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spencestyles · 3 years

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I’d do anything

summary: spencer is in love with y/n and y/n is in an abusice relationship. will spencer be able to save y/n? love her when she needs him most?

pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader

warnings: ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP DO NOT READ IF NOT COMFORTABLE READING THIS CONTENT, normal case violence

words: 4k+

please do not read if you are uncomfortable with the content of it abuse is a trigger. be mindful of this.

enjoy!!

SPENCER'S POV

"Guys this is my boyfriend, Owen," y/n said to the team on a night out.

For the longest time she and I have been best friends, nothing more. I have been in love with her for a while now, but I have always been too afraid to tell her. Now that she had a boyfriend, I knew I had lost my chances.

"Oh my gosh!" Penelope yelled. "It is so nice to finally meet you! y/n has told us so much about you!"

Owen smiled and gave y/n a side hug, "Hopefully all good things."

"Yes," JJ quickly said. "She makes you seem amazing. Hopefully you can live up to the expectations."

"Hopefully I do not disappoint," Owen replied.

The night continued with the team asking Owen questions. I had met Owen before and he truly was a nice guy. That was the worst part. However as the night continued, y/n acted strange and almost seemed afraid of Owen. She was acting timid, something she has never done, not even in front of an unsub.

Owen went to get y/n a drink so I decided it would be the perfect time to ask y/n, "Are you okay? You've been acting strange, is Owen hurting you?"

"What?" y/n laughed. "Spencer are you okay? Of course not. Owen and I are perfectly fine."

I sighed, "Okay, just checking. Are we still on for Dr Who tomorrow night?"

"When have I ever not showed up for Dr Who?" y/n retorted. "I will obviously come. Nothing can ever come between us and Dr Who."

Owen suddenly came up behind y/n, "Wait, you're hanging with Spencer tomorrow?" Owen asked aggressively. "I thought we were going to do something?"

y/n laughed, "I told you I can't ever hang on certain Fridays because I watch Dr Who with Spencer. I also never agreed to doing something together, I would have never forgotten a Dr Who watch party."

Owen glared at me. Obviously he was angry I was hanging out with y/n.

"I think it's time for us to leave," Owen said, grabbing y/n's arm very hard. "Say goodbye to your friends." Owen walked over to the table with y/n and put on a fake smile. As they walked out the door, I noticed y/n look back at me, tears in her eyes. Something was wrong.

The whole team was sitting at the table talking about something random when I decided to speak up, "How did you guys like Owen?"

A mix of complements were thrown by the girls, but the guys, they didn't seem too impressed. JJ, Emily, and Penelope, all went to get drinks while Rossi, Hotch, Derek, and I stayed at the table.

"What did you guys think of him?" I asked.

"I hated him," Derek said simply. "I saw the way y/n acted around him, much profilers the girls are. She's acting just like someone who has been manipulated and abused."

Hotch nodded, "I agree with Derek. I know we aren't supposed to profile team members, but the girls obviously don't see anything wrong."

"Are you guys sure?" Rossi asked. "I mean he seems very nice and maybe you all just think he is not good because you all wish y/n and Spencer were together."

The guys looked at me as I began to blush profusely, "I don't want to be with y/n that much anymore." They looked at me in disagreement. "Guys I'm serious, she has a boyfriend."

"Yeah and you don't like her," Rossi argued. "Just admit that you still have a crush on her and then if something really happens I will believe you."

"Fine," I sighed. "I still like y/n."

YOUR POV

"What the hell y/n," Owen screamed at you. "What the fuck is Dr Who night? You know I don't like him."

You choked a sob, "Owen it isn't like that. I don't like him, he's my best friend. Please don't hurt me."

"He obviously has something for you and you have something for him," He yelled.

"I d-don't lik-ke him Owen," I whispered. "I promise."

This had become your normal routine. Spencer or some other male would say something and Owen would go crazy. Especially about Spencer. Owen would yell at you and sometimes things would escalate. That unfortunately is how it went tonight.

It started with a push, then a slap. Sometimes it progressed more, but that was rare.

"We are going somewhere," Owen said.

You were being dragged out of the house, "Owen, what?"

"Well since you can't be obedient, I'm going to have to teach you somehow y/n."

And like that you were knocked out unconscious.

SPENCER'S POV

I walked into work carrying a coffee for both y/n and I. I decided to get her a coffee to apologize for last night's irrational decisions. I had come to the conclusion that Owen wasn't actually abusive, I was just jealous.

Derek and Hotch though, not so much.

"Baby girl, that guy is a grade A asshole," Derek said to Garcia. "Can you please just do one background check?"

Penelope sighed, "I can't do that Derek, I promised y/n I wouldn't look into him."

I decided to ignore the conversation and wait for y/n to come in for work. After about thirty minutes of waiting I decided to ask Hotch.

"Hey, is y/n coming in today?" I asked.

"Um, no," he said, pulling out his phone. "I got this strange text though, can you look through it."

"Yeah let me see," I said, walking over to where he set his phone down.

"Agent Hotchner, I will not be able to come into work tomorrow for the case. I have an issue with my tonsils. I am sorry." I recited. "I don't think y/n typed this, maybe we should send someone to her house and to Owen's house."

Hotch groaned, "I'll send Derek and JJ, I am hoping our next case doesn't become y/n. Please continue to look over the text and I'll have Garcia look into Owen."

I nodded and put the text onto the white board so I would be able to write on it.

"Hotch, look at this," I said, Hotch walking over to me. "First, y/n hasn't called you agent Hotchner since her first day here, she usually calls you Hotch or Aaron. Also, y/n got her tonsils removed when she was 7."

"Garcia, have you looked into Owen at all," Hotch asked.

"Yeah a little, but it's all normal," Garcia answered.

Hotch glared at her, "Not enough, do a full deep dive. I don't care what y/n told you not to do, he is hiding something and so is she."

Garcia nodded and went straight to work as Hotch's phone began to ring.

"Morgan, you're on speaker."

"Okay so y/n's apartment was spotless," Morgan said. "But it was also locked, so I don't think she went home to her apartment last night."

JJ began to add on, "Owen's apartment on the other hand, was a mess. Like it looked like there was a robbery of some form. Also, y/n's purse was there."

"Garcia what do you have on Owen?" Hotch asked.

"Owen Winters, he is 42 and from Southern California," Garcia began. "As a child CPS was contacted many times and it looks like his dad killed himself when he was 8. It looks like he has an extensive amount of charges for abuse and harassment, all from his ex-girlfriends."

"Do any of them live near?" I asked.

"Yes, boy wonder, 25 year-old Vanessa Montgomery works in a coffee shop near the white house," Penelope explained.

"What is the coffee shop?" I questioned.

"The Starbucks over on Pennsylvania Ave. near the White House," she answered. "Why?"

"I know her, she is the barista that always gets our order perfect," I replied.

"Morgan and JJ pick her up on your way back," Hotch ordered. "Owen Winters is our new unsub and y/n y/l/n is our newest victim."

I sighed as I began to prepare the questions for Vanessa. I looked over at y/n's desk and decided to start looking through it for any details.

As I walked over to the desk, I looked at the coffee on y/n's desk. I wanted to apologize for something that I was right about. Why didn't she tell me? was the only thing going through my head.

At her desk I noticed some things that I guess I hadn't seen before. On her desk she has four framed pictures. One of her, Hotch and Rossi. Another that was her and the girls. One that was of her, Derek and me, from one of the first cases we had together . The last one however, was the one I had never seen. It was a picture of y/n and me from when she took me to Colorado to ski and hike.

I smiled at the memory,

"Spencer, be careful," y/n yelled as I walked closer and closer to the edge of the cliff.

I laughed, "y/n I'll be fine! Come here, let's take a picture."

"Fine! Spencer I swear if I fall, you are coming down with me."

"For you, y/n, I'd do anything."

I then began to look deeper in her desk. I felt like I was violating y/n's personal space, but this needed to be done. As I looked through her drawers, I wasn't able to find anything that could help. Until I looked in the last drawer.

In this drawer, I found papers for a restraining order that had been filed and denied. y/n was trying to get away from Owen.

"Guys, I found something," I said yelling into the conference room. The team looked at me to continue, "y/n filed a restraining order on Owen but it was denied. The date was two months ago. I was thinking back and y/n has been acting a little strange for the past five months. Owen has to have her."

"Reid, we already established Owen has her, but this ensures that he was abusive," Hotch said.

Emily sighed, "The timeline makes sense. She has been hanging out with us less and she has worn more turtlenecks in the past five months than I have seen anyone ever wear."

"Yeah," Penelope said. "y/n has ditched us for girls night for the past few months. She also got mad at me at team dinner last night when I asked why she wasn't wearing something more revealing."

"Her smiles have been fake," I added. "She smiles at us all the time to brighten our days, but they haven't been as nice, welcoming."

"Well, Reid, it looks like you were correct," Rossi said.

"What do you mean?" JJ asked.

Derek laughed, "Last night when you three went off to get drinks, Reid told us he thought Owen was acting violent with y/n and thought she was acting strange. Hotch and I immediately agreed, but Rossi didn't seem convinced. Rossi thought Reid was just jealous because he has a crush on y/n and he doesn't realize she likes him."

"Derek, not the time," I said sternly.

Emily laughed, "I can't believe you of all people couldn't see it Spencer. y/n is hopelessly in love with you and now she is dating a scumbag because she doesn't think you like her."

I sighed as I began to look over where y/n could be located, thinking about the idea of dating y/n wouldn't help us find her. We had made little progression on this, but we knew it had to be somewhere with significance to either one of them or both of them.

I decided to ask Garcia, "Garcia, have you made any progress on where y/n could be?"

"Yes 187, it looks like Owen owns a small cabin around half an hour from here," Garcia said.

"Okay let's go now," Hotch told us.

Garcia gasped, "Wait there is a live feed. I'm putting it up on the screen."

The video was horrific. y/n was tied to a chair looking almost dead. She had blood falling from above her head and looked like she had been through hell.

"Hello BAU," Owen said to the camera. "I have your dear y/n, but you wont be able to get her. y/n will never be out of my sight ever again. I will not have Dr. Spencer Reid ruin our relationship."

"It's not your fault Spence," y/n said to the camera. My heart clenched. She was in pain and I couldn't be there to help her.

"He is the one in the way of our relationship y/n," Owen yelled. "Of course it is his fault."

"Spencer isn't the issue with our relationship Owen," y/n yelled back. "You are."

Hotch started to grab his things, "She shouldn't have said that, we need to leave now. She is already in danger."

We all ran to the SUVs. I went in a car with Derek and Hotch. Derek drove and broke every traffic law imaginable, making the thirty minute car ride less than twenty. The three of us grabbed out vests and began to run to the cabin.

Suddenly, Hotch stopped me, "Spencer it isn't safe for you to be there."

"Hotch I have to go," I protested.

"Spencer, you are the reason she is there," Hotch said. "It may be Owen's fucked up mind, but you are the trigger that made him angry. y/n loves you more than him and he noticed and now we're here. Stay outside." I decided to not fight and stay outside to wait for the other team members. The other SUV pulled up quickly after us.

"Jesus Christ, that was the fastest I've ever driven," Emily complained. "Spencer what are you doing out here?"

"Morgan and Hotch already moved in, Hotch doesn't want me inside," I explained.

"I'll stay out here with you Kid," Rossi said. I nodded in thanks as I watched Emily and JJ run to the cabin. I stood staring at the cabin. Time had become slow motion. It felt like an eternity watching the movement inside.

I heard Derek yell from the cabin, "MEDIC! WE NEED A MEDIC!" I immediately ran into the cabin. I looked over and saw y/n in Derek's arms, barely breathing. I heard Owen yelling at me, but couldn't focus on anything besides y/n.

"y/n," I said, moving to where I was holding her head. "y/n, I need you to listen to me. I love you, I always have and I am so sorry I never told you."

"Sir, we need you to move," the medic said, trying to move y/n onto the stretcher. I began to move when I felt someone grab my hand. I looked down and noticed it was y/n. She gave my hand three squeezes. I Love You.

With y/n on her way to the hospital and Owen getting taken back to Quantico, Derek, JJ, and I all went to the hospital to keep tabs on y/n while the others closed the case.

I sat in my chair nervous out of my mind. Derek sat next to me trying to calm me down and JJ was across from me.

"Spencer, you need to calm down," Derek told me.

"I can't calm down Derek, y/n could die," I said frantically.

JJ began to laugh, "Did you know the other day y/n told Emily, Penelope, and I, that she wanted kids? Can you imagine that? y/n with kids?"

A tear trickled down my face, "She always told me she wanted two kids, one boy and one girl. y/n would be a great mother."

Derek laughed, "The thing that would make y/n such a great mother if her kids were also yours Pretty Boy. I have known since the beginning you two would have pretty kids." I laughed, but also glared at him.

"y/n y/l/n?" The doctor called. The three of us stood up and the doctor began to walk towards us, "y/n is out of surgery. It was touch and go for a while, but she is stable. There were many noticeable signs of abuse that were old, she has a broken harm and three broken fingers, all of which are old."

I let out a shaky breath, "When can I- we see her?"

"I can only let one person in at a time and I doubt she is awake," the doctor explained. JJ and Derek looked at me, signaling me to go to y/n's room. I followed the doctor to her room.

"It might be a little much to see, she may not look like herself. She is very, very fragile and has wires attached to her," the doctor said before opening the door for me. Walking into the room, the environment was tense. y/n was laying in the hospital bed with wires attached to her and much of her body was wrapped up from the surgery and from her injuries.

I went over and sat next to her bed, grabbing onto her hand, "y/n, you can't hear me but I am here. It's Spencer. I am so glad you are okay, but why didn't you tell me about Owen? I could have done something. WE could have done something. I am just so glad you are safe."

For the rest of the time, I sat there watching her sleep. Not in a creepy way, but to make sure she was safe. I was so pissed at myself for not realizing what Owen was doing earlier. I should have been able to see the warning signs. Some of them were subtle, when she wouldn't hang out with the team or was constantly checking her phone. But some of them should have been immediate red flags, the flinching in front of the unsub or how she always wore clothes to cover herself. I should have known. The team should have known.

I felt y/n's hand move and saw her shift, "Spencer?" she asked.

"y/n," I said breathlessly. "I am right here, but I need to go get a nurse. You are at the hospital, Owen hurt you."

I started standing up to leave, "Spence, no. Don't leave me."

I sighed, looking at her disheveled features, "y/n, I will be right back. You need to see a nurse."

Walking out of the room was painful, hearing her sobs in fear of being hurt again. It pained me to know I was leaving her when she needed me, again.

I walked over to her nurse, "Um y/n y/l/n has woken up, I thought you should know." The nurse said her thanks and walked with me to y/n's room. As we walked in, the sound of y/n's labored breaths became more noticeable.

"Miss y/l/n, we need you to calm down," the nurse said, running to y/n's bedside.

Immediately, I walked over to y/n and held her hand. "Sir, you need to exit the room," the nurse said, ushering me away from y/n. At that moment I didn't know what was worse, hearing y/n's cries or feeling so helpless in the situation.

Suddenly, I felt a presence next to me, "Reid, you need to leave, it's not good for you here."

Derek.

"Derek, I-I-I can't just leave," I stuttered. "I need to be there to help, she's all alone."

"Kid, you need to shower," Derek said.

"No, Derek you don't understand," I said angrily. "I can't just leave her here again. I didn't notice when she was hurt and I need to show that I care."

Derek sighed, "Reid, she knows. She's not going to hate you. No one knew that she was going through that. It's not your fault."

I was about to say something when I say y/n being moved out of her room by doctors, "What is going on?" I asked.

"Miss y/l/n is getting taken back into surgery," the doctor said. "We don't know what happened." I began to hyperventilate. I was freaking out. y/n wasn't alright. She was going to die.

As I began to sob, Derek pulled me into a hug, "She is going to be alright man. You'll get to see her again and talk to her and finally ask her on a date. Does that sound good?"

I unconvincingly nodded my head.

"No, Spencer, don't do that," he said. "Don't doubt the doctors and think about the statistics, y/n is not a statistic."

I nodded, wiping my eyes.

"There you go," Derek smirked. "Now, go take a shower at your house so y/n wont shy away at your scent. Also, maybe get her some flowers. She likes-"

"Pink roses," I interrupted, laughing. "Pink roses are the most difficult flowers to find."

Derek laughed, "At least try to find them."

"For her," I began. "I'd do anything."

After that, I ran to the SUV to head to Quantico and get my car. The car ride felt like forever and I wasn't excited for the possibility of seeing Owen. Thankfully, I didn't see Owen between the time of dropping off the SUV and going to the parking lot to get my car. The car ride to my apartment was short, thank God. I decided to take a quick shower, just wanting to freshen up. I got dressed in my home clothes, which were in fact different from my work clothes, contrary to the belief of most of my team members.

I made it to the flower shop that was down the street from my apartment. I was usually able to find at least one pink rose here, but it was typically very difficult.

"Hello," the shop owner said. "We are close to closing Spencer. Do you need anything in specific?"

"Pink roses," I stated.

The owner laughed, "I'll have to check the back, but don't get your hopes up."

I knew I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, but I couldn't help myself. y/n loves pink roses and I love y/n.

The owner came back, "You my kind sir, are in good luck. We had one bouquet left of pink roses in the back."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I said, pulling out my money. The owner nodded as I ran out the door to my car.

Speeding to the hospital, I made it to the waiting room. In the waiting room, I couldn't find the team. They were all there, but they weren't in the waiting room. I decided to go to y/n's room and see if they were near there.

Walking to y/n's room, I heard laughter. I looked into the room and saw the team in there along with y/n, smiling. I knocked on the door and slowly opened it.

"Spence," y/n smiled. "I missed you."

"Well I should get going," JJ began. "I need to go see my boys."

The rest of the team followed with their excuses for leaving y/n and I alone.

"H-hi y/n," I stuttered. "I brought you flowers, h-how are you?"

"I am as good as I can be," y/n laughed, obviously compensating the pain. "Thank you for the flowers Spence, I can't believe you could find them at this hour. You have always told me-"

"10 AM is the best time to buy pink roses," I interrupted. "Sorry."

"It's okay Spence, how are you?" She asked.

"Not that great," I said honestly. "Why didn't you tell us y/n?"

y/n sighed, "It was hard Spencer. I already barely had time alone with you guys and I didn't want to ruin it. Owen was also very scary- a mad man. I felt hopeless Spence, I didn't know what to do. I mean I've seen situations like this all the time in cases, but when it was actually happening I felt like there was nothing to do."

I held on to y/n's hand, giving it small kisses while she continued to talk me through her feelings, "and Spencer, I don't want to be alone tonight. Do you think you could stay?"

"Of course y/n," I answered.

"Thanks Spence, you're the best," she said. We continued to sit in a comfortable silence, watching the new episode of Dr Who on the small television in the corner of the room when y/n spoke up again, "Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what?" I asked, hoping she didn't mean my love confession.

y/n looked at me, knowing I was avoiding the topic, "When you said you love me Spencer. Did you mean it?"

"Yes," I answered.

"I love you too," She said.

I smiled, "Maybe once you're better Icantakeyoutodinner?"

"Spencer say it slower and I'll answer," y/n laughed. "I couldn't understand you."

"Once you're better maybe I can take you out to dinner?" I asked.

"Of course," y/n said. "But no Indian, if we are going on a date I want to go out somewhere. I want to feel pretty."

"To me, you are the most beautiful girl in the world," I said.

y/n blushed profusely, "I still can't believe you found those pink roses! I bet you had to look all over."

"I did, but for you, I'd do anything."

#spencer reid #criminal minds one shot #criminal minds oneshot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x reader

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universalistotalis · 3 years

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Stiff That You Love

Ushijima Wakatoshi (Timeskip!) x Female reader

Masterlist!!!

You never thought you'd see him again. You almost choked on the truffle pasta that you ordered in this café when a certain beautiful giant waved and made his way to you.

"Holy damn." You whispered underneath your breath as his strides made their way towards your table. You knew he was already a show stopper back then, but now???!

You were so sure everyone would drop dead at the sight of him.

"Hi." He greeted with his deep voice. "Do you still remember me?"

Surprise filled your expression at his question but you smiled politely and nodded your head. "How could I forget? How are you Ushijima?"

You swore you saw a glint of relief and excitement in his eyes but it immediately wavered as he motioned to the chair in front of you.

"May I?" He asked again, holding the back of the chair.

Is he really going to sit here with me?!

"Sure, of course." Your voice squeaked at the feeling of your heart bursting out of your chest. His greeting was enough to kick the air out of your lungs but a whole conversation?! You didn't know how long you would last in his ever- intimidating presence.

It was already the last year in college and you were so determined to graduate with latin honors. Every single minute of your life, you dedicated it to studies, friends and family. They were all that mattered. And so you stayed until the wee hours at certain café spots around the university or at the library inside the campus. You went to meet up with friends during the weekends only for a simple dinner or lunch. You called your family members every chance you get during free time. That was your life. And you were content.

But then this boy came in to the picture.

"You will be partnered together and I shall assign the pair. Make sure you finish the written output, video presentation, and oral defense at the end of the semester." Those were the words of your professor during one of your classes before yours and his name were called out together.

You swore it was fate. Romance was really not in the forefront of your mind but as they say, "You'll find it best when you're not looking".

AND MY GOD WERE YOU SO WRONG!

This man named Ushijima Wakatoshi who came out from nowhere, looking as good they come, had no ounce of romance nor funny bone in his muscular body. He was the most dense, most serious, most infuriating man you've ever met in your whole life!!! He was a whole perfectionist, always so blunt at his comments about the outputs that you showed him. He was also so strict with the deadlines, not considering that you had other classes than this that had much more weight and importance.

You were so close to giving up but...

"Y/n?" You knew that voice only belonged to the certain antagonist in your story right now.

