, leaning into Luke for support. Criston is gallant. Daeron is optimistic. Baela is exasperated that you told Rhaena you were pregnant but not her.

“I didn’t tell Rhaena,” you counter. “She just happened to be the person who accompanied me on my ill-fated adventure to procure Plan B in Tokyo at like 2 a.m.”

“Which did not work,” Rhaena adds, sniffling into her Kleenex.

“A cautionary tale,” Jace says to everyone. “You hear that, fellas? When in doubt, wrap it before you tap it.”

Baela nods at you. “Luckily, she doesn’t seem too disappointed.” Her eyes flick reticently to Aemond where he sits in the chair closest to your bed, a presence in the room like skies that could turn in an instant, quiet, preoccupied, protective, dazed. “And neither does he.”

“I’m not,” Aemond confesses. He laces one hand through yours and brings his lips to your knuckles, willing the baby to live, willing himself to be better for you both.

“We’re going to talk later,” Cregan tells him sternly. Talk about what it means to be a father.

“Yes,” Aemond agrees.

And then Cregan says goodbye to you too, his cool greyish eyes growing peculiarly warm, his steely exterior chipping away like flecks of old paint.

Aegon is last, the only person left in the room with you and Aemond. Grinning beneath sad eyes, he presses a hand to his heart, and then to yours, and then to your belly. Starboy, Stargirl, Starbaby. Then he says: “Do you want me to hide under your bed so they can’t kick me out when visiting hours end?”

You smile tiredly, exhausted and in pain, pain of the body and pain of the soul. “You have to go, Aegon. Thousands of screaming fangirls will be waiting for you at Arrowhead Stadium.”

He is stunned. “I can’t perform tonight, obviously.”

“Yes you can.”

“No, I definitely can’t.”

“You can,” you say. “You have to. And more than that, you want to. You’ll regret it if you don’t. You live for being Comet’s disaster playboy. I’m not going to take that away from you.”

And then Aegon whimpers: “You can’t leave me.”

“You’re leaving me first.” You beam up at him, caressing his sunburned face, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair. Aemond observes this with curiosity but no suspicion. “This isn’t goodbye, Aegon. I’ll see you again. You can add me to the long list of girls you FaceTime.”

He laughs. “Okay, Stargirl. Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“For more than a day, right?”

“For all of them. Forever.”

And then he’s gone, riding that elliptical orbit out into all the corners of the world that he will glow for: New Orleans, Miami, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Aemond swears to you: “I’m coming back.”

“I hope so.”

And he tilts up your chin and kisses you, tasting like smoke and dust and blood and desire, and it takes every atom of you, every string of muscle and rusty speck of bone marrow, not to crumble and beg him to stay. You are still at war with the part of you that wants to surrender as he stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back; he can’t without losing his nerve.

In the night, he returns to you, long after visiting hours have ended. Perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars have a way of making formalities disappear. He is only a silhouette in shadows like dawn, dusk, midnight. Aemond climbs into the hospital bed and catches you as you fold into him, whispering to you that everything will be alright, telling you how sorry he is, lulling you into a fitful sleep against his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat. And in the morning when you wake up alone, you wonder if any of it was real.

Did I dream that he was here? Did I dream that I ever met him at all?

But no, he has left you proof, something tangible, permanent. On the nightstand is Aemond’s small square vintage lighter; Targaryen is etched into one side. And there is something else too, a single piece of black paper with two sentences of starlight-colored ink:

I’m coming back.

I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October, and the leaves are turning from emerald to topaz, garnet, tiger’s eye. You carve pumpkins with your parents on their front porch. You bake apple crisps and sweet potato pies. You feed the pigs, brush the Australian cattle dogs, buy baby supplies with Aegon’s Amex Black Card. You decide to let the grad student and her Giant Flemish rabbit keep your apartment downtown until your lease is up in the spring. You’d rather be here on the farm, even when you’re not on bed rest anymore. You’d rather be home.

You listen to Comet Donati, The Script, Coldplay, One Direction. Rhaena and Baela mail you boxes of crochet comets and stars and planets for the baby’s room. Aegon mails you boxes of Comet’s new donut-themed merch. Now your dad sometimes tends to the beef cattle in boy band t-shirts. Aegon FaceTimes you two or three times a week, sends WhatsApp messages nearly every day. But you rarely talk about Aemond. It’s too painful, it’s too much of a temptation. You cannot imagine others seeing him, hearing him, speaking to him without needing to do it yourself in the same way that you need oxygen and gravity.

The week before Halloween, you begin spotting. You sob hysterically as your mom drives you to the hospital, convinced that you’re losing this baby too, that everything you touch is damaged and defenseless and doomed. You’re fine, as it turns out, and the baby’s fine too, but even after you’re back at the farm you can’t stop shaking, can’t stop imaging the wet heat of blood on your thighs.

You break down and call Aemond. And you talk for five hours until the sun rises, you in a rocking chair on your parents’ front porch, Aemond on a hotel balcony in Santiago, Chile in the shadow of the Andes Mountains. He says he’s working on something, but he’ll come back now if you ask him to, he’ll board the jet and land in Kansas City in time for supper at the farm, and you can hear the backsliding desperation in his voice: Please ask me to come back. Please just fucking ask me.

But it’s not time yet. He’s not ready, and you both know it. You agree not to call each other again until Aemond returns to you. If he returns to me. Neither of you can sleep for days afterwards. Neither of you can open the door a crack without the other rushing through.

One morning you shuffle downstairs in your Cookie Monster pajama pants and oversized NSYNC t-shirt to find your dad eating a heap of homemade pumpkin waffles in front of the television in the den. All five Australian cattle dogs are perched expectantly at his feet. “Them boys of yours are on Good Morning America.”

“What? Really?”

Yes, they are; they’re celebrating the conclusion of their record-breaking world tour and teasing a new album with an interview and two songs. You catch the end of the first one, their new single called Magic, during which the boys run haphazardly around the neon-lit studio, Jace tears off his donut-themed tank top in protest, and Aegon flubs no less than three lyrics.

Robin Roberts is saying: “Now stay tuned for a very special performance coming up next after a commercial break. We’ll be moving to our outdoor stage in Times Square where a sizeable crowd has formed, and we’ve been told that Comet has a surprise in store for us! What do you think it could be, George?”

“I don’t know, Robin,” George Stephanopoulos replies gamely. “But no matter what it is, I’m sure it will have all those young ladies out there screaming!”

Lara Spencer chuckles. “And not just the young ladies either. I’ve been known to attend Comet concerts on occasion.”

Robin says: “Oh no, Lara, are you a Cregan girlie?”

“Okay, yes, I confess, I am kind of a Cregan girlie…”

You get yourself a plate of pumpkin waffles and return just in time to see the camera panning over the crowd outside: shouting, cheering, waving posters and showcasing their homemade t-shirts.

Robin Roberts announces: “And now, with a cover of One Direction’s Through The Dark, here is the illustrious, incomparable, incredible Comet Donati!”

“No way,” you murmur, staring rapturously at the screen.

“You like that one?” your dad asks, tossing pieces of waffles to the dogs.

“It’s my favorite.” And Aemond knows that. I told him in Singapore.

The stage is empty as the first acoustic notes ring out. Then Daeron trots into view—radiant and cheerful in his donut merch—to sing the first lines:

“You tell me that you’re sad and lost your way

You tell me that your tears are here to stay,

But I know you’re only hiding

And I just wanna see you…”

Aegon appears next, clopping in his sparkly pink Crocs. He flips his hair around and winks mischieviously into the camera as he sings:

“You tell me that you’re hurt and you’re in pain

And I can see your head is held in shame,

But I just wanna see you smile again

See you smile again…”

And now the crowd is not just loud but deafening, and you’re so shocked the plate of pumpkin waffles tumbles out of your hands and onto the floor for the Australian cattle dogs to devour, because who bolts out onto the stage next is not Cregan or Luke or Jace but Aemond Targaryen, wearing Aegon’s beloved donut merch and his Adidas sneakers and his scar and blind eye bare for the world to witness. They don’t seem to take any notice of his maiming at all. They screech and hyperventilate and reach for him, awed, ecstatic, touching his outstretched fingertips and his sneakers like the relics of a saint. He is focused, perhaps nervous, but he is smiling. His voice is velvet-smooth and pitch-perfect.

“But don’t burn out

Even if you scream and shout,

It’ll come back to you

And I’ll be here for you…”

The others arrive, and now all six of them are singing the chorus in harmony as they traverse the stage, dodging each other’s chaotic spins and leaps, waving to the crowd, checking on Aemond with encouraging furtive grins and squeezes of his shoulders. Luke is beaming. Jace shoves Aemond playfully and almost gets flung off the stage in return.

“Oh I will carry you over

Fire and water for your love,

And I will hold you closer

Hope your heart is strong enough,

When the night is coming down on you

We will find a way through the dark.”

“Huh,” your dad says. “They ain’t no Johnny Cash, but they’re pretty good, I reckon. I thought Aemond wasn’t on stage much anymore.”

“He’s not.” And you smile wistfully as you watch him, right here with you and yet a world away, real and yet intangible, facts and myths and faith. “But now he knows he has a choice.”

On warm nights, you sit on the wraparound front porch and flick Aemond’s square metal lighter to life, shut it, ignite it again, a lonely golden spark in an ocean of darkness, a star in the night sky. And voices circle in your mind like satellites:

I think history is important.

Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

I’ve never met anyone like you.

Aemond would want to be involved.

What the hell do I know about being a decent father?

Our father never cared about us.

It’s not just for me. It’s never been just for me.

“Please come back,” you whisper to the infinite emptiness of the universe, so softly you can barely hear yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November, and you are finally showing more than you can hide beneath hoodies and sweaters. The attendees of your parents’ Southern Baptist church—who glimpse you at Walmart or McDonald’s or Freddy’s Frozen Custard or 7-Eleven—gossip about you ceaselessly, venomously, with pity but no compassion. And your parents, who have been politely ignoring jibes about you for a decade, do more than just ignore it this time. They clear out their church mailbox and walk out the front door together and never go back. They’ve been shopping around for a new place of worship. Your mom says they might get really experimental and try out the Methodists.

Rhaena sends you pictures from her and Luke’s trip to the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Baela has you on speakerphone when she tells Jace she wants to take a break. She’s completed two ballet school auditions already, and has scheduled two more; at least one acceptance seems imminent. You call Cregan to ask him how to prepare for parenthood. You call Criston to ask if he’d be willing to serve as a reference. He writes you a five-page recommendation letter and tells you prospective employers can contact him any time, day or night. You are hired as a therapist by the University of Missouri. For now, to accommodate your high-risk pregnancy and copious doctor’s appointments, it is a part-time remote position. Your parents are at last forced to get internet for the farmhouse. Your dad starts watching beef cattle raising tutorials on YouTube. And oddly, when you begin taking appointments with college students struggling with breakups or parental pressure or substance abuse, you don’t feel nervous at all. You feel like you’re doing exactly what you were made for.

One morning, you receive a WhatsApp message from Aegon: I wonder if bumblefuck Kansas has the Rolling Stone…

Missouri, you reply, and then you go to Walmart to check. Sure enough, there are numerous copies in the magazine aisle, and that’s a good thing, because a plethora of teenage girls are scrambling for them. Aemond is on the front cover, smiling faintly; his scar and cloudy blind eye are neither centered nor hidden. And he isn’t wearing black. His suit is a deep, lush green like jade, summer grass, ivy. The title reads: Aemond Targaryen is Out of Hiding.

You begin reading. He talks about exactly what happened at the Budokan. He talks about the label’s unilateral decision to excise him from the band. He talks about feeling lost, humiliated, pitied, ignored, unlovable. And then he shares what changed him. He says that he met with other survivors of facial trauma: soldiers, professional athletes, people involved in car and motorcycle accidents. He says that he sat down with half a dozen different therapists until he found one that he really liked. He chronicles the process of finding purpose again in a way that is truthful and inspirational and yet—to you, anyway—conspicuously vague. He is still somewhat involved with Comet’s songwriting and will likely perform with them once or twice per year, he wants to advocate for people living with disabilities like his…but what else? What else?

I think what I want people to know is that progress isn’t instant, and that nobody can do it alone, Aemond writes. I’m only where I am today because of the support of a lot of extraordinary people. I want to thank Comet Donati—Luke, Cregan, Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—as well as our tour manager Criston Cole, who is like a father us. I am immensely grateful to my mother Alicent and my sister Helaena. I am indebted to the fans for the unconditional love they have shown me.

But most of all, I owe my recovery to a therapist from the American Midwest. She can be a little pretentious sometimes, but we don’t fault her for that. She’s earned it. Thank you, Stargirl. I hope this planet is treating you well.

Smiling, glowing, you close the magazine, take it to the checkout counter, purchase it along with five KitKat bars. The baby can’t seem to get enough of them.

Two days later, you have another ultrasound done—your fourth—and at last you are able to give Aegon the answer he’s been zealously hounding you for. You message him on WhatsApp: You’re going to have a niece!

!!!!! he replies almost immediately. And then: Name her Aegonella.

Probably not!

As if you have any better ideas??

You share a few from your list: Celeste, Luna, Aurora, Halley…

Aemond literally just said Halley, Aegon types back. Like right before you did. And then: He’s very excited, omg, omggggggg it’s so cute. Thirty seconds later: Wish you were here :(

“Me too, Starboy,” you murmur as you sit on the couch in the den with Belmont sprawled across your lap. Then you send: I’m scared he’s not coming back.

He is, Aegon replies. He’s working on something. You’ll like it.

And you have to believe this, blindly, faithfully, trusting that something is real even when you can’t see it. You have no other choice.

You beg your dad not to slaughter any of the pigs for ham, and he reluctantly agrees. At Thanksgiving dinner, half the dishes on the table are vegan. You’re trying out new recipes. You jot down the ones you like best in a notebook Luke sent you: black pages, white ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December, and there are stockings hung by the fireplace and a blanket of snow on the ground. You and your parents pick out a Christmas tree at a local farm, and your dad chops it down and throws it in the back of the Ford F-150. Inside your mom’s CD player in the kitchen spins David Archuleta’s Christmas album. As your bump grows, you keep running out of clothes that fit; Aegon is always happy to mail you more donut-themed merch. Thanks to his persistence, they stock nearly every size known to humans. Baela gets her acceptance letters. Aegon gets to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum. They are photographed together in Rome by paparazzi one day and then never again. A week later he’s with Selena Gomez in Ibiza. A week after that he’s spotted with Camila Cabello in New York City. The wheel keeps turning, his route through the solar system long and meandering.

Emergency! Aegon texts you one afternoon as you’re sipping hot apple cider at the dining room table and assembling a 500-piece puzzle depicting the sinking of the Titanic.

You know better than to take him too seriously. You reply, in no hurry: ?

Aemond says I can’t hang out with Starbaby unless I stop taking so many drugs?!!?! Fascist?!??!?!?!

Hang out. Like they’ll be going to clubs and Crocs stores together. You grin and reply: I mean yeah, that sounds accurate.

Well fuck, Aegon says. Guess I better start doing those substance abuse education modules again!

On Christmas Eve morning, your parents are at their slightly-less-judgmental replacement church. You are trying out a new recipe in the kitchen: vegan snickerdoodles. The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Beyond the window over the sink, snow falls in fluffy white bundles like rumpled bedsheets, like clouds. The Australian cattle dogs follow you around hoping for dropped cookies, their claws clicking on the hardwood floor. David Archuleta is singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. You keep bumping into things; you forget how big you are. Your belly seems to grow by the day.

Your iPhone buzzes. It’s a WhatsApp message from Aegon that puzzles you: Hey, I promised I wouldn’t bother you guys for the first few days but I really need the Netflix password and he’s not answering my texts, rude, so could you ask him for it please??? And then a few seconds later: Please. I just really want to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

You stare at his message, not understanding. You reply: Ask who…?

After a moment, Aegon sends back: …Never mind :)

“Really?” you gasp to yourself in the hushed peace of the kitchen, not wanting to believe, not wanting to be disappointed. You peek out the window. Nothing.

You open Google and search Aemond Targaryen. One of the first results is an article from the Kansas City Star published one hour ago. The headline reads: Comet Donati Heartthrob Opens Farm Animal Rescue Outside of Kansas City.

“Oh my God.” You scroll madly, skimming the text. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

One of Aemond’s quotes reads: I wanted to go where the need is. A sanctuary like this in San Francisco or Boston wouldn’t be anything special, wouldn’t be as necessary. But here in Missouri, at the epicenter of industrial animal agriculture in the United States? There’s a lot of important work to be done here. There are a lot of lives I hope to be able to save. We’ve been purchasing animals from auctions and taking in others that have been seized from situations where they were abused or neglected. In addition to our own efforts, I’d like to help launch similar rescues throughout the Midwest, and increase public access to vegan alternatives…

There are photos of him posing with animals: a towering, scarred, ancient mule named Vhagar, a three-legged goat called Sunfyre. In all the pictures, Aemond is smiling. And here in the kitchen of your parents’ farmhouse, so are you. Without thinking, you reach back to touch your fingertips to the black-ink words beneath your Comet Donati crewneck sweatshirt. You hear the lyrics— I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I—and you know them to be true like space, time, gravity, love.

You look out the window again and he’s here, speeding down the winding path of the driveway, snow dust streaming out behind his Gold Star like the tail of a comet.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aemond x y/n #aemond one eye #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you

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ihavethedreamies · 2 months

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Pool Boy (4) | Hueningkai

Huening Kai - TXT

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~4.5k o=o

Pairing: Hueningkai x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Reader-Insert, Smut, Porn without Plot

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Small Age Difference (Unspecified, he calls her Noona), Pet Names (she calls him precious), Swearing, Kissing, Oral (F! & M! Receiving), Fingering, Semi-Public Sex, Car Sex, Unprotected Sex (Use a condom! She's on the pill)

Summary: Losing the chance of closing up the pool for the night, you take advantage of your car being the only one in the park lot… Some plot is there, but it so doesn’t matter.

Author's Note: This originally was going to be part of a really long series with a lot of plot, but it was taking too long and I was putting too much plot, more than I had initially planned. Because of that, I cut nearly all plot out and it's still four-thousands words of just fucking so…

PS. Hyuka is my bias~

None of the parts are reliant on the others, there is just a version for each boy.