Your hands trembled as you wiped the tears streaming down your face after your meeting together at the library.

"Ushijima, hey!" You pretended to be your usual chirpy self as you turned around to face him.

It was already late so the lights surrounding the university casted an unworldly glow on his face. He was always so breathtaking no matter where you put him but damn those looks! He was just as heartless.

"Are you alright?" He asked with a worried tone.

"I'm fine. I'll be going home now. See you next week." You excused yourself.

"Wait." His cold fingers caught your arm and that made you stop your tracks.

"Is there a problem, Wakatoshi?"

He bowed his head before slowly releasing you in his grip. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior."

"W-what?" You wanted to make sure if what your ears heard was right. He does not seem the type to apologize.

You heard another deep sigh as he looked at you. "I've always been told that I come off too much to others. I didn't realize it until recently when one of my friends told me."

"Oh, well..."

"I'll try to be better though. I'll be more careful from now on. And I'm really sorry if I ever hurt your feelings in the past." He said with all seriousness that you can't help but sigh and just nod.

"You can be really mean sometimes." You agreed and chuckled, letting a tear escape your eyes.

"You've been crying." He stated flatly as if he was reciting a trivia. "I'm still so sorry."

You giggled. "Yeah, I forgive you. Anyway, it's getting late, Wakatoshi. We have to head home."

"I'll walk you home." He said with a finality in his voice. You were again, surprised by his actions but just agreed because this was such a draining day.

And as you were nearing where you stayed, you were again surprised at how comforting his presence was.

You did find his presence after that night relaxing. He became more tactful and he started to insert jokes during your meetings which shocked you so much the first time that he felt a little offended. You became such close friends that his team mates in volleyball were again, shocked that he managed to get a friend outside the team. It was just a matter of getting used to, you thought to yourself. He's just so honest, mechanical, and straightforward to a fault and you got to master how to tell him off when needed. He also developed to trust you so whenever he needed advice, he would always go to you and trust your honest words.

Looking at him now, it made your heart warm at how far he'd come. It's amazing to have known him then. To have seen how he grew as an athlete, a student, and a person. He may still be a little stiff but that's just the Wakatoshi you've come to love.

"Soo..." He started while sitting back down again after claiming his coffee from the counter. "I am not disturbing you, am I?" He pointed at the laptop and papers next to you.

You laughed. "Not at all! I finished them anyway."

"How have you been then?" He asked. His elbows were resting on the table and his hands were holding on to the cup of coffee. The sight was a little funny considering his giant built was leaned onto a very small table.

You smiled gently. "I've been good! I got the job that I dreamed of having and I own some businesses too. Ho--"

"Your eyes sparkle the same way." He cut off.

"What?" You asked, surprised at his random comment.

"Your eyes..." He pointed out. "They sparkle the same way they did in college when you were talking about something you like."

"How did you notice that?" You laughed.

"I'm known to be observant." He smirked slightly, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Okay, Mr. Oh-So-Observant, how are your matches going? I've been tuning in since the first tournament and it looks like you're going to the semi- finals!" You cheered not hiding your pride and excitement for the country's national volleyball team. When you searched on how to watch the live games, you insisted that you were there to cheer for the country and definitely NOT to cheer and simp for a certain brown- haired, serious player. Definitely NOT!

"You've been watching our games?" He asked, eyes slightly widening at the thought of you cheering for him. What he didn't know was that you were always watching his games since college, not missing even one match. You were always there, crying at how proud you were of him. Also, crying at how much he could never be yours.

"Of course, I have, silly!" You chuckled and pointed at your laptop. "I've been watching here and you're just so amazing and strong!"

He suddenly paused at your statement, silently raising a brow at you and smiling softly.

"I- I meant that your whole team is amazing and strong." You clarified, a blush automatically painting the whole of your face and ears.

"Would you like to go tomorrow?" He blinked, setting down his cup on the wooden surface. "To the game, I mean?"

Your eyes widened at his offer. "Are you serious?!"

He chuckled at your reaction. "Of course! We're allowed to bring spectators for the games, I'll just give you the tickets."

"Wow, Ushijima, thank you so much! It's an honor!" You chimed excitedly, jumping a little on your chair.

"The honor's mine." He replied, grinning at you.

He already knew back then that you were one of a kind. No one ever really stayed and tried to understand his demeanor and personality but you did. You were so honest and kind and you always knew what to do or say to keep him at ease. You accepted him for who he was and he's so thankful to have met such a beautiful soul. Even when you were doing nothing, even when you're just sitting across this table from him, without you knowing, you already made up his entire exhausting day. Hell, you made up all those exhausting years of not seeing each other since you two graduated. He suddenly imagined if being with you would always be like this. So peaceful and just pure bliss...

"You've got to be shitting on me! Is that Ushiwaka?" The pair sitting next to the glass walls of the café was oblivious of the red- haired tower and group of men walking past the street. All of them were wearing coats and casual attires as they're planning to go for lunch at their favorite restaurant for a little reunion. The all powerful Shiratorizawa Volleyball Team, headed by Ushijima in high school, cowered like puppies at the name of their captain being mentioned.

"Where?!" Goshiki stopped and shielded himself from an invisible force. "He said he couldn't make it!"

"I guess our baby's growing up, look!" Tendou hummed and pointed at the two of you laughing and looking at each other with heart eyes. "I bet they don't know that they're shooting hearts at each other."

"I never thought he could smile like that." Semi whispered.

"Yeah well, he's been crushing on that girl since college." Tendou filled the silent wonder of the whole group. "That's why she looked familiar! He kept sending me photos of them together studying or something..."

"Studying, my ass!" Shirabu laughed as they continued staring and hiding behind a post at the same time.

They all burst out laughing and again Tendou chuckled. "No seriously, they were studying!"

"Yeah well, they look good together. I hope he'd have the balls to ask her out. Please god!" Goshiki put his hands together as if seriously praying.

"Bet you 10, 000 yen, we'd be attending his wedding two years from now." Semi challenged.

"Nah, I'll go with a year." Tendou offered.

The men casted their bets on how long you and Ushijima would get married. They knew their captain so well to be sure enough that he was serious with you. Safe to say, Semi won the bet.

Reblogs are appreciated! <3

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kurowrites · 3 years

Text

Betting On You - Part II

Hhhhh, this has been frustrating me ever since I wrote part I. Idk, idk.

Previous part

---

Wei Ying and A-Yuan spent a long time in the bathtub, making sure they were all warmed up and clean before they finally stepped out. (Well, were lifted out in the case of A-Yuan.)

Wei Ying picked out the fluffiest towel they owned and wrapped A-Yuan in it, scrubbing him dry.

When he removed the towel, A-Yuan’s hair was sticking up in all directions.

“Look at this little radish!” Wei Ying laughed as he tousled A-Yuan’s hair. “He even has little leaves!”

A-Yuan protested and removed Wei Ying’s hand, but a moment later, he wrapped around Wei Ying’s leg in an attempt to get Wei Ying to dress him.

Technically, A-Yuan was old enough to put on at least the simpler pieces of his clothing on his own, but he hadn’t been feeling well today. Wei Ying, though exhausted himself, didn’t feel it was the right moment to insist on A-Yuan doing it himself, and helped the little radish out. He got out the nice red pyjamas that Wen Qing got him for his last birthday, and wrestled A-Yuan into it.

He had just slipped into a pair of sweatpants himself when the doorbell rang. In a hurry, he grabbed his shirt and clumsily pulled it over his head as he ran to the door of the apartment.

As he should have expected, their wet, soggy laundry and shoes still lay abandoned in front of the door. Wei Ying hastily pushed them to the side as best as he could, so that he could open the door and hide the mountain of dirty clothing behind it, keeping it out of view.

When he opened the door, Lan Zhan stood in the door frame, as stoic, handsome, and well put together as ever. Wei Ying had the nonsensical impulse to check his own appearance to make sure he was decent, but that was a lost case by now. He had barely managed to slip into a shirt, his long hair not brushed out yet.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, a little more breathlessly than he’d intended to.

“Hn,” Lan Zhan replied, and held up a large pot that Wei Ying only noticed when Lan Zhan brought it to his attention. “Soup.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widened. Had Lan Zhan actually made soup for them?

That was… far nicer than anything Wei Ying had expected. He’d maybe expected Lan Zhan to bring over some instant soup or something. But on second thought, Lan Zhan didn’t seem to be the type to eat instant soup. Ever.

“Oh!” Wei Ying cried out, suddenly remembering that he’d been taught manners at some point in his life, instead of just staring dumbly at the pot. Quickly, he waved Lan Zhan into the apartment. “Come in, come in! Please, feel free to join us! It’s very messy right now, but you know how it is. I always need to make sure we’re on time in the morning, so I only really get to clean up at night. Oh, the kitchen is over here, I think the layout is different from your apartment, no? Yours is bigger.”

“Hn,” Lan Zhan slowly agreed, after taking off his shoes, careful to evade the sea of water escaping from the bundle of wet clothes behind the door, and stepping into the apartment proper. “I converted one of the rooms into a music room.”

“Right, music teacher,” Wei Ying smiled. “A-Yuan enjoys your music, occasionally. Though we don’t always hear it.”

“The room is soundproofed,” Lan Zhan replied. “I sometimes play with the window open. I apologise.”

“Don’t apologise!” Wei Ying cried as he provided Lan Zhan with a space on his stove to put the pot of soup down. “We enjoy it. Definitely better than the stuff that usually plays on the radio. Or the shit people try to market as ‘appropriate for children.’”

Lan Zhan only hummed in reply, but Wei Ying was almost sure that he looked pleased.

Heh. Even Lan Zhan wasn’t above a little self-satisfaction now and then, apparently.

“Little radish!” he called out. “Come here, Lan Zhan brought us some soup! It’s dinner time!”

A moment later, A-Yuan toddled into the kitchen and firmly attached himself to Wei Ying’s leg. But despite his apparent shyness about the ‘stranger’ standing in his kitchen, he stared up at Lan Zhan with big, curious eyes.

“Say ‘thank you for the meal,’” Wei Ying encouraged him. He might not be the best father out there, but no one could accuse him of not teaching his son some manners. Those that actually made sense, that was.

“Thank you for the meal,” A-Yuan recited obediently, though he remained firmly attached to Wei Ying’s leg and kept looking up at Lan Zhan with what Wei Ying started to suspect was awe.

It was kind of cute, honestly, because A-Yuan didn’t have too many adults in his life, apart from Wei Ying, the staff at the nursery, and rare visits with Wen Qing. It was good to have positive role models in his life, and Lan Zhan was probably as good as they came. It was also a little troubling to Wei Ying, because A-Yuan’s open admiration made Wei Ying feel like he was somehow lacking as a father. It was a ridiculous notion, because he would not want to be like Lan Zhan, but the feeling was there, still. He knew he couldn’t be everything for A-Yuan. But his emotions were not that easily subdued by reason. He knew he wasn’t the ideal choice for an adoptive parent, anyway, and that he would never be a replacement for A-Yuan’s birth parents.

“It is of no consequence,” Lan Zhan replied seriously, startling Wei Ying out of his morose thoughts. “I offered.”

Wei Ying smiled.

“It means a lot to me,” he emphasised, and waddled over to the kitchen cabinets, A-Yuan still attached to his leg. He reached for the soup bowls and started to unload everything onto their dining table.

“Want to eat with us?” he asked Lan Zhan, waving one of the bowls under his nose.

He’d honestly expected Lan Zhan to politely excuse himself and leave at the first opportunity, but to Wei Ying’s surprise, Lan Zhan simply nodded, helped with setting the table, and then sat down to join them during their meal.

And that was how Wei Ying and A-Yuan ended up eating dinner together with Lan Zhan.

It was almost surreal, to have Lan Zhan in this familiar, currently rather messy environment. But it wasn’t uncomfortable by any means. On the contrary, Lan Zhan was a strangely nice and surprisingly interesting dinner guest, and Wei Ying suspected that it was due to his presence that A-Yuan was on his best behaviour. Wei Ying didn’t need to remind him even once not to play with his food! If only that happened during all of their meals.

To be honest, it was not that easy to get Lan Zhan to speak in the beginning, and convince him to tell them stories about his work as a music teacher. But he made his silence up with being an excellent listener, sometimes listening to A-Yuan’s occasionally nonsensical stories with more earnestness than even Wei Ying was able to fake. And Wei Ying had a lot of practice in faking it.

Wei Ying mostly felt grateful for Lan Zhan’s efforts, because it meant that he was off the hook, for once. He could just sit there, eat his soup, grin at Lan Zhan when A-Yuan said something particularly nonsensical, and not worry about the rest.

And when Lan Zhan finally decided to tell them a few stories of his own, both he and A-Yuan listened to him with genuine interest and no small bit of fascination. For such a taciturn man, he was a surprisingly good storyteller. A certain sense of wit shone through his every word that Wei Ying enjoyed greatly, and that had him laughing out loud more than just once.

All too soon, they were finished with their meal, and it was time for A-Yuan to go to bed. A-Yuan had already started to lag at the dinner table, and so brushing his teeth and putting him to bed was a fairly short and painless process that evening, despite the excitement that an unknown guest had brought.

Lan Zhan, on the other hand, had insisted on helping with the clean-up, and so he stayed and assisted Wei Ying with the kitchen even after A-Yuan had been brought to bed and fallen asleep. Wei Ying had to almost physically keep him from doing all of the clean-up, and insisted to wash the dishes himself.

And so they had ended next to each other at the kitchen counter, Wei Ying washing the dishes, and Lan Zhan drying them.

It was an odd situation.

Wei Ying suddenly realised that he had never been alone with Lan Zhan before that moment. Whenever they had met before, it was usually when Wei Ying was going out of their apartment block or returning home with A-Yuan. Their interactions had usually been short and to the point, and Wei Ying had elected to think of Lan Zhan however he pleased.

It hadn’t been like this.

He suddenly felt himself growing shy, which was all kinds of ridiculous, because nothing was different from before. Why was he suddenly having feelings about this?

Luckily, Lan Zhan didn’t seem to notice how the mood in the room had suddenly shifted, and continued to stoically dry the dishes and carefully set them aside once they were properly dried.

When the kitchen was clean and all tasks were finished, Lan Zhan hung up his towel to dry, nodded once to himself, and then announced, “I should head home.”

Wei Ying stifled a sigh of mixed relief and regret, and led Lan Zhan to the door of the apartment.

“Thank you,” he said as Lan Zhan slipped into his shoes. “You were a true lifesaver today. Both with the soup and for keeping A-Yuan company.”

Lan Zhan rose up from tying his shoes (who did that, it was only a few metres to his own apartment) and stretched to his full height (which was impressive, he was taller than Wei Ying). He looked at Wei Ying for several long and agonising (for Wei Ying) moments.

“No need for thanks,” Lan Zhan replied. “I would not have offered if it had been an inconvenience. A-Yuan is a good child.”

Wei Ying couldn’t help the little glow of pride and happiness that rose up in his chest. A-Yuan was the best child, and he was lucky to be his father!

He said as much to Lan Zhan, and unless Wei Ying’s eyes started to play tricks on him now, his enthusiasm was answered by the tiniest little smile.

“Good night, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said, that smile still present in the corners of his mouth.

Wei Ying felt he liked when Lan Zhan said his name like that.

And then, Lan Zhan reached out, and gently brushed one messy strand of hair out of Wei Ying’s face.

“Please make sure to take care of yourself, as well.”

And with that, he turned around and left, the apartment door falling shut silently behind him.

Wei Ying stood in front of the closed entrance door for several dumbfounded moments.

Did that just–

Was that–

Lan Zhan–

He let out a garbled sound, remembered that A-Yuan was asleep, and quickly turned towards the wet clothes still piled up in the entrance.

He wasn’t going to sleep.

Might as well do some washing.

Dammit.

#kuro writes #mdzs #the untamed #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #betting on you

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clusterbuck · 3 years

Text

i want you by my side (so that i never feel alone)

(3.2k, rated T, complete) read it on ao3

Eddie sits in his pew and tries to remind himself that he is in the lord’s house, and that he should really at least make an effort to keep his thoughts respectful.

It’s hard, though, when Buck is at the altar standing up as Maddie’s best man, wearing a suit that should honestly be illegal.

It’s only now, sitting in church trying not to blaspheme, that Eddie realises he’s become desensitised to Buck’s whole… everything. Buck in his firefighter uniform is a lot to take in, but Eddie’s trained himself to look past it. Mostly because he doesn’t ever want to have to explain to Bobby that he missed something on a call because he was distracted by the sight of Buck harnessed up for a rope rescue.

Buck at home—in his apartment or at the Diaz house, they’re practically synonymous anyway—is a whole other matter. Buck in old, faded t-shirts and comfortable sweats, in the LAFD hoodie they’ve been stealing back and forth for so long Eddie isn’t sure whose it was originally. It’s a different kind of intensity, a quiet one that stems from the knowledge that Buck doesn’t let many people see him like that, soft and a little dishevelled on a Saturday morning.

These are incarnations of Buck that Eddie has learned to live with, in the interest of remaining a functional human being capable of doing his job and caring for his son—the only two things on his list of priorities that manage to claw past his highly inconvenient unrequited feelings for his best friend.

But Buck in a suit? This is new, and Eddie’s defences are down. Eddie doesn’t have defences for this. He’s never seen Buck in a suit before.

Maybe he should have made Buck try the suit on at home first, so he could have gotten used to it in private.

Can you get sent to hell for thinking impure thoughts in church? Not that his thoughts are impure, exactly. He’s just thinking about the way the lines of the suit cling to Buck’s figure and highlight his broad shoulders, about the way Buck’s arms strain against the sleeves when he adjusts his cuffs, about the way the starched cotton would feel between his fingers as he unbuttoned Buck’s shirt… Okay, so he might be going to hell.

Eddie shakes his head. This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man, he can pull it together for the duration of a wedding ceremony.

Next to him, Christopher pokes his arm and looks at him curiously. “Dad? Are you okay?” he whispers.

Eddie swallows around the dryness in his throat. “I’m fine, buddy.”

“Why were you shaking your head?”

“I just—uh, forgot something I was supposed to do yesterday,” he whispers back. Forgot to mentally prepare himself for the sight of Buck in formalwear. “Don’t worry about it, just watch the ceremony. Look, I bet Chimney’s about to cry.”

The ceremony is just reaching the vows, and sure enough, as soon as Maddie starts reciting hers Chimney starts tearing up enough that it’s clearly visible to their seats near the back of the church.

This is good. If he focuses on Chimney’s quest to win the title of sappiest man alive, it’ll distract him from the public health hazard that is Buck in that suit.

“Is Chimney okay?” Christopher asks, and Eddie laughs under his breath and wraps an arm around his son.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” Eddie says and ducks down to kiss Christopher’s forehead. “He’s just really happy.”

One of Maddie’s first proclamations about the wedding was that she wanted to do away with any tradition that didn’t make sense to her, and the first thing to go was the separate table for the wedding party.

“Why would we invite all these people just to sit at a separate table all night?” she’d said, and nobody had been able to come up with a counterargument.

Then she’d gone one step further and decided to forego seating arrangements altogether. “Assigned seating is for middle schoolers and people who don’t like each other,” she’d said at Eddie’s kitchen table one night as Buck supposedly helped her plan the wedding. His helping mostly consisted of eating wedding cake samples, but Eddie was pretty sure Maddie wasn’t there for the manpower anyway. “And we’re neither of those things, so people can just sit with whoever they want.”

“I’m gonna be a middle schooler in the fall,” Christopher had pointed out, just serious enough that no one had quite known how to react. Then he’d grinned, and the kitchen had exploded into laughter.

“Good thing the wedding is in the summer, then,” Maddie said with a conspiratorial smile. “No assigned seats for you just yet.”

So when they get to the reception venue, instead of being exiled to the high table Buck is by their side almost immediately. Eddie doesn’t know how he does it, but Buck always seems to be able to find them in any crowd, effortless like gravity.

“I vote we find a table and set up camp,” Buck says.

Eddie nods, because Buck and his suit are in very close proximity and he isn’t entirely sure he’s capable of forming words right now.

He really needs to get a grip, or this is about to be a very long night.

“What do you think?” Buck asks Christopher, pointing at a table along one wall. “That one?”

Christopher agrees and they set off, carefully weaving through all of the dearly beloved who have gathered to witness and rejoice in Maddie and Chimney’s marriage.

“I figured you’d want to be by the wall,” Buck says, hanging back so Christopher doesn’t overhear. “You usually are.”

“I—yeah,” Eddie says, a little bewildered. He doesn’t remember ever actually talking to Buck about this. About the way that ever since the shooting, he can’t seem to make himself turn his back on crowds. He sits with his back to the wall whenever he can, and when he can’t—like in a church watching his friends get married—he sits as far back as he can, and glances over his shoulder every three seconds like his head is mounted on a swivel.

He’s never talked to Buck about it, but apparently Buck noticed anyway.

Their table, Eddie discovers, is also close to the open bar. He debates taking generous advantage of this fact in order to deal with the continued proximity of Buck and his suit, but—getting drunk would probably make it worse, actually. Drunk Eddie isn’t very good at filtering his thoughts.

Buck, however, doesn’t seem to have similar qualms, and by the time they’ve gotten through dinner, he’s bright-eyed and a little flushed.

Eddie loves Buck like this, tipsy and giggly and affectionate. He gets the feeling that Buck tries a little too hard to be taken seriously sometimes, but when he’s had a drink or three he lets his defences down.

“You should dance with me,” Buck says now, leaning so far into Eddie that his head is resting on his shoulder.

“It’s not dancing time yet,” Eddie says, fighting to ignore the thrill that runs through him at the idea of dancing with Buck. “There’s still speeches and cake first.” Buck, thankfully, had given his best man speech before any food or drinks were served, so Eddie doesn’t need to worry about Buck getting too drunk for it.

“Later, then,” Buck says, and makes no move to pick himself up off Eddie’s shoulder. “When it’s dancing time.”

“Sure,” Eddie agrees. “Later.” Then he wonders whether he can get out of it somehow, because there are a lot of people around and his self-control is already worn thin by Buck practically draping himself over him.

Buck puts a hand out, fumbling around like he’s looking for something until he finally lands on his wine glass. When Eddie looks down, Buck’s eyes are closed.

“Hey,” Eddie says, poking at Buck until he sits up straight again. “Have you been drinking enough water?”

Buck opens his eyes and squints at him. “I’m not that drunk, you know,” he informs Eddie.

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, and touches his nose with alternating forefingers like a field sobriety test. “See? I’m just lazy.” Then he puts his head back on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Eddie says, a warm rush of affection running through him. “You wanna do me a favour and drink this water anyway?”

“If you insist,” Buck says with a put-upon sigh, but he grins at Eddie so widely that water almost spills out around the edges of the glass.

It takes almost another hour for it to get to dancing time, and as soon as dancing starts, Buck is whisked away by partner after partner. It’s Maddie first, for the slightly altered tradition of the sister-brother dance, then it’s Hen, and then Chimney wants a turn, too. And Eddie can see why: Buck on the dance floor is joyous and carefree. He looks like he’s having fun, genuinely from the bottom of his heart, and like he’ll spread that joy to anyone who dances with him. It’s no wonder everyone wants a whirl.

Eddie desperately wants one, too, but something stops him every time he tries to get up and walk over to Buck. He’s worried that five seconds of dancing with Buck will give everything away, that everyone around them will be able to see exactly what he feels. That Buck will be able to see. He’s worried that if he dances with Buck he’ll read something into it that isn’t there, and then when Buck turns to the next partner with a grin and a little bow he’ll crush Eddie’s heart under his heel as he goes.

It’s a lot to put on just one dance, but Eddie’s always been good at overthinking.

So he stays at his table. The first time someone tries to get him to join the dancing he makes a vague gesture at Christopher, like the reason he isn’t dancing is that he has to stay and watch his kid. But then Hen and Denny come over to get Christopher to join the kids' dance circle they’ve got going on and Chris goes without a look back, taking Eddie’s only real excuse with him.

He manages to dodge the dancing for almost half an hour until Karen materialises at the end of their table and holds out her hand. It’s not a question so much as it is a declaration of what’s going to happen next. “Come on,” she says. “Can’t have you sitting here looking so gloomy at a wedding, people will start thinking you’re secretly in love with the bride.”

“I’m not—” Eddie starts, and Karen gives him a look that feels like it goes right through him.

“I know,” she says. “Wrong Buckley. Now come on.”

Eddie goes, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He doesn’t know the song that’s playing, but it’s the kind of easy-listening music that always gets played at weddings, inoffensive and easy to dance to. It’s easy to take Karen’s hand and rest his other hand loosely on her waist, to sway around vaguely in time and in tune with the music.

It’s less easy to look at her after what she’d said, because looking at her means acknowledging it. But he looks anyway, and finds nothing but understanding in her eyes.

“Why don’t you just dance with him?” Karen asks. She doesn’t ask if she’d gotten it right, which Eddie takes to mean that he’s probably not as subtle as he’d hoped.

Eddie doesn’t say anything because he can’t quite put it into words, this certainty that dancing with Buck will be the beginning of the end, somehow. He doesn’t know how to explain that he wants to, more than anything, but the idea terrifies him because it feels too close to a confession for comfort.

“Okay,” Karen says. “What level of crisis are we talking about here? Is this a gay crisis? Or—bi crisis?”

“Bi crisis,” Eddie confirms. “I mean—it’s not that, but if it was. It would be a bi crisis.”

“Copy that. Okay, so what’s the crisis?”

“The crisis is that I’m in love with my best friend, and he’s—not,” Eddie mutters. It strikes him then that he’s never said it out loud before.

“What makes you think that?”

“Wouldn’t he have said something by now?” Eddie asks, and Karen looks at him like he’s a little slow.

“Have you said anything?” she asks.

“I—” Eddie starts, and finds he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.

Karen smiles. “Just dance with him, Eddie.”

Eddie doesn’t end up dancing with Buck. He keeps trying to talk himself into it, but before he can get all the way there suddenly the banquet hall is emptying out. It’s just him and Buck, now—and Christopher, sleeping in a corner on a pile of spare tablecloths, because he’d insisted he was old enough to stay until the end and proved himself spectacularly wrong.

Buck is going from table to table, making sure none of the guests left anything behind. There’s still music playing—the DJ had gone home an hour ago, but she’d left a playlist on.

Just dance with him, Eddie.

Eddie takes a deep breath. It’s now or never.

Buck looks up when Eddie walks over to him, smiling the soft smile Eddie has only ever seen directed at himself or Christopher.

“Never got that dance,” Eddie says, hoping his voice doesn’t give away the fact that he has spent the past several hours thinking about it.

To his surprise, a blush spreads along Buck’s cheekbones. “No, I guess we didn’t.”

Wouldn’t he have said something by now?

Have you said anything?

There’s a moment where neither of them speaks. Like they’re weighing the options, like they know this isn’t the kind of dancing Buck meant—he’d been talking about a dance floor full of people, safety in numbers, jumping around to something more upbeat.

Then Buck raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand. “You did promise,” he says.

Technically, Eddie thinks, he hadn’t promised. All he’d said was sure. But as he takes Buck’s hand and steps closer, arguing the semantics couldn’t be further from his mind.

Buck is in his shirtsleeves, his jacket long since sacrificed to be Christopher’s blanket. Eddie spreads his fingers along the small of Buck’s back, and his shirt feels exactly like Eddie had imagined back in the church.

The music shifts just as they settle together, going from a soft pop ballad to something closer to a waltz. Buck takes a few halting steps, but it’s clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Eddie huffs a soft laugh under his breath. “Here, just follow my lead,” he says. He steers Buck, gentle pressure on his back, and counts steps out loud until Buck gets the hang of it.

Then they’re waltzing around the empty room, and once Eddie stops murmuring one-two-three one-two-three there’s nothing left between them but a couple of inches of air. It feels like nothing, and it feels like the Grand Canyon.

Buck looks up from where he’d been watching Eddie’s feet. “How come you know how to waltz?” he asks, whisper-quiet even though there’s no one else in the room to disturb.

“There are still things you don’t know about me,” Eddie says, equally quiet.

Buck narrows his eyes like he’s going to challenge that, but they’re interrupted by a door clanging open. It’s a teenager in a catering uniform, one Eddie vaguely recognises from throughout the night.

“Uh, sorry,” she says as Buck and Eddie spring apart, looking anywhere but at each other. “Just, we’re about to close up?”

“Sorry,” Buck says. “We’ll get out of your hair.” The girl disappears back through the door, and Buck turns to Eddie. “You get the kid, I’ll get our stuff?”

“Meet you at the car?”

“Race you,” Buck says, and Eddie grins.

Christopher is sleeping soundly enough that he barely stirs when Eddie picks him up, careful to keep him wrapped up in Buck’s jacket. He makes it to the car just as Buck approaches from the other direction, and they work together to get Christopher settled and buckled in without waking him up.

Eddie doesn’t have to ask if Buck is coming home with them. They don’t talk on the drive, mindful of the sleeping child in the back seat, but there’s a tension humming in the air, the feeling of something unfinished and unresolved.

Christopher doesn’t react when Eddie extracts him from the car and carries him to his room. Briefly, Eddie debates whether he should wake Christopher to brush his teeth, but—the kid’s already asleep, and pretty deep, from the sounds of it. Chances are waking him up now would do more harm than missing one night of brushing teeth.

Besides, he doesn’t want to risk Christopher waking up wired and refusing to go back to sleep. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going to happen when he goes back into the living room, back to Buck, but based on the way Buck had been looking at him in the banquet hall before they were interrupted, and the way Buck kept stealing glances at him on the drive home, he’s pretty sure something is.

And he’d thought he’d be nervous, if this day ever came, but all he feels is excitement starting to build somewhere in his stomach.

Buck is waiting for him in the living room, something like determination blazing in his eyes. “Hey,” he says. “Is this one of those things you think I don’t know about you?” He cups Eddie’s face and pulls him in, closer, pressing his entire body along Eddie’s before finally fitting their lips together.

Eddie kisses back instinctively, wrapping his arms around Buck to pull him closer. He feels simultaneously like he’s drowning in Buck and like Buck is his only supply of oxygen; he wants to keep getting closer and closer until he’s crawling inside Buck’s ribcage.

The need for real oxygen pries them apart eventually but they don’t go far, foreheads pressed together and their heavy, panting breaths mingling.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Eddie asks. “If you knew?”

“I didn’t for sure,” Buck says. “Not until today.”

“What about today?”

“I saw the way you looked at me in the suit,” Buck smirks.

Eddie groans.

“Hey, all’s well that ends well,” Buck says, and leans in to kiss him again. Eddie loses track of how long they stand there in the middle of the room, getting to know each other in this new way, exploring with hands and tongues, marking time in hitched breaths and soft sighs.

When Buck eventually starts steering them towards the sofa, Eddie goes willingly. They collapse in a tangle of limbs, and Buck lands mostly on top of Eddie. Buck’s weight presses him down in a delicious way, and Buck’s every movement sends sparks skidding down Eddie’s spine. Buck wastes no time in taking advantage of his new position, shifting his hips against Eddie’s and grinning when Eddie lets out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“Buck,” he hisses. “I’m—it’s been a while, I’m not gonna last long if—”

But Buck just grins above him. “Who said I’m trying to make it last long right now?” he says, grinding his hips in a slow, deliberate move. “We have the rest of our lives for that.”

#buddie fic #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #this is the buddie at a madney wedding fluff that i have been dreaming of for a month now #no this isn't what i said i'd write in september but the idea materialised in my head fully formed #what was i gonna do #not write it??#shush emma #emma writes

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 3 years

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that makes four.

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PART 3

You hadn’t quite gotten used to being around Harry in the morning. What would typically be braless breakfasts on Saturday now had you wiping off any traces of mascara and at least throwing on a sports bra before you descended the stairs and turned on the keurig.

But on the morning of what would have been his last day, you came down to hear pots and pans already clanging together and giggles escaping the kitchen.

When you rounded the corner, CeCe was sitting on the counter, Maeve was trying to pour orange juice, and Harry was manning the waffle iron with a bowl of batter by his side.

“Morning,” you said with a suspicious glance. “What’s all this about?”

“Happy birthday!” CeCe smiled, excitement on her face when she turned to see you.

“My birthday’s not for another four days,” you reminded them, a kiss to her forehead when Harry offered a sheepish grin.

It had been long approaching, and thirty-two felt like a number you’d been avoiding in more ways than one. Turning thirty-two probably sounded like no big deal to everyone else. But being a newly-divorced single-mom who’d just lost her father and main support, having a birthday felt like a cruel way for the universe to remind you of all of your failures.

“Right,” Maeve said, “but it’s a Thursday, and we figured we wouldn’t be able to do all of this before school, so,” she shrugged innocently, Harry smiled down at her when you took another look around the kitchen.

It was messy, dishes in the sink and CeCe’s hands looked sticky. Maeve had her hair up but the batter was smeared on her forehead. Harry watched you glance around, his eyes expectant when you then asked: “Can I help?”

“Absolutely not,” he shook his head, amused by your obvious discomfort. “S’not what birthday girls do.”

He shooed you away once Maeve came over and tugged at your arm. “Here,” she said, “come sit and watch TV and I’ll make you coffee.”

“Let Harry make it,” you encouraged, unsure if she’d dump the whole sugar bowl in or spill half and half all over the counter.

“Mom, stay out of it, okay?” She rolled her eyes when she pushed the remote in your face. You looked over your shoulder quickly, shocked by the sight of a man with your daughter by his side, laughing and seemingly enjoying himself.

“Roger that,” you nodded, uncomfortable with the swelling of your heart at the sight of it. CeCe giggled and Maeve hurried back over, laughing when Harry let out a playful yelp at the heat from the waffles as he put them on a plate.

It took them a minute to get everything together, and right when your mug of coffee was returned (a little sweet, but you’d live), the doorbell rang and Maeve jumped into action. She pulled the door open to reveal Tristan, eyebrows arched high on his forehead when realized it wasn’t just any Sunday morning.

You were already on your feet to greet him, worried about the current state of your kitchen but also worried about the type of interaction might occur between your right hand man and the guy in an apron with CeCe tugging at his sleeve.

He’d been asking a lot of questions, his penchant for all things pop culture left him curious (or just nosy) about the current living situation in your new house. You were surprised, quite honestly, that it took him this long to pop over unannounced just to get a peek behind the curtain.

“Well hello” he looked around, a smirk on his face when his eyes settled on you. “Quite the morning we have here.”

“It’s mom’s birthday breakfast,” Maeve informed him, scurrying off to help her accomplices when you greeted him with a hug.

He kissed your cheek and shut the door behind himself. “A few days for you to panic, still, right?”

“Panic?” Harry called over his shoulder, his role more passive now that Maeve was worried about the presentation of the waffles on a ceramic plate.

Tristan took that as his cue to stick out his hand, head for the kitchen, and smile: “Nice to meet you, I’m Tristan. Second in command at Luna Skincare.”

“Harry,” he greeted, voice a good octave lower than Tristan’s and a firm enough handshake that made Tristan blush. “I’m just the house guest.”

“So I’ve heard,” Tristan winked in his direction.

“Alright, why are you here?” You tried to pull his attention away from the attractive man in your kitchen, a loud sip of coffee when he made a face at you.

He pushed a folder into your hands. “Sorry to show up unannounced." (He wasn't.) "But I wanted to show you these. Mock ups for the new body wash debut. Don’t know how I feel about those bottles, but, your call.”

You took it, opened it with one hand and let him thumb through some pages for you to see. The body wash debut was a long time coming--only about a month away and as always, it seemed to come at the best and worst time. Spring was always busy, you always launched something exciting and then CeCe’s birthday was in April. Then school got out in late May and there were plays and dance recitals and everything seemed to happen at once.

But spring was the perfect time for launches--sunshine, warmer weather, less rain in LA and people were typically ready to start spending money to prep their skin for summer.

“I kind of like them,” you looked up at him, voice hesitant when you showed them to Maeve.

“Clean lines, modern branding,” she nodded, coming back to stand beside you. “I like them too.”

“The council has spoken,” Tristan nodded, taking the folder back. “I’ll get back to them tomorrow morning and have them send a few samples over for us to see in person before we move to production.” He pulled out his phone and typed a few things into a note, Maeve tugged at your sleeve.

“Are you going to eat?”

“Yes, let’s offer something to our guest, though, right?”

“Harry’s not a guest anymore,” she wrinkled her nose at you in confusion. “It’s been way too long to call him that.”

“I mean Tristan,” you clarified with a laugh, eyes glancing over to Harry to gauge a reaction.

He felt like a guest, sometimes--when he asked how to use the washing machine or when he asked if it was okay to use the pool. But seeing him make waffles with your daughters or sit on the couch to watch a movie with everyone after dinner made him feel like more of a friend. And thinking that made you feel insecure and stupid.

Harry’s brows arched in Tristan’s direction. “We do have plenty.”

“I’m stuffed,” Tristan waved him off. “Had an omelette and a green smoothie and now I’m off to a spin class--wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Says the man who shows up at my house before 9am on a Sunday with no notice,” you teased.

He held a hand to his hard for dramatic effect. “I just felt like this couldn’t wait.”

“Right,” you narrowed your eyes. “No other reason you needed to stop by.”

He laughed, Maeve was growing impatient and he could sense it, adjusted his messenger bag on his shoulder as he turned to head for the door. “Birthday dinner Friday night? I already made the reservation based on Zoey’s list of restaurants.”

“I will be there, unfortunately,” you teased. “Even though I said we don’t have to do anything special.”

“Friday night?” Harry inquired, eyebrows furrowed together when he moved to lean on the island.

“You should come,” Tristan decided, an enthusiastic nod in Harry’s direction. “Jeff will be there, Zoey--you’ve met Zoey, right?” Harry nodded but you cut them off.

“You don’t have to, Harry,” you said before turning to Tristan. “He’s probably busy.”

He didn’t have to, that part was true. But your hesitance was also because it felt like another blurred line. Was it weird for him to come? Was it weird for him to sit at a table with your friends and sing happy birthday like you hadn’t just met a few weeks prior?

“No, m’not busy. I was actually going to ask if you wanted me to stay with the girls.”

Another wave of butterflies in your stomach at his words, but Maeve derailed the conversation.

“I’m sleeping over Bella’s house,” she informed.

“Me too!” CeCe chirped with a smile.

“No you’re not,” Maeve shot back. “You’re not coming with me to a sleepover.”

Tristan declined Harry’s offer for you before you even had a chance to open your mouth.

“Do you know the woman? She can afford a babysitter. You should come, we’re gonna have an exquisite time!”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, hands in his pockets when he looked to you. “Is that alright?”

You weren’t going to say no. You weren’t going to stare him in the eyes and tell him he couldn’t come or tell him--in front of your daughters--that it felt weird for him to suddenly be more than just a house guest.

“Of course,” you nodded.

“Perfect,” Tristan smiled, “then I’ll see you on Friday,” he pointed at Harry and turned on his feet, a wave over his shoulders at the girls. “Bye my little devils!”

They both echoed a farewell when you turned to face them. “Okay,” you said, a nod to yourself more than to them. This was fine, it was fine for Harry to come along and spend time with your friends, right?

“Let’s eat already, I’m starving,” CeCe groaned. Maeve reached into the drawer and grabbed forks, Harry got the syrup and helped bring plates to the dining room table. The girls reached for waffles and CeCe let out a cry when Maeve took the one with sprinkles that she wanted.

“CeCe,” Harry reassured, “I made this one just for you. Lots of sprinkles,” he nodded, forking a waffle off of his own plate and onto hers.

She grinned from ear to ear and the butterflies reappeared. Maybe having him around wasn’t so bad after all.

Maeve’s sleepover fell through. Apparently Bella didn’t ask her mom in time and when Shelli arrived to pick up the girls for an exciting sleepover at Auntie Shelli and Uncle Irv’s, Maeve was less than thrilled.

The day of your birthday was less than exciting. Meetings in the morning, Tristan brought you a cupcake at lunch and you were doing your best to not honk aggressively loud in the pick up line that afternoon when someone nearly caused an accident.

Take out that night with the girls because you didn’t want to cook and Harry was busy--some sort of meeting with Jeff and other people. You were sat on the couch by 10pm with a glass of wine and for a second, you thought about waiting up for him.

A text at 10:15 informed that he’d probably stroll in after midnight. You climbed the stairs and felt hopeless and pathetic and entirely old. Even if everyone was telling you that you weren’t.

Now, Maeve was going on and on about how unfair it was that you didn’t ever let her stay home alone.

“One day will you let me?”

You gave her a sideways glance, secured an earring in place at your dresser and then turned to see her.

“One day--a long time from now.”

“A long time?” She asked, slumped over in a chair in the corner of your bedroom. “How long is long?”

“Maeve,” you let out a frustrated sigh, thankful for the fact that Shelli was more than fine to entertain CeCe downstairs while you finished getting ready and plastered enough deodorant to your armpits in hopes that you wouldn’t sweat through this dress. “I’m not playing this game.”

“It’s not a game, it’s a question,” she shot back.

“When you’re fifteen maybe.”

“Fifteen?! That’s, like, five whole years from now!”

“I know,” you nodded, offering her some mock sympathy. “However will you survive until then?”

A knock on the open door, an awkward smile from Harry. “Hi, sorry to interrupt--you look beautiful.”

“Ew,” Maeve rolled her eyes but then didn’t say more when you shot her a glance in the mirror.

“Thank you,” you said awkwardly, resting a hand on your hip. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to say I’ll drive, if you want. That way you can, you know,” he held a hand up to his mouth and gestured throwing back a shot.

Maeve stared up at him, confusion etched on her face but then she looked to you. “So you can drink?”

Harry’s face suddenly looked guilty, his eyes wide when you let out a laugh.

“Yes, so I can drink. But only responsibly,” you informed her, a finger pointed in her direction before you nodded and obliged. “That would be great, Harry.”

If he was going to come, he might as well be useful. It wasn’t going to be that type of night, though. Thirty-two felt like it was way too old to get too drunk to drive or end up on a friend’s couch hungover in the morning.

This was just a birthday dinner, ten people total and fancy wine. You’d order dessert and be home by eleven.

Maeve lugged her overnight bag down the steps, complaining the whole way about Bella and dragging her feet out of the door and into Shelli’s car.

Shelli, who wrapped her arms around you and wished you a happy belated, kissed you on both cheeks and encouraged you to let loose. “You’re not old,” she smiled. “You’re mature, you’re settling into your life. You’ve got years ahead of you to be boring and tired.”

You smiled, let her hug you again when you said: “it’s just been a hard year.”

“I know,” she nodded, brushed your hair with her hand and gave you an extra squeeze. “And birthdays just make us look back at the last 365 days.”

You nodded when she let you go. She kept your hands in hers, though, ignored the way Maeve said something snotty to CeCe in the back seat. “But here’s to looking forward! To the next 365 days and to less headaches. I’ll keep these two under control and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry had wandered out now, sunglasses on to shield his eyes from the setting sun.

“Harry!” Shelli called him over. “Make sure Y/N has fun tonight.”

He let out a laugh but looked in your direction. “I can try.” He had the keys in his hand, pressed a button to make his car chirp to life when Shelli got in hers.

You bent down at the back window, reached in and pinched CeCe on the cheek. “Be good, okay?”

“You be good too, mommy,” CeCe smiled. They waved from the backseat when they pulled out of the driveway and you turned to see Harry, still standing with his sunglasses on a smirk on his face.

“What?”

“Is it really that hard to make you have fun?”