-> Yeonjun <-

-> Taehyun <-

-> Soobin <-

-> Beomgyu <-

I am cross-posting this on Archive. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on here my name and icon are exactly the same on the other site. Happy reading!

"You're so freaking cute…" You muttered and his head shot up to gape at you.

"What?"

"I-," You were about to take a bite and pretend you didn't say anything. You had been flirting with Hyuka for a few days now, but it seemed he wasn't picking up what you were putting down. Maybe you were wrong because he put his sandwich down and got up from the stool. Wondering what he was doing, you set your fork down. He came closer and you tried to stay relaxed when he went to stand between your legs. He was big, leaning over you, thick thighs, and broad shoulders. His face was so freaking sweet, a stark comparison. Kai leaned forward and you let him do what he wanted. A small kiss pressed to your cheek, then another at the corner of your mouth. You smiled at the gentleness, his big hands coming to cup your jaw softly. Right before he could finally press his lips to yours-

"Uh?" Someone cleared their throat at the front office entrance, and he pulled back aggressively. The coworker smiled, her eyes mischievous.

"I won't tell but keep an eye out." She winked and left.

"Don't worry about it Hyuka." You got off the stool, laying your hand on his shoulder. When his eyes went back to you, they softened back to what you normally saw, the fear gone. You smiled, bringing your hands to play with his hair, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck. His hands came to your waist, and he turned pink when your breasts squished into him. Hyuka nuzzled your ear, pressing a kiss to your hair.

"Can we eat?" he muttered, and you laughed and nodded, pulling back. Before he let go, he laid another soft peck to your forehead. You talked about random things, mostly the weird things his friends do, as you ate. Not too soon after you both finished, guests started to come again after the lunch break. While you were helping a group of high school girls get some passes, they were giggling and flirting with Hyuka. Of course they were, look at him. You didn't know though if he was that clueless about flirting or if he was remaining professional.

"Is he your boyfriend?" one of them asked you quietly as you slipped the bracelet on her.

"No. But he is too old for you." You assured her. She was probably fifteen, sixteen at the most. She clicked her tongue, nodding as she resolved that fact to herself. They giggled and waved as they entered the pool, and he sat down with a sigh.

"Do you have girls flirt with you a lot?" you asked him, and he shook his head, looking tired.

"Not really. Normally I'm with my hyungs, so they get more of the attention. I'm a lot shyer in comparison so…"

"Well, their loss is my gain." You went to him that time, standing between his legs. Since he was sitting, you were eye level like this. Huffing in surprise, he had wrapped his arms around you boldly, pulling you closer to him. His hands were still respectful, sitting around your lower ribs, and they shook a bit. Hyuka wasn't used to being more forward, but he felt more confident with you. He took the slight pink on your cheeks as a good sign, hugging you even closer and resting his head in the crook of your neck. The boy just held you like that and you wanted to cry at how cute he was. Car doors shutting pulled you both back to reality and you had to separate so you could assist more patrons. As the shift went on, you both exchanged little displays of affection. The sweetest one was when you were both sitting there, looking at your phones quietly, he pulled his stool to be right next to you instead of across. His head rested on your shoulder, and you cooed, kissing the crown of his head. A bit later you were standing at the register, counting through change.

"Hi, noona." Hyuka wrapped his arms around you once again, hugging you from behind. He rested his cheek on your head, one of his hands going to your tummy. You smiled giddily, pressing your lips together to try and hide it, his hand rubbing circles over your stomach. The move was so sweet, but your stomach was sensitive, and when his hand rested over your belly button, you had to shift. The lower stomach wasn't a traditional erogenous zone, but it was for you. Also, being completely surrounded by his warmth, he also smelled really good, it was hard to not get excited. He pressed closer and your cunt clenched the fabric of your panties sticking to your folds. Glancing at the time, you grumbled, not wanting to wait two more hours for closing.

"Hyuka." you prompted, and he hummed sleepily.

"I need you to let go or I'm going to burst." you whispered, and he startled, pulling away.

"Sorry!" He backed up and you smiled.

"I'll be right back!" You promised, scurrying off to the bathroom. He probably assumed you met your bladder, so you took the chance. You smiled at some patrons as you walked past them to get to the private stall. The bathroom in the back office was probably open, but you weren't for sure and needed to cool off immediately. Shutting the door, you locked it, going to the sink, you splashed cold water on your face. You sighed, grabbing some paper towels, and drying your face. Letting out another more aggressive sigh, you glared at yourself in the mirror.

"Two more hours." You nodded, determined. Going back out you tried to keep your mind on other things but made no move to prevent Hyuka's skinship. You had learned that's what they called it, and you loved the term.

"I'll lock up." One of your coworkers nodded at you in passing and you shook your head.

"Its fine, I can do it!" You insisted, it was normally what you did anyway.

"Just go." He insisted and you huffed in annoyance.

"It's fine, noona." Hyuka whispered and you looked at him. He nodded, trying to convey something unspoken through his look. You nodded, almost disappointed. Was he just going to give up and leave you for the night, try again later? Sneaking past the guy, you gathered your things and met Hyuka at the door.

"Bye." You called to him hastily, and you both scurried to leave. Not glancing back, you heard him pull the shutter for the front counter closed, heading for your car. You parked in the very back of the parking lot, so you didn't hog access for the pool customers. You were even able to park near a tree that kind of shaded your car from the blazing sun. Said sun was starting to set and you stopped at the vehicle, turning to the boy. That was when you got an idea.

"Get in. The back." you told him, and he did so without question or hesitation. Getting in the front yourself, you started the car and cranked the air conditioning, it was hot as balls in the car. Glancing back to the pool shelter, you figured it was far enough away, so you scurried back out and joined Hyuka in the back.

"This okay?" You made sure with him, and he nodded, a bit red.

"If you are." He leaned in slowly and you giggled.

"Of course-" His lips met yours. It started slow; you could tell he was unsure. You weren't sure why though; he was doing very well. You moaned softly to let him know. Smiling against his lips, his hand went to your neck and pulled you even closer. Barely pulling back, still brushing his soft lips over your chapped ones, you breathed harder. Finally kissing you again, it was even more intense than before, and when he sighed you took the chance to sneak your tongue into his mouth. Perfectly content to take the reins, you didn't expect him to fight back against you. His tongue wrapped around yours deftly, and he tipped your head the opposite of his to deepen it further. You barely separated to suck in more air, then went back in. You had no idea how long you two made out, eventually you ended up straddling his lap, hands messing his hair. Despite the heat of the act, his hands stayed on your waist, the furthest down they went was to loop his fingers through your belt loops. Your shorts were high waisted as well, but you wanted him to go lower. Running the tip of your tongue over his teeth, tasting his whole mouth, your hands brushed over his, moving them down. He whined a tad when you pressed, but eagerly shoved his hands in your back pockets, and dug his fingers in. You keened, the strength there as well as his taste and warmth made your head swim. The cold blast of air at your back did nothing to cool you off and you whimpered when his lips left yours. Both of your lips were swollen and red, a trail of saliva connecting your mouths still.

"What do you want to do next, precious?" You both were panting.

"Turn around?" His voice was softer than normal, tinged with nerves still, as if he hadn't just tried to swallow your tongue. You nodded with a hum, doing so, and settling in his lap. You felt his hardened cock straining against his jeans at your back, but you just laid on him, wanting him to do what he wished. One arm wrapped around your middle, his hand once against resting on your stomach. The other was shaking a bit, but he brought it to the front of your shorts. He pressed two fingers right above your clit and you moaned a bit. When his fingers slid down slightly, hitting your nub, you flinched hard, moaning again.

"You're wet." He observed quietly and you weren't too surprised. Even with the barrier of your panties and the denim of your pants, he could still feel it.

"Can I?"

"Do whatever, precious." You ensured and you could hear him swallow. He fiddled with the button but was able to get it open with one hand, and he pulled the zipper down. His hands were warm as the ones on your tummy snuck under your shirt to rub the soft skin of your belly. The other buried into your panties so he could stroke his index and middle finger through your cunt. You whined and he marveled at the slick pouring from your core.

"Noona~" He cooed, his nose brushing at the back of your ear.

"There." you told him when the pad of his finger hit your clit. It seemed he was more knowledgeable than you first estimated. You sighed as he didn't even hesitate to bury his long finger into your cunt, his thumb circling your clit. Your body twitched and your head rolled back to rest on his shoulder. You were so wound up, even just his slight touches made you shiver. A second finger joined his first and he scissored them against your fluttering walls.

"Here?" He made sure, one finger pressing against the rough patch in your cunt, and you nodded, gasping. The pressure increased and he rubbed and wiggled his fingers inside you. His palm brushed over your clit, and he played you like a guitar. You made noises as well, whining and moaning, panting, and sighing.

"H-Hyuka!" It was like you couldn't breathe, your orgasm approaching so fast. Normally just fingers couldn't make you feel that way, so either he was really that good or you were just that horny.

"Cum, noona." His voice lowered, right in your ear, and you obeyed. His eyes widened as your cunt clenched his fingers, he didn't think you could get any tighter. He desperately wanted to know how you would feel around his cock. Though, he was worried he wouldn’t last too long. As the waves calmed down, he kissed over your neck and once you were done twitching, he pulled his hand away. He marveled at the shine and amount of your release, and you watched him bring his hand to his mouth, flicking his tongue to taste. Kai groaned and immediately swallowed both fingers to suck your juice from them.

"Fuck…" he whispered and you chuckled a bit.

"Can I…?" His voice was still quiet, but it was more confident. You let him direct your movement into the place where he wanted you. Luckily, you were quite small, and your car was spacious, so when he laid you on the center console, the seats were able to slot in the dip of your waist. Not tightly, they held you somewhat in place, and at least the console was padded. You had him pass a blanket you kept in the back seat, and you rolled it, resting your head on it by the radio controls. It was more comfortable than you thought it would be. His hands were still shaking some, but they acted fast, completely undoing your pants, and helping you remove them. He swallowed hard before you led him to remove your panties as well. When the younger man could finally see your bare cunt, shining with your arousal, he groaned.

Large and strong hands gripped your hips and you yiped when he shoved you further back, the blanket preventing you from hitting your head. Unfortunately for him being so tall, he still had to bend a bit uncomfortably, but your whole body twitched when his tongue flicked over your clit. You were glad the A/C was blowing straight on you, because he dove back in, licking over your cunt once then shoving his whole tongue inside. His nose brushed against your clit perfectly and his strong hands held your thighs apart, your muscles twitching under his grip. He placed his hands carefully on your thighs, not wanting to hurt you, just to hold them still. You would have preferred him to be rougher, but in the moment, you were too focused on his mouth on you. Wanting to whimper in protest when his tongue left your core, it instead swirled your button, and his two fingers went back in. You sighed and swore slightly when he pressed against your spot hard, smirking at your little flinch. He was gaining confidence the more you moaned and mewled, so you exaggerated just a tad. More so you didn't hide it any. A car door slammed and you both startled, he pulled away and you sat up to look out the window. It was the coworker getting into his car that you hoped was far enough away that he couldn't see. He was a good distance away, the sound had just echoed through the empty lot. He also didn't need to drive past to leave. Still, you both waited to make sure, and once he was gone, you rested back.

"I'm sorry, noona. I can't wait." He pulled his fingers out and helped you sit up. Smiling, you removed your top and let him pull you back to his lap. Trying not to laugh, he was struggling to undo your bra, so you reached around back to help.

"Fuck." Hearing his soft voice swear like that was cuter than anything, but the look on his face was anything but cute. Kai brought you back down to his lips and your hands met his on the button to his jeans. You gasped a bit when your hands reached in to pull his cock out. Whatever he was getting fed didn't just make his body big. Groaning, his hands gripped your bare ass, hauling you to grind your slick cunt on his dick. You both sighed at the feeling.

"Have you done this before, precious?" you asked him. He was a bit embarrassed that you were just starting at his cock like that, enthralled.

"Um…no. Just, um, touching…" He drifted off.

"You want my pussy or my mouth first?" you asked next, kissing his cheek, then jaw, and down his neck, your hands creeping under his shirt. When you pulled back aggressively, he was a bit shocked, but your hands were rapidly trying to get his shirt off. You let out a groan as he let you rip the garment off. Why the hell was he hiding his body when it looked like that? Not as harshly defined as some others, there was clearly muscle there. He blushed, goosebumps rising on his skin as your soft and small hands wandered his torso.

"Noona?" His voice was rougher than before, and when your eyes met his, they were sharper than before. Not overly so, but he looked more determined.

"Oh, uh-"

"I want your pussy, then I want your mouth." He couldn't meet your eye, trying to stay confident and bold. Instead, his eyes ran over your naked form.

"If that's what you want, precious." You smiled and nearly yelped when he easily lifted you, his mouth sealing around your nipple and the tip of his cock prodding your cunt. He groaned at the wet heat on him, his mouth sucking on your peak. While his mouth on your tits felt good, you needed him to split you open, and you knew he would. Slowly you began to sink down, and your breath hitched at the stretch. Even with how wet you were from the orgasm you had on his fingers, he was just that big and seared through you with a pleasant burn.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." You repeated, your eyes clenching shut. You tried to relax, knowing that he hadn't done this before, and you didn't want him to cum right away. More for his pride than your pleasure. Considering you had already came, you shouldn't have been so close, but his fat cock felt so good. You DEFINITELY would need a new vibrator, if one would ever work again. Hyuka's shoulders were shaking a bit at the vice of your cunt. His arms held you tight, helping you sheathe his dick inside you, and he was worried you were hurting.

"Is it too much?" he asked, and you shook your head.

"Fuck, no, it’s too good." You panted, resting your now sweaty forehead in the crook of his neck. He was relieved by this and when he finally bottomed out, you both shuddered. It was hard for him to not start pumping his hips up into you, and you were glad, needing to get used to him more. He couldn't believe how wet you were, it seemed you slicked up easier and more so than normal. Not that either of you were complaining.

"H-Hyuka~" You moaning his name was enough to make his head swim.

"Noona, (Y/N), I can't hold back-" He grunted, and you shivered, but nodded your head.

"Okay, you can." You wanted to sit up and move your hips yourself, but you suddenly had no strength. Not only was your body not working, neither was your brain. You were even about to repeatedly thank Kai for rearranging your guts, and that was before he had even moved.

"Fuck-" He groaned, and his hips jumped, his arms helping you bounce as well. Immediately you threw your head back, your back arched and you fell apart again. He grunted as you squeezed him even tighter, but he kept going. You keened as he pounded through your orgasm, which seemed to last for hours. Your nails had dug into the skin of his shoulders and chest, and he was gripping bruises into your hips. Having no strength, you slumped to lay on him.

"Hold on…" He tried to slow down, and he adjusted you to sit up, before laying you back down onto the center console. Your head found the blanket there still and he was able to sit up more. His cock almost left you when he adjusted himself, his knee finding the floor of your car and the other was up on the seat. When he got the right leverage, he gave a full thrust and you nearly screamed. Your car was most likely visibly shaking as he blew your back out. He smiled smugly as your eyes, unfocused, stared at nothing, your hands loosely holding on to the lip of your dashboard. Every time he pulled back you whimpered, and each thrust back in made you yipe. So as to avoid bruising your thighs, he gripped right under your knees. The younger man was more aware of your surroundings than you and he was proud at how much he made the vehicle shake. There was so much wet dripping from your cunt it was making a mess of your back seat and the front of his pants. He had felt you clench around him several times; pretty sure they were small orgasms he just kept plowing through. Both of you were surprised at his endurance and his eyes flashed to the clock of your radio. Most men couldn't last nearly as long, let alone those so inexperienced. It helped that he focused more on your expressions and body's reactions than the sensations wracking through him.

"Ah~ (Y/N), can I come inside?" He had a feeling you would say yes, but he had to make sure.

"Plea~se!" You mewled and he was shocked by how aroused he was by the tears flowing over your cheeks as well as the whining tone your voice had adopted.

"Ah, noona!" He groaned, clenching his jaw tight and gave another hard thrust, then spilled inside of you. The heat flowing inside of you triggered a much stronger orgasm from you. Hyuka furrowed his brow, feeling a bit guilty as your squirting cunt and his cum overflowing out of you messed your car even further. He was even a bit shocked at the amount he pumped you with, but also wondered how much of the thick liquid was from you. You were both panting as the waves died, you looked so tired, but he was still hard. He hadn't pulled out, but your sanity was returning.

"My mouth next?" He almost didn't catch your breathy question, but he nodded.

"Sit back." You instructed and he did so. Leaning over the driver’s seat from where you were on the center console, you were able to press the lever under the seat and it shot all the way up to the steering wheel. This left a nice big space in front of him, and you shakily sat up. He huffed a laugh and helped you as you kneeled before him. While he didn't understand why you moaned as your lips sealed around the head of his dick, he sighed at the feeling. It was definitely different than your cunt, but it was just as hot and wet. Your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and your jaw protested as you got the whole tip inside. The taste of his cum mixed with yours was intoxicating and he saw for himself just how much you liked to swallow cock. His breathing picked up, but he could hold back his moans, watching his dick bury deeper into your mouth. He finally couldn't hold back his noises anymore when you kept descending even after the head of his cock hit the back of your throat.

"N-noona~" His head flopped back onto the headrest; your throat fluttered when you gagged a bit. Your own breath was harsh through your nose, bobbing your head, sucking, and licking what you could and stroking the rest. Even if he wanted to fuck your face, it would be too hard in the car, so you decided next time. He would have to be gentler though than when he was railing you into the center console. Another whine vibrated around his dick and his hands came to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just running through the soft strands.

"You're so good." He praised softly and you hummed back. His brow furrowed, his hips jumping up a bit, he was close. You couldn't wait to swallow his cum, you weren't sure if he tasted good because your brain was mush or if it really just did. Later you would joke that just proved how sweet he was.

"Can I cum down your throat?" He grunted, trying to hold back. When your big teary eyes met his, he gasped, and you buried him as deep as you could get him. Swallowing over and over, he gave you more than even when he came inside your cunt. Even when you had to pull off for air, little droplets rolled down the shaft of his cock. Needing to swallow a few extra times, you finally cleaned him off with your tongue. He was slowly getting softer and looked around your car.

"Noona?"

"Sticky~" You got out, reaching behind you to the cup holder. The water in the plastic bottle was hot from the sun, but at least it helped.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding nearly panicked. Your face was red and blotchy, sweat flowing from your temple. Your bare chest heaved still; he reached a hand to wipe the tears off your face with his thumbs.

"Never better." You cooed, giving him a wink. Sitting up higher on your knees, you kissed his cheek, and he sighed in relief.

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No, precious. You did so good~" You assured, and he let out a slightly bashful laugh.

"I did?" He chuckled and he was so freaking cute despite what he just did.

"Think you dislodged a kidney." You joked, rubbing your side and his face fell.

"I'm joking!" You laughed and he sighed, laughing himself.

"Let me get dressed and I'll drive you home." You patted his thigh still covered by his pants. That's when you saw the drying stain of your release and his on his pants.

"Oh, jeez." You cringed and he waved it off.

"I can tie my sweatshirt around my waist." he told you, grabbing his bag.

"Um, but…" You followed his eyes to the much bigger stain and globs on the floor of your car. Not having leather seats was not great for that kind of situation. You scoffed at the mess, realizing you would need your roommates help to clean it most likely. You grabbed his shirt, looking it over to make sure it wasn't messy, then he put it back on. Carefully, you got dressed yourself, trying to hide out of view despite no one being around. Adjusting the A/C, you rolled the windows down as you pulled out of the parking lot to air the car out. When you pulled up in front of his apartment building, you kissed him cheek and whispered, "thanks for fucking me in my car." You teased and his face bloomed red, before he was able to give you a cocky smirk.

"Of course, noona. I'll be sure to do it again."

-> Yeonjun <-

-> Taehyun <-

-> Soobin <-

-> Beomgyu <-

Masterlist

#ihavethedreamies #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop x reader #tomorrow by together #tomorrow x together #txt #txt fanfic #txt x reader #txt smut #txt hueningkai #hueningkai #huening kai #txt huening kai #hueningkai x reader #hueningkai fanfic #hueningkai smut #hyuka

120 notes · View notes

trulyumai · 23 days

Text

Oh, Mr. Mosses (Series!) IV

Synopsis: You were fine with the job, the steps were easy enough but the secret of the D.D.D was getting harder and harder to contain. Each night a new entity would enter the building, each with its own horrific look and intentions. Just as you debate on leaving, a new resident has entered the premises; Francis Mosses who is absolutely entranced by your being. Now, his Mimic has taken a liking to you too.

Will you be as smitten of them as they are of you? Only time will tell.

Author Note: Thank you everyone for enjoying the story, its honestly so fun to write I wish i could update even quicker! If it wasn't for uni i most likely would be. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Warnings: Blood, Obsessive behavior, Stalking, Talk about Death

Also available on AO3!

Taglist: @tfamidoingwithmylife @mariaflor873 @fandomfeind @greycloudsy @skully-skeleton-bone0106 @im-here-for-the-fun-of-it @the-tiger-lover78 (Let me know if you want to be added!)

Oh, Mr. Mosses IV

She felt awful, guilt struck through her bones like a heavy fog. The rain hadn’t stopped since the night before, the weather matched her dreary mood and she couldn't help but wither away in bed for most of the day, staring blankly at the popcorn-like ceiling. It would be her fault if someone were to die. She let him in, purposefully let the man walk in without a second thought or action. Frustrated, she grabbed the pillow beside her, throwing it across the room with a defeated huff.

Her shift started tomorrow night, 5:00 on the dot. Grabbing the sides of her head she glanced toward the window, gray skies filled her vision before she threw herself back onto the duvet.

She saw him when she closed her eyes. That egotistical grin, those sharp teeth- the hands, how they planted themselves around her face like they belonged there.

That day she uttered nothing to management, passed her employee with only a glance and hadn't been down since the incident. Had she even eaten? She couldn't remember, only lingering tastes of the metallic blood entered her taste buds, as if that monster's finger was still being forced down her throat.

Holding back a gag she reached toward her nightstand, pulling out a pink and white pill case. Squinting at it she found two clear sleeping pills.

“This should do the trick,” she mumbled, carelessly popping them in her mouth before hastily reaching for a bottle of water by her bedside. There was no way she could sleep on her own, at least not for tonight

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Pillows were kicked and strewn about the floor, blankets were haphazardly beside her and hanging limply on the mattress. She didn't seem to notice the mess, with her arms by her sides and hair splayed out on the pillow, she snored lightly, blocking out the rain that beated across her window, blocking out the man who stood just above her side of the bed. Wide, black eyes stared down at her. Unblinking they shuffled closer, stepping over a pair of pink slippers thrown haphazardly on the floor. His grin took over most of his face, sharp teeth on display with red stains on his lips. He'd been busy since his arrival, picking apart her neighbor while she slept so soundly. So heavenly. He groaned, letting his blood covered fingers linger on her neck, before descending up towards her face. Pressing his fingers harder until little red dots were smudged across her cheeks. Mr. Capriannis’s blood.

Cackling quietly to himself he bent down, just so his nose grazed hers. Lightly his warm breath dusted across her face, and even in her sleep she moved away from the man, groaning lightly as she turned her head to face the window.

“I'll see you tonight, pretty girl,” if he wasn't so hungry, he would have decided to stay, maybe try to get in a few more touches. A few bites. But his urge to kill was getting overwhelming, he had to grind his teeth to stay focused. Light drops of blood began to seep from his mouth, his teeth had seemed to jabbed his lips from the harsh movements and it dribbled down, falling onto the unconscious girl below. The liquid plopped down on her neck, where it smeared and marked the area with its contrasting color. Deciding to leave it there he laughed once more.

Maybe he’ll pay another neighbor a visit.

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Francis slept terribly. This weather was downright awful, made his life a complete hell and who orders milk on days like this? Mumbling to himself he looked for his hat, it wasn't on its usual hook by the door, which he thought was quite strange.

Sure, he came home later than usual, his bike route hindered by the many puddles in his path, but he always managed to stay tidy, stay neat. He looked everywhere! The hook, the closet, his bed, the little bathroom and even his poor excuse of a kitchen. It was completely gone and out of sight. Starting to panic he brushed his hair back with one hand, letting it linger while he tried to backtrack. Getting in the prior night he noticed the receptionist was off of work already, he sighed at the other co worker before delving into the elevator. He knew he had his hat with him, and remembered bunching it up in worry over the little pretty receptionist.

Frustrated enough, he grabbed his dress shoes. He supposed he would have to look once more after his route.

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“There you are 29! Right on time, listen, the boss wants a double shift on schedule, I know it's a little sudden but who are we to say no, right?” The other coworker smiled, it was big, a fake facade made to comfort the already exhausted girl.

She stood there, arms bunched at her sides as she picked at the sweater littering around her hands.

“Yeah, I got the message about that this morning.”

Walking past she slid her ID down the door, checking in for another shift. Waving at the fleeting man she closed the door, rubbing her hands after. It was obvious she was nervous, the backroom didn't feel safe anymore with that thing wandering around. Just before she clocked in she had scanned the building, looking, waiting to see if she saw anything out of the ordinary.

She didn't.

Saw nothing, heard nothing. The only thing she noticed was this god awful smell coming from the second floor. Mr. Capriannis must be attempting to make fish again.

She decided to make a coffee and settle her nerves. Walking quickly she grabbed her favorite mug; a green ceramic cup with frogs all over the handle.

It was then she noticed she didn't feel quite alone. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, she felt heavy and sweaty, and she could have sworn she kept seeing shadows move from the corner of her eyes. Tapping her fingers against her now filled mug she walked carefully to the desk, where the newly laid schedule stared back at her.

Only Two people left to check in tonight

She missed Francis.

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Reading through the forms she was sure to check it over at least three times each. Writing down the numbers just in case to ensure everyone's safety.

Robertsky Peachman 114652289730 Checked in 7:23

Dr. W. Afton 250489656214 Checked in 7:45

Calling both lines, they were indeed not at the residency, so without pause she handled them separately, allowing them one at a time to step into the premise.

Before Mr. Peachman left however, he eyed the woman as he bundled up his forms.

“Oh my, what happened!” He exclaimed, pointing to the column of his throat.

“Your neck, dear, it's bleeding!” Reaching up she touched the base of her throat, her hands met a dry, patchy blotch along her skin. Removing her fingers, she realized he was right; dried blood laid on the tip of her index.

Throat dry she attempted to lick her lips, thinking about what she did this morning to protrude such an injury.

“Here, here, use my napkin, it looks to be dried over,” With a helping hand he laid his handkerchief through the slot, giving the woman a smile.

“I- thank you, Mr. Peachman. I don't even remember getting this,” Scratching it against the soft fiber it came off, however something looked… different.

The blood was thick, almost a reddish black against the cotton.

“You can keep it, just in case it reopens, I'll see you tomorrow evening little lady!”

With a toothy smile he was off, already pushing the third button on the elevator.

Yawning, the receptionist began to organize the files around her; everything laid strewn about with her double and triple checking everyone’s forms.

Knock.

Halting her movements she tore her eyes away from the cabinet, to the window across.

It was the employee, the one who had the shift right before her. His eyes were wide, full of anger and his movements were quick. He banged his fist beside the glass, letting out ragged, desperate breaths.

“What the fuck, 29?!”

Standing up she shuffled back, grazing her shoulders on the cabinets behind her.

“I know what you did, you dumb bitch! I saw the footage!”

“28, Please I- I didn't know! I was just trying to-”

He banged his fist once more, “Im calling the D.D.D, They’ll dispose of both of your fucking asses!” Gripping the ID dangling from his neck he ripped it off, walking towards the door that separated them both.

With quick and desperate movements she ran to the door, pushing the chain lock just across the wood to halt the man.

It slammed against the metal, she could see part of him through the slit left open.

“Let me in! Don't mess this up 29, people will die!”“So I should just let you expose me? So can I be another body thrown in a bag?!” Beating harshly on the door she could see the chain was weakening. One more strong shove and he'd be through. And then what? She’d not only be out of a job, but a place to stay, and who knows if they would let her live after the mistake she made?

That's when she heard it, the slow, dramatic clapping of someone's hands.

Craning her neck back as best as she could while still maintaining a grip on the door, she gasped audibly.

There he was; the cause of all her problems. The milkman in disguise.

“This has been quite entertaining sweetheart, but how much longer are you gonna keep this man around, huh?” Tilting his head to the side he let out a breath of air.

“I could take care of him, you know. Save you the trouble,” Squinting his eyes he picked at his teeth, the sharp nails dug out chunks of flesh he flicked to the side.

“No!” She seethed.

“No one has to die.” Pushing her back against the door once more, she used as much strength she could possibly gather.

“Aw,” He teased, shaking his head side to side, dragging his dried bloody finger on the wall.

“You actually believe that, don't you sweet thing?”

Sweat began to build up on her forehead, running down in clear, sticky beads.

She was going to die. If not by the thing in front of her, then the man busting through the door she was trying so hard to guard.

Would it be so bad if she had his help?

What on earth was she saying?! Of course it would be!

The mimic stepped closer, just until his feet were planted in front of hers, looking straight down at her worried filled orbs.

“Let me kill for you,” he begged.

Bending his knees he put his hands together, in a praying-like stance.

“Please, let me help you.”

His eyes were warm somehow, his pupils seemed to be dilated, staring right up at the desperate woman.

Feeling not only weak from holding the door, but to have this… creature beg to help her, she softened her hold.

“Okay,” She whispered, staring right back at him as he slowly leaned his arm forward to grab her jaw.

He looked ecstatic, truly happy with her answer and- mesmerized?

“Don't you worry bout a thing pretty girl, I'll handle big bad 28 for you,”

Leaning closer once more, he let his face get merely inches from hers. The smell of iron hit her, it wafted across her face contaminating each breath she let in.

“But you'll owe me one, got it?”

Dumbly nodding her head she relaxed her eyes, she was feeling awfully tired from everything. A wave of exhaustion hit her bones, numbing her mind as her vision began to blur.

Before the darkness spread over her eyelids she thought of one thing.

A tired raven haired man with his little smile.

#francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #Doppleganger! Francis #thats not my neighbor #TNMY!#game x reader #x reader #horror #slowburn #enemy to lovers #friends to lovers

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eitaababe · 1 year

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SOMEBODY ELSE !

— chapter 9. jealousy.

a/n — first text is in neteyam's pov!

series masterlist. | previous / next

written portion below. —

You walked to the cafe to find Ao'nung, slightly nervous about what he wanted to talk about.

You looked down at your feet, slightly regretting not bringing a coat to your class. You chided yourself on not keeping yourself warm in fear you'd get sick again, and in the midst of your thoughts, a voice snapped you out of it.

"Y/n!"

Turning around to see Ao'nung, you smiled and stopped, letting him catch up to you. "Where's your coat?"

"Don't have one."

"This is why you get colds, you know." He teased, taking off his coat to give to you.

"You really don't have to—"

"Just shut up," He cut you off, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "As much as I loved blowing all my money on your tea and croissants, I'd rather not deal with a sick y/n. She was pretty hostile."

"Whatever," you rolled your eyes, your hand reaching up to lightly pinch his nose. "No sneezing today?"

"I took allergy pills." he grinned down at you, the two of you walking aimlessly around, in no rush to get to the cafe.

"So, what'd you wanna talk about?"

"Uhm, yeah," he paused, looking away from you and biting the inside of his cheek. "I really like you, y/n. You're sweet, and you're always so great to me, and I love being around you, so I was just wondering if you wanted to be like, my girlfriend. Or whatever." He mumbled the last part, you faintly hearing the words.

You'd stopped walking by now, standing in an empty alleyway. "Ao'nung, I really like you," you started, taking notice of the pink dusting his cheeks. "But I just don't think I'm ready for that."

His eyes met yours, and he nodded in an understanding matter. "Is it— is it Neteyam? Do you like him, or whatever?"

"He's my ex."

"Wow, okay, big detail you left out there," he joked, and you rolled your eyes at his ability to still joke at a time like this. "When did you guys break up?"

"Like, two months ago," you sighed, resting your head on his shoulder. "I like you Ao'nung, seriously. And you're a great guy, but I'm sorry, the last thing I wanna do is get into a relationship when I'm not ready and not completely over someone."

"Hey, don't even worry about it," he smiled, his thumb rubbing over your arm comfortingly. "Neteyam's a good guy, and you're around him like all the time, I get it. Just know I'll be here, okay? As a friend or— whatever we are."

You laughed, thanking him before you guys continued on your way to the cafe, his arm still around you.

Oddly enough, Neteyam was the last thing on your mind right now, until you actually entered the cafe. He was there, sitting at the booth with his arm around Violet, both their hair wet, presumably coming back from the beach.

Ao'nung glanced over and saw them, and you two both turned away to the other side of the cafe before Neteyam could spot you, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your stomach.

FUN FACTS !

— violet saw y/n and ao'nung together in the cafe and told neteyam stuff about her and ao'nungs relationship

— while violet was telling neteyam about ao'nung, ao'nung told y/n about how violet was

— lo'ak's still trying to get a date with tsireya

—

taglist #1 / closed ! @n7ytiri @ilovejakesullysdick @possysblog @love-chx @stars4deku @evphology @afro-hispwriter @ydsm-29 @tsireyasgf @goldeneywa @doulcha @krazy-kattzz @fucksnow @squid4 @blairrrrrr @neteyamforlife @dreamtogether2000 @444lyra @ambria @cawi00 @calums-betch @burntoutraven @powowowy @fadingpalacebonkpsychic @elegantkidfansoul @kolsmikaelson @mirikusashes @yukichan67 @goodiesinthecloset21 @netemoon @littlethingsinlife @coconut-dreamz @anm3mi @jjkclub @il0veheartz @liyahsocorro @nao-cchi @drugs-for-memes @zendayaswrld101 @grierpilots @misscaller06 @lightskinloak @mommyneytiri @inluvwithneteyam @halibanana @iheartamajiki @ipoopedmypants47 @neigesprincess @lookiiheh @ghostjoohoney

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dollfaceksj · 6 months

Note

i'm like honestly so freakin mad if that reader didn't buy the pink pussycat pill thing. YOU HAVE TO DO IT FOR SCIENCE. FOR US. FOR CLOVER.

they didn’t buy it💔💔💔

#the pink pill series

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dollysilena · 1 year

Text

TRAINING WHEELS

CHAPTER ONE | DEJA VU

ao3 | series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

five years ago, you stupidly had a fling with inarizaki athlete, miya atsumu– now, present day– he had a son he knew nothing about. you made sure it was going to stay that way, but as fate would have it, he unexpectedly stumbled back into your lives, now as volleyball’s biggest star.

wc & notes: 3.1k — guest star osamu? 🫢

FIVE YEARS AGO — HYOGO PREFECTURE

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You muttered as you impatiently sat on the toilet of the convenience store bathroom. You chewed on your nails as your leg shook anxiously enough to practically make your whole body vibrate. This had to have been the longest three minutes of your life, even longer when you hid with Atsumu from that damn first-year that intruded into the bathroom. God, you should have taken that as a sign to stop your hormone-frenzied self.

If you could go back in time, you never would’ve hooked up with Miya Atsumu in that stupid bathroom stall a month ago. In fact, you would’ve sworn a life of celibacy from that point on if you knew that you would end up here. No sex before marriage, and all that. But it was too late for regret, especially when your period was well over a week late. You silently prayed this was all just some twisted joke.

Your phone alarm went off, indicating the three minutes were up and it promptly ended your little prayer. Your heart caught in your throat at the realization that you were going to have to look at the pregnancy test resting on your lap like a ten-ton weight. There was no way it was going to be positive, you argued with yourself. You were on the pill, you were pretty responsible minus for that impulsive moment with Atsumu (if you could call it that), and you were too young to be having a baby. It was impossible, right?

You shakily inhaled. It was going to be false. It was going to be false and all of this would be something you could laugh at later down the road. All this would just be a silly mistake and you would learn your lesson for it. You repeated the mantra to yourself as you shakily held up the pink stick in your hand. False. False.

Two lines. Positive.

The small dingy bathroom was quickly filled with the sounds of your sobs.