He walked towards his car, you followed his lead and prayed your heels would hold out on the pavement. “No,” you said with a certain level of defense. “She’s just teasing me.”

“Yeah?” He climbed in when you opened the door. You settled in beside him and felt a sudden urge to convince him.

“I’m a fun person, Harry.”

He smirked when he started the engine. “Never said you weren’t.”

“I just have responsibilities, you know? Two children--that clearly would kill each other with their bare hands if I weren’t watching.”

“Hmm, don’t think I agree with you on that one,” he laughed, the tires gripped the pavement of your street when he took off towards the restaurant. “I think they’re more tame than you think. In fact, I think you’ve gotten so connected to the role of mom that it’s hard for you to turn that off.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “You sound like a therapist.”

He shrugged, dimples on his cheeks when he stole a glance in your direction from behind his sunglasses. “Does that mean I’m right?”

“No,” you said, looking down at the bracelet on your wrist. “Not completely.”

Quiet for a few moments, a left turn signal before he looked at you again. “I think you’re super fun, by the way.”

You hated the way it made your pulse pick up, another smirk in his direction when you felt your cheeks turn warm and he let out a tiny laugh.

You were both quiet for the rest of the ride, he introduced himself to Zoey and joked with Jeff on the way to your table on the back patio of a restaurant in Brentwood. They’d put up balloons, a toast in your honor after other friends filed in.

Appetizers first, embarrassing stories from your high school friends who seemed to flutter their eyelashes in Harry’s direction. Jeff’s arm was around the back of your chair by the time your dinner plates were cleared.

“The only time I’ve seen you as excited was when our dads brought us backstage for the No Strings Attached tour.”

You shot Jeff a look quickly, hoping he wasn’t planning on launching into the same story he’d told a thousand times--if only to see the look on your face.

“Wait, you mean the NSYNC tour?” Harry was seated across the table, margarita in hand when he leaned in for more details.

“Oh god,” Zoey rolled her eyes when Tristan shook his head. “Not this story again.”

“You mean the greatest story ever?” Jeff leaned down and shot her a look.

“We’ve all heard it,” Tristan whined, “I could recite it as if I was there, honestly.”

Harry’s eyes met yours, a few glasses of wine deep as the tea lights above the patio flickered on. “I haven’t heard it.”

“You certainly don’t need to,” you pointed at him with a lazy finger.

“Were you even alive then?” Tristan laughed.

“For NSYNC?” Harry pulled his head back, “course I was! My sister was obsessed with them.”

“Okay, well the story is literally stupid. Jeff thinks it’s funnier than it is and all that happened--”

“I want to tell him!” Jeff reached over and smacked you on the shoulder, pulling an eye roll from you when the others let out a laugh. “She asked Justin Timberlake to sign her boobs in front of our dads and it was ridiculously uncomfortable for everyone.”

“I was fourteen,” you defended, a smile pulling your lips towards the sky. “And stupid and in love with him and I didn’t think they could hear us.”

“Right,” Jeff waved you off as if everything you said was totally valid. “But the best part is when her dad then goes: ‘if you sign hers, you have to sign mine, too.’”

Zoey let out a snort of a laugh and so did the others, Harry tried to fight a smirk when he looked your way.

Jeff could barely keep a straight face, “Justin Timberlake never seemed so intimidated in his life.”

“I can’t believe I haven’t heard that story before,” Harry said to Jeff, elbows on the table now. “I can’t believe Irv hasn’t made a thousand jokes about it.”

You sipped at your drink and narrowed your eyes at Harry. “Maybe he also blocked it out due to being traumatized by the embarrassment.”

“What year was that?”

“Summer of 2000,” you looked to Jeff. “Their prime, obviously not mine.”

“Oh it was most certainly not your prime.” He shot back with a laugh,

You gave him a shove. “It wasn’t yours either! Your hair was curly and not in the cool JT way.”

“I’ve seen some of those pictures,” Harry pointed at his friend. “She’s right--not in a cool way.”

Jeff played it off and shot something back at Harry, ordered you another drink when you tugged on a jacket in the cooler air. The waiter brought out a cake with sparklers on top, Zoey took a thousand pictures and wrapped her arms around you at the end of the night.

“I have a feeling thirty-two will be a much better year,” she assured.

“Here’s hoping,” you agreed, pulled apart from her when Tristan leaned in to kiss you on the cheek.

“Well, you have a chauffeur for the night, so you’re off to a good start,” he teased.

Harry held up his keys in his hand and raised his eyebrows in a cheeky way. “Door to door service, a good price. Definitely off to a good start.”

You climbed back into the front seat of his car after Jeff shoved the balloons in the back, told you to keep them for the girls. The car ride was quiet, he told you about his album and kept the windows half way down as you snaked back up into the hills. You weren’t wasted by any means, just tipsy and tired and full after good food and better friends.

You keyed into the house with the balloons in hand, Harry was behind you and flicked on a light switch downstairs. You kicked your heels off inside and let the balloons float into the living room. “Want a glass of wine?”

He looked in your direction after clicking his phone shut, eyebrows raised as if he didn’t quite know how to answer. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

“I’d have one if you would,” you shrugged, already walking to the kitchen to grab some glasses.

He smiled, came to the island and ran a hand through his hair when you uncorked a new bottle of Pinot Noir. When you handed him a glass, he clinked it against yours and took a sip.

“Happy Birthday,” he said.

“Don’t remind me,” you laughed.

“Oh come on, s’not that bad.”

“You turn thirty-two and then tell me that.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” he nodded. “Dinner was good though.”

“As good as it can be when you get that group of weirdos together,” you admitted, stem of the glass between your fingers when you headed for the couch. He watched you walk away, paused for a moment before he followed suit and sat a few cushions down on the oatmeal colored sofa.

“S’kind of funny that we hadn’t met before Jeff set this up,” he motioned around the living room as if to gesture to the living arrangement. “I mean--obviously I’d heard a lot about you.”

“Like what?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him as you sipped the wine again. “If not the most embarrassing story of my early teens--”

“Just that you were one of his closest friends. Probably heard just as much about you from Shelli and Irv, to be fair.”

“I think I’m their favorite child even though I’m not actually theirs.”

He laughed at that, lifted his glass as if to agree with you before he angled his body towards you. “What did Jeff ever say about me? Aside from making me sound homeless and pathetic.”

You shook your head a bit and tugged at the hem of your dress. “He didn’t make you sound like either of those.”

“Well you didn’t seem too eager to have me living here…”

He trailed off, like he was waiting for you to protest or something. When you fought a smile and looked up at him, he squinted suspiciously. “What?”

You hesitated, unsure if admitting it would do you any good. Things were starting to feel normal, almost like Harry had a place in your house or your life or like it at least wasn’t awkward to be sitting on the couch with him after a night out with friends.

“Oh it’s that bad? Hesitate before you tell me bad?”

You made a face and laughed, almost embarrassed. “I was mostly focused on the fact that you’re young and that you’d maybe be a bad influence on the girls. You know--the whole rock star vibe.”

He smiled, nodded after a second but then said: “do I pass the test?”

“There’s no test,” you rolled your eyes.

“Right,” he looked at you like you were crazy, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “You expect me to believe that you didn’t make me meet you for coffee with Jeff that day to scope me out? Figure out if I was a total freak--”

You leaned back into the sofa and let out a playful groan. “I mean I was hoping you weren’t since Jeff always had such good things to say about you.”

He made you list them off, laughed at the fact that you thought you were too old or too uncool to come to the release for his first album. He poured you both another glass and smiled, hopefully you’ll come to the next one.

He showed you stupid videos from his time in his old band, listened to you talk about anxieties at work and how weird it felt to be in your dad’s house now.

“I mean, I’m glad we had a place to come.”

“Where’d you live before?”

“Woodland Hills,” you shrugged. “We bought a house there right after CeCe was born. It was nice, but too small and we obviously needed a change after I found him in bed with another woman in our bedroom there, so.”

Harry’s eyes went wide at that, he let out a laugh when you did, too. “Sounds miserable.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“And he’s not--does he see the girls ever?”

You bit your lip, moved your head from side to side and then sighed. “I mean--I asked if he could come to the funeral just to be with them and watch them since I was so busy, but he told me that he’d planned a weekend getaway with his new girlfriend in Malibu, so…”

“So he’s really a twat.”

You laughed at his word choice, British and confident when he nodded his head. “Yeah.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Luke.”

“Luke!” He scoffed and looked up the ceiling. “No wonder he was a twat.”

“Yep,” you nodded. “So it’s nice to be here.”

“I’m sorry that happened, by the way.”

You waved him off, finished the last of your wine and set the glass on the coffee table. “S’all good. Moving on to bigger and better things, right?”

“M’sure you can do better than someone who didn’t realize what a mistake he was making.”

You nodded slowly, dropped his gaze when you felt butterflies beneath your ribcage. You let out a breath, looked up to him. “I should probably head to bed.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, moved to stand from the couch and reached out for your wine glass. You handed it to him, ignored the way his fingers grazed against yours when he smiled. “Are you drunk?”

You hesitated to answer, followed behind him to the kitchen when he looked over his shoulder, waiting for your answer.

“Are you drunk?”

He pretended to be offended. “I asked you first!”

You lifted your shoulders and then giggled. “Yes, but in a good way.”

“Great, love that.”

“You have to answer, too!”

He turned around after he put the glasses in the sink. “After a bottle of wine here and a few margaritas at dinner? Of course I am,” he laughed. “Red wine goes straight to my head,” he pointed to his temple.

“Well,” you started to walk back to the living room for the stairs by your office, flipping off a few light switches along the way. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah? You plan on getting me drunk again soon?”

“I didn’t get you drunk,” you pointed at him. “It’s my birthday dinner, remember?”

“Yeah--you’ve been throwing them back all night so I couldn’t forget.”

“From the guy who encouraged me to have fun tonight! I’ve been having a great time, totally relaxed, totally cool…”

“You have,” he laughed, his footsteps echoing on the stairs behind you. “Just like you were totally cool when you met NSYNC.”

“Hey,” you turned around quickly and laughed, a tad unsteady from the drinks and the time of night. “That is privileged and confidential information--not something you get to hold over my head!”

“Mmm, okay, so I can’t bring that up in front of Irv and Shelli?”

“Absolutely not,” you leaned against the door frame to your room. “Unless you want to never speak to me again.”

It was dark in the hallway, a glow from the lights on the first floor crept up the stairs when he held your gaze for a second.

“Wouldn’t want that,” he said, voice quieter now.

Your heart seemed to flutter, or maybe it was the alcohol or the fact that you were up way too late. “Mhm,” you paused, unsure of how to respond to the sudden shift in the air between you. “Then I suggest you forget that story.”

“Thanks for letting me come with you guys tonight.”

“Yeah,” you said, eyes down to the ground for a second, suddenly self conscious. Did he have a good time? Was it weird for him to come? “Thanks for driving.”

You didn’t have too long to dwell on the thoughts, though, because soon he stepped closer and let his mouth meet yours before you were able to bring a hand to his shirt, tugging him into you.

He pulled you closer, too, his hand on the small of your back before he pulled away. “Are you--is that--I should have asked first.”

“No,” you shook your head, the word sounded funny in your drunk brain. “I’m not mad about it.”

He let out a quiet laugh, kissed you again when you tugged him back into the room and shut the door with his free hand.

You stumbled backwards, laughed against his lips when he lowered you onto the bed. Greedy hands and desperate moans when he pulled away to tug down your panties. If your life had been a movie, there’d be a cut to the hands on a clock spinning while you giggled into his neck and felt your skin against his beneath the sheets.

But what felt like a dream could only last so long.

Your head shot up from the pillow when you heard it--the door opening and shutting, the beep throughout the house to let you know someone had arrived. Sun shone through the curtains and giggles floated up from the first floor, you heard Maeve tell CeCe something and then you heard footsteps on the stairs.

Morning, the night faded into sobriety and you rubbed your eyes. His face was barely visible beneath his messy hair and the sheet pulled up to his chin.

“Harry,” you shoved him, voice quiet but stern. “Wake up!”

He blinked a few times, squinted in the sunlight and you realized that an 8am wake up call might have been early for him, you know, since he was barely an adult.

“The girls are home,” you said when you shoved him again. “Which means Shelli is here, which means you need to get the hell out of my bed.”

His eyes opened wide at that, he pushed himself up and then scrambled out of the sheets when he heard footsteps in the hall. The door was locked, luckily, but the banging of little fists had you pushing Harry into your bathroom and telling him to not say a word.

He was sleepy, but his lips pulled into a smirk when he took one look at you half-dressed. There was no time for addressing the way his fingers pulled moans from your lips or the way he said he’d been waiting for this. No, because as soon as the thoughts of last night settled back into your brain, you tugged the door open to see your beautiful daughters smiling up at you.

“Good morning,” you said, voice cheery when you tugged a sweatshirt over your skimpy tank top. You forced a smile and Maeve seemed to narrow her eyes.

“You look messy.”

“I just haven’t brushed my hair,” you told her. CeCe pushed past you and ran straight for your bed, a cannonball of sorts into tangled sheets.

“We had the best time with Auntie Shelli and Uncle Irv!” She said, “we watched a movie last night mommy and I stayed up until ten o’clock.”

“You fell asleep on the couch,” Maeve corrected her. “I stayed up until almost eleven,” she bragged.

“That’s great,” you told them, heartbeat rising as you tried to search for a way out of this. “Girls, why don’t you go find Auntie Shelli and--”

“I’m right here, sorry, I hope they didn’t wake you,” she appeared in the doorway, pulling another forced smile from you when you turned on your heels. “Good morning,” she looked you up and down with a smirk, more perceptive than your daughters.

“Where’s Harry?” Maeve asked, crossing her arms as she relaxed back on top of your duvet.

“I don’t know,” you said quickly. “In his room.”

“Door’s open, he’s not there,” she answered.

“Maybe he went to stay at a friend’s house.”

“Oh--did he tell you that?”

“I don’t remember,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders, suddenly feeling put on trial by your ten-year-old.

Shelli had scanned the room, her eyes landing on the shoes by the foot of your bed that were clearly not yours. She smiled, nodded slowly and then said: “Girls, why don’t we go pick up donuts? We can bring some back for mom and she can take a shower and straighten up while we’re out?”

“Great idea,” you smiled, a hurried nod as you moved towards your daughters and ushered them out of your bed. “When you get back we can watch TV or go for a bike ride later today,” you were just throwing shit at the wall now, anything to get them out of your room and distracted enough to not realize that Harry’s shirt was on the floor beside his pants and that his bed hadn’t even been slept in.

“I want a jelly donut!” CeCe informed you when Shelli pushed them out into the hallway.

“Sounds great,” you smiled. “See you in a bit, okay?”

You mouthed a thank you to Shelli and she winked in your direction, a wave of nausea crashing into you once the door was shut. You rushed over to the bathroom door, pulled it open, and found Harry leaning against the wall with his head in his hands.

He looked up quickly at the sound, offered an awkward smile and said: “are you livid?”

You shook your head, unsure how to put your emotions into words but also aware of the fact that this was the exact reason why this should have never happened. You turned around and headed back for the bedroom, looked out the window near your closet to see Shelli helping the girls into the backseat.

“You’re not livid?”

“No,” you said, turning around quickly. “I just--I don’t know--that probably wasn’t a great idea.”

His face fell a little bit, arms crossed over his torso when he asked: “what do you mean?”

“Last night was fun, Harry, but I’m thirty-two. I’m a mom,” you said the word like it was embarrassing to admit.

He made a face like he didn’t get the point but then nodded. “I’m completely aware of both of those facts.”

“You’re twenty-four,” you reminded him. “That’s a seven year age difference.”

“Eight, now that your birthday passed,” he said this sheepishly, like he knew it would lead to another groan.

“Exactly!” You said. “That’s a big gap. I spend my weekends going to birthday parties and playdates. What do you even do? Go to clubs and hang out with millionaires?”

He let out a laugh. “I’ve been hanging out with your kids a lot on the weekends, to be honest.”

“Yeah, but, my kids almost just caught us in bed together and Jeff’s mom is definitely aware that something happened, now, so--”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

A moment passed when you heard the engine start.

“It was fun, though,” he said, a small step closer to you when you let out a sigh. “It was something I’d been hoping would happen.”

Your breath seemed to catch in your throat when he took another step closer, the pad of his thumb making contact with your arm when he went on. “Call me crazy but I feel like we both knew that was coming.”

You took a step back, not because he was wrong and not because you didn’t like it, but because suddenly every thought in your brain was spinning at 100 miles per hour and you knew you had about fifteen minutes to get dressed and figure out what the hell was going on. Or at least craft a story that would explain why his clothes were in your room and figure out a way to get Shelli to completely forget whatever she thought she saw.

“Can we maybe talk about it later? Like--when they’re not coming back here in a few minutes with donuts and coffee?”

“Yes,” he nodded, words fumbling out of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form sentences. “Later. I’m going to get dressed.”

“Me too.”

He shut the door after he gathered up his clothes and shoes. You sat on the foot of the bed and stared at your hands--the ones that had touched him and run through his hair and traced circles on his chest when you fell asleep.

You were simultaneously mad at yourself for being stupid enough to do that and still completely enchanted by the fact that it happened and you weren’t dreaming and you hadn’t been crazy to think there was some level of sexual tension between you.

You were drunk. The first time you'd had more than two glasses of wine in a while, after all. Whatever type of stupid crush that had developed was nothing more than that: stupid, silly, a complete fantasy that had sparked into a flame once you had a few drinks.

Sure, maybe you had no clue what to do moving forward, but you figured that playing it cool was the only option until you’d had enough time to let your thoughts and feelings settle.

Maeve and CeCe were clueless, you learned, when they sat at the counter and scarfed down donuts. You sipped the coffee that Shelli had returned with and asked about their night.

A movie, popcorn on the couch, so many laughs and Uncle Irv even let them play on the old pinball machine he kept in his office.

The shower in Harry’s room shut off eventually, he descended the stairs with wet hair and offered a timid smile to everyone in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he patted CeCe on the head and moved to fetch the cup of coffee that Shelli offered in his direction.

“I’ll take it the birthday dinner went well?” Shelli brought her coffee up to her lips and let her eyes dance between the two of you. Harry looked at you and you looked at him, a silent standoff to see who would respond.

But it was your birthday, you realized.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Was great.”

You reached for a bite of donut from CeCe’s plate, she let out a yelp when you plopped it in your mouth, offering her an apologetic look. “Good food, good drinks.”

“You enjoyed yourself too, Harry?”

He was caught off guard by this, lips in a thin line when he set his coffee on the counter and nodded. “It was wonderful, really.”

Shelli wouldn’t care--you weren’t worried what she would think or if she’d judge you. If anything, you knew she’d be the type to encourage you to let your hair down and venture out into the dating pool. Which is what she practically did last night. You just didn’t know if she’d actually meant to encourage you to sleep with the client of her son.

But she didn’t know the context! She didn’t know about the way he looked at you across the dinner table or the way he kept pouring wine. All she knew was that she told you to have fun and then she found you--quite disheveled--with Harry’s clothes on the floor and Harry himself nowhere to be found.

Maeve was off to her room soon enough, reporting that she needed a break from CeCe who was keen to play with a doll in the living room with the TV on. You wiped the counter with a sponge and Harry took a loud slurp of his coffee when Shelli broke out into a full smile.

“It’s none of my business,” she said.

“It’s not,” you looked up at her quickly.

“But,” she lifted a single shoulder and smirked when you rolled your eyes. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“It’s not a secret.”

“Then why was he hiding in the bathroom?” She lowered her voice so CeCe wouldn’t hear.

“How do you know I was in the bathroom?”

“He wasn’t hiding in the bathroom.”

Shelli offered an unimpressed look in your direction but then turned to Harry. “She’s a catch, Harry.”

“Okay,” you held up a hand, embarrassed and uncomfortable and already breaking a sweat. It was fun, you’d been thinking a lot about him and the way he acted with you and the kids and you didn’t need Shelli to be egging on your single-mom fantasy.

Harry blushed at that, a nod in her direction and a smirk on his face when he brought his eyes to you.

“Shelli--people get drunk and do things that sometimes they wouldn’t normally, right? So, I need you to not make a big deal out of this and not tell Jeffrey.”

She put her fingers up to her lips and twisted them, implying that they were locked and Jeff wouldn’t catch wind of your best and most anxiety-provoking hook up to date. She dropped it at that, Harry made some excuse about going for a run and soon Saturday melted back into what you’d hoped it would be: the kids playing outside, cannon balls in the pool after lunch.

Daylight faded and it wasn’t until after 9pm when you had to face him again. He knocked on the door to your office when you had glasses falling down your nose, a sweatshirt tugged over your messy bun.

The side of his mouth twitched into a smirk, arms folded over his chest. “Do you ever take a day off?”

You let out a laugh and turned to see him over your shoulder. “Email never sleeps.”

He watched you for a second, wheels spinning in his head as he planned out his next words carefully: “Is now a better time to discuss what happened last night?”

You let out a sigh, one that pulled a nervous look to his face, but he soon laughed. “Uh oh,” he teased. “Doesn’t sound like a good start.”

“No,” you laughed, unsure of how to save any last morsel of dignity. “I’m sorry that Shelli was so...intrusive this morning.”

He looked down to the ground but chuckled. “Can’t say I’m surprised. She’s always talked about you like a daughter.”

“Yeah, I just--I had a great time, I mean that--”

“But,” he looked at you expectantly, blinked a few times when you smacked your lips together.

“But I think that it needs to be a one time thing. It would be really confusing for CeCe and Maeve if they found out.”

He nodded, took a deep breath and said: “I agree. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Something plucked at your heart, an unidentifiable emotion that made you want to kiss him harder than you did after five drinks and a birthday dinner. He was fine--totally understanding and unbothered by your words that effectively ended whatever mini-fling had existed for less than 24 hours.