PRESENT DAY — OSAKA, JAPAN

Miya Osamu had seen his fair share of customers. From the normal regulars, the die-hard MSBY fangirls trying to catch a glimpse of Atsumu whenever he stopped in from lunch, and to the old woman who once tried to whack him with her purse when her free onigiri coupon expired. It was safe to say he was well acquainted with most of the patrons who came inside his humble restaurant. (Humble being one of the most popular restaurants in Osaka, that is.)

Osamu was working a normal shift at the front, a Tuesday afternoon with not much to worry about besides the to-go orders and the day to day business. Some days were like this, plain and simple. He was glad it didn’t seem too busy that day, maybe he could close early since the dinner rush had ended earlier than he thought. Deciding to have a short day was one of the perks of being the owner, afterall. He was organizing the display case of ready-made onigiri when the front door opened with a bell ring.

“Hello, welcome to Onigiri Miya,” he greeted. The woman who entered gave him a polite nod and wave before attending to the child beside her. She brought him up to the display case where she read off a few flavors for the young boy to pick from. Osamu furrowed his eyebrows, he recognized you.

He hadn’t seen you before though, he thought. You were wearing a business-like outfit, indicating you probably were at work beforehand and probably just coming in for some dinner before heading home. He usually remembered most faces who came in here, especially his office-working customers since they frequented the restaurant during their lunches, or at the end of shift dinners. But he couldn’t quite recall you. It was odd though, he felt like he knew you from somewhere. Granted, he would have remembered knowing somebody with a kid, all of his friends were young and single mostly. Maybe you were someone from highschool?

The little boy excitedly pointed out the tuna mayo flavor sitting in the display case, and you walked up to the cash register where Osamu stood. Your son held your leg shyly as he hid behind you.

“Hello,” you greeted with a smile. “I’m here to pick up a catering order for the Osaka Publishing Firm.”

Oh, so you were picking up the food for the party he was catering.

I don’t think I know anybody from Osaka Publishing though, Osamu thought to himself before shrugging it off. You probably just had a familiar face.

“And also could I get a tuna mayo onigiri with that?” You added, patting the head of your son still clinging onto your leg. “Haru here isn’t quite full from his lunch.”

Osamu laughed as he looked down at the boy, still meekly hiding behind his mother. He was barely at her waist, and peeked up at him with curious brown eyes. Osamu remembered doing the same thing when he was at that age and felt a kindredness for him. The world is so big when you’re that small. “Big appetite, huh?”

“I wanna be a big strong athlete!” He announced, poking his head out from behind his mother. The way the boy gave him a toothy smile gave him an odd sense of déjà vu, but he had definitely never seen the kid before.

“Let me go get the catering order for ya in the back,” Osamu said, and the woman nodded.

Osamu went through the doors behind the counter into the kitchen. He found the boxes of onigiri wrapped up neatly, ready to go for you out front. As he was double checking the order, he still felt himself rifling through his mind. Where had he seen you before? It was odd, but he shook off the nagging thoughts. You were probably just a customer from the past he forgot about. Though, it started to bother him that he couldn’t recall.

“Alright,” Osamu said, bringing out the order to the front counter. “I have five catering boxes, and one tuna mayo onigiri for mister Haru here.” The little boy beamed up at him, and Osamu chuckled. He was one cute kid, he’ll give him that.

“Do you use fatty tuna in the riceballs?” Haru asked, standing on his tippy toes so he could reach the counter and look at Osamu. “It’s my favorite!”

“Ya know, that’s actually my brother’s favorite food,” Osamu chuckled as he finished wrapping up the boxes.

The kid almost reminded him of Atsumu, he had the same energeticness and toothy smile. And not to mention Haru liked fatty tuna of all things. Funny, now that Osamu thinks of it, Haru kind of looked like his brother when he was that age. He had the same big bright eyes, ruffled dark hair that couldn’t quite be tamed…

Now that he thought about it, Haru looked like Atsumu.

A lot… Actually.

He looked back at you, and you were too busy scribbling down a check in your checkbook. He looked long and hard, and he was right earlier, you did go to high school with him. He can vaguely recall a fuzzy image of your face. You weren’t in the same class, but you definitely were in the same grade. But if he couldn't remember who you were, why did he recognize you then? And why was it bothering the hell out of him that he couldn’t? He felt his brain short circuiting as he scanned your face for answers.

You looked back at him with a smile, sticking the check out for him. He looked at your smile and then it clicked.

FIVE YEARS AGO — HYOGO PREFECTURE, THE MIYA RESIDENCE

“She ghosted me!” Atsumu cried, flopping onto Osamu’s bed in their shared bedroom. Osamu felt a vein pop in his forehead, not only was his annoying brother interrupting his quiet time, he also intruded onto his beloved bed. When you shared a room, it was practically like crossing into illegal territory.

“I thought I could ask her out but she just ups and moves away! She even changed her number.” Atsumu whined, kicking his feet like a bratty child. Osamu was practically living with one anyway seeing as how the eighteen year old acted. He grimaced at the way Atsumu was roughing up the bedsheets he had just washed.

“She probably realized ya ain’t shit,” Osamu scoffed, attempting to shove him off the bed.

Osamu didn’t know much about his brother’s mystery girl, besides the fact she was Atsumu’s recent (of many) infatuations. He found it odd that she had abruptly moved without a word, especially since he thought she and Atsumu were hitting it off pretty well. (Maybe a little too well, according to a particular bathroom rumor he heard from a first year.) Maybe her parents had to move for work or something of the sort, but hey, it was none of his business nor his problem. He looked over to see Atsumu still lamenting beside him as he scrolled through his phone.

“Who’s this girl anyway?” Osamu asked, realizing he had never actually met you in-person since you were in Atsumu’s class and not his. He thanked his lucky stars he ended up being in a separate class from Osamu in their third year.

Atsumu shoved his phone in Osamu’s face with her Instagram profile on the screen.

A girl with a bright smile plastered on the screen.

PRESENT DAY

He remembered now. He looked back at you, and realized you were the face on Atsumu’s phone. That girl who hooked up with his brother and disappeared five years ago was you. Then he remembered the little boy standing beside you, the one who looked eerily like his twin brother. He looked back down at Haru, who was eyeing the onigiri on the counter hungrily.

There was no way…

“Hey kid, how old are ya?”

“Four!” He grinned. Osamu swore it was Atsumu’s grin staring right back at him.

Osamu’s brain was going into overdrive as he went over the details. Five years ago, some girl—who he was damn near positive was you—ghosted his brother after hooking up with him. She moved away without a word and Atsumu never heard from her again. Now five years later, you showed up in his restaurant with a four year old who looked almost exactly like his brother.

What if the reason you moved away suddenly was because…

Quite frankly, Osamu felt like he was shitting bricks.

His brain was doing somersaults and he felt like the world’s gravity swung upside-down. With the facts lined up, and not to mention the math, his theory was seemingly impossible to deny. If you were the girl he thought you were, that would mean it was more than likely this kid was Atsumu’s.

“Alright, here’s the money for the order,” you said, hand still stretched out. “I hope a company check will do.”

No, no, you can’t leave! He couldn’t lose you, who knew if you’d ever show up again. He needed a way to confirm your identity, and quickly.

“Actually,” Osamu replied, scrambling in his head for some answer. “We don’t take checks, only cash and card.”

“I guess I have some money on me–” No, cash wouldn’t tell him your name!

“Would you look at that! The cash register isn’t opening!” Osamu chuckled nervously, repeatedly punching a random button on the register that definitely wasn’t the open button.

You’re obviously growing more suspicious as you raised an eyebrow, Osamu was clearly acting strange, even he knew it. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be acting like a damn moron (that was more Atsumu), but obviously nothing about this was normal.

“Oh, okay then,” you frowned, digging through your purse and handing him a card. Perfect! He thought. He took it graciously, and quickly looked at the name on it. Damnit, it’s a company card. He was running out of time before you walked out those doors.

“I think that our card machine on the machine is broken too actually,” Osamu stammered, quickly making up another lie. “I’m gonna have to manually input it in the back, but to do that, I’m gonna need a name to put it under.”

“Osaka Publishing should work,” you replied, growing noticeably weirded out.

“I need an actual name,” he stiffly grinned. “Ya know, to put it in the books incase we need a contact to give you a refund.”

You looked at him oddly, “It’s (L/N) (F/N).” There we go!

“Wait here!” He responded almost too quickly. He didn’t give you a moment to think before he was rushing into the kitchen again. Once he was in the clear, he dug his phone out of his pocket, and quickly dialed his brother. You better pick up, you no-good piece of shit! He thought.

The phone rang agonizingly long before he was greeted with the sounds of volleyballs bouncing and sneakers squeaking on gym floors when Atsumu picked up. He sighed deeply and his shoulders collapsed in relief.

“Ya better have a good reason to be bothering me at practice ‘Samu!--”

“What’s the name of the girl who ghosted ya in high school?!” Osamu barked abruptly.

“What the–” Atsumu responded, taken aback. “Why–”

“Atsumu, tell me now!”

Atsumu paused on the other side.

“It was (L/N) (F/N), why?”

Osamu’s stomach dropped to his shoes. You were the same girl. There was no doubt about it now. The kid outside had to be his nephew, and Atsumu’s son.

“Atsumu, ya need to come to the restaurant right now,” Osamu instructed hastily. “(Y/N) is here–” Atsumu’s laugh interrupted him.

“I know I was pretty torn up about it back then, but I don’t see why I need to–”

“Listen to me, ya moron!” Osamu exclaimed through clenched teeth. “Don’t you think it was weird she ghosted ya out of nowhere five years ago after hooking up with ya? Well, she’s here right now with a four year old, and I don’t think the fact he looks like you is a coincidence.”

Atsumu grew silent. As much as Osamu reprimanded his brother for his lack of brains, he knew he wasn’t a big enough idiot not to hear what he was implying.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

—

You wiped Haru’s messy face with a handkerchief as he finished his onigiri. You sighed as you looked at your wristwatch, at this rate you were going to be late to the company party. Where was the cashier? Not only did he start acting bizarrely out of nowhere, he disappeared without a trace.

Your phone started buzzing in your pocket, and you saw Naomi’s caller ID. You picked up with a groan.

“Hey, did you pick up the food yet?”

“Naomi, this is the last time I’m ever doing a favor for you,” you grumbled. “This is taking way longer than you said it would.”

“That’s odd,” Naomi hummed in confusion. “They called me earlier to tell me my order was ready to be picked up, there shouldn’t be any holdup.”

“Well,” you responded as you scooped Haru into your arms, who was growing sleepy with his full stomach. “The cashier is kind of a weirdo.”

You recalled the prior minutes to Naomi, noting that the “open button” he was pushing on the cash register was definitely the ‘7’ button. You would have left at that point if not for the fact he still had your company card with him, not to mention the catering for the party.

“He never acts weird whenever I go there for lunch, I actually think Osamu’s hot!” So that was his name.“Maybe you don’t notice because you got a nutty sense in men,” you snickered. You recalled the past few boyfriends Naomi had, who were less than conventional.

“Hey!” Naomi responded defensively. “But let me tell you, you should see his brother!”

You rolled your eyes in response, even if Naomi couldn’t see it. You remembered he had mentioned his brother earlier, who shared a love of fatty tuna like your son. Though, if he was anything like the odd brother you were with, you probably didn’t wanna meet him.

“Oh no,” you muttered, looking at the time. It was nearly six o’clock. “I’m gonna be late for the sitter at this rate.”

“Y’know what,” Naomi said, “I’m ready now, just get Haru to the babysitter and I’ll get the food since you need to run, I want an excuse to look at that hunk anyway.” You laughed in response.

“You sure? I can wait a little longer.” You replied, not wanting your friend to be chewed out by your boss for being late, however, you were met with Naomi insisting.

“Alright, then.” You shrugged, you certainly weren’t going to argue since the babysitter charged a late fee. You looked back down at your son, dozing off in your arms. “Haru, baby, we’re gonna go to the babysitter now.”

Your son hummed in your arms, already drifting off into sleep.

“Uh, sir!” you called out loud enough for the man to hear you in the back kitchen. “I actually have to get going now so somebody else is going to come pick up the food.”

Before you could even get your bearings to get ready and leave, he frantically came bursting out from the kitchen. “Hold on, you can’t leave!”

You were taken aback and dropped your phone in shock at his sudden appearance. Oh hell no, this guy really was crazy! You clutched your son closer, who was still fast asleep. You were now in protective mama bear mode now, and you were ready to throw down with the now assumably crazy cashier in front of you. You glanced around the restaurant for anyone else to help, but unluckily enough for you, you were alone. However, you looked down at your fallen phone to notice Naomi was still on the line.

“I don’t know what your deal is but if you keep this up I’m calling the cops!” You shouted. “I’m leaving!”

“Wait, hear me out!--” As he tried to approach you. Absolutely not!

“Naomi, help!” You screeched, backing away, and you could hear the girl on the other line shouting back. You could hear her door slam on the other side, presumably to go get you.

You felt Haru start to fuss in your arms. “Mama, what’s going on?”

You spun around and made a beeline for the door, despite the protests of the insane man behind you. You were about to rush out the door before you slammed into somebody. It wasn’t Naomi, there was no way she could have made it this quickly, and the chest of whoever it was, was definitely a larger man. You looked up, praying it could be someone who could help you, but what you were greeted with was much worse.

“(Y/N)?” Miya Atsumu stammered.

Well fuck, you were definitely gonna be late now.

notes: if ur wondering, y/n didn’t recognize osamu bc they never met in high school!! i tried to make osamu figuring out as realistic as possible but at the end of the day this is still fiction 😔

reblogs, comments, and asks are appreciated!

#miya atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #miya atsumu #miya atsumu fluff #miya atsumu smau #miya atsumu series #atsumu x you #miya atsumu x you #my writing

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viaoverthemoon · 9 months

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Via's Leon Fics <3

Here's a list of my Leon S. Kennedy fics to help you navigate my blog! (They're in order from oldest to newest)

when he comes home - kinda smutty

Pink Pills 1/2 & Pink Pills 2/2 - SMUT

A Special Morning - Fluff

Fuck Him - ANGST

Can't Wait <3 - SMUT

Never enough <3 - SMUT

'Til Death Do Us Part (request) - Fluff

Temptation - Suggestive

Father's Day <3 - SMUT

Unavoidable - Comfort??

Neighbors - SMUT

(Request) Leon rescues Reader when she is kidnapped. - SMUT

Sample (Cat!Leon x Reader) - Headcanons

To Belong (Request) - Fluff

Vivid~ (Request) - SMUT

(Request) Leon cosplays a cowboy for your birthday. - SMUT

Behind Closed Doors - Medeival SMUT series

Everything - ANGST

Three Assholes - Comfort??

Bills~ - Sugar Daddy SMUT

Memories (Request) - Fluff

License and Registration - Car SMUT

Slipping-Slide - SMUT

Hope this helps!!

Requests are open! <3

#viaoverthemoon #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #re4 leon #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x y/n

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candywife333 · 6 months

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Damn, Dude's Horny

PART 5 of Just Want to See you Like That

This series is based on Jungkook's 3D and is probably going to have close to 6-7 parts, depending on where the storyline takes me. I'm feeling a bit dramatic, so expect a lot of angst. Tumblr is going to be referenced in this fic under a different name, Bumblr (I know, totally goofy name).

Summary: Y/N, an overworked employee at HYBE , only ever posted on Bumblr when she was feeling cornered. It was truly her escape. She didn't really do insta or even twitter. Most people would look at her and think this glass wearing quiet girl would most probably be posting pics of flowers and cute animals. But no, looks could be deceiving. Y/N's posts were far from innocent. In fact , they were borderline risque. She didn't expect anybody but a few horny people to come across these pics; people who would view and compliment in the best case scenario. What she didn't expect was that a certain star would be a regular consumer of her material. A star that technically had no business simping after her like that.

Disclaimer: This work is not representative of the real Jungkook's personality and behavior. It is merely fiction and please treat it as such.

Trigger Warning: voyeurism, exhibitionism, may or may not have dub-con later on

Please don't read the fic if any of these themes are disturbing or offensive to you.

Taglist is open

I grumbled under my breath the entire way back to my house. I still couldn't believe I was going back home with my literal harasser; a guy I barely knew. I thanked the cab driver and grabbed Jungkook to help him out of the car. His majesty obliged my poor effort by grabbing one of my tits with his right hand and my back with his other, shoving his face into my collarbone , hot breath gliding over my skin, making me shiver.

Climbing up a flight of stairs with a heavy man leaning on me would not be pleasant. But with some grunting and cursing, I finally got him up to my solace, my beautiful home; the one redeeming quality in my life. My grandmother had left it to me. Initially it was a house with two separate floors, with separate kitchens on each floor. The floors were connected by a staircase, but were otherwise two separate units. With the tough financial constraints of having to fund my own life, I leased the bottom floor to a renter, so I could get some sort of passive income to save in my bank account.

In my opinion, the top floor was the best floor. I kept a beautiful terrace filled with a full nursery of flowers of many varieties and vegetables aplenty for me to cook with. With how much produce I got from my garden, I barely had to venture out to the farmer's market for fruits and vegetables. My roses, my babies were all lined up in a row, merely swaying with the night breeze. Placed right next to it was my sofa swing, adorned with fairy lights in the center.

Gazing at my little plant babies to calm me down, I placed Jungkook on my sky blue comfy roll out sofa. He would be sleeping on it tonight. Placing a cup of water and 2 ibuprofen pills on the coffee table next to his sleeping form, I pushed him onto his side to ensure that he wouldn't choke on his own spit and die.

I walked into my bedroom, showering quickly and put on a pink babydoll lace top and matching shorts. I turned off my lamplight, getting my alarm ready for the next day.

-----------------------------------------

I got up in the morning in a surprisingly good mood, despite what had transpired the night before. I opened my window, feeling the cool breeze filter in. My only suitors, the bevy of morning glories outside my window had changed into a mauve shade in the presence of weak sunlight.

I decided to forgo my robe. It was my house, why should I feel uncomfortable in it? He was the unwelcome guest. I ventured out to see him sprawled out onto the pull out couch still knocked out. I don't know how a human being could look so ethereal even with drool dripping down his chin. I guess that's what glutathione drips, thousands of dollars spent at a dermatologist, and good genes does for a person.

I decided to whip up a hearty breakfast before heading into work around 10 AM since there wouldn't be much to do today. I worked on dicing vegetables for the japchae I would make and got some salmon out to lightly fry with a marinade. I made a few omelettes, cutting up a few of them into tiny strips to go with fried rice for lunch. The last item to be made was kimbap stuffed with chicken and spicy mayo sauce I had already made yesterday.

As I was busy getting everything together, I failed to notice the man slowly waking up near me.

Jungkook's POV

I woke up to what seemed to be the faint noises of cooking. It was quiet except for some soft humming and the faint sizzle of oil simmering in a pan. The smell was spectacular, the scent of meat and noodles permeating the place. I sat up slowly to be greeted by a sight so different from what I was prepared for. The house was very quaintly decorated, like something in a movie about fairies and elves.

There were two humongous bay windows filled with soft looking pink cushions next to them and numerous other sofa cushions strewn over the house giving the place a cozy feel. Daylight filtered in and I caught the sight of humongous maple trees and flowers of different varieties clustered outside the windows. A wind chime sat next to the window, making faint musical harmonies with the birds chirping outside.

The place looked like a cross between a tree house and a cottage, yet somehow furnished with cozy interiors of pink and baby blue. I couldn't believe a place like this existed in Seoul. It must be super expensive to acquire this space.

My cheeks blushed as I was met with an even more delectable sight, Y/N was at the kitchen, back faced towards me. She was cooking something at the stove, expertly flipping what seemed to be numerous omelettes and grilling fish. It was my lucky day. Her scrumptious ass was faced towards me. She was in a dainty baby doll dress littered with little flowers, her ass framed by pink silk shorts that barely covered her. Her thick thighs and voluptuous butt were even more accentuated as she bent upwards to reach for something in a cupboard above.

If she looked so perfect from the back, I couldn't wait to see what she looked like from the front. I had never seen her so scantily clad, and I was already frothing at the mouth. She was my dream girl when I found her online, and after seeing her in person, I merely confirmed my prior assumption. She was definitely the one for me. Her sassy mouth, confidence, strength, and her beautifully addictive body could not go to any other man but me.

She turned around and as my jaw dropped seeing her plentiful cleavage spilling out of the bounds of the top, begging to be squeezed and kissed, she quirked her eyebrow at me, "Aren't you going to leave now? Wouldn't want your presence disturbing my brunch".

taglist: @fortunecookiesworld, @sporadicarcadebanana

@darkuni63 , @jessicalynn85 ,

#chubby reader #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts x plus size reader #eventual smut #curvy reader #bts #angst #self love #smut #chubby reader x bts #chubby reader x jungkook #chubby reader smut #y/n x bts #y/n x jungkook #jungkook 3D #jungkook x chubby reader smut #jungkook fanfic

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yeyinde · 1 year

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fever in a shockwave., i | Joe "Bear" Graves x f!Reader

pt., i | swallow him whole (like a pill that makes you choke)

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. So, you call it. Or: this is what happens when resident travesty Joe Graves meets a local track star fleeing from everything. (The only problem being: no one ever taught you how to run.)

warnings: implied/references to cheating (but not really); angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series wordcount: 15,1k

[NEXT] AO3 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey.

So, you call it.

(Like you should have months ago.)

Get me a scotch. Whisky, and—his hazy gaze slides to the woman barely sitting on the broken stool, eyes drooping and grinning much too wide considering where she's at, before jerking to you again—uh, whatever, uh… she's having.

She's having long island iced tea. You're tired of making it, anyway.

You nod, dutifully, but hand him a glass of room-temperature water, instead.

"This isn't what I asked for."

His voice is pitched low. Always. A strange, rasping timbre that you pretend does nothing to you no matter how many times his eyes slide over your body, liquid blue, and asks for something—bourbon, a scotch, rye.

You can't quite meet his gaze when you shrug. "I know."

There is something about this man who reeks of stale cigarettes, motel shampoo, and wheat malt. Something that makes you ache in all the wrong ways. A man on the verge of implosion; a deadly, gaseous bomb that will leak miasma into the aether until you're rotten from the inside out. Organs full of those awful fumes he'll exude.

Going out with a bang, heavy and suffocating.

His hand jerks on the table. You watch his knuckles slide over the wood, clenching into a tight fist. So tight the scarred tissue around his bones turns white. Bleached under the strain of barely keeping it together.

There is something about an angry man that itches under your skin.

"What the fuck?" The woman beside him breaks the stifling silence. "We paid—"

"S'alright," he says. Low, low—voice scraping against the gravel. His chin falls when you look up. Expression blank, but not vacant. Anger, and—

Maybe a little bit of guilt, sadness, regret.

"Let's get outta here, then," she coos, hand trailing over his chest.

"Yeah," he mutters, and you wonder what caused the shadows in his eyes this time, the ones dulled, glossy, and drenched in cheap liquor. His fist clenches, eyes narrowing. "Let's go."

Anger clings to him. His shoulders are drawn tight even when he wobbles on his feet, unsteady. His hand slams down on the counter, nails—dirty, chewed down the wick—grazing the chipped grain as he tries to stable himself.

His chin lifts, as if he's demanding you to say something. Threatening in blotchy malt, eyes fixed on you like a cobra, a predator. Ocean blue, foggy and glazed over with the nearly hundred dollar tab he tossed on tonight —all in shots, in long island iced teas—and wonder what the blue looks like on a clear day.

Wonder, haltingly, if you'll ever find out.

He leans forward, eyes cresting. Corners turned down in some facsimile of goading, of jeer. His palm turns on the table, closer, now. The space between you is cut by the counter; a perfect partition.

He waits a beat, takes three inhale, two exhales, and then—

Hands loop around his broad waist, chipped pink shaved into almond points catching on a stain in the shade of grease-yellow.

"You comin'?" She murmurs from behind him, voice muffled.

His eyes don't waver. "Yeah."

Yours drop. A flash of gold catching in the jaundiced light.

There are bad ideas, and there is this.

(A sickness.)

On the opposite side of the Virginia Beach boardwalk is a dive bar on the fringes of obsoletion. One just barely clinging to its last vestiges of life. It is considered too far away for a younger, rowdier crowd to congregate, and too dilapidated to pull anyone who wasn't searching for one thing, and one thing only: escapism.

Numbed apathy at the bottom of cheap ale. Curated indifference in a bottle.

There is no affection in some of the older generations' tones when they speak of this place. It isn't something of their youths, or anything to feel that weepy sense of nostalgia over.

It's just a beaten-down pub in a sea of many.

Hardly anyone's first choice.

(Somewhere in the crumbling pages of Freud, you're sure, it would tell you why you decided to work here of all places, too.)

You clock into work, ready for the usual slough to pass through. Another mundane night that the chef has dubbed the usual.

The usual being: opening at five to an empty bar that stretches until eight, maybe none, when the solid sea of regulars (lifers, you've taken to calling them), will have settled in their spots. It mostly consists of twelve people—max—dispersed in the bar, some of them truckers on break or passersby, tourists, who wandered too far down the boardwalk because they didn't know any better.

It's normal. Routine.

You expected the same lour stagnancy that bleeds into everything else, dripping down in a steady trickle like the rainwater that leaks in from the cracks in the shingles your boss refuses to fix, pelting the bottom of the tin bucket perched beneath the hole until it's overflowing. Grey water trapped in a metal prison.

You've come to expect the sulphurous scent whenever you take your place behind the counter.

The most offbeat thing that happened today was your horoscope this morning said to be wary of sinkholes, a problem you haven't thought of since you were younger, and one you doubt you'd face in Virginia, of all places.

(It also said: love life? Tragic. Finances? Might improve sooner than you think. Social life? Could be better.)

Nothing unusual, really.

And then—

A flash from the corner of your eye. Two fingers jerking up once, flagging you down. The universal sign for hey, bartender, over here. You obey the command, painting an unnecessary smile on your face, one that rarely ever goes acknowledged. You turn to the man who waved you over, and—

Well.

He's massive. Different, but decidedly not out of place in a room that reeks of stale beer and lemon cleaner. He moulds to the shadows, sticking like glue to the crevasse in the corner.

Something about him prickles your skin. A break in the routine.

Your heart does this strange, off-rhythm beat when you walk up to him, taking stock of the way he barely fits on the rusted stool. His legs are too bulky, too broad, for both of them to fit together. One thigh spends nearly the entire length of the worn, flat cushion.

They are long enough that he has to bend at the knee to keep his foot flush with the floor.

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Except the strange lurch doesn't settle when it becomes apparent he isn't going to look away.

He keeps his gaze—cenote blue—fixed on you the whole time.

It's in his eyes where you find just how similar he is to some of the regulars:

Anger. Resentment. Bitterness.

A broken thing scraping the bottom of a bottle for something to abate the everpresent ache inside.

When you're close enough, he dips his chin. The thick auburn beard covering his face is rough and worn; it's unkempt, like his hair—moused, greasy—and his clothes—stained and wrinkled. He has a pock on his forehead, and a small scar. The silvery skin catches in the ugly fluorescent lighting above.

He's in a state of disarray. Chaotically unkempt, but the shadows under his eyes—tenebrism on breathing flesh—tell you, implicitly, that he does not care. A chiaroscuro in sabotage, he leaks ruin when you lean in with a tight, shaky smile.

No greeting. Just—

"Whisky. Two shots."

It's blunt. Unapologetic. A direct dismissal.

You're not his friend. You deserve no pleasantries in such a place, nor will you find any with him.

And, really—

You're used to men like him sidling up to the bar, barking out their drink of choice without so much as a hello, lovely evening for it. This is no different from anyone else who sat on that same chair, ordered the same drink, and stank of the same corrosive rot.

Nothing different at all.

Yet, he leaks octane out of every pore of his body. The rust in his gaze is a warning sign: this is a man on the verge of collapse, and one less stable than Betelgeuse.

His eyes are murky blue. Stagnant water. It's a trap, though. There's a livewire buried under the velvet surface.

Your smile wobbles. "Sure."

He's dangerous. The hisses in your head say he's everything you should run from.

(Too bad for them, no one ever taught you how.)

It becomes a routine.

He shows up at the same time each week—six on the dot—takes the stool across from the entrance, and diagonal to the washrooms, the kitchen.

He looks around the room. Then reaches for his phone.

And he looks—

Miserable.

It's none of your business. None at all. It's not even something you should be noticing—like how his knuckles are always split apart or in some state of healing. How he turns his phone off as soon as he sits down, but always takes a moment to stare at the photo on his wallpaper—a woman, his wife, smiling at the camera. Something shudders over his expression. He turns it off, and slips it in his pocket.

In that singular moment, something switches.

He waves you over. Orders a drink. Stumbles out the door when it's time for closing like all the other frequent flyers looking to chase their demons away in amber.

A man like him shouldn't be here.

Military, Pete says; he spoke to him a few days after his first arrival but adds nothing more except a shake of his head, and a softly uttered poor fucking sod, which, coming from the man who is running himself bankrupt to feed an unquenchable addiction, it pacts a degree of potency that leaves you feeling numb.

You heard him utter something back in a low tone to a man who tried to drag him back a few weeks after he first took his seat, and never left.

God ain't here, is he? He wasn't there then, and he isn't here now. Leave me alone, Buddha. Just—take care of them. Take care of the team, the boys. Just do that for me, and find this son of—

There are no answers in the bunch of his shoulders, the low hang of his head. He grinds the heel of his palm into his left eye so hard, you sometimes wonder if he's trying to shatter his socket to finally alleviate the ache inside. The other hand always curled tight around a glass, half empty. Knuckles bloodied.

And that's how he spends his evening.

Chasing relief in whisky.

Oftentimes, he's alone.

Just himself and two empty stools beside him that whine when his broad thighs tap against the cushions, rusted metal grating together, and orders the same cheap booze.

Has the same haunted look in his eyes, the same shadows. Reeks of the same rot. A wound that never heals. It's just dulled in an easy, quick swallow out of a smeared shot glass until he's too drunk to keep his eyes open.

(You suppose it's hard to be chased by ghosts when they're drenched in formaldehyde.

Or cheap perfume—)

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, he isn't.

You'd be remiss not to notice. Even chasing an easy out at the end of a bottle, it's obvious he's an attractive man. Big. Broad.

Surly.

(Your type always seems to be carrying some weight.

Maybe that's why their shoulders are always so big.)

He's unshaven—face covered in thick bristles of burnt umber that curl at the ends; some grey leaks in around his temples, his jaw. You don't think he's washed his hair in a week much less his beard, and yet—

You wonder what it would feel like on your skin—

(Bad thoughts. Bad—)

He wears several Walmart brand Henleys in rotation, all the same ones you'd get from a pack for less than twenty dollars. Maybe even less than ten. Grey, charcoal blue, midnight blue, black, white. In that order. And jeans. Ones that barely fit around his thick thighs, his wide waist.

Black shoes—trousers never tucked in—and a—

It catches in the glow. The woman beside him glances down once, recognition bleeds in the draw of her brows, and you expect anger, reproach, scorn. You tense, waiting for it. For the proverbial comeuppance men like him are supposed to get. It's how it goes in the movies, right?

He's supposed to be the smarmy type who oozes sycophantic charm, women hanging off them as they dabble in hedonism without any feelings of regret. Men like him are followed by a thundercloud. A looming storm in the distance promises a torrential downpour.

You wonder if the deluge would soak you, too.

And—

Nothing.

Instead, her hand falls to the centre of his chest, placed right against his sternum. Eyes coy, glossy. One of her lashes clings to the bottom.

"What are you doing after this?"

She's curated perfection: sultry and alluring.

You can see his glazed eyes drift down to her open blouse—the brand on the button says Michael Kors, and probably costs triple your earnings for the night—and you know, then, that he'll leave with her.

None of the women he takes home is the type you'd find in a dive bar like this, but you suppose pickings are slim in a college town that likes to gossip. They run the risk of getting caught nestled too close together in the back by Tim the Vicar, and so they come here. Where the hardened, rugged alcoholics go to escape the prying eyes of their neighbours, and coworkers.

A sea of shady, drunk people.

In the corner near the exit, a man slides a bag into the awaiting hands of a businessman. A woman sits by herself in a booth for six, and you know her husband, a pastor who has been trying to raise funds to open a new church, runs the town's chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. A man who stays until closing, drinking pint after pint on the opposite side of the stool will stand up, keys in hand, and go deliver the morning news at five AM.

The woman in Anne Klein trousers and a Michael Kors blouse who runs her nails down his cheap, stained Henley, eyes dark and full of promises for later, is someone you pass on the highway on your commute to this little cesspit outside of town.

She's always smiling brightly on a billboard next to her husband, a man running for mayor.

Maybe, you think, bringing your thumb up to your lips, teeth digging into the seam between your skin and nail as you watch them stumble out of the bar, they're a perfect match. Both drunk, both looking for cheap thrills drenched in sleaze, and—

Both wear gold bands around their ring finger.

(—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, in the presence of God I make this vow—)

You're eight and treading water. Your mum brings you to the local pool, eyes covered by bulky black sunglasses that hide her expression from you.

(No one ever taught you how to swim. You wonder if she knows this, but doubt it. She doesn't really know much about you at all.)

You cling to the wet ledge, cement digging into your skin as you struggle to stay above the waves that lap at you, pooling inside of your ears. It's warbled. Distorted.

"...For another woman, can you believe it? God, he just—he makes me so fucking sick. Can't he see what he's doing to me? Pathetic, is what he is."

Your grip slips, and you plunge under the surface, knees scratching the sides. You can still hear her—a garbled tangent. Leaving us. Won't even try to make it work. How am I supposed to take care of a kid all on my own? How am I supposed to—

It's a kaleidoscope in shades of blue. The water is warm at the surface, but as you sink to the bottom, eyes catching on a pair of yellow goggles, it gets cold. A sudden chill.

No one taught you how to swim, and despite the instinct inside of you to gasp for air that isn't there, to flail, you don't. You—

Drift.

It's a baptism in chlorine.

It's both louder and quieter than anything you'd ever experienced before.

Pathetic. Stupid, selfish man. Leaving me like this with you, all for some cheap floozy—

Serene. Everything is static underwater. Your burning eyes fix themselves on the hazy yellow wavering at the bottom of the endless blue, and slowly, slowly slip shut.

You think you'd like to stay down here forever.

But you're not quite as lucky as you wish you were. Buoyancy spits you back out.

You surface gasping, gagging, coughing out the water that you'd swallowed on your quick ascent, something to fill your belly up and keep you grounded, an anchor. It didn't work. Your stomach churns with the briny water you gulped down.

Your hands claw at the side of the pool, knuckles shredding against the harsh stucco that covers the concrete ledge. It bites into your skin until it bleeds.

But you're okay. You breathe, and breathe, and—

"It's madness to think I can do it alone. And what are you doing? Stop playing around! You're causing a scene—"

Chlorine on your tongue, spuming inside of your lungs; the taste is familiar. Bitter. Acrid.

It's poison inside of you.

(A sickness.)

He forms a habit with each visit.

But he isn't the only one.

He talks to you— sometimes —and you're distinctly aware of every my bartender is my therapist joke that had ever been conceived, but it's different.

No, really. It is.

He tells you about things. He's a SEAL— former —and even cracks a facsimile of a smile when you ask if he'd have to kill you now or later for leaking such covert information. It's a dumb joke. It's not even funny, but his lips twitch beneath his thick beard, eyes crinkle.

He even huffs at you when you ask when he's going to shave it.

Maybe next year, kid.

Kid. It's what he calls you. Never your name. Nothing to make you a real, living person to him. Just a hazy object in the ethanol gossamer that clouds the blue of his eyes until he's squinting at you, and saying bring me a whisky, kid.

Impartial. Distant.

He never goes out of his way to start the conversion, or to invite you over, but he never really tells you to knock it off, leave him alone, either.

Sometimes, you say something stupid, like shouldn't you be training or something instead of giving yourself cirrhosis? and you can see him shut down. Retreat. His shoulders unfurl, spine straightened, and his eyes harden. A veil of moondust white plumes between you, dislodged when the crater forms.

A chasm resides in the echoes of camaraderie and you wish you could just eat your words or swallow your tongue.