Maybe that was it--disappointment. Had you expected him to put up a fight and convince you endlessly to sleep with him again or sweep you off your feet and drive off into the sunset? No. Did a part of you wish that he didn’t seem so accepting of learning that it would never happen again? Apparently so.

You faltered for a second, stared at him awkwardly but then clicked out of your mailbox. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

He looked back out to the kitchen, quiet and tidy after it’s post-dinner clean. “Do you want a glass of wine?” He smiled a bit, watched you with a sturdy dose of suspicion when you stood and rolled your eyes.

“Is this our thing? Turning questions around?”

He laughed but trailed behind you, sat at the island when you picked out a bottle. “Our thing? What do you mean?”

“You know--all friends have a thing, their bantery joke. Apparently ours is asking a question but then the other person turns it back around.”

“Hmmm,” he laughed, thought on it for a second when you uncorked and poured. “Are we friends?”

You looked up at him, matched the smirk on his face when he plucked at his lower lip. You slid a glass over to him on the granite. “Are we not friends?”

“You’re doing our thing.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, took a sip of the Merlot and then cleared your throat. “We can be friends.”

“Friends who don’t sleep together.”

“Right,” you nodded, less self-conscious than you had been in your office. It happened, right? People would accidentally sleep together when they were drunk and they could move on, poke fun, make light of a situation that threatened to bring too many emotions to the surface if either one let their guard down for a second.

“Did either Maeve or CeCe ask any more questions today about where I was?”

“Nope,” you shook your head, let out a breath of relief. “Maeve got too distracted by the donuts and the activity planning of the day and CeCe was oblivious the whole time. So, we should be fine.”

“Good,” he said. A pause when he let out a quiet laugh.

“What?”

He looked up at you briefly, shrugged a little and then said: “Just can’t help but think about what Jeff would say.”

You blushed at that, dropped his gaze and stared at the wine in your glass. “I don’t know about you but I’m okay not finding out.”

Another dimple on his cheek when he asked: “embarrassed of me?”

“No,” you laughed, fighting a smile. “I just know how he can be. He’ll want to know every detail and he’ll have a million questions. If you think Shelli was bad this morning, Jeff would be worse.”

He smiled, tipped his glass back to take another pull. “Right, he might as well be your brother, I guess.”

“He’s just as annoying as one, that’s for sure." You were desperate to change the subject, fearful of what you might say or admit if the topic stayed put. "Do you have any siblings?”

“Sister, yeah,” he nodded. “Just the two of us.”

“Are you close?”

“Super,” he smiled. “We talk pretty regularly despite the time difference. Our parents got divorced when we were young so it kind of feels like we’ve been through a lot together.”

He didn’t realize the way his words hit close to home until you sighed.

“How much did that ruin your life?”

He pulled a face, apologetic and understanding at the same time. “It didn’t ruin my life,” he reassured. “Just don’t think they were meant to be.”

“Well I can definitely relate to that.”

He tilted his head to the side, swirled the wine around his glass. “Why do you ask if it ruined my life?”

“I just worry about them, I guess. I was young when they got divorced, and then my mom passed and that definitely affected my sense of family."

He nodded, his eyes invested when you spoke.

“It was just me and my dad--and obviously we had the Azoffs, but, I don’t know. I guess I just worry that they’ll also grow up feeling somewhat unfulfilled.”

“Did you want a sibling growing up?”

“More than anything,” you laughed. “I mean, I had Alison and Jeff and all of them, but--you know, it’s not blood.”

“Yeah,” he took another sip. “I get that--my step dad was really important to me, passed away last summer.”

“Oh, wow--I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Great--here you were complaining about losing both parents now, completely unaware that Harry had suffered a similar loss and yet this was the first time you were hearing it.

“I don’t mean to talk about myself so much,” you said quickly, cheeks flushed in a pink hue of shame.

He let out a soft laugh, almost as if he found your sudden retraction endearing or adorable. “I could listen all day.”

“Well, I wouldn’t make you suffer through that,” you said.

He stood, rounded the edge of the island and you wondered if he could hear your heart beating out of your chest, like you were 16 at a summer fair on top of the ferris wheel. His lips were pressed to yours before you could tell him not to, before you could stick up a hand between the two of you and remind him what you’d said only a few minutes earlier: friends.

The moment was quick, though, the tiny thudding of feet on the stairs sent him flying to the other side of the kitchen. CeCe’s hands gripped the railing and she rubbed at her eyes when she let out a tiny wail.

“I--had--a--bad--dream,” she cried, her voice soft in the dim kitchen.

“Oh sweetie,” you hurried over to her, let your arms wrap around her before you scooped her up into your arms. “It’s okay, it was just a dream, you’re here and safe with mommy.”

You looked over to him, a close lipped smile in apology when you turned back to the stairs. Maybe it was for the best. If you couldn’t control yourself around him, at least you could count on nightmares and little feet to be your safety net.

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roanniom · 3 years

Note

Hey Issa, my sweet honey bun! I don’t send many requests to people, so bear with me. I’ll forever wait for the day you write Kylo, but until then I’ll throw this one at you for Charlie. I had a wander through the prompt list, and I kinda liked “I’ll feel better if you let me walk you home.” with Charlie being all protective of reader, unsure if she reciprocates his feelings. And because I’m a garbage can of filth, I also loved “I’m not made of glass. You won’t break me.” if you wanted to move into smut. I hope this gets the creative juices flowing? Take your time, no pressure ever! 💕💕💕

@paper-n-ashes as you know I have been holding onto this and chipping away at it steadily for FOREVER so I can get it just right for you, so I hope you enjoy it, my love <3

Push

Charlie Barber x Reader

Word Count: 6,862

Warnings: NSFW, fingering, PIV sex / unprotected sex, light light light choking (not even really), mention of infidelity (just canon from Marriage Story plot), a lil post-divorce angst/lack of confidence

The above photo is Charlie Barber, 1-year post divorce. He’s been working out as a form of anger management and because Henry, over many late night phone conversations, has shared his new love of hiking, a pastime he’s picked up since living in LA. Charlie plans to take Henry hiking on the Appalachian trail next summer break and wants to be on tip top shape to keep up with his enthusiastic son.

He’s been to therapy. Learning more about what went wrong in his marriage, but more specifically learning about how he can become a better person in the aftermath. How infidelity and self-interest were born of a deep-seated need for a love that he was not receiving. A love that was no closer to him prior to his indiscretions but all the same rendered unreachable as a result. He’s given himself time to grieve the man he’d thought himself to be. Because that is what had died with his marriage - not Charlie Barber himself. But the Charlie Barber he’d built in his mind. A man limited by support that came with conditions, love that came with caveats. That Charlie was a father and a husband. He was often suppressed, wound tight, on edge.

This Charlie is a father and a man. He is free to celebrate his own success without fear of wounding nearby egos. He’s limited only by what he feels he deserves. And granted sometimes those self-imposed limitations can really hold him down, as they did when he vowed not to jump into any further entanglements - affairs or otherwise - in the time immediately following his divorce. But that limitation was ultimately beneficial. It gave him space to be alone - with himself, for himself. He was able to finally see his own flaws with his own eyes instead of having them recited back to him by another, as if through a crude, second hand reflection. And in seeing these flaws, he also saw the virtues. Charlie was actually starting to like himself again.

And this is when he meets you.

You storm into his life with an energy he doesn’t recognize, introduced at a party by a friend of a friend, filling his senses with your too-loud-laughter and too-bright-eyes. In many ways that’s how he sees you: too much. Your enthusiasm makes you appear too young, though in truth you’re not that much younger than him. Your smile makes you appear too beautiful, though in truth there are often much more conventionally attractive women in the room at any given time.

“Charlie. Charlie Barber,” Charlie mutters as he shakes your hand. Its warm in his larger one and he’s suddenly a little self-conscious of the fact that he’d been holding his sweating scotch on the rocks just moments before the contact.

“Hello Charlie-Charlie Barber,” you reply with a massive grin, shaking his hand back vigorously and with seemingly no reaction to its clamminess. “The famous director, I assume?”

Charlie clocks the quirk of your eyebrow. A tease. A social cue he’s not used to. Not these days. He looks down at his worn tennis shoes, all too aware all at once of the way they dress down his sweater and jeans. He feels rumpled next to you and he’s not sure he likes it. You’re too put together.

You’re too honest, too fearless, too open to new things. Though Charlie’s beginning to grow, your presence reminds him of how stunted he’d been in his marriage. How the same old restaurants, the same old clothes, the same old glass of the same old scotch had become items of comfort for him, talismans of a previous life that he clung to for some semblance of familiarity. Around you, however, those same old things looks dull and uninspired. Quite the opposite of you.

You are the one to ask him out, though he’s not even really aware that it’s a date at all when he arrives. That’s how much he doesn’t see you coming. His affair had been one of convenience. An opportunity to blow off excess steam, and a pretty disappointing one at that, with neither party really find what they were chasing. His marriage had grown cold long before it had ended. All of this to say that Charlie wasn’t very familiar with warmth. With interest that occurred in the light of day, and attention that was given without anything sought in return.

You’re halfway through lunch before you realize that he doesn’t understand your intentions. So you explain them to him. Clear and empty of any pretense. You are attracted to him and interested in getting to know him further. It’s simple, really. He’s shocked by your openness and the absence of any games. In another life he’d once assumed that a relationship without strife, without agony, without strategic tug of war would be one without passion. However, as he soon learns while taking you out on the second date, that he couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Over dinner this time he finds himself getting lost in your micro-expressions. Finds his eyes lingering on the animated way you gesture, finds his words getting twisted in his tongue as your gaze weighs on him, expectant and waiting for a response to some question. His bodily responses to your attention are no less potent in the absence of angst. In fact, he is surprised to find that his yearning practically triples when you part ways and he realizes not once had he been made to feel like he had to prove something, or fight, or challenge.

He learns over time that you challenge him in other ways. Challenge him when it comes to picking restaurants outside his comfort zone. Challenge him by dragging him, mid-lunch date, on a shopping trip with you, a trip where you gently help him to finally replace the worn out tennis shoes to which he’d been clinging. Challenge him by laughing with him, not at him, even when the subject of the humor is himself. Your laughter is lighter, more carefree, than he is used to. Then again, he’s not used to being around someone like you.

He kisses you after the third date – the lunch-turned-shopping trip. It’s quick and it’s light, on the curb before an intersection on the East Side, right before you both are about to walk in separate directions. You say nothing when he pulls away. Just smile and turn on your heel, already headed to your next destination. It drives Charlie crazy over the next few days. Not because he assumes you have some hidden agenda. On the contrary, he’s horrified that your interior thoughts match your exterior actions. You have been nothing but honest with him. It is Charlie who has been oscillating wildly in his mind. Between thoughts of how much it might hurt if you turn out to be too good to be true and thoughts of how much he’d love to feel your body on his. To explore the mouth you use so effortlessly to tease him, to compliment him, to charm him. You speak kindness like pleasantries, as if affirmations and praise were as easy to dole out as a cheery “good morning” on a stress-free Saturday. Charlie wants to know what you’re like on a Saturday. Away from the bustle of the city. Away from the common friends and the crowded shops and restaurants that have buffered all of your encounters.

But Charlie’s still afraid.

On your fourth date Charlie is more reserved when you arrive at the restaurant. You break the ice by pointing out that the formality of your dates is beginning to feel silly.

“Maybe it’s the fact that the tables have tablecloths,” you joke, swirling your pasta around a fork. “Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never repeatedly had meals with someone I wasn’t already in a relationship with.”

Charlie prickles at the implication, taking a labored swallow of ice water. He doesn’t want to comment on the relationship part of your sentiment so he chooses something more neutral.

“Should I remind you that two of these meals have been at your suggestion and you did, in fact, also plan them as meals.” He relaxes a bit when you laugh heartily at that, relieved that the conversation doesn’t get any more dicey.

“Touché,” you reply. Then you lean forward and whisper conspiratorially at him across the small table. He feels himself lean in, curious but also looking for a chance to just get closer in proximity. He wishes he’d had the courage to sit next to you rather than across from you when he’d first sat down. “Feeling adventurous enough to let me pick where we go after this tonight?”

And Charlie feels adventurous. Adventurous as he lets you whisk him across town and to your favorite arcade bar. Adventurous as he passes you a large handful of quarters he got from the little machine at the front, only to grasp your fist in his when he miscalculates how much of his handful you’d be capable of taking, narrowly avoiding a massive spill of loose change on the floor. Adventurous as he orders a couple of beers and lets you show him your favorite game, Burger Time – a silly little maze game where you collect burger ingredients. Adventurous as he shows you his favorite game, which is pretty much any pinball machine known to man.

“Yours looks cooler than mine,” you huff, walking over to the pinball machine he’s playing once you abandon the one that was definitely broken. Or at least that’s how you justify so many consecutive, immediate losses. Charlie laughs and pulls back the plunger but doesn’t release, effectively pausing his game.

“You wanna try it?” Charlie ushers you in front of him and puts your hand on the plunger beneath his, careful not to release it in the process. “The key is anticipating where the ball will go. It’s all about patterns after a while.”

“Then why does it seem so random?” you ask, looking up at him over your shoulder.

“You just haven’t played enough yet. Over time you can predict what will happen if the ball hits a certain corner. Where it will go if it ricochets juuust right at the last second.”

“Sounds fake but I’ll let you prove it to me,” you say with a laugh, focusing your attention back on the machine.

“We’ll let go in one…two…three.” When you feel the pressure of his hand let up you let go as well, letting him guide both your hands immediately to the buttons on the side of the machine.

For as great as his theory of pinball predictability is, he probably underestimates your ability to suck. Because you do, hard. But you laugh the whole way through, and you never quit. Never turn to him in frustration asking to do something else or even to leave. Instead you keep feeding quarters into the machine and bringing your hands back under Charlie’s on the machine. And no matter how shitty you are, you always at least try to focus.

Charlie, meanwhile, is having a very hard time focusing on anything that isn’t your body. His hips bracket your ass in this helpful position he’s adopted, and he feels your pressure against his pelvis with every enthusiastic wriggle and little jump of frustration that you take in response to the game. When he makes the unfortunate mistake to look down over your shoulder at one point he’s met with a direct view of your cleavage, exposed as it is in your low-cut blouse. Charlie begins to sweat and it has nothing to do with how packed the arcade is or with the exertion of gaming. When he remembers that the arcade is also a bar, he excuses himself to get more beer, hoping that one will cool him off and cool him down.

You dazzle him with a smile thrown over your shoulder when he approaches with the two fresh bottles, and he’s not prepared for how the sight of your face almost knocks him back on his ass.

“Charlie! I did better this time!” He chuckles at your enthusiasm.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, handing you your beer which you sip gratefully.

“I lasted a few more minutes than last time,” you elaborate proudly. “So I’d say that means I now qualify as a pinball wizard.”

“Move over Elton John,” Charlie says with a smirk. You slap him in the shoulder and immediately engage him in a spirited discussion of whether the Elton John movie version of “Pinball Wizard” was better than The Who’s version from the original album. However, after a few minutes Charlie realizes he’s lost in thought. Lost in your voice. Lost in your expressions. Lost in you.

When it finally comes time to leave the arcade, the night drawing much later than it had on your previous nighttime date, Charlie’s scared he’ll be lost without you. The two of you walk together for a couple of blocks before you reach that similar intersection. The place where you part ways.

“I think we really turned around that formality thing, don’t you?” you ask him, turning to Charlie and leaning back against the column of a pedestrian sign. Charlie moves into your space, swallowing his hesitation.

“I don’t know, I began to feel a little unworthy when you ascended past the role of pinball wizard.”

“Oh did I get a promotion?” You ask, tipping your head back so you can look up at him as he steps closer.

“The word wizard conjures up images of wizened old man,” Charlie says dismissively, as if that clears up everything.

“So if you’re saying I don’t remind you of a wrinkled old Merlin – to which might I say, shocker – then what exactly is my new title.”

“One that fits you inside and out.” Charlie braces a hand against the column above your head, his other in his pocket. His head dips down so that it’s closer to your face despite your height difference. You feel warm despite the slight chill in the air.

“And that would be Pinball….?” you prompt.

“Goddess,” he completes the title before pressing his lips to yours. His hands remain on the column and in his pocket until you reach forward and grab a fistful of his sweater, pulling him to you. Then his hands are at your waist, pushing you back into the column. His tongue is in your mouth and your hands are in his hair and he can’t breathe. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to suffocate, wants to asphyxiate on you and the way he feels so tethered to this moment, this intersection, this place where you cannot part ways.

When you break apart to, in fact, breathe, your chest heaves and your smile is radiant.

“As far as kisses goodnight go, I’d say that was top tier,” you say on a laugh. Suddenly Charlie’s throat is constricting and he has to fight his facial muscles to keep from frowning as his hands tighten on your waist.

“That wasn’t a kiss goodnight. Not yet.”

“Any longer and it’ll be a kiss good morning, sir. Have you seen the time?” Your tone is joking. You call people ‘sir’ all the time. It’s a weird quirk of yours, like calling someone dude or pal. But Charlie can feel himself choking on the word, as well as the implications of a ‘kiss good morning.’ All of a sudden he feels like if he could have only one more thing before dying, that’s what he’d ask for. But then he kicks himself internally for being so fucking dramatic and he fiddles with the hem of your shirt.

“Exactly. It’s late.

You survey him from under your eyelashes with a small smile.

“I’ve made this walk many times.”

“It’s dark.”

“I’ve made this walk in the dark many times.”

“I’ll feel better if you let me walk you home.”

Charlie’s heart clenches. Before he can overthink, you’ve ducked out of his hold, grasped his hand and started pulling him down the street.

“C’mon Charlie, hurry up. You’d keep a goddess waiting?” you toss back at him over your shoulder. But in truth it was taking all of Charlie’s self control and the fact that he didn’t know the way to your place to keep him from throwing you over his shoulder and breaking into a full sprint.

~*~

Your place is exactly like you. Eclectic, warm, inviting. There is a moment, as you pull off your coat and turn away to place it and Charlie’s on a coat rack, when Charlie feels much too big for the space. Like he’s some kind of giant invading the home of a sweet little wood nymph. But then his little wood nymph is grabbing him by the front of the shirt and dragging him to a bedroom and the worries fade right out the window.

At first Charlie is gentle with you. His hands ghost over your body as you kiss him beside your bed. When you push him to sit down on the edge of the mattress and step between his open legs to kiss him with a different height dynamic his heart just about jumps clear out of his chest. He hasn’t done this – hasn’t touched or been touched – in so long. The affair had been transactional, just the mechanical motions of sexual gratification. Sex with Nicole, before it stopped, had been even colder, almost as if she had been begrudgingly completing some unwelcome chore.

You, however, are like fire beneath Charlie’s fingers. Your skin, your lips – everything is so warm it feels like you’re too hot to touch. But Charlie would rather risk burning up than to not become accustomed to the feel, the shape, the substance of you. He smooths over your body with a reverential softness, his muscles tense with restraint so as to keep from accidentally pushing you too far too fast. To keep from handling the way that, deep down, he desperately needs.

When your lips suddenly leave his, his brow furrows in frustrations. Before he can open his eyes a soothing finger smooths the furrow away, sliding down the bridge of his nose to press against his kiss-swollen lips. Charlie opens his eyes with a question present in them and you cock your head to the side.

“You’re tense. Like you’re holding back.” The statement isn’t accusatory but it isn’t a question. Charlie takes a shaky breath, unsure about how much he should say. Would his desperation read as too dramatic? Too undesirable? Would his enthusiasm come across as pushy or dominating? His brow must furrow again because your hand moves back up, finger pressing out the wrinkles. He shrugs.

“It’s been…a while for me. I didn’t want to come across as too…much.”

You laugh then and yet again Charlie is struck by how strange it is that you can laugh in his face directly in response to something he’s said without making him feel like you are laughing at him.

“I’m not made of glass. You won’t break me, Charlie.”

“You’re sure about that?” Charlie huffs out with a little chuckle. You give him a smirk and say your next words up against his lips.

“Try me.”

You probably were expecting him to require more cajoling. You probably were expecting him to gradually ease into something more. But Charlie takes you by surprise, grabbing you and pulling you onto the bed with him, rolling so that you’re laid out beneath his body, all the while maintaining hungry possession of your mouth. His body finds its place between your legs and you gasp at the feeling of how huge he is. How hard and insistent against your softness. He drinks from you like a man whose thirst can not be quenched. His hands find purchase on your waist and he squeezes. So hard you’re sure you’ll bruise. You smile against his mouth with the realization that you look forward to watching them bloom later.

Since Charlie seems too preoccupied with groping and making out with you, it is you who eventually takes the next step, beginning to pop open the buttons on your blouse one by one. When Charlie feels the motion of your hands between your bodies he ultimately pulls back to investigate, mouth dropping open at the slow reveal of the lingerie you’re wearing beneath. His hand shoots out to caress the delicate lace of your bra, teasingly not applying any pressure to the breast beneath.

“Do you wear things like this often?” Charlie’s voice is already rough as he asks this. You shrug.

“Whenever I want to feel sexy.”

“You wanted to feel sexy while out with me?” Charlie asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“You made me feel sexier than the lace, Mr. Barber,” you say with a smile before leaning up to capture his lower lip between your teeth. He groans and moves to practically swallow you whole. You’re entirely foreign to him. Enthusiasm, amusement, and enjoyment bundled up into one devastatingly sexy package. There’s no shame in your movements, no angst in your eyes. Just humor. Only an unabashed pursuit of pleasure. And if it’s pleasure you want, it’s pleasure you’ll get.

Charlie now aids you in the process of removing the rest of your garments, so it goes much quicker. When you move to pull off your bra, however, he catches your wrist in his massive hand.

“No…can these stay on?” Your eyebrows shoot up but you notice the way that Charlie is gazing at you with eyes slightly hazy and tongue running over his lips.

“This doing it for you, Charlie?” you tease, shimmying a bit. Charlie’s answer is sincere regardless as he dips his head down to sample the plush skin at the line of your cleavage.

“You have no idea.”

“So you’re a lingerie man, huh?” When you ask he stops to think for a second because, truly, he had never considered himself that way before. He’d never had any reason to. Sure lingerie models in magazines were hot, but it’s not a specific fantasy he’d ever explored previously.

But the sight of you here, strategically covered in lace and laid out beneath him pretty as a picture has him so hard he feels like a teenager unable to control himself. So, as you had urged him, he doesn’t.

“I might be. But really, I’m just enamored by these tits.” His teeth sink into your flesh and you sigh, especially when his tongue comes out to lave warmly at the spot. He moves down your body then, peppering kisses to the exposed skin of your stomach, sliding until your inner thighs rest against the sides of his face and his hands dip below you to squeeze your ass. “Although I feel like this might end up being my favorite part.” He says this last part directly into your clothed cunt, his lips just barely ghosting over the fabric with his words.

You wiggle a bit in his grasp, loving the answering way his fingers dig into your soft flesh. Your fingers card into his lush hair, tugging lightly at the roots, a feeling that shoots through his body and straight to his rock hard member. The way he discretely ruts against the mattress in response does not go unnoticed by you, so you drop a hand under his chin to tip his face back up to look at you.

“Will you fuck me, Charlie?” Your voice is clear and bright. Not playing coy and requiring any convincing. Just asking for something you want. And the hunger in your eyes seems unmistakable, though it still feels to good to be true. Charlie drops his gaze back down to the wet spot forming in your panties before looking back up and practically pouting.

“I’d like to taste you,” he counters. A brilliant smile breaks out across your face at the sound of that but you shake your head.

“There’ll be time for that later,” you argue, tugging on his shoulder to get him back on top of you. “If you don’t get inside me right now I’ll die.”

Charlie almost misses that last part because he’s still stuck on the first part. There’ll be time for that later. The possibility of later squeezes at Charlie’s hard and it’s only after a few echoing seconds that he’s able to process the rest of your statement with a delayed, choking laugh.

“Is someone getting dramatic on me?”

“Not yet, but I will if - ”

“If I don’t get inside you?” Charlie completes the statement in the exact moment a hand drops between your thighs and presses against the soaked fabric covering your slit. You inhale sharply.

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t take you for someone who was pushy in bed,” Charlie says good naturedly, swiping his fingers up the line of you to end with a swirl over where he assumed – correctly – your clit was. You tilt your pelvis to maximize his pressure before surging up to kiss him long and hard.

“I’m actually not. Not really,” you say breathlessly when you finally pull away and drop back down onto the pillows. You stretch luxuriously, almost like a kitten in the sun under his piercing gaze, the movement of your hips bumping his hand to rub you even better. Running your hands up and down the big, strong arms that cage you in and support him, you kiss his shoulder. “I’ve been hoping you would be.”

Suddenly your wrists are being pinned down above your head by one of Charlie’s hands. He’s got your legs open wide with his body sinking against you, hard and heavy.

“Pushy? You want me to be pushy?”

You grin big and wide at him.

“Yeah. Take charge like I know you want – oh!” You’re cut off by the welcome sensation of stimulation as Charlie’s hand drops inside your panties to slide around in your waiting slick. Without the barrier of the fabric between you, the feeling of your velvety slipperiness is enough to make him loose a growl.

He’s not hesitating and he’s not teasing anymore. Charlie has been waiting for this moment. He’s been waiting to care. Been waiting to feel. And what’s heightening the experience even more is the look on your face, the way your lips are parted and the way you gaze up at him longingly, expectantly. Providing all the evidence he needs to prove that you want this too. He wants you and you want him – what a novel idea. There are no angles or obligations, but also no shame or secrecy.

“Well if you wanted me to take charge you should have said so earlier,” he says, the corner of his lip quirking a bit as he dips two fingers inside your soaking cunt, not bothering to start with one. You gasp at the sudden intrusion. The stretch is a lot, but it is everything. Charlie sees the enjoyment register on your face, discomfort melting away almost immediately, and he begins to pull them slowly in and out to massage your walls.

“Maybe – ahh – maybe I should have,” you reply.

“Should I have caused a scene in the arcade?”

“Yes – fuck!” During an inward thrust Charlie curls his fingers up this time, rubbing against that spot in your upper wall that previous guys barely even knew was there. Before you know it he’s adding a third finger and you’re beside yourself. Charlie is elated to see how easily your body responds to his ministrations, how free you are with your reactions. He leans to down to suck a mark over your collar bone while his thumb meets your clit in tandem with his other thrusting fingers.

“You knew what you were doing when you kept rubbing that pretty little ass back into me while I taught you pinball.” His words rumbling against the skin of your throat.

“You made it so easy.”

“And you made it so hard,” Charlie counters, humor very present in his voice. You gasp out a laugh and try to tug your wrists from his grasp, but he doesn’t let you. Just keeps you pinned down as he continues to finger fuck you nice and slow.

“So impatient. I should have known. You’ve been impatient all night, haven’t you?” You whine out affirmations and screw your eyes shut as the pressure starts to build to a crescendo. Charlie picks up speed, his voice growing deeper as he continues. “Wanted me to fuck you on the pinball machine in front of everyone, didn’t you?”

You gasp and toss your head back against the pillows at that, hips bucking involuntarily. Charlie’s nose glides along the perimeter of your jaw, breathing in the scent of you as you fall apart. He’s never felt so powerful as he does with the feeling of your muscles tensing up under his fingertips. Never had the inspiration or audience for such language, but as you shiver and respond to his words, a surge of pride fills him and all he wants to do is dangle you over the edge over and over again.

“Charlie…” His name is a whimper when it falls from your lips. You’re so close. He feels it. So he pushes his fingers deep inside you, curling up with the motion, just as he sweeps one, two, three final circles into the throbbing bud of your clit.

You crest and you break against the tide of your orgasm, plummeting down from such heights you didn’t know you could reach from simple fingering. But there’s nothing simple about Charlie, the man who had been broken and put back together, only to find you, the universe’s overly generous reward for his perseverance.

Charlie’s slightly (unfocused) eyes focus on your heaving chest as you finally descend from the orgasm, but you’re the one to break the spell. Impatient is the perfect way to describe you as you wrap your legs around his middle and hook your ankles to trap him against you. You lunge up to arrest his mouth in a kiss. It’s sloppy, but just enough to distract him so that you can pull your wrists from his grasp. Once free you push him gently to the side so that you’re both rolling over, mouths still attached. He comes to rest on his back with you straddling him.

Charlie blinks up at you, taking in the way your breasts bounce in their bra cups as you busy yourself with the task of removing his clothes. He hadn’t even realized he was still in them until you began unbuttoning and pulling and pushing. Your impatience is clear once again in the way you divest him of the frustratingly excessive material and he finally gets the memo that he should help you.

With his pants and underwear pulled off and discarded, as well as the button up shirt that you had come to love as his signature look, you rest your palms flat on the plane of his chest. You’re still in your lingerie, as he had requested, only it is now beautiful askew. Your breasts now strain out of the cups, having been jostled into almost spilling out with your change of position. Your panties are sopping wet and stretched from his vigorous fingering and the evidence of your orgasm.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

But you become even more beautiful when you wrap your hand around his aching cock, lifting up on your knees as you do so. Your fists slides up and down, up and down and he watches it, mesmerized, until you lean forward to catch his eye.

“What should I do, Charlie?”

Your face is soft and open. You’re asking for him to continue taking the lead. And Charlie realizes right then and there that he will never want to disappoint you. Snapping out his daze he lets his fingers dig into your flesh where his hands curl around your hips.

“Sit down on my cock, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

The term of endearment is so sugary. He’s called his son that, but never a lover, casual or otherwise, and never during the first time. Your face, however, lights up and you do as you’re told, sinking down onto his long, hard length. The impact draws a moan from both of your throats followed by gasped phrases spoken over one another.

“You’re so big!”

“You’re so tight!”

You both laugh at the overlap but laughter turns to groans as you roll your hips experimentally. After a few moments of this, it appears that Charlie becomes the impatient one finally.

“Ride me,” he spits through gritted teeth. Your nails imprint half moons in his skin as you clench at his tone, not quite hearing the words. Charlie sucks air through his teeth at the squeeze.

“What?”

“Ride me. I need you to fucking ride me.” You can tell that he’s trying to remain cool and collected, but his brow is furrowed and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth.

So you do as he says. You lift up and drop down, feeling the length of his cock slide through your sheath with a speed that you set, establishing a rhythm that has your toes curling. You let out a particularly shameless moan and Charlie opens his eyes. They widen immediately upon seeing that you’re clutching and squeezing at your own breast with one hand while grabbing onto his hip to stabilize you with the other. The sight alone of your face, screwed up in pleasure, flips a switch in Charlie and suddenly he is thrusting up into you without mercy.

“Charlie!” you cry out, both from surprise at the increased jostling and from how tremendously good it feels.

“I should have fucked you in the arcade. I would have if I had known how good you feel.”

“I – oh fuckfuck – knew,” you barely get out. Charlie hoists you back so that he’s sitting up with his back against the headrest now. The position gives him more leverage and power so he can lift you up and down his cock, bouncing you now with a rhythm that vibrates through your entire being.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Charlie asks, engulfing one of your breasts in his huge hand. The added sensation is perfect, but not quite enough. You wonder if you can coax more.

“I knew you would feel good.” You reach down to the base of his cock, encircling it as much as possible with it’s girth, and fisting upward just as he pulls you up, therefore maximizing the squeeze on his length. Charlie inhales abruptly and drops you back down.

“Little Miss Know-it-all, are you?” His voice is harsh and it sends a thrill throughout your body. Before you can respond, you’re pushed and yanked around, losing your grip with the motion.

“What - ?” Charlie’s hand on your throat quiets you. Not because he’s truly squeezing, but because the solid warmth of his hand causes you to squeak your way to silence. His adjustments now find you pulled up to the edge of the bed, legs spread and pushed back, with Charlie standing between them. Bent over, he grounds himself with one hand on your throat and one on your hip, positioning his tip back at the entrance to your weeping cunt. You expect him to slam his hips forward, to impale you with his cock, but he pauses with the swollen head just inside your folds.

“This okay?”

This power and control, the way he is manipulating your body for your pleasure and his own – he loves it. It’s so new and yet something he now wonders how he ever did without. But he also feels the need to check in and make sure that you’re still with him. The nod you give, the sparkle in your eye, and the quirk of your lips is all it takes to convince him and then he is plowing forward, slamming himself back in again and again. You let out a full throated moan and Charlie revels in the way your eyes roll all the way back.

He wonders what else will make you do that. What else will make your eyes roll back and your toes curl and your teeth sink into your bottom lip? He wonders, as his hand presses softly into the contours of your throat, what it would feel like to squeeze a little harder, and if the pressure would make you even more desperate for him. He wonders if you like a little pain with your pleasure, as he has long suspected he might enjoy, though has never truly had the chance to confirm.

But there will be time for that.

So now, he does his best to focus in on the sounds you release. Sounds of delight and surprise and sensual thrill. He coaxes you to your second climax and you don’t fight it. You don’t demure or wait for him or hesitate. Instead you unapologetically allow yourself to get lost in the pleasure he’s built for you, seizing and quaking beneath him without shame.

The sight and feeling are so beautiful he can’t help but follow soon after, pulling out and allowing releasing all over the bra and panties you had so generously left on for him. The sight of his seed landing on the delicate lace, as you lay beneath him fucked out and smiling, causes another tremor to rock through him, and he finds that he’s still cumming long after he usually would have finished.

Charlie finds himself in a daze in the immediate aftermath of his release. He looks around for something to clean you with, and when you notice you point out a box of tissues on the desk. After he’s done his best to wipe you up, you give him a kiss on the cheek. The mundane intimacy of the act makes him blush all the way to the hidden tips of his ears. It is absurd because you had just had sex, however the press of your lips to his skin seemed to seal the deal. This was not transactional. It was something more, Charlie can’t help but think to himself as you get up from the bed and skip to the bathroom.

In your absence Charlie again registers the smallness of your room. How large – out of place, maybe – he is amongst your delicate things. He pulls on his underwear and sits back down on the mattress, unsure.

Unsure about your expectations. Unsure about whether or not you’d want him to leave. Or stay.

Before he can make a decision in either direction you are bounding back into the room, a smile on your face. Your face is freshly washed and you’re in a faded, oversized tank top, having divested yourself of your abused lingerie. Charlie swallows at the sight of your breasts, free and outlined beneath the soft fabric. He adjusts his hands in his lap. No need to let you see him getting worked up again so soon like some horny teenager. You don’t seem to notice, instead slipping easily into bed beside him, shimmying under the covers and patting the space beside you so that he does the same.

So stay he will.

Once you’re both comfortable and situated, you slide into his arms, drawing them around your body without a question or seemingly a second though. Much like the way you’d slid into his life, Charlie thinks ruefully, nuzzling his face into the top of your head as you tuck in beneath his chin.

“Charlie?”

“Hm?”

“I know you always go to that diner on 15th for breakfast,” you begin, and Charlie’s heart spasms. Both at the thought of breakfast with you and the fact that you so casually know details about him. About his likes and his habits. He pulls you in a little tighter and nods his head.

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if I show you a new place in the morning? I think you’ll really like it.”

And Charlie laughs. Because of course you’d want to push him out of his comfort zone. It’s what you do – push him to try new things. Push him to do things he wouldn’t usually consider. Push him to be the man he’d been working so hard for the past year to be.

“Yes, but I’m not changing the way I order my eggs,” he grumbles with humor, kissing the crown of your head. “Not yet.”

~*~

The next morning you order first, and you’ve never had breakfast with Charlie before, so when he asks for the same dish, you can’t possibly know that this is his first time ordering eggs Florentine.

As you both laugh and eat and sip coffee in the outdoor seating area of the quaint café you’d picked, fingers intertwined between you on the wrought iron table, you also can’t know that this is the happiest Charlie has felt in ages.

But he makes it his mission, right there and then, to do everything in his power to make you feel the same.

~*~

Tagging some lovely friends (please let me know if you would like to be tagged or untagged in the future!): @celestiasin @tlcwrites @noocturnalchild @thedivinemissn @insufferablelust @edencherries @historyandfandoms50 @lostinthedrive @thewilddingleberries @mariesackler @safarigirlsp @direnightshade @sacklerscumrag @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely @han-not-solo @mrs-zimmerman @maryforyou @jynzandtonic @renmaulxo @millenialcatlady @soggywhore @transparentmeoo @leia-suns @alpha-lobito

#paper-n-ashes #charlie barber x reader #charlie barber x you #Charlie Barber/reader #Charlie Barber/you #Charlie Barber fanfiction #Charlie Barber smut #marriage story fanfiction #Marriage Story smut #writing #smut #Roanniom #tw: unprotected sex #tw: choking

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beauvibaby · 3 years

Text

tough decisions — j.oleksiak

a/n: finally another pcos fic, this is based around my symptoms with it, hopefully it’s relatable to most of you!!

warnings: pcos, anxiety, surgery and mentions of covid

“Hey, babe, I should be there in ten.” Jamie answered cheerfully, assuming you were calling to see how far out he was. “I’m sorry, J.” You mumbled, hiding back a groan at the pain tightening in your lower stomach. “I just don’t feel good tonight, could we reschedule?” You asked, letting out a small wince as you leaned against the counter. “Of course, are you ok? You sound hurt.” The concern in his voice only made you feel worse, you managed to hum in response, “oh.” He mumbled into the phone, clearly picking up your message.

You two had been dating for a little over six months, and now that he thought of it, he couldn’t recall a single time when you were on your period and miserable like this. “Did you want me to come over? I can bring you dinner?” He offered, waiting hopefully for your response, “actually that would be great.” You sighed, wanting nothing more than to take a hot shower and hope the cramps got better once you ate. “I’ll unlock the door for you, I’m going to take a shower.” You told him, adding a soft goodbye and an I love you, he repeated the sentiment, a frown etched onto his face as he stopped to get dinner.

You had just slipped on some loose fitting clothes when you heard Jamie walk in the front door of your apartment, “Y/N?” He called out, smiling when you rounded the corner in a shirt of his that you had stolen “accidentally”. He held a bouquet of flowers in front of him along with a takeout bag from your favorite restaurant, “hi pretty girl.” He murmured when you pouted at him, “I love you.” You sighed, burying your face in his chest, “I love you too.” He chuckled lightly, kissing the top of your head. “Wanna eat something? It’ll make you feel better.” He offered, getting a huff in response, he took it as a yes and walked with you wrapped up in his arms to the table. “It hurts.” You explained with a hiss as you sat down in the chair, reaching for your food, he knew it took a lot for you to admit you were in pain, “is it always this bad?” He asked with furrowed brows, taking a bite of his food as you nibbled on yours, suddenly feeling nauseous and worried eating would make it worse. “When I get it, yeah.” You told him, going on to explain the issues you struggled with, the missed cycles, heavy cycles, cramps, all of it. If you could tell him you love him, you can tell him this.

He nodded as you spoke, absorbing the information you spit out, “m’sorry baby.” He sighed, not liking having to watch you like this. You shrugged, finally forcing some of your food down, some relief coming over you as you had something in your stomach. He didn’t push you any further as he saw the look in your eyes, the way you got quiet, he cleaned up the table, leaving you with your plate as you continued to take bites here and there. “I’m going to go change.” He kissed the top of your head before walking down the hall to your room where he knew he had a pair of sweatpants stashed away.

Well he was in there, he quickly googled what you had told him, pcos was on repeat in his mind so he wouldn’t forget it as he typed it into his phone, he read as much as he could, being sure not to be gone suspiciously long.

He got the gist of it, irregularities, heavier cramps, bleeding, mood swings, particularly sad ones.

Infertility. He pushed that one to the back of his mind, he wanted kids with you and while it was early to say that, he knew you two would figure it out when the time came.

When Jamie came out you were nearly half asleep at the kitchen table, your eyes were heavy and when you looked at him he could see the blankness in them. “You can go home, Jamie, I’m probably just going to go lay down.” You sighed, standing up and clearing your spot. “No, I wanna stay with you.” He answered instantly, giving you a soft smile as spun to face him. “Really?” You couldn’t help but grin, catching him off guard, “of course.” He rolled his eyes with a smile, out stretching his arms for you. “Good, sometimes I’m scared to be alone when it hurts so much.” You whispered up to him, pecking his lips when he leaned down to you. “You know you can call me whenever, even if I’m on a roadie. I’d call you back as soon as I saw it.” He explained to you as you pulled him along towards your bedroom, you nodded as a cramp started up.

“Come here.” He demanded gently, flopping down on the bed and pulling you with him, he adjusted you so you were laying on top of him. He lightly began massaging your lower back, feeling you relax into him. “That feels good.” You hummed, blindly running a hand through his hair, knowing he loved when you did that. He smiled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“J?” You asked after a while, he’d stopped rubbing your back once you didn’t feel the pain anymore, “yeah?” He shifted slightly, careful not to move you too much. He turned his head to meet your eyes where you were resting on his shoulder. “I left out one thing about it.” You sighed, shuffling yourself to be sitting up more, your boyfriend nodded, although he already knew what you were going to say, he wanted to let you say it. He rested his hand in your lap for you to play with. “Go ahead baby.” He assured you, when you met his soft caring eyes you couldn’t help but get emotional. “It’s super common for pcos to cause infertility and I know we’re not there yet but you deserve to know now, and if–“ you stopped to breathe and the tears started flowing. He rushed to sit up with you, “there’s no ifs, I’m here for the long haul, ok?” He assured you, cupping your face to keep you looking at him. “I already knew that baby, I looked it up while you were eating.” He added, frowning when you cried harder. “You looked it up?” You sniffled, “that’s so sweet!” You groaned, hugging him tightly. He sighed into your hair, “I think you need some sleep.” He laughed, feeling you nod against him.

“Goodnight baby.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead as he laid down with you, relishing in the small smile on your lips as you finally felt at ease for the night.

***

Time had passed, and you both fell into a routine, eventually moving in together once you hit the one year mark. And that was already some time ago.

But over the last few months you both had noticed a change in your symptoms and decided to schedule an appointment with your doctor.

***

Jamie got out of his truck the second he got your text that said you were coming out, due to covid protocols put in place, he was unable to come in with you for your appointment, which made you even more on edge than you thought it would. You figured you’d done it plenty of times before, but knowing that he couldn’t come inside was terrifying.

He watched the doors of the medical center with concern as he rubbed the back of his neck, when he saw you walk out, eyes darting to find him as you shoved your mask into your purse, tears already pricking the corner of your eyes. He stepped forward, taking his weight off the side of his truck as you spotted him, “hey, hey, Y/N.” Jamie mumbled as you wrapped your arms around him in a shaky hug. He felt his heart clench as you cried into his shirt, “baby, talk to me.” He spoke gently, pushing you back enough to meet your eyes. “Surgery.” You squeaked out, you both knew it was a possible outcome, having done the watch and wait method for over a year. He listened intently as you recited nearly everything word for word that the doctor had said.

***

That was three months ago, a simple surgery that plenty of people have and it goes smoothly, turned into a three month process, between the pre op, and the scheduling, and the ultrasounds.

But now, now it was finally time for you to go in, and you were terrified and calm all at once. You weren’t scared for the anesthesia, or for the actual removal of the cysts, you were worried that something would go wrong and they’d have to remove your entire ovary, granted that would still leave you with one, but that didn’t make it any less disheartening.