It never lasts too long.

A visit later, two. Then, when you pluck up the courage to talk to him again, he eases into it with slurred words, and a little drunk grin twisting on his lips at the dumb (safe) things you say.

It doesn't count as a smile. You tell him this during the end of surf season. I've never seen you smile. You grin when you're drunk, but. Who doesn't?

And he says, got nothing to smile about, kid.

You hate the way your fingers itch.

He's broken pieces that are too shattered, too splintered to fit back together. Kintsugi isn't enough to seal the cracks, and you should leave him alone to his own ruinous devices. Let him rot—like all the others you ignore, content to refill their glass whenever they wander up.

But he's different.

(Or maybe you're just broken, too.

A fixer. Stupid. There is nothing in this to fix.)

You keep at it without really knowing what it is. There is no end goal. No greater purpose.

(Maybe, it's the reek of loneliness that wafts off of him. The same scent you wake up to, clinging to your pillow. The one that gnarls behind your ribs like a mouldering infestation.

Maybe, it's because out of all the men who wander in, he's the only one who looks like he's already too far gone, and you've always liked the taste of crushing disappointment.)

It becomes something. An ebb and flow.

He sits on the same stool every week while you paddle on, a soliloquy about the inanities of your life to an audience who is too big to drown himself at the end of the glass, but sometimes stares down at it like he wishes he could.

It pays off in slow, small ways.

One month in, you start a game.

It's this silly thing you play in the safe haven of your head; a way to pass the time when the seconds (minutes, hours) tick by pokily, and the stench of cheap malt makes your head swim.

You don't know why you tell him this little secret of yours—maybe, it's the way he holds his glass, clutched between bloodied knuckles, the scabs from last week ripped off and leaking ichor over the cracks in his skin.

Or how distant he feels, like he's further away than ever before. A chasm. It crackles in the air when he orders, words muted. A clicking grumble out of his throat, mouth barely opening.

It's uttered through clenched teeth, but there is no anger. No bitterness. Just—

Defeat.

So, you talk.

(Empty words. No meaning. It's what you're best at, isn't it?

Filling space.)

The door opens, and you tell him out of the corner of your mouth that the man will order a cocktail.

He barely looks up. Says nothing, but his eyes follow yours, locking on to the man who wanders up to the counter. His Hawaiian shirt sticks out like a sore thumb.

He huffs, shoulders shaking.

"A tourist," is all he says, but he waits. Watches.

It feels a bit like satisfaction when the man grins wide, and asks for whisky sour. Says he's from out of town.

You catch the way his brows bounce from the corner of your eye. The soft, golden light casts shadows in the valleys of his forehead. They carry the colour of victory, and you tuck the hue in your chest, in the locked box where everything else goes.

(Three weeks later, he joins in. Adds his own commentary to each drink order.

Social smoker, he says after a moment when you tell him he'll order something hard first—tequila, a whisky—and then mixed drinks. Vodka cranberry. Rum and coke. He doesn't usually smoke, but when the boys go outside for one, he'll join.

He orders a shot of bourbon. Bear tucks his lips behind his own glass of whisky, and you mourn the loss of seeing his smile before you have to hide your own when he comes back and asks for a tall gin and tonic.

You catch his eye when the man leaves, trailing behind a group playing poker in the corner, and it feels a little bit like satisfaction when the chasm feels less imposing than it did before.)

Two, and you get his name.

Joe Graves.

It's so normal compared to the walking travesty sitting to your right, that you almost think he's lying. Almost. But then he adds, elbow knocking on the table, a glass tucked into the palm of his other hand that somehow looks two sizes too small in his massive paw: they call me… used to call me Bear.

Bear. You hate the thrill that runs through you. The ache that splits inside your chest.

And the question that looms over the lapse. The brief silence that felt poignant and stifling between call me and the bitter amendment to used to.

Military man, you think.

You take to calling him Bear just to see the way his eyebrows tick on his forehead, brow wrinkling in rucks of five deep lines. Amusement simmers in geyser blue; an undercurrent of appeasement, as if he's been longing to hear that name again.

(You tuck that away, too.)

Four, you get a flash of teeth when he grins, brief, fleeting, at your one-sided monologue about the perfect way to pour Guinness and this Instagram page some lad made about the worst pours in London.

He tucks it behind the rim of the glass as if it's illegal, wrong. Shameful. But you catch it, anyway. You catch it because you're always looking, always watching.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're in America," is all he says when you show him some of the atrocities committed, brows knotting together in the middle.

You huff. "They're awful. Look at them."

"Huh." His eyes narrow, squinting at the picture. His mouth curls to the side. "Kinda looks like yours."

"Oh, shut up, Bear. It does not!"

His hands raise in mock surrender. "It's just… I didn't know it was supposed to go flat so fast. You learn something new, right?"

You spend the rest of the evening working on your pour, nails stinging when you chew them down to the wick as you concentrate on getting the perfect patio right. All the while, he scrolls through the page with a thick finger, leading smudges on your screen, and adding in his own commentary (usually just a huff, a harsh exhale out the nose, or a scoff) to each one.

"Look," he holds your phone up, forehead creasing in jest, and then motions to the pint you slammed down in front of him a few moments ago. "They copied your technique."

He's pretty when he smiles, you think, sundrunk and blistered, dazed from the gleam of white. The jagged ends of your nails catch on the skin of your palm when you squeeze your hands into fists by your side. Something wet, sticky, pools in your laugh line until it's a bloodied leat.

(It takes two weeks to clear the image from your head, and another to pretend you haven't tucked it somewhere inside of your chest for safekeeping.)

You prod at him just to see it again. Empty words. No meaning.

What's your star sign? You ask, tapping the screen of your phone as you read your horoscope. You think, distantly, about painting your nails. Maybe, once and for all, kicking your habit of chewing them down to jagged edges as close to the line of your skin as possible.

Anne Klein, the second woman he took home, wore her nails in blue.

No good deed goes unpunished with your moon where it's at. Love life? Abysmal. Finances? Could be worse. Social life? Sorry—what's that again?

His brows bunch together in a series of five rings. You count them all. My what?

You know. When were you born?

Give me a goddamn break.

Ahhh, I bet you're a Taurus.

Now that is covert information.

Yep, totally a Taurus.

(He cracks a small smile at that, crooked and shaky, like he forgot how it's supposed to be done.)

He falls asleep at the bar five months in. Another habit is born.

Exhaustion seeped into every pore when he wandered in a few hours ago with a wrinkled plaid half-sleeve and gingham coat.

You'd pointed out that the buttons at the bottom didn't line up when he sat, and watched as he seemed to fluster a little at that. As if the stench of rot and sleep didn't cling to him like an addiction; like he didn't have stains on his collar, or oozing scabs on his knuckles, and his biggest worry right now was his button not aligning.

He looks more put together tonight than he does any others, but the two women who approached (Friday night—the poster on the door says it's singles night) were turned down.

(A trend, lately.)

It's none of your business—you're not even a therapist, you're just the one bringing the bottle—but you soak everything up like a greedy sponge, and try to ignore the elation churning in your chest when he says, no, I'm, uh. I'm not interested.

So, you babble. You turn your head away from him so he doesn't catch the grin on your lips, and take to wiping down the counter as you fall into your normal, one-sided tangent.

You get about halfway through your vague retelling of the Incident at the coffee shop when a soft grumble reaches your ears.

You turn, fingers clenching around the nozzle of the trap—local; the hinges squeak from disuse—and—

Head dropped, chin tucked into the lapels of his wrinkled shirt. They're upturned at the ends, pressing into his cheek. His arms are folded, hands tucked under his biceps.

The only thing saving him from toppling backwards is the wall he's leaning against.

You don't realise you had been staring until cold foam sloshes over the top of the pint. You fluster, eyes darting back to him, checking to see if he'd noticed, but his eyes are still closed, his mouth slightly parted.

It's—

Cute.

He looks younger, softer when he sleeps. The weight of it all bleeding out under the heavy pressure of somnolence. Fatigue.

He's typically pitched inside the shadows, leaning back into the tenebrous of the dimly lit room behind him. This is the first time he's slumped forward fully, and with an amber glow highlighting the valleys of his face, the definition of his long, broad nose, the sloping hills of his eyes, the full pink mouth hidden behind unkempt curls that lighten to ash at the ends, you're hit with the realisation of how truly fucked you are.

He's attractive. Ruggedly handsome with his kind-shaped eyes, and his crooked grin, but distinct. There is nothing innocuous about the way he looks, and yet—

You feel assured in his presence. Calmed. He's quiet, and never speaks louder than the muted scratch of a glass bottom dragging across the tabletop. His bulk should be intimidating, but he's always sitting, hunching his shoulders in on himself as if he's clutching a grenade tight to his chest.

It feels wrong to stare at a customer so blatantly like this, but your eyes keep skirting back to him in this moment of peace.

But it's brief.

A small window where he can slip into full relaxation, hiding from the phantoms that grasp at his soft tissue during the day, raking their nails over the gummy lining of his mind until he's forced to reconcile the pain with cheap whisky in a bottle.

They find him in his dreams, too. His brow twitches. Hands jerking, fingers tensing.

You want to reach over, soothe the valley between his brow, but it's not your place. So, you leave him. You leave him, and hope that despite the restlessness, he does get something from this. Much needed rest. Sleep. Anything.

The night dwindles. Most of your time lately is spent chatting away at the stonewall of a man to your right, and with that avenue snoring, you pull your textbook from beneath the counter, and let your eyes trace over the words meant to define your forever.

His soft, rough snores fill the static between you and the rest of the bar, and you let him sleep until the sparse room thins. Until the chairs are hiked over the tables you wiped down, scouring out the stickiness that catches the ends of the cloth. Until the bottles were restacked, the glasses ran through the dishwasher.

The cook pokes his head out, and bids you goodnight. You wave him off and try to ignore the look on his face when he catches sight of Bear still slouched on the stool. He says nothing more, but he never does. Never gets involved with anything outside of the kitchen.

(A smarter man than you.)

When the clock strikes well past closing, you finally sidle up to him, reaching out over the counter to knock your knuckles on the wall over his head.

(And if you're a little too close, catching the ends of his hair on your palm, then that's your secret to keep.)

"Times up, Bear."

He jerks awake, blinking at you sluggishly, and quickly brings his hands to his chest before he's even fully cognizant. He pats himself down in a way that is too purposeful to be anything but intentional, practised.

When he's settled, when whatever he was looking for is either gone or confirmed, he sniffs, clears his throat, and drags his glossy eyes up to meet yours.

"Times what?"

"Up," you punctuate the word by raising your brows, jerking your thumb to the clock on the wall that's always three minutes too late. "It's time to head home."

His eyes squint when he takes in the time, and then groans. His hand reaches up, carting through his messy hair (soft, a little greasy at the ends), before he rubs his index finger and thumb over his forehead, dragging the skin up and down.

Your hand jerks, and you bring your thumb to your mouth, teeth catching on your nail. All you taste is malt.

"Sorry," you murmur, soft, quiet; words muffled by your finger. "I should have woken you up sooner."

"No, it's—," he stops, takes a deep breath, and then runs his hand down his face until his palm covers his mouth and chin. He blinks up at you. "When did I fall asleep?"

You shrug, dropping your hand to the pocket of your apron. "A little bit after you got here."

"Jesus…" he presses his hand into his jaw, eyes glancing toward the wall. The word is laced with a tinge of surprise. Maybe, a little uncertainty.

"You looked like you needed it."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wince. Stupid. You could have said something else— anything else—instead of that. It was busy. You didn't even notice. It's not your job to babysit grown men with marital issues and poor decisions. It's not—

But he cracks his neck, cutting off the words wanting to disembogue, and when he turns back to you, his eyes look clear—clear blue.

"This is the longest I'd slept in—"

He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to.

The way he stares at you itches under your skin. Abrasive. Stark. It lacks the usual glaze of alcohol-suppressed thoughts, ones numbed in malt, and you aren't sure what to make of the way his pupils dilate. Sapphire-lined black. The way his eyes widen slightly, mouth parting, as if he's only just noticing you for the first time. As if you'd always been this hazy mirage that aids in suppression, and deals out crutches in pints.

A frisson passes through the canyons in his gaze. A dawning sun cast shadows over the rolling landscape.

You don't know what to make of it, so you don't. At all.

A tight smile. "It's time for me to, um. Lock up."

He blinks, as if coming out of a stupor. Rapid clicks, shutters. He shakes his head a little, as if dislodging the colluvium from his thoughts.

"Right."

"Unless you wanted to sleep here for the night?"

It gets a soft chuckle. Three lines on his cheek. Two in his brow. Three on the corner of his eye. You map them all, each dip and valley until they're cemented in your head.

He's more open like this. Sobriety looks better on him than—

His bruised knuckles rasp over the countertop.

"Lemme walk you to your car."

You blink, heart lurching in your chest. "You don't have to."

"Yeah," he shrugs, and you think he might even try to grin but looks more like a grimace. A wince. "But I want to."

It's a dangerous escarpment; a treacherous climb up an alluvial fan. Your fingers dig into the loose sediment that rains down around you, pelting you with small grains of dirt and rock. Each hit pocks your skin: a little divot where flesh once sat, but now is karst; split and cracked with caverns that run deep. The splinters crumble that brassbound resolve you've held tight in your fingers until your joints ached, and palms split. Don't be the other woman, your mother warned you. Don't.

It'll be a crater soon, or maybe a blue hole. Aquifer polluting the bottom. Everything gone. Eroded. Swallowed whole in the sinkhole that forms.

(Beware of sinkholes. Don't be the other woman.)

You know better than anyone what they say about expectations, and yet—

"Okay."

(He takes to walking you to your car every night, hands always shoved deep in his pockets or under his arms, shoulders hunched.

You watch him stand in the parking lot until he fades from your rearview mirror.)

Seven you get a touch. His fingers ghost along the curve of your wrist, brushing your skin.

His eyes aren't kind when you turn to him, but they shine with something other than the cheap rye in his glass, the scattered shots of tequila that spill around him.

It's fixed and heavy. Unwavering.

You try to smile, to shrug it off. "It's nothing."

The lie doesn't fit between your teeth, and you think he senses this, too, but he doesn't pry. You're surprised he even went out of his way to acknowledge your lour disposition—a string of weeks that coalesced into unease, into stress. One mediocre day after the other.

Rent was late. Bills pile up. The books tucked beneath the counter, saved for slow days (read: every day), and for the eventuality of when you can finally toss this ramshackle dive bar aside for something better. Greater.

And what that something is?

Well. Who knows.

But you're supposed to, aren't you? Know, that is. Have everything figured out and ready-made to fit neatly inside the margins of forever and the rest of your life.

The rest of your life was four walls and a roof.

Stuck in Virginia Beach on minimum wage that barely got you through college (thank you, inheritance), and no prospects outside of real estate.

You think about moving but have no idea where to go. What to do.

Stagnancy. It bleeds from your marrow into your bloodstream. A poison.

You shrug when his forehead creases, brows raising as he waits for you to spit out whatever inane thing that could possibly be wrong.

"Life, I guess," you huff, aiming for distant, blasè humour but it misses the mark by a solid kilometre and a half.

"Yeah," he mumbles. He always mumbles. Words sticking together like glue. "I know that feeling."

You let it drop, nodding.

(Four walls and a roof. That's the goal, then. That's always been the goal.)

You turn to him, forcing something that might, in a distant life, have been kin to a smile.

"I bet he'll order a pint."

He takes it. "He's married, but takes his ring off. The skin on his finger is pale."

He stutters over the word married.

(Four walls, you think.)

"Huh," you huff. Foam spills from the lip of the glass, drenching your fingers in malt. "My dad always kept his on."

From the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten around the pint. His ring makes a small noise when it hits the glass.

Eight, a laugh. A low, rasping chuckle still wet from the swallow of rye he'd taken before you said something stupid like what's a man like you doing in a place like this, anyway?

It's drenched in bitter disbelief as if he isn't quite sure how you don't know. How you can't see that he fits between the waterlogged panels of the wooden floor, stained with grime and dyed with ethanol in patches around the tap. The pock marks in the counter, rubbed raw and scrubbed down to the cheap wood beneath, now jaundiced and discoloured from age. Or how he leaks the same desolate miasma of resignation, rage, and apathy as everyone else.

He belongs, his derisive laugh says. Why don't you see it, too?

It startles him, and you can see it happening as he takes in the neat, blunt cut of your eyes as you gaze at him, naked and honest.

He retreats into himself as if allowing anyone to see him plain-faced and worthy is wrong. As if he is no different to the men who wobble in their chairs, eyes rimmed red and glazed as they run from the demons in their minds, and their lives, and seek salvation at the bottom of the bottle. The ones entirely aware, and unaware, that the bottle is elk, kin, the things they flee from. A juxtaposition in a man-made disaster.

He pretends he fits in with them. You pretend you see it, too, if only so he doesn't run away.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

You count down the days until he shows up, and hate yourself a little bit more for the happiness that gnarls inside your chest each time you see him appear in the doorway.

(A sickness.)

Nine brings a man from the church in town, someone from his past. And everything quickly unravels after that.

He shows up before opening, carrying a stack of papers for some big event in the summer. An opening. A new church, he says, and jogs the stack on the counter.

(You hide a smile, tucking it into your shoulder as discomfort bleeds into the placidity of his expression when some of the pages stick.)

He looks like every priest, every vicar, you'd ever seen before. Draped in black with a stark white collar; clean-shaven, and void of shadows.

This isn't a place he should be. A place he belongs. He stands out amongst the grit, the hazy gossamer of smuggled cigarettes lit in the dingy washroom, and leaking nicotine yellow into the faded wood of the walls. The chipped, pocked tables, were picked at and worn down to soot-stained white.

He doesn't belong, but he stays, anyway. In spite of the massive chasm that split between him and everyone, everything else, he sticks it out.

And sticks out.

Bear falters when he sees him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat when he wanders inside. His shoulders draw up to his chin, arms straight lines against his body.

He looks like he might run. Flee. You almost expect him to.

He doesn't.

He says nothing when takes his usual spot, but his eyes are thunderclouds, brow drawn taut. A rubber band being stretched too far.

(God ain't here, is he, Buddha?)