The doctors had come and made their rounds, each one going over everything with you, over the statistics and the possible complications, only furthering your anxiety. When your gynecologist came in, dressed in her scrubs and ready to have you wheeled off to the operating room, she could see the way you were panicking and squeezing Jamie’s hand tightly. “I know she’s going to be put to sleep, but is there something she can have to take the edge off?” Jamie asked as you looked over with a pleading face. “Yes, of course.” She came over and rested a hand on your shoulder, “you’re going to do great.” She assured you, giving Jamie a reassuring smile as well. The second she left the room you burst into tears, “no baby.” He gave you a soft smile, pulling his mask down to kiss your forehead, “it’s going to be ok, no matter what happens. You’re so tough.” He wiped under your eyes, looking over as the anesthesiologist came in, along with a nurse, “I’m going to give you something to take the edge off, you should feel it pretty quickly alright?” He explained, waiting until you agreed to connect it to your IV.

Jamie watched as you took a couple of deep breaths before looking at him with a much calmer face, he held in a chuckle, “you feeling it baby?” He asked you, giving you one last hand squeeze, you nodded lazily. “Yeah.” You answered, already feeling sleepy, he couldn’t help but smile at how girlish it was making you act, “alright, I love you.” He reminded you with one more kiss to the forehead as they popped the brakes off the bed, “I love you.” You repeated as you stared up at the ceiling, he could tell you had a kind of blank face under your mask. He was just glad to see you not freaking out, as he felt the anxiety transfer to him as they rolled you away, leaving him in the empty room to wait for you.

It felt like an eternity to him, as he knew the surgery was only supposed to take thirty or so minutes, but he also knew they wouldn’t tell him anything until you were already waking up in recovery.

That was nearly three hours later, and he literally jumped to his feet when the doctor came in. She assured him everything went as good as she expected, it was just more difficult to get too, nothing went wrong and you were coming out any moment. He thanked her repeatedly as he felt his heart rate settle, after staring at a wall for so long, he turned to Google and that only worsened his anxiety on why it was taking so long.

When they finally brought you in, you still hadn’t seen the doctor because you had been so out of it, so you instantly looked at him with wide eyes, more awake now. “You did good, baby, don’t worry.” He assured you, standing beside the bed once they locked it in place, the nurse smiled as she charted everything on the computer beside you. “Are you Jamie?” She asked with a giggle, making your face heat up under your mask, “yes.” He answered, not tearing his eyes off you as he could see the puffiness in them from your breakdown earlier. He laced his hand with yours, rubbing it reassuringly as you sighed in relief. “She was asking for you before she could even keep her eyes open.” The nurse told him, earning a soft chuckle from his mouth. “Sounds like her.” He hummed in agreement, tuning into the nurses words as she started telling you what you needed to do before they would let you go, both of them surprised when you did them instantly, the doctor signing off on your release as you seemed more than fit to go home in the care of Jamie.

He was more than attentive to your every need, almost to the point where you got annoyed, but you knew he meant well so you let him do whatever he thought you needed.

You were extremely grateful to have him here with you, knowing that just because you’d gotten it fixed this one time, doesn’t mean it won’t come back. He didn’t let you think like that for long as he brought you back to the present with a gentle kiss to your temple as you leaned on his chest. “S’proud of you.” He mumbled, even though you didn’t do anything, he knew it took a lot for you to make the decision to do this. You didn’t have to answer as you curled further into him, a silent thank you for everything.

taglist: @boqvistsbabe @tortito @2manytabsopen @heybarzy @barzysreputation @yzas-stuff @iwantahockeyhimbo

#Jamie Oleksiak #Jamie Oleksiak imagine #Jamie Oleksiak fic #imagine #imagines #big rig #nhl

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keysmashingfantasies · 3 years

Note

i'm depressed and dying :) will you write me something sweet? you can choose who!! i just need something really comforting right now, thanks ily 💖

of course! i hope this cheers u up. and if you need to talk, i’m always here. love u bestie 💝💌💟💗💓 ps: i couldn’t decide so i did bucky, sam and loki, i hope it’s okay :D

BUCKY

he doesn’t like to see you sad

you hide it from him at first. you don’t want to worry him, bucky has a lot on his plate already. and he’s doing so good on therapy too. you would feel so guilty to ruin it. so you keep it to yourself.

but bucky knows you like the palm of his hand. “sometimes i feel like i understand this pretty head of yours more than i understand my own, doll”, he would say sometimes

after some time of you not opening up he would lowkey think it’s because you came to your senses and decided to leave him but when he sees your teary eyes one night he quickly pushes these insecurities down. “come on, this is not about you. if she leaves then try to at least cheer her up before”

so one day you arrive to his apartment and is greeted by candles, a dinner table where usually there would be nothing but a chair and a tv. and bucky dressed sharply. instead of his usual clothes, he would be wearing a suit. you wondered if the girls from back in the day felt these butterflies on the regular seeing him like this.

“hi, doll” “bucky, what’s this?” “well, i... please sit down”

you sit, and after a glass of wine and forced small talk, you began to talk. you were dying to know what this was all about and bucky wanted to use up every second he had left with you

“i know there’s something wrong”, he said. uh oh. busted.

“bucky, i-” “and i’ve been crushed to see you like this but i understand, honestly”. your heart ached at just how sweet he is.

“and this is by no means a way to try and change your mind. i just wanted to show you how much i love you one last time and-” “wait, WHAT? bucky, what are you talking about?”

“you’re leaving. because of me, that’s why you’re sad, right?” “of course not, bucky. you make me the happiest i’ve ever been. i didn’t want to stress you out- it’s just... i’m overwhelmed, that’s all. and... honestly, i’ve been bottling all up and just...”, you sighed heavily, hiding your face in your hands.

he gently pried your hands off your eyes, and greeted you with a smile so bright you couldn’t help but give him a smile back. “doll, i love you so much. but you don’t have to make it easy on me, okay? i want to be here for you, so why don’t you vent with me while we eat and then i can make you forget about it by kissing every square inch of your skin?” “sounds perfect

SAM

you needed sam. you had THE worst day since ever and you needed sam so bad.

you talked to him throughout the week while he was away, and it helped a bit. but it seemed like everything just built up inside of you and now you just wanted to curl into a ball and cry. and you wanted sam to hold you so bad. but he wouldn’t be back. not for another week.

you did everything you could to cheer yourself up. you wanted to feel fine and were tired of feeling miserable. “what would sam tell me to do?”, you thought to yourself.

so you decided to take off your makeup. but before you reached for the wipes, first you brushed away your mascara stained tear tracks with your hands. gently, like he would. if you close your eyes, it’s like he was there. “shhh... i got you, baby girl... now give me a smile”, he would coo. but he wasn’t there. so you settled for wiping away your makeup and hopping to a hot shower.

you then dug through his closet, searching for a shirt that smelled like him and instead of your sleeping short, you wore one of his briefs. you closed your eyes again. “what? at this rate i’ll have no more clothes left?”, he teased. he tried to sound angry but couldn’t help but smile seeing you wear his shirt. “but they’re so comfy. and they smell like you”, you said, going to hold him. “yeah, yeah, okay... how would you feel if you saw me wearing your clothes?”, he said, his hands going to tickle your sides. “i think you’ll look lovely”, you teased with a giggle that made his smile widen. “then imma start rocking those party dresses”, he said, making you throw back your head in laughter, giving him space to cover your neck in kisses. “now come, lil’ Sam, let’s order something”. you smiled at the memory and went to the phone.

“i’m gonna order enough for an army. i deserve it tonight”, you said as you waited for someone to pick up. after not long, you were reciting your and sam’s order by heart to the person on the other side of the line.

“good to see you’re getting the party started for me”, a voice said as soon as you hung up the phone. you stopped for a moment, not sure if this was just another memory you were conjuring. no. no, it’s real. the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat, the sparkle in his eyes, the way you could feel his voice rumble in your chest, even from afar.

“SAM!”, you yelled as you ran to hold him. “hi, baby”, he whispered, laying kisses on your hair. “i missed you so much, i needed you so much”, you said, holding him just a bit tighter, while some tears escaped your closed eyes. “yeah, baby. i know. i missed you too”, he said, lifting you off the ground; you promptly wrapped your legs around his waist.

“i thought you were out on a mission”, you said, going to hold his face in your hands. “i had to take care of those guys extra quick. how am i a good hero if i don’t rescue my girl from a bad week?”, he said, making you smile.

“i love you so much”, you said. “i love you too, baby. now let’s go, lil Sam. we don’t have much time before the food is here” “where are we going?” “bedroom. duh”, he said as he carried you.

LOKI

“who did this to you?”, he would ask immediatly upon seeing you holding back tears. “no one, it’s... i...”, he rushed to your side, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. “you’re in your head again, aren’t you, love?”, he whispered so gently one might think he was sharing a secret, his lips against your temple. you just nodded while he pulled you closer.

“come, love”, he said, pulling you by the hand to your room. you wanted nothing more than him and the silk sheets, before the weight of reality came crashing down on you. you had obligations, deadlines... “loki, wait. i need to-” “you need to rest, my love”, he said, giving your lips a chaste kiss. “but i have so much to do”, you complaint sounded more like a whine, and loki gave a slight smile at the pout on your lips. “it’s all taken care of, my queen” “loki, you can’t keep using your powers so recklessly! only when necessary, remember?” “nothing is more necessary to me than to ease your mind, make you smile, bring you peace... now come”

he undressed you slowly, pulliing the elastic out of your hair and letting his hands massage your scalp and thread through your locks. you hummed, the tension on your shoulders easing immediatly.

loki helped you to lay down, easing you gently to the silk sheets that he insisted on buying to your bed. then he undressed himself, eyes locked on yours. however, there was no lust. just adoration, love. his eyes sparkled for you, like you were his entire world.

“i am baring myself for you. you are the only one from who i keep no secrets”, he said, while going to lay by your side, his hand carressing your face briefly before returning to your hair. “i am a god and you are nothing short of a goddess. i am but a servant kneeled at you altar, begging to be at your mercy, to serve you. will you lay with me for a moment, my love? rest you mind, let me adore you?”, he whispered against your lips

you spent the rest of the day and the night on the bed, whispering sweet love confessions, making love and sleeping next to your king.

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson headcanon #sam wilson #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes #loki x reader #mcu loki x reader #loki #loki headcanons #fluff

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aomine-ryo · 3 years

Text

Kind of late, but I had an idea for a fic that’s been in my drafts for a while and I wanted to post it for Kise’s birthday but it wasn’t quite done yet. But it is now, so here it is, hope you like it!

Scenario: New kid, Kise Ryouta ends up falling for the reader

gender neutral reader

It’s not particularly easy being the new kid at school. Especially if you were Kise Ryouta. Being a well known athlete and model, it was difficult for him to be able to find friends in a new place that didn’t have ulterior motives. However, Kise learned to deal with it. He was cold to people until he himself learned to respect them and understand their motives.

But the problem with him was not in the friendship category, but rather the romance one.

Kise had a tendency to fall for the first person that was nice to him in a new place, and that almost always ended in the other person using him. So this time, he promised himself that he was not going to hurt himself yet again.

On his first day, Kise stood at the front of the class and introduced himself. “Um, hi, nice to meet you, I’m Kise Ryouta. I look forward to getting to know you all and well, I don’t really know what else to say,” he said, turning to the teacher for some help. The class filled with a small chatter once he stopped talking, and he could already faintly hear comments about how ‘cute’ he looks.

“It’s alright Kise. You can take that empty seat next to Y/N over there,” the teacher said, pointing.

Your head snapped back to the front of the class from gazing out the window at the sound of your name. Of course the new kid got stuck in the seat next to you. He was cute, you couldn’t disagree. However, that only meant that everyone else was going to be swarming around your desk for a while.

The teacher went on with the regular announcements until the bell for first period rang. “Oh right, before I forget, Y/N, can I trust you to show Kise around the school during your break?” she added.

You held back a sigh as you nodded. “Sure,” you replied curtly, glancing over at Kise and giving him an awkward smile.

As expected, once the teacher left, he was soon surrounded by girls asking him questions that were borderline invasive. How do they do it? How do they simply have the courage to speak to people like that? In a way, you envied them for their confidence, but it was also quite pathetic.

Eventually, the break came around and Kise approached your desk with a polite smile. Why did he get stuck with you out of all people? You were the first one that caught his eye and Kise could already see himself catching feelings for you. But he made a promise to himself and he was going to keep it. He wasn’t going to get played with again.

“Hey, um, Y/N, right?” who was he kidding? He knew your name. It was stuck in his head ever since the teacher instructed him to sit next to you.

“Yeah, just give me a second, I just have to organise this mess and we’ll be on our way,” you said, fumbling with the stationery that was cluttering your desk.

“Oh, you don’t really have to give me that tour if you don’t want to. I don’t want to be a burden— I can probably figure things out myself,” Kise said.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind helping out. If you end up getting lost at some point I’ll feel bad,” you insisted, finally putting the last of your things away and standing up. “Okay, we’re all good. Shall we?”

Kise hesitated for a moment. He really didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t have any more excuses so he simply walked by your side.

You showed him all the classes that he would regularly be attending, adding a few tips that you learned through the years whenever you could. This was the most you’d ever spoken to someone who wasn’t a close friend and yet Kise remained rather silent. Did he think you were boring? Were you talking too much? God, why did you have to be assigned this task?

“Oh right, I almost forgot. Are you joining any clubs?” you asked him as you walked through the halls.

“Yeah, I’ll be joining the basketball club,” Kise nodded.

“Right, I figured,” you mumbled, making Kise let out a small chuckle.

“Hey, you might have made the right judgement this time, but don’t judge a book by its cover,” Kise joked.

“It was more of an intuition thing rather than judging you, I swear,” you replied defensively, holding back a giggle.

“Mhmm I’m sure it was,” he said sarcastically. He hated how bright your smile was. It was so warm and gentle, he could look at it all day. He barely even knew you, but he was already obsessed with your smile. Just his luck.

“Well, unfortunately for you, I’m the manager for the basketball team so you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”

This had to be some sort of cruel joke. “Really? That’s great. So I could probably just tail behind you and not get lost by the looks of it.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged. You hoped he was joking. The last thing you needed was a bunch of fangirls trailing you around campus. “Let me show you the way to the basketball gym though, just in case I manage to escape you.”

“Escape me? Tired of me already huh?” Kise teased, dramatically pretending to be offended.

“Absolutely,” you joked.

Kise clasped a hand over his heart as though he got shot in the chest. “I am hurt, Y/N. What did I ever do to deserve this?” he recited.

“You know, the drama club is probably also looking for new members— I should show you their club room instead,” you retorted.

“Ha ha very funny,” Kise rolled his eyes. How were you two already joking around like this? He tried not to speak to you much, but it was like his charisma was forced out of him. Maybe he was overthinking it. You seemed nice. Maybe the two of you could be good friends.

And well, that’s pretty much exactly what happened. With the sheer amount of times you two see each other, it was no surprise that you’d become friends. It started with witty banter and random comments but soon, the two of you became close. After about three months, you were hanging out with each other every other day, going out for a bite after practice, going to the movies, walking to school together— the list goes on. And somehow, you never got tired of each other.

“Hey, Y/N-cchi, are you going for the field trip?” Kise asked you in between classes, referring to the yearly trip your school organises to a selected place in the country with a rich history.

“I’ll go if you do. But to be honest, I’d rather stay at home,” you replied.

“Well, we’re going then. It’ll be fun. There’s probably cute places to take pictures for Instagram,” Kise said.

“So I’m basically going to be your photographer?” you sighed.

“Precisely.”

“Sounds like a blast,” you groaned.

“I’m kidding, I will find a way to make this worthwhile. I heard that there’s a nice restaurant near the hotel we’re staying at, so we should pay that a visit,” Kise said.

“I’m exhausted just thinking about it,” you replied, resting your head on your palm.

“Shhh it’ll be fun, trust me,” Kise said, eyes softening up when he noticed how the sunlight that shone through the window landed on you like some sort of natural spotlight. His mind was about to wander off into a daydream when the teacher walked into the classroom, snapping his attention away from you.

The field trip finally rolled around and you found yourself in a fresh hotel room with a gorgeous view of the beach. Unfortunately, you didn’t get assigned to room with Kise, but it was alright since he was just a few doors down. As promised, Kise did his best to make sure you were having fun. You did have to take an awful lot of pictures of him, and sometimes he’d force you to take pictures with him, but Kise was always good company so you didn’t mind too much.

On the last night, Kise took you to that restaurant for dinner. “It’s kind of a fancy restaurant so we should dress up,” Kise informed you that afternoon.

“But that’s so tiring. Let’s just go to McDonalds instead,” you suggested.

“We are not going to McDonalds. I will dress you up myself if I have to,” Kise said firmly.

So in the end, you did end up dressing up, but you didn’t pack any nice shoes so you had to go with your sneakers. Of course, Kise patronised you for it, but you just replied with the wittiest comment you could think of, like always.

“Hi, I made a reservation here, for Kise Ryouta,” Kise said to the hostess.

The place was nicer than you expected it to be. It was a strange feeling being here with a reservation. It felt less like a hang out with your friend and more like a date. And for some reason, you were now nervous.

“Ah yes, right this way Mr Kise,” she said with a polite smile as she led you two to your table. “A window seat, just as you requested.��

“Perfect, thank you,” Kise said, glancing at the view of the night sky and the twinkling city lights below.

“Here are your menus, a waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy your date,” she smiled.

“Oh, uh, it’s not a—” you began, but she walked off before you could correct her.

“Well that’s awkward,” Kise chuckled.

You simply sighed in defeat as you took a moment to admire your surroundings. There was a clean white cloth spread across your table with a candle and flowers as a centrepiece. It was a bit too romantic for your comfort, but you tried to shake it off. “Someone went all out for a simple dinner. You even requested a table by the window. How picky can you get?” You said teasingly.

“I just made a reservation in case this place would be busy. You wouldn’t want to wait in line would you?” Kise explained and you shook your head in response. “Exactly. And I got the window seat because I know you like to stare out sometimes. I figured you wouldn’t wanna stare at me all night long, so I got you a better view.”

You felt your stomach turn as your mind’s immediate thought was how Kise was enough of a view on his own. You had to admit, he looked fantastic that night— when he said he was going to dress up, he wasn’t kidding. It was a simple white button up shirt with a red tie, but he still looked dashing. Perhaps it was the fact that he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, showcasing his toned forearms that pulled the look together. Either way, you didn’t like the fact that you were viewing your friend in such a way.

“Oh my, what is this self deprecation? I thought I was hanging out with model and Generation of Miracles member, Kise Ryouta, not some emo teenager,” you said, your tone resembling Kise’s dramatic one that you’ve heard a thousand times before.

“Well, if you’re not going to appreciate my effort of getting us these seats, I can just ask them to move us away from the window,” Kise huffed.

“No, no,” you tracked back almost immediately. “I like the window. Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kise grinned triumphantly.

That night was absolutely lovely. But no matter now hard he tried, Kise couldn’t take his eyes off you. As expected, you’d rest your chin on your palm and gaze out the window with a faraway look in your eyes, and Kise could do nothing but admire how beautiful you looked. He couldn’t believe that he knew someone as amazing as you were. Moreover, he couldn’t believe that he told himself that he wouldn’t fall for you. What a dumb decision. But he was already this far in, maybe it was just that fact that he can’t have you that made him want you more. These feelings will pass, right?

As the two of you walked back to the hotel that night, a cool salty breeze flowed through the air. Kise had made you laugh yet again, and his heart filled with joy as the bright smile returned to your face. He could stay in this moment forever.

“I can’t believe this is our last night here,” Kise sighed once you simmered down.

“Yeah, this trip was actually kinda fun. I wish it didn’t end so soon,” you said, gazing up at the bright full moon.

“You think we can squeeze in one final adventure tomorrow morning?” Kise questioned.

“Where to?”

Kise shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Well then, I’d rather stay in and sleep thank you very much,” you said.

“Are you tired yet?”

“Not really.”

“Then let’s go walk along the beach,” Kise suggested.

“But the sand gets everywhere, it’s so annoying,” you frowned.

“It’s our last night. Come on,” Kise said, grabbing your wrist and dragging you towards the empty beach.

The two of you walked by the water where the sand was firmer so that it less tedious. It was quite peaceful hearing the waves crash against the shore as the water glimmered under the moonlight.

“You know, when I first met you, I really didn’t wanna be your friend,” Kise said out of the blue.

“How rude,” you faked a gasp as you playfully whacked his arm, making him chuckle. “But to be honest, me neither.”

Kise looked at you with a dumbfounded expression. “Seriously, Y/N-cchi? But why?” he whined, seeming much more offended than you were.

“Because you always had people following you around and I didn’t want to be caught up in that,” you explained, kicking a pebble around as you walked.

“Oh,” Kise said, realising he probably shouldn’t have said anything because he couldn’t explain his reason as rationally as you did. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you wanna be friends with me? Was I annoying?”

“What do you mean, you still are annoying,” Kise joked, earning himself another whack on the arm. “I’m kidding, no you weren’t annoying.”

“Then what was it?”

“Okay, this might sound really stupid, but I told myself that I wouldn’t go after the first person that’s nice to me, because that always ended up with people using me for something or the other,” Kise explained, stopping in his tracks to pick up a smooth pebble.

“That’s fair,” you said, trying not to overthink what he meant by ‘go after’ as you watched him skip the pebble over the waves.

Kise looked out at the horizon, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before turning back to face you. “You know, you caught my eye almost immediately and that was a red flag to me for the longest time, but you actually turned out to be pretty cool.”

It was strange seeing Kise like this. It was like he was possessed. He never speaks in such a serious manner with you. “Well duh, because I’m awesome like that,” you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

A gentle smile spread across Kise’s face. “I told myself I wouldn’t fall for the first person I had a crush on, but here I am,” Kise let out a heavy sigh, glancing back out at the ocean for a moment.

“Crush? You had a crush on me?” you asked, your stomach doing twists and turns that made you feel as though you were going to throw up all the delicious food you had earlier.