The priest doesn't notice the discomfiture that passes over Bear's expression, or the wan, agitated way he glares at the red stain (nail polish, you think) on the counter. He grins wide, happy, and tells you about the church they built. One raised from the funds of the community.

"...And we're, of course, happy to accept new members to our congregation when it opens."

You nod, dragging your gaze away from the calamity in blue, offering little more than a smile in return.

"I don't," you hesitate, hands smoothing over the front of your worn apron. Going to church reminds you too much of baptism. Of water. Of sinking below the waves in a world of blue, and never surfacing again. Of—

Patronisation.

You'd been to church three times in your life: to watch your mother remarry (twice), and to say goodbye to your father.

(None of them were happy memories.)

"I don't go to church much."

He smiles, placidly, eyes warm and welcoming. "Never too late to start."

You guess they have an answer ready for everything. He might have been a great salesman in a different life.

You don't want to commit, or lie—least of all to a man of faith—so, you talk. Fill space.

"Want a drink?"

His brows buoy in surprise. You wonder if anyone has ever offered a priest a pint before.

"No, I, uh—"

He's cut off by a gruff bark, a low husk of laughter. "Don't think they drink much, kid."

You blink, chin jerking toward Bear. "Oh, no?"

The priest offers an indulgent smile when you catch his eye. "Well, it's not outright forbidden but we tend to stay away from vices."

"Is it a sin?"

"No, it's not. Too much is a crutch, but all sins can be forgiven."

He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but a low scoff from Bear cuts him off once again.

The sound draws you back to him. Sober, still. He's only just arrived, and hasn't even ordered a drink yet, and the shadows are vibrant in his geyser gaze. The moussed hair, slightly greasy and bedraggled; the stains on his shirt that stretched taut over his broad shoulders, creasing between his pecs. The wrinkles in his forehead, the condescending lilt to his grin, left cheek pulled up in a facsimile of a smile.

You've never seen him like this before. His thumb swipes across the tip of his nose as he settles on the too-small stool, eyes burning. Darkening.

"That's not true, is it, Father?" He sniffs, hands dropping as he leans forward. Even sitting he's still so—

Massive. Intimidating.

The priest looks slightly perturbed, but recognition bleeds in the cut of his brow. You wonder how many times people refute him when he preaches his sermons.

"Ah," he says, shaking his head. There is sadness in his smile when he forces it. "It is true. All sins can be forgiven by God."

"All of them?" Bear questions, unkind, biting. His fingers spread over the counter, knuckles covered with deep indigo scabs sealed in congealed blood.

"All have sinned, and all their futile attempts to reach God in His glory fail. Yet they are now saved and set right by His free gift of grace through the redemption available only in Jesus the Anointed."

Bear is quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. Then: "Romans: chapter three, verse twenty-two to twenty-five."

"You know your verses."

When his head lifts, there is an aching sense of clarity in gyre blue. His is brassy, hushed, when he speaks. "All of them."

"Then you know that forgiveness is—"

"Isaiah chapter sixty-four, verse six."

The priest falters momentarily, eyes swinging like a pendulum between Bear, and the bloodied knuckles he leaves on display. His eyes flash again, but adds: "Psalm chapter one hundred and thirty, verse three to five."

A flash of teeth beneath curled, wry burnt umber. He leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky surface. There is a storm in his gaze. Clouded blue. He spits the verse out like a curse. "Matthew chapter six, verse fourteen to fifteen."

It feels like being pitched in the middle of a movie. There is a thin vein of cognisance: you understand the characters, and the current tension, but everything else is murky. Unknown. You don't know what the meaning behind the verses bouncing between each other is, but there's a struggle. Bear is angry. The pastor is—

Sad.

You don't understand. Never will, maybe, but you quietly duck your head, wiping down pint glasses as if you weren't watching a husk of a man spit out bible verses at a priest.

"Hopefully, you remember this verse one day," he says, eyes only for Bear, and achingly sad. "Ephesians chapter four, verse thirty-two."

Bear says nothing more. He falls silent, glaring at the patchwork of stains smeared over the counter. Defeat, maybe. A battle lost. A stalemate. You don't know the meaning of the words—verses and chapters, and sin—but it makes Bear sullen, angry. Nearly apoplectic. His shoulders shake when he clenches his fist, squeezing hard enough to crack the scab on his middle finger until it lifts from his wound, and bleeds.

The priest slides two flyers out—one for you, one for Bear—and flashes one last parting glance at him before he leaves.

You tuck the flyer into your pocket.

You don't know what he does with his, but it's gone when you come back from kitchens.

Bear says nothing for the rest of the evening. His jaw clenches, eyes dip.

He orders a shot of tequila but doesn't finish it.

He's quiet when he walks you to your car. Declines your offer for a ride with a tight smile that's a touch too wobbly around the edges, like a bad secret or a sour taste in his mouth.

You wonder why he even stayed at all.

(You toss the flyer into your glovebox, and can't stop thinking about what might have happened to make him this way as you watch him fade from your rearview mirror.)

When you go home, you try to remember the verses they spat at each other, but only one sticks:

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

You hand him a box of chocolates for the holidays and watch as he blinks down at the shoddily wrapped gift.

"What's this?"

You huff. It's not wrapped terribly. You spent nearly two hours before your shift making sure the edges looked professional and neat (a clean line, the lady on the YouTube video said, shows care, and dedication), and—

Stupid, of course.

But you never said you weren't, and you're only just passing through your college classes, so. It's all particularly on brand, you think. Very you. Very—

Messy. Dumb. Stupid.

"Something for a friend," you say, and then wince. A friend. How juvenile.

You watch his throat bob, trepidation etching into your joints when he swallows, eyes creasing at the corners. His voice is gritty, sandpaper rough when he speaks: "is that what we are?"

It's not relief that floods you, but it's something. His tone is hedging. Cautious, as if he's never even uttered the word in years, and now he's faced with someone who spent thirty minutes comparing clichè Holiday designs sketched into glossy paper, and another twenty trying to decide which bow matched better.

All for a dumb box of chocolates.

The most expensive box, of course, but still very dumb. Who gives someone who routinely tries to drown themselves in amber chocolate?

(Or anything at all for that matter.)

You swallow thickly and shake your head with something that might be a grin. Maybe. Sort of.

You just—

Fill space.

"Nah, we're best friends. Thought about getting us matching necklaces, and everything to really complete the look, you know—;" the morose expression falters, eases into something that almost feels like contentment. Peace. His lips quirk, and the sight of his crooked smile makes your chest flutter. Stupid. Stupid.

"But I didn't because I wasn't about to fight a behemoth—;" this makes his brows bounce up, mouth twitching as he fights, fights, off a smile, and you feel your heart take flight, soaring through the aether. "—For Best and then have to tell everyone I lost my first fight, ever, over some cheap sterling silver. So, I guess we'll just have to get, like, matching tattoos, or whatever…"

His brows raise again—in stupefaction, bemusement, exasperation; all of the above—and he shakes his head, huffing.

"You talk a lot."

You fight a wince, and cover it up with a shrug. It doesn't hurt. You hear it all the time. Just grin. Bear it.

"Someones gotta do it or we'll be sitting in awkward silence all night."

"It's a comfortable silence."

Comfortable. He thinks it's comfortable.

Your fingers prickle. You run your index finger over the jagged line of your thumbnail, and try to resist the urge to bite it down to nothing.

"Is that what it is?"

"It would be, but you keep talking."

"File a complaint."

His brows raise, lips curling. "Alright."

You huff, then, mocking and dry, but you wear your heart on your sleeves, and the smile that twitches on your lips gives you away.

It's silly. Dumb. You feel like an idiot when you reach for the tip jar, a cardboard box with a slit cut at the top, patched up over the years with duct tape, and drag it closer.

He watches you, making a small noise of question in the back of his throat when you paw around for the marker behind the counter, but you don't answer. Can't, or you'll give your grand idea away.

You make a small noise of satisfaction when you find it. You wave it around once before bringing it to your mouth, and sink your teeth into the plastic cap, holding it steady.

His hand jerks. "What are you—"

You pull the marker from the cap, and hold the box steady, eyes lifting to catch his gaze. Something simmers in those ocean blues, pools of glossy cerulean, and you might almost call it amusement if he was anyone else, and you weren't you, but it's soft. Curious.

Your chin drops, smile turning wobbly around the cap still caught between your lips, and you bring the felt tip of the marker to the box. You cross out TIPS and write: file a complaint - only $5.

You take a moment to admire your work before you turn it toward him with a grin.

His eyes drop from yours to the box, and you see his mouth spasm in something that feels too genuine to be anything other than your first real smile.

A flash of teeth. Lines in his cheeks. Your heart thuds, palms grow damp.

"Got it all figured out, do you?"

"Aside from who gets Best or if we get matching tattoos, yes."

"I'm not getting a tattoo." He leans over the counter, brows creasing as he stares at you in mock severity. "But I will fight you for Best. And win."

Another skip. Deeper into the whole. "I thought so."

He grabs the box from your hands, and scribbles talks too much on a napkin before shoving it, and a crumbled five-dollar bill, into the slot.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your car. Get you outta here so you can see your family."

You hide a grin behind your hand. "What family? But I guess yours is missing you, too."

He shoves his arms inside the sleeves of his wool jacket, gaze dropping to the worn counter.

"What family?"

It's sombre. Mood broken, yet again, by your inability to shut up.

You don't know how to salvage the pieces. The fractured remains of what might have been a good time.

But it's just—

Bear.

(And you.)

Best friends. A silly little notion he entertained when he could have told you to sod off ages ago.

You nudge his side, and have to remind yourself to pull away from him. That this is just casual. Best friends but not really. Not even close. "Hungry? I know a place that's always open and makes the best burgers."

He flashes a facsimile of a smile, wan and thin around the edges. "You should head home, kid. Not much for company tonight."

"Suit yourself," you murmur, slipping your hands into your pockets. You shuffle, rocking back on your heels. The silence is stifling. You wonder what part of this he finds comfortable. It lapses, and you

Fill it.

"I think you're pretty great company, for what it's worth."

He says nothing.

It's as close to outright rejection as you can bear.

You press your hands into the seam of your pocket, pulling your jacket open. "Well, happy holidays, and all—"

"Best burgers in town, huh?"

A smile creeps across your face, heart thudding in your chest. It sounds like the distant roar of the ocean, the waves crashing on the shore.

"Yep," you pop the p and wriggle your brows. "Their secret menu item is the peanut butter bacon burger, and—"

"Peanut butter and bacon?" He says it like it's a crime. Like you've committed an act of treason, and spat in his face.

Your grin widens. "It's disgustingly good."

"Disgusting, huh."

"No, no—it's salty, sweet, and savoury. It's the best combination ever made. And the sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo? Heaven sent."

"And you've lost me."

"Did I ever even have you to begin with, or—"

The words cut a little too close to the truth, to vulnerability, and you feel heat pool under your cheeks. Embarrassment over your unintended slip-up. Your stupidity. Your inability to accept what you've been given, and stop trying to overcompensate for more, more, more—

Stop acting up; you're causing a scene!

He steps closer, hand reaching out behind you to push the old iron door open.

There is something in his gaze you can't decipher. The shadows on his brow make you think of craters, and mountains made of lunar rock.

"Yeah, you do," he rasps, words starchy and thick in his throat, but all you can hear is you do, you do, you do. "I need to try this disgusting burger of yours."

"Disgustingly good," you snipe back, if only because it's easier to fall into some facsimile of a rhythm where you always, always get the last word than it is to let the silence simmer.

(To give him a chance to see the way your hand shakes around your key, or the way you have to ask him what he said—twice—because you can't hear anything over the roaring in your ears when he fits inside your car like he belongs.)

Disgustingly good burgers with friends.

(You pat yourself on the back for only managing to get into two accidents on the way, prompting a want me to drive from him, which immediately gets turned down; but you get to the burger shack safe and sound and watch the look on his face when he bites into a peanut butter bacon burger and sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo like it's the best meal he's ever had in months, and—

And it's enough.)

You nudge him later when you drop him off at some dingy motel by the highway, well away from the city limits but so achingly close to the bar, and say: happy holidays, Bear.

He offers something that feels like a smile. In lieu, you think. A smile in lieu. Not quite there, but almost. Almost.

"Yeah, still think I'm pretty great company? "

"The best."

He says nothing when he gets out of the car, leftovers tucked under his arm, but he pauses before he shuts the door, and turns to you, eyes cerulean in the pale light of the morning gloam.

"Get home safe, kid."

You almost say you, too.

Instead, you bite your tongue so hard it bleeds.

He wanders in looking like he was ripped from the pages of Surfer Magazine. Dirty blond hair perpetually curled from the sea salt, and bleached at the ends from the iodine in the water. He has the cut of a man who looks like he'd feel more comfortable in a wetsuit than the jeans and stark white t-shirt he struts in wearing.

Your first thought is: surfer idiot.

The second is: Surfer Dude will order a shot of tequila. Blanco.

You lean over and whisper this to Bear, who dutifully offers an indulgent quirk of his lips, before turning to catch sight of the man you'd pointed out. Targeted, he told you. You're targeting them, kid.

When he does, you think of something funny to say but the words die on your tongue when Bear tenses, and goes completely silent. Stonewalled.

The man wanders up with a wide grin, all teeth and bleached sand. Nonchalant. Easy.

It's only when his eyes skirt to Bear, do you see the undercurrent of tension in his brow, resignation in the knuckles of his joints.

They know each other. There is a history in the way they sit apart—Bear, on the lonely barstool to your right, and Surfer standing beside the one in front of you. Cut off by an angle. By you.

You think about the man that tried before him—Buddha, the almost fight in the parking lot—and wonder how much success Surfer will have.

"Thought I'd find you here, man." He nods, shaggy curls bouncing over his shoulders. He turns to you, flashes a smile, and orders a shot of tequila.

You don't miss the way his eyes trail over you—your tight v-neck, the apron tied tight around your waist. The mascara and lipgloss you started putting on a week after it became clear Bear was a regular, the one you spent a considerable chunk of your paycheque on when the saleslady said it really made your eyes pop.

You wonder what he thinks, what he sees, when he drinks you in.

He. The man in your head with broad shoulders, brown hair. Bluest eyes you'd ever seen.

The thought makes heat pools under your cheeks, vermillion scorching through your flesh.

No. Him. Surfer. Of course. Not—

Not Bear.

(Stupid. Stupid.)

"Keeping some pretty nice company, too, I see," he leans over, forearm resting on the countertop, and flashes another toothy grin. "Got a name or do they just call you pretty thing?"

"I don't know, Pretty Boy," you snap back, brows raising.

"Pretty Boy, huh?" He cuts you off, gaze skirts to Bear. A smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth. "Hear that, Bear? Pretty Boy."

"Knock it off, Caulder."

Pretty Boy—Caulder—raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just chatting with a nice lady who thinks I'm a Pretty Boy—"

You turn away from him, shaking your head. "Not that pretty—"

"You already said I was, so," he shrugs, eyes crinkling around the corners. "No takebacks."

"We'll see."

"What do they call you, then?"

"What do you think they call me?"

"Let me see," he stands, hands curling over the ledge of the counter as he leans back, eyes playfully drinking you in. They linger on your chest, lip caught between white teeth. "Hmm…"

"Looking for a name tag?"

"No," he smirks, pulling himself forward until his torso is hunched over the sticky table. His eyes skirt down your body before flickering up, catching your gaze once more. "Just admiring the view."

He's attractive. Boyishly cute and—begrudgingly, you have to admit—charming with his big eyes, his sleepy grins, and the wry ashen curls slicked back by his goggles.

White teeth catch in the golden light, framed in half hearts of sun-dusted pink, and you find yourself mimicking the grin, softening under the bright gleam aimed at you. He's someone easy to get swept away with.

"There isn't much to admire," you murmur, brushing loose strands of hair off your shoulder. Your chin drops, unable to hold the stormy grey gaze fixed on you. Hiding.

"Oh, there is plenty to admire," he refutes, pulling his bottom lip into the seam between his teeth. He bends down, elbow dropping to the counter, and cups his cheek in the palm of his hand. "Plenty more underneath that, ahh—cute," his ashen brows raise teasingly when he stresses the word, buoying on his sunkissed forehead: "apron."

His eyes are dark, smouldering. Flirtatious.

"Right…"

Before you can say anything more, the clang of glass knocking against wood cuts you off.

The noise makes you jump, gaze darting to Bear.

He matches your stare, holds it for a second, but whatever lurks in glazed blue is hidden from you. Dulled in malt, and shrouded in shadows that leak from the crevasses.

Bear clears his throat again, drags his gaze to the man leaning on the counter.

"What are you doing here, Caulder?"

You can't place his tone, but there's a crackle in his voice. Laced with iciness; the same shade of glacial blue as his eyes.

Pretty Boy acknowledges the coldness, the simmering anger, in his tone with a crooked grin. A flash of white teeth behind tawny bristles.

He doesn't seem like the shy type—the ones who sit close to the tap, but not too close. Enough to watch you, enjoy the view, the company you offer, and (maybe) slot themselves in your line of view in the hopes that you notice them, too. That, maybe, you approach first.

He wandered up, tousled, bleached hair bobbing with his effortless, confident gait, goggles tucked behind his ears, and keeping his fringe from falling in his eyes. Everything about him screams an abundance of effortless self-confidence.

If he wanted to flirt with you, then he'd do it.

He would fully commit regardless of who was present, and maybe, he'd prefer if more people were around to see him succeed.

This isn't meant to pick you up—that might just be a convenient bonus should you show any interest in his ploy. You know this from the way he keeps glancing at Bear from the corner of his eye; clouded slate swinging like a pendulum from you—where he levels a series of weak pickup lines, and smarmy charm—and then immediately to the man sitting diagonally to where he stands.

He's gauging his reaction.

They know each other. This much is obvious from the greeting alone, but there is a tenuous history here, made evident by the tension, the palpable unease in the man's shoulders, and the way he gazes at Bear—warily, unsure. Testing the waters before making the jump.

"Besides trying to spend the night with a pretty bartender?"

He turns to you with a wink, a cheeky little grin on his lips, and then—he hesitates. There is a moment where he ducks his chin, expression clouding over with something stagnant, subdued. It lacks the playfulness of before. Sombreness taking shape, only briefly, before he tugs it back up like a mask. Fixes it back in place with the same palpable ease from before; the same slightly condescending jocose.

"Lookin' for you, man."

He slides his forearms across the counter, making a face when his skin catches on something sticky, but it's gone. Fleeting. He straightens up, brow knotting together in something that might be anticipation but the lines in his eyes read more like grit, and determination.

You move away from their end of the counter, giving them a modicum of privacy but that's meaningless when you can still hear their hushed conversation on the opposite side of the bar, where you pretend to busy yourself with repolishing clean glasses while they exchange awkward stilted greetings.

How…how have you been, man?

Why are you here Caulder?

Guess no one taught you the art of Socialisation, eh, Bear?

You can only infer meaning from their tones, their crackled demeanour around the other. Something runs deep between them—a noxious mix of bad blood, brotherhood, grudges, and familial concern—but you're no one to either of them, and privy to even less.

You pretend you can't hear them speak (Fish Bait is askin' for ya. You said you wouldn't leave him behind, but what is this? I mean, shit, man, you can't waste away in a damned shithole while we—), or that your guts aren't churning with concern, with worry, over the taut pull in Bear's shoulders, the wrinkles in his forehead, the gyre in his gaze. A storm looms.

But it has nothing to do with you.

So, you feign ignorance. You duck beneath the counter, and organise the glasses, straighten up the bottles, gather the thick layer of dust along the shelves on the tip of your finger.

It's wiped on your cute apron when you stand, and then reach for a cloth to wipe down the grimy countertop (I failed my exam. Head trauma. Brain injury. I can't—I mean, fuck, Bear. I can't go back. I can't. But you? What are you doin', bro? Why are you moping around here, gettin' a damned beer belly when you have men counting on you? When you can go back—).

You pour drinks (Buddha is running the team. They don't need me, you all made that clear enough—). Take tips (you told me you needed me, Bear; so, this is me telling you that we need you). You tell a stray tourist where to find the infamous seafood restaurant (I lost everything, Caulder. I can't go back—). You refill the bottles (you're not Rip, man. You need to let go of him. It's been two years. Two years. She'd want you to move on—)

"I don't know what she'd want because she's dead. She's—"

You flinch when Bear raises his voice, when it carries over to you, furious and aching, and full of rot.

"I can't bury it, Caulder. I can't—"

Working in a sleazy pub on the opposite end of a boardwalk usually brings in men like him—the ones who lean over the tacky countertop, and try their luck with glib lines meant to be suasive. Charming. It's nothing you are not used to by now, but there is a degree of difference in his mien, an insincerity that etches deep. His intrigue is surface level.

Years of watching misery unfold in orders for cheap shots and pint glasses have taught you many things. The most notable being, of course, how to measure someone. Pick apart their reaction, their tone.

How to target them.

And so, when Pretty Boy leans over the counter again after raising his hands in defeat, in surrender, to Bear, and wanders over to you, a wry grin twisting on the corner of his lips, you brace yourself for the inevitable, and—

"You and Bear, huh?"

And it's not what you expect.

"Me…and….?"

He jerks his chin toward the steaming behemoth in the shadows, gulping down whisky like it's water, eyes locked, firm and dark, on the two of you. You fight a shiver, fingers trembling around the hose.

She's gone. Dead.

All this time—

You thought he was just like your father. Just like the man who patted you awkwardly on the head on the rare occasion he was ever home, and said: I'll teach you how to swim when I get back, okay?

And then walked away. Walked out of your life, and—

"Um. He's… a customer. A friend." You wince, shoulders jerking. Juvenile. Stupid.

"A friend," he says the word like he doesn't believe you, and you get it.

You get it because why would he, anyway? Some strange bartender on the wrong side of town who claims to be his friend, and he's supposed to just accept it? It's laughable, considering.

The stupid tip box in the corner—now, formally known as the complaint box, an impromptu decision that has added an extra fifteen dollars to your nightly sum—catches your eye, and you think of friendship necklaces, and fights in the alley. Of burgers in your stupid car that made noises when you put it in reverse (ones that made his brows raise, his eyes—lidded and bright from booze—slide over to you as if to ask is this safe?), and smelled strongly of that dumb Michael Kors perfume you bought—a bottle you'd spent way too much money on because he leaned into the girl next to him when she sat down, glossy in Anne Klein, and mature, and a lawyer, and better, and said you smell good.

(He went home with her that night and you spent nearly three hundred on perfume he hadn't even noticed.)

It makes you think of the itch in your palm when he offered to check under the hood because he was good at fixing things, and softly, then even better at breaking them, as if he hadn't meant for you to hear it.

"Yeah," you say, firm, then, because you are friends. Or, you're something. But nothing doesn't wait until the very end of your shift, or walk you to your car, or eat burgers with you on Christmas when he should be with his wife, his family, or laugh (a little, barely. Kind of) at your dumb jokes. Or—

Or anything. Any of what he does.

It's something. A crutch, maybe. A kinship with the person serving him booze each time he comes until he stumbles outside, and then wanders off somewhere. A motel, maybe. Home, possibly.

And whatever it is, you cling to it. Hold it so tight in your grasp, your knuckles turn white from the strain, and tuck it into the folds of your heart for safekeeping.

"Huh," he gives you a look that's different from the one before it. Cautious, guarded, but—

Hopeful, maybe. Or—

Angry.

His eyes are stormy grey when he leans in, lips peeled back in a thin grin. "Bear needs that, but he won't let anyone else get close to him. Not right now. And we get it. We do, but," the geniality in his expression fades, tightens into something a bit more severe. "But he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend."

It punches the air from your lungs the same way the confession before did—dead, gone—and you try to stutter something into your lungs before you black out from the gnarled roots of hypoxia clotting inside your head, but all you taste is chlorine and sulphur.

You don't understand what he's saying. There is history and meaning behind his words that you can't ascertain, can't ever know; a dearth of Bear compared to a disembogue. Everything you don't know stacks up higher than the things you do, and it's a bold, blunt dressing down of your choices, failures. Inactions.

It's dumb. No one blames the bartender for feeding an addict, and yet—

It's different. Different because you made it that way. You call him your friend to a man who has known him longer than you have, and yet, you'll go back and pour him a drink if he asks.

A friend. How absurd.

"Look, I don't know what you want from me—"

He shoves his hand in his pocket, and then lifts it up. It's tucked out of sight from Bear—who hasn't looked away once since Pretty Boy wandered up to you, all blond hair, smiles, and blue eyes—and it makes your throat hurt.

A folded hundred dollar bill sits in the seam of his closed index and ring finger, one of the zeros clenched between his first knuckle.

His smile is tight, eyes full of ghosts and shadows that look achingly familiar in jasper. "He's a… he's a good man. Been through a lot. Doesn't need this right now, you know?"

"What… are you trying to bribe me?"

It's hidden from view. Strategically placed.

"Just. You know. Maybe, cut him off or something." His hand twitches, the cash waving in front of you.

"Yeah." You murmur, words quiet. Hushed. You don't take the bill.

His jaw clenches. "We need to straighten him up. Can't do that with him here all the time. He needs—"

His tongue pokes through the seam of his cheek when he turns, glancing at Bear. Something in his expression tightens. Worry, concern.

"Send him home, alright?"

You make no move to accept the proffered bill, and it's not due to any sense of pride, or anything like that. You're too numbed to move.

He gives you another look—one that is just as pitying as it is reproachful—and then shoves the folded bill into the box (file a complaint—only $5).

You feel the weight of it in your stomach like a whisky sour.

(Stupid, stupid—)

She's dead, you think, swallowing hard.

Months ago, you'd said, does your wife know you spend all evening with me?

And he'd said—

No. She doesn't.

(Can't bury it, can't—)

"You, and uh…," he motions vaguely toward the door, eyes sharp. Steel lines in brackish water. "You and Caulder seem close."

You think of the cash stuffed in the tip jar. A hundred dollars to send him back.

"Yeah." You murmur, glancing down at the dirty tiles under the ledge of the cupboard. The ones you always forget to mop. "Kinda, I guess. He's—;" you'd know that, though, as his friend. "Nice. Um…"

He says nothing more, just nods his head a few times too many to be natural. To be anything but perturbed, irritated. You don't know why—maybe, he doesn't want you meddling in his affairs, in his personal life.

But—

I will fight you for Best. And win.

You don't know what to think about any of this anymore. A man who tries to drown himself at the bottom of bottles as if the answer is in forty-proof, and still wears his wedding ring but leaves, sometimes, with women who aren't her. Who stares at the screen of his phone in something that tastes so bitterly like regret and anger and helplessness, and then turns it off. Tucks it out of sight. Waves you down.

(Who, despite the hints and the signals and the blatant way you regard him, has never, not once, taken you up on any of the subtle offers you aimed at him.)

Right. Okay.

"You alright?"

You shrug, pull away when he reaches out. "Yeah. Good."

He makes a noise, soft, questioning. A grumble from his chest. He makes a move to stand up, grounding out: "he say anything to you?"

"No," you shake your head. "Nothing."

Bear slumps back in his chair, knuckles turning white. The milky bones poking through his bruised skin makes you think of that verse the priest alluded to before he left.

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.

You've never seen his hands healed, his eyes clear.

(No one blames the bartender, but they could a friend.)

"Oh, um. Bear?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't… you don't have to wait for me tonight."

"Okay," he knocks his split knuckles against the wood, smiling tight. "Okay. If that's what you want."

What you want is unattainable.

You mimic his taut smile. "Okay."

Ten, you realise that you've come to expect him nestled in the ramshackle ruins of your life. That he fits somewhere inside of these particular four walls and roof in a way that makes you ache.

You've had attractions before. Crushes. But this edges into strange, unfamiliar territory.

Your heart does weird things when he's around sometimes, but even curious things when he's not.

(Or, when he's leaving, and he isn't alone.)

You go to bite your nails but find broken stumps instead. The plate chewed down to nothing.

The nail on your ring finger bleeds.

You think of his busted knuckles, and wonder if this, too, is a crutch.

(Later, you look up how to stop chewing your nails. All of the results tell you to rub salt on them, or buy bitter nail polish, but you can't remember a time when you didn't taste the acrid burn of iodine or chlorine on your tongue already.)

Send him home, but don't—don't let him destroy himself like this.

So. You call it.

You hand him water, and watch as something that tasted of disappointment, resignation, flashes through hazy cobalt.

Before, you used to wonder where he went from here. A weekend spent in the clutch of another woman, in the throes of cheap beer and liquor, and then what? Home? His wife—pretty and lovely and doting—waiting for him at the door, greeting him after his extended business trip? Maybe a face peering out from between her legs, unsure of the man they're supposed to call dad who is rarely ever home, and on the off-chance that he is, reeks of malt and barley.

It always cut too close to home. Their house becomes the same shade as your own. The faceless figure lingering on the periphery takes your shape. Your mum in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes rimmed red from the tears that haven't stopped steaming down her raw, chafed cheeks since you were seven, and realised that the man who sometimes stopped by to visit was supposed to be your father.

You think of that little, faceless person, and then of yourself. Selfish. Detestable. Everything you said you wouldn't be, and yet—

You cut him off, watch him stumble out the door with a woman who isn't his wife. Watch him take a little piece of you with him.

Bear doesn't show.

Week one, two, three.

It doesn't matter, not really. He's just a customer who reeks of malt and bad choices, who has bags under his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. Who drowns himself in the corner each night as he tries to fight off the demons he keeps provoking.

Who's hands are always scabbed, torn. Like he spends his time punching the concrete, or ivory jaws just to feel something outside of his own anger.

He's a man on the verge of implosion.

Betelgeuse; a red giant.

Stay away from the man who stinks of nitroglycerin, and sparks a match too close to his dynamite-soaked skin.

You try to take his own advice—bury it—but you can't bury anything in muskeg.

You think of the man who had peanut stained on his beard when you finally convinced him to take a damned bite of his burger. Who told you he used to go to church every day when you asked him how he knew so much about bible verses, but he couldn't face his God right now with all this malice in his heart.

Who confessed that he didn't actually mind pop music when his teammate— Buck —used to play it on the compound just to piss them off, and added some of the songs to the playlist he made.

I'm not a dinosaur, he huffed when you asked if he still used Windows Media Player to listen to his songs. I use YouTube.

He gave you a taut smile, like he'd won something in that, and you tried to pretend you didn't want to kiss him senseless while Johnny Cash played in the background of the pub.

He hates tomatoes but doesn't mind ketchup. Likes, even, tomato soup. Used to run track in high school, and knew when he was seventeen that he was going to get married the moment he turned eighteen, have four kids and join the SEALs. He doesn't tell you how many of those came true.

He confessed to eating a whole box of pop tarts in one sitting when he came home from a mission. Can easily demolish half a pizza to himself, and actually enjoys the Bachelor whenever the girls would get together and watch it at his house.

He used to think about the men he lost every day, but now he doesn't. Not after Buck. He can't because then he'll never stop, and he won't be able to bring the men behind him home. Wouldn't, he amends it after a moment of silence. Wouldn't be able to bring them home.

Doesn't regret anything he never did. He says this with shadows in his eyes, and the ghost of something bitter in his tone. An old ache. An old wound.

He's funny—awkward, halting, as it is—and charming. Wandering this precarious line between severe, intimidating, and— dorky. Kind of. Under the glaze of alcohol, and when he smiled wide, full teeth, and his cheeks wrinkles. Or when you said something stupid, he'd tip his chin down, forehead creasing as he stared at you in mocking disapproval.

He's distant, standoffish; gruff and surly, and stubborn, too much of the All-American Dream wrapped up in machismo and vulnerability disguised as hyper-aggression but it fades into nothing when he laughs, and his throat clicks, wet and sticky. Almost a snort but not really.

Nuanced. Multifaceted.

You told him he was interesting once and there was pink on his cheeks, and a wry twist to his lips when he'd brought the bottle up to his mouth, hiding the soft snort that slipped past.

("You need to get out more if you think I'm interesting."

"I get out plenty."

"That so? With who? I'll call up my friends in NCIS and see if they have anything on them—"

"You're overprotective, too."

"Only to the ones I care about."

"And sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"The sweetest."

"I'm not—")

The glimpse you've gotten is a small stream that bleeds into a river. One dammed by circumstances, and tragedy, and you want to cross it so badly that your fingers ache with the urge to pick at the logs that hide it from you.

You want to know what he looks like when he is loose and relaxed around family and friends. When he cheers for his dumb football team, and stumbles home late at night after hazing a new recruit into drinking beer from a bong, and carrying around a blowup doll ("it's tradition," is all he said when you blinked at him. "It's sacred;"). You want to know what he sounds like when he's trying to be funny without feeling the pinch of talons, grief and anger and resentment, digging into his flesh. Or what he sounds like completely sober.

You want to listen to Johnny Cash (gotta show you the good stuff, kid. The classics) in his truck, hold his stupid hand, and kiss him whenever you want because it's something you're allowed to do, something that isn't stuck in the confines of your yearning. You want him. Want all of him.

Want. Want. Want.

It's—

An infestation of rot, and idealism. You're making him into something he isn't, and thinking too much about what he's not.

But the bar feels emptier when he isn't here. The walks to the car are lonelier when you're by yourself at nearly four in the morning with nothing but the steady swell of the ocean, and your yearning to fill the barren silence that crushes you, but you've spent too long talking to yourself, and now that you had the taste of an audience, you can't go back what it was like before.

You should be happy. Happy for him, for Pretty Boy. This should mean that he's moved on, decided that stasis in whisky, and a dingy bar that even the health inspectors have given up on a long time ago is not what he needs in his life right now, and that he's getting better. That he's healing.

But you think of the look on his face when he stared at you from across the counter, eyes reflected in the clear glass of water, and you know—just like you think you know him—that he isn't. That this isn't the end. That he's found somewhere else to go, something else to mend the aches inside that never abate.

He didn't decide to move on. It wasn't his choice—it was yours, Caulders. It was the weight of the bill in something that used to be sacred, a place where Bear would pen things down in scratchy writing about your perceived failings— talks too much, shorts the shots all the damn time, can't pour a pint to save her life, has awful taste food, terrible taste in music —and you'd dump them into your rucksack at the end of the night, taking them home with you to lay out on a piece of construction paper as part of an ongoing project in yearning.

It wasn't his choice, and you know better than anyone else what that means, but still: you hope. You cling to that little piece of stupidity (your very brand) that tries to convince you everything is fine. That you're not complicit in watching a man moulder in grief and agony, and that this is somehow alright. That this tightly webbed knot, tangled and frayed, will somehow unspool itself despite knowing first hand that it won't.

Not until you tug the strings and unravel the weaved pain and loss on your own terms, and of your own volition.

But what else can you do?

No one held your hand when you lost your dad, but God, you wish they did. You wished someone was there to help you, but you also know that it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

You can force someone to let go by hammering their fingers until the bones shatter, and the tight grip they keep on it all releases because their fingers are pulpy mush.

You know better.

In the weeks that he's gone, absent, you oscillate between trying to convince yourself you made the right choice, and trying to pretend that he's still just a friend.

(It's when you wander out from the back of the pub and see someone sitting in his chair—elation, hope, and then the crushing sense of disappointment when the man is too small, too scrawny to be Bear—do you realise what it all means.

—a sickness.)

Eleven, you get a kiss. Blistering. Intense. Your head cracks against the brick when he pushes himself flush into your body, hand curved over your cheek, jaw.

(Three days later, you get heartbreak.

Two weeks, you shatter.)

You have other things to worry about than a man like him. Dangerous. Deadly. The kind that will suck you in like a riptide and drag you out into the open ocean without any care or concern for how you're supposed to tread the high seas.

He's poison in plaid. A bad decision in the scar tissue, and bloodied knuckles. The bags under his eyes are warning signs for you to stay away.

The ring on his finger. The women who are not his wife.

All of the bad, the ugly stacks up.

But—

Even his hideous crutches can't hide his goodness beneath the layer of resentment and grime.

It starts when he splits his knuckles on the teeth of a man who won't take no for an answer, and you see him find control, balance, and equilibrium, in violence.

It starts there. And it ends, too.

(But you're a glutton for pain, and you help him the only way you know how.)

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