“Yeah,” Kise muttered. What was he saying? Why was he complicating things? “I hate myself for it.”

“Oh. Um, it’s okay,” you said, unsure what to say. He clearly didn’t want to like you, so you didn’t want to bring up how you felt about him. “We can stay friends if you want, nothing has to change.”

Kise looked back at you, finding comfort in the warmth of your eyes. There was no dramatic outburst like he expected. You seemed to be considerate of his feelings. You genuinely did care for him. “I don’t mind staying friends. But is it okay if I do this?”

Before you could think twice about it, Kise had his soft lips pressed against yours. Even though your mind hadn’t fully wrapped itself around the situation, you found yourself kissing him back. Kise felt you melt into his touch as his heart skipped like pebbles on the water. God knows how much Kise had been longing for this moment. To have his arms around your waist, your body pressed against his, and his lips on yours. He could finally get a taste of you and it was better than any meal he could imagine. This just felt right.

After a few moments, Kise pulled back to catch his breath, his mind racing with thoughts that he couldn’t even keep up with. “I’m sorry,” was the only thing he could muster.

“Don’t apologise,” you shook your head, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. “I am absolutely okay with that.”

A wide smile spread across Kise’s face as his mind slowly began to clear up. Maybe his instincts were right this time. You were perfect to him the moment he laid his eyes on you, even though he tried to deny it. And as you stood in front of Kise with the moonlight glittering in your eyes, you were just as perfect as the day he met you.

#kuroko no basket #kurokos basketball #knb #kuroko no basket x reader #kuroko no basquet #kise ryouta #kise ryota x reader #kise x reader

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 2 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren did some research on the rules about obeying one’s elders even when they made stupid arbitrary decisions that they didn’t explain – his brother had only said that Lan Qiren was not to spend time alone with Wen Ruohan and that Wen Ruohan was a petty person, but had indicated nothing else to explain the reason for the rule, though perhaps Lan Qiren was missing some unspoken assumption again – but sadly his research proved inconclusive on the matter. He was forced to conclude that it was better to err in favor of obedience.

Still, he felt resentful that he obeyed Don’t disrespect your elders while his brother seemed to feel free to ignore Don’t disrespect your juniors. That was the way of things, of course, and of course given the age difference between them – he was a child, his brother an adult, with nearly a ten year gap between them – the exhortation was magnified. Lan Qiren should be obedient and respectful, filial, and yet he couldn’t quite manage not to feel upset about the disparity, even though he knew he should accept the rules with equanimity and grace.

That wasn’t exactly a rule, or at least it wasn’t a written rule, but Lan Qiren had heard it often enough that he understood it to be an unspoken rule. He wasn’t that good at obeying those, even when he tried.

And of course, there were some written rules he had trouble with, too…

“Hello there.”

Lan Qiren looked up from where he was contemplating the prescribed punishment for breaking Do not be picky with food and whether it was preferable to forcing himself to consume the overcooked mushy greens currently sitting in his bowl.

“Sect Leader Wen,” he said blankly, then remembered Do not sit when an elder stands and attempted to scramble into a standing position, only to remember Do not stand incorrectly and inexpertly tried to force himself into the proper form when he was already halfway up.

Wen Ruohan caught him by both shoulders before he could fall over his own feet and helped straighten him out. “You’re a little clumsy, aren’t you?” he said with a strange smile, and Lan Qiren automatically bowed his head in acknowledgement of his error. “It’s not a physical thing, though; you’re quite graceful. Just too caught in your own head, is it?”

That was exactly it.

Lan Qiren smiled thankfully up at Wen Ruohan, who seemed a little surprised for some reason, but who released his shoulders and allowed Lan Qiren to salute properly. He didn’t stop the bow the way one of the other sect leaders might – Lao Nie, for instance, barely let anyone complete a full salute without pulling them back up, to the point that Lan Qiren sometimes wondered if he would prefer to do away with the gesture entirely – but by the time Lan Qiren had straightened up, he had a thoughtful expression.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Lan Qiren inquired. There was a rule against speaking during mealtimes, but it was one of the lesser rules. The rules of hospitality took precedence, and the Lan sect was hosting this particular night-hunt, even if the small town they were all staying in wasn’t the Cloud Recesses itself.

He was prepared to be sent away on some task – looking forward to it, even, since it meant he wouldn’t have to eat the mush – but instead Wen Ruohan shook his head.

“I could use some company,” he said, and flicked his sleeve, sitting down in the seat across from Lan Qiren. Vacant, of course, since Lan Qiren had settled himself into one of the more distant corners of the inn in an attempt to avoid his brother’s notice, and of course he was also by far the youngest person on this night-hunt, making for very unappealing company to everyone else. “Sit and finish your dinner.”

Lan Qiren sank back down a little reluctantly. The greens remained as unappetizing as before.

Wen Ruohan noticed the direction of his gaze, and the untouched dinner. “Practicing inedia?”

“I’m too young,” Lan Qiren said, which was true. Inedia at his age could stunt his growth.

“Not to your taste, then?”

Lan Qiren shook his head, but reached out and picked up his chopsticks anyway.

“If you don’t like it, why not ask for something else?” Wen Ruohan asked.

“Do not be picky with food,” Lan Qiren recited, glum, and put a bite into his mouth. It was revolting, sticky and glue-like, and he gagged, wanting to spit it out. That would be even more rude, though, so he forced himself to chew and then eventually to swallow.

It took all of his attention to do, and he was almost surprised when he opened his eyes – he’d closed them at some point, probably in order to help summon the willpower required to perform the task – and saw Wen Ruohan staring straight at him, his expression unfathomable.

“Your eyes are red,” he said.

Lan Qiren stared at him. “No? They’re light brown. Yours are red.”

Wen Ruohan’s lips curved up a little. “I didn’t mean the iris,” he clarified. “The sclera. Your eyes filled with tears, aggravating the blood flowing through them, and as a result the rims of your eyes became reddened.”

“Oh,” Lan Qiren said. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that observation, or if he was supposed to respond in some way. Apologize, maybe? But it was a physiological reaction…

Maybe Sect Leader Wen was just a little strange, he decided. But he obviously couldn’t comment on that, given that his brother was always saying that he, too, was more than a little strange –

His brother.

“Oh, no,” Lan Qiren said, chewing on his lip in anxiety, and Sect Leader Wen looked at him in silent question. “I should go.”

“Go? Why?”

Do not tell lies. “My brother said I shouldn’t spend time alone with you.”

Wen Ruohan laughed.

Lan Qiren stared at him, off balance. That wasn’t normally how people responded to him being rude, and he wasn’t stupid – he knew it was rude of him to say that. Rude of his brother to order it, really, but ruder of him to actually say it, even if he wasn’t supposed to lie. He’d never quite worked out where the one rule ended and the other one began; it was a recurring issue.

“Qingheng-jun is wise in identifying the issue and its solution,” Wen Ruohan remarked, seeming unruffled. “But rather foolish in his ham-handed attempts to implement that solution.”

Lan Qiren didn’t understand.

“You don’t need to be concerned, little Lan,” Wen Ruohan said, and he was smiling at him. “Sharing a meal with me won’t mean that you’re disobeying your brother. After all, we’re not really alone, are we?”

Lan Qiren’s eyes flickered around them, and he had to admit that that was true. While the corner he’d chosen was moderately secluded, it was still part of the main dining room, not even hidden by a screen or anything – he could directly see where his brother was sitting around a table with Lao Nie and Jin Guangshan and some of the others, playing some sort of game, and presumably, if his brother wished, he could look at him in return.

“Sect Leader Wen is correct,” he concluded. “The prohibition was against spending time alone with you. We are not alone, and therefore the prohibition does not apply. Forgive my rudeness.”

“Think nothing of it,” Wen Ruohan said, looking pleased. “Such an interesting child you are.”

Lan Qiren looked at him suspiciously, since he didn’t think that was true.

“Shouldn’t you be with the other sect leaders?” he asked, dropping his gaze to his chopsticks. He had taken one bite, but that wasn’t eating; he would need to take another. But it was so awfully mushy…

“I prefer games of strategy to games of chance,” Wen Ruohan said. “Meet my eyes.”

Lan Qiren looked at him.

“Very good,” Wen Ruohan said, and Lan Qiren shifted uncomfortably at the praise. “You don’t hear that often, do you?”

Lan Qiren bristled. “I excel at my studies, and at music. My teachers have never had any cause for complaint.”

“With your devotion to following rules, I would imagine they wouldn’t. Music, hmm? Music and philosophy, I’d wager. Is that how you managed to cultivate such a bright golden core?”

Lan Qiren resisted the urge to put his hand over his belly. His core had only very recently formed, at just the appropriate age – nothing like his prodigy brother who had reached core formation before the age of ten – and he was painfully aware that he was likely never to reach anywhere near his brother’s potential, particularly given the differences in their capacity for swordsmanship.

He’d never heard that his core was unusually bright before, though.

“You won’t be able to remain so untainted by worldly affairs for long, little Lan,” Wen Ruohan said. “Not as a son of a Great Sect.”

“I’m going to be a traveling musician when I’m older,” Lan Qiren told him. “People won’t need to know that I’m from a Great Sect then.”

Another chuckle, and Wen Ruohan reached out and tapped Lan Qiren’s forehead ribbon right in the center of his forehead, ignoring how Lan Qiren recoiled, eyes wide. “People will always know, little Lan, as long as you have this.”

“Fine, then let people know,” Lan Qiren said, trying to maintain his dignity. “What does it matter, as long as I can help them?”

Wen Ruohan’s smile widened. “Help people? You can’t even help yourself. Or are the bruises on your wrist from a door you bumped into?”

Bruises?

Lan Qiren looked down at his wrists, pulling back his sleeves, and, yes, one wrist was still red from where his brother had tugged him along in his wake earlier, the flesh hot and a little swollen when he pressed his fingers against it. He watched, a little fascinated, as the white imprints of his fingerprints faded back into the red, and then remembered he was among company and pulled his sleeve over his wrist again.

“It’s only swollen,” he said, remembering to meet Wen Ruohan’s eyes as he looked up. “Not bruised.”

Not yet, anyway.

Wen Ruohan’s gaze felt heavy again. It was intent and almost penetrating, uncomfortable and weighted, almost as if he could change the air pressure around Lan Qiren simply with his eyes.

“Didn’t you notice it earlier?” he asked.

Lan Qiren shook his head. “The doctor says I have reduced long-term awareness of pain,” he admitted. “Bruises, cuts…once the initial pain has passed, I adjust to it and forget about it.”

“Interesting. And yet, judging from how you sought to protect yourself from the fall earlier, you still fear pain.”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “It’s only in the long term that I don’t notice it. In the short term, my sensitivity to discomfort is heightened.”

“I see. That explains why you cry when you have to eat food you don’t like.”

“I didn’t cry,” Lan Qiren insisted. He was still looking into Wen Ruohan’s eyes – maybe because Wen Ruohan was looking so deeply into his own, his gaze fixed and unblinking, but it didn’t feel quite as unpleasant as it sometimes did with other people. Just intense. “I don’t cry over things like that anymore.”

It was just a physiological reaction to gagging, he wanted to say, but for some reason didn’t. The words felt sticky in his throat, like syrup – even his thoughts seemed a little slow, as if they had to wade through the mud before actually forming. It was almost a little calming, really; normally his thoughts felt like they were whizzing by too fast to catch, like streaks of lightning caught in his skull.

“It hurt when your brother grabbed you like that, didn’t it,” Wen Ruohan said. His voice was deep, and his eyes were very red. “More than it would hurt other people. It hurt a lot.”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“You didn’t like that. It made you feel angry. Resentful.”

It did.

“Maybe you should do something about it. How about that? Maybe he wouldn’t do it again if only you showed him how much you don’t like it when he treats you that way.”

That had never worked before…

“You just didn’t try hard enough before. You didn’t get his attention. Why don’t you go show him now? He’s sitting right there with all the other sect leaders. Just go and push him down to the floor when he’s not expecting it. That’ll show him.”

Lan Qiren frowned. “Fighting without permission is forbidden, Sect Leader Wen.”

Wen Ruohan straightened his back suddenly – he’d started leaning forward at some point, bringing their faces closer together; Lan Qiren hadn’t noticed given their steady eye contact. “What?”

“Fighting without permission is forbidden,” Lan Qiren explained, rubbing at his eyes, which suddenly felt overly dry. He’d somehow forgotten to blink for a while. “It’s one of the rules. Plus there’s also Do not sow discord and No improper behavior, which are also really important rules. So even if I want to talk to him, it wouldn’t be appropriate to do it in front of others, would it?”

He shook his head and picked up his chopsticks – he’d put them down at some point without noticing.

“Thank you for your advice and guidance, Sect Leader Wen,” he added, trying to be polite even if he wasn’t being very sincere. He’d tried time and time again to express himself to his brother without success; he’d long ago given it up. “I appreciate your consideration.”

“And I was actually trying that time,” Wen Ruohan remarked, seemingly inexplicably and apropos of nothing, and then for no reason that Lan Qiren could determine, he started chuckling. “You have a very interesting mind, little Lan. Very interesting indeed...and more willpower than one would expect, given your age and position. Perhaps it’s eating all that food you dislike that does it, or maybe it really is those ridiculous rules.”

Lan Qiren frowned at him. The rules weren’t ridiculous. They were important! How else was he supposed to know how to deal with people - how was anyone supposed to know how to deal with people - without the rules to serve as guidance?

He was about to say so, too, when a waiter abruptly came to their table and put down a dish of freshly grilled yams. Lan Qiren hadn’t even realized they had yams available at this inn, or even a proper charcoal grill to use to cook them; it hadn’t been offered, and no other table had them – if he’d known, he would have asked for them much earlier.

“Consider it a gift,” Wen Ruohan said with a faint smirk, waiving the waiter away. He must have ordered the dish at some point when Lan Qiren wasn’t paying attention. “Something you might find a little more palatable than those greens.”

“Thank you, Sect Leader Wen!” This time, Lan Qiren was wholly sincere, and even enthusiastic.

Especially because, since it was a gift, he didn’t have to restrain himself in terms of scarfing down the food. The yams were delicious.

“Such enthusiasm,” Wen Ruohan remarked, clearly amused, but Lan Qiren didn’t object; he was enthusiastic. “I’ll leave you to your meal, little Lan. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with your elder brother.”

Lan Qiren nodded, distracted by the food; it was by far better than anything he’d had in the past few days. “I don’t know why he said I had to stay away from you,” he said, meaning it as an apology.

“Oh, I think it’s probably based on one of your rules,” Wen Ruohan said, standing up. He had that strange smile again. “Isn’t there one that goes ‘stay away from bad men’?”

He left before Lan Qiren could correct him – it was do not associate with evil.

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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heartbreakgrill · 3 years

Text

Found Me a Lover; Calum Hood

a/n: literally nothing special, but I was feeling fluffy. 18th Valentine’s Day alone 😃

description: you and your man celebrate

You scrolled through Instagram, liking and commenting hearts on your friends Valentine’s Day posts. You skipped past random celebrities you followed because it would be slightly weird if you would comment heart on their posts. Occasionally, you’d repost someone’s adorable couple photo on your story for your followers to also gush over.

Duke lay happily on your thighs, head tucked into your elbow as your fingers lazily pulled through his fur. The television played the LA morning news, reciting some stories of homicides, house fires, and the occasional, heart warming love story. You shut off your phone and stared at the tv. You were barely paying attention, still tired from just having woke up.

You heard footsteps traveling down the hallway and peaked around the back of the couch. Calum, hood up and sweatpants lazily hanging off his hips, shuffled into the kitchen. You heard him pouring a glass of coffee before he rounded the wall and came in by the tv stand. You smiled at him, affection ready to ooze from your tongue.

He plopped onto the couch beside you, tossing his arm around your shoulder. A wet, fat kiss landed on your cheek, his breath smelling of coffee and sleep. Duke abandoned you for his dad, who made baby noises at him. You snuggled into his neck, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Calum recited the corny, capitalistic holiday slogan. “How long ya been up?”

You shrugged, “About ten minutes. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“As per usual,” he snickered. You simply tossed a smile in his direction before comfortable silence became you.

After a little bit, you stood up to go get ready. You didn’t do much, just washed your face and brushed your teeth and changed your sleeping pants to your lounging pants. Quarantine intruded on having any actual plans for Valentine’s Day, so you were planning on just doing what you normally did: Lay around.

Calum followed along not far behind you, rejoining you on the couch with a glass of water and a poptart. He held out the pastry to you and you snapped off your preserved half. You gave Duke a small nibble.

Calum swallowed, “Hey, I know we can’t do much. But, what if we just got dressed up?”

“Miss seeing me in a dress, huh?” You teased.

He winked at you, “Just a little.”

“Yeah, we can do that. Did you have plans for dinner?”

“Just figured we could order in,” Calum nodded.

Your two love languages weren’t acts of service, just quality time together. So, most Valentine’s Days were spent together, at home, sometimes with fancy dinners at night. You’d exchange gifts, but never did too much.

“Sounds good. It’s not too chilly, so maybe we could sit outside and turn on the fairy lights and stuff,” you recommended. He nodded.

Another thing about the two of you was that neither of you enjoyed surprises. You always planned. You knew already that he would be proposing, and you knew it wasn’t going to be in public. Hell, you were already technically engaged, he just hadn’t given you a ring. You knew you’d be getting married in the summer. You knew that, for your birthday next week, he’d be taking you up to San Francisco for a picnic by the bridge. Planning made you both feel safe.

Calum nodded. You lay on the couch for the rest of the day. At one point, Calum left you to go workout, then he showered, and moved to his music room. You joined him there, sitting on the mini couch with Duke as his dad worked on a song he would pitch to the band. You showered after a bit and then started getting ready.

Calum came into the bedroom while you were in the middle of putting on foundation. He smiled at you through the mirror of your vanity, making you blush. You went back to blending your makeup as he found an outfit. Calum connected to the speakers in your room and shuffled the playlist the two of you shared on Spotify: “You are everything.”

It was formed not long after you started dating, but titled six months into your relationship. You had started binge-watching The Office together, and in one Jim and Pam’s final scenes, Jim says, “Not enough for me? You are everything.” Naturally, you titled it as such.

Soon enough, you were done with your makeup. Calum had since propped up against the headboard, playing on his phone and sometimes glancing at you. When you passed him, your song came on. You had never really had one, but a few months ago, you had watched a TikTok edit of Calum and a song talking about someone who plays the bass. You showed it to Calum, who fell in love with the premise of the song, and wouldn’t stop playing it. Everytime he did, he’d drop whatever he was do it and pull you close, rocking to the beat.

You stopped in your tracks and turned to your boyfriend. He raised his eyebrows cheekily at you, reaching out a hand. You pulled him off the bed, hands finding their place on his shoulders. He grabbed your waist.

“And then I found me a lover who could play the bass, he’s kinda quiet, but his body ain’t.”

You giggled as Calum spun you around quickly. He pulled you back into his chest, dipping you to the floor. Your hair whipped in his face, and he nearly ate a chunk. He spit it out, his expression hilarious. Laughter rang from the two of you, as your bodies parted slightly. He held your hand and you began jumping to the best of the chorus.

Once the song finished, Calum pulled you into his chest. You kissed him gently, fingers gracing the bottom of his jaw. He spun you away towards the closet, emitting laughter. You found your red dress, the one you had planned on wearing to their album’s release party. He’d seen it before, since you’d put on numerous “I’m bored, I need something to do,” fashion shows.

Still, though, when you walked out of the closet, barefoot and casual, Calum grinned widely. “I am literally so head over heels for you. Like, if you asked me to go to kill Luke, I might consider it.”

“Do it, I wanna date Sierra,” you challenged.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Calum tsked, enveloping you in his arms. “Let’s go eat.”

“Oh did you order already?”

“Yeah, I think it just came in,” Calum’s hand slid down to your fingers, grasping them between his. He led you to the front door, where your food was on the porch.

You helped him pick up everything and set it up on the patio table. The pool glistened under the glow of the string lights, a warm breeze blowing ripples through the liquid. You moved your chair next to your boy, sitting criss-cross, though you were in a dress. Calum looked over at you, a bright smile caressing his cheeks and lips. You swept his hand into yours, and though it slowed your eating, you didn’t care.

It wasn’t anything special, but it was enough.

Tag List: @mantlereid @boxofteenageideas @dinosaursandsocks, @ashhdaniellee95 @stephaniemelvie @zhangyixingxing1 @verlaneswiftie13

#5sos fanfic #5sos fluff #calum hood #calum hood imagine #calum hood x reader

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escapewithbts · 3 years

Text

Forgetful - Seokjin

———————————————

You sat at the two person table by yourself just staring mindlessly at the menu. You could probably recite the whole entree list by heart at this point.

The dimly lit restaurant was crowded and filled with noises; dishes clanking, people laughing, the soft tune of music. It would have been the perfect atmosphere… had you not been there alone.

You sighed and glanced at your beautiful (and expensive) watch… one of the many gifts given to you by your boyfriend last Christmas.

It was 8:43. Your reservation had been for 43 minutes ago.

“Excuse me,” the perfect-looking hostess came up to you for the third time and spoke to you in Korean, “but we are super busy, as you can probably tell, and if you’re not going to order then we really need your table.”

You frowned and glanced down at your phone. Still no texts or missed calls.

“I know, I’m so sorry, can I just wait until nine? I don’t know why he’s taking so long, I’m sure he’s on his way…”

“So you’ve said,” she replied with a fake smile, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder and walking away.

Wow rude, much?

You stared at your phone, your vision becoming blurry from the tears forming in your eyes. You hoped everything was okay with him. And you couldn’t help but wonder if he forgot.

You scrolled through his texts, the last from this morning around 10:30am saying he was beginning the shoot for the latest Run BTS! Episode and he would see you later. You assumed that meant here.

But he never showed.

You touched his contact to give him a call, but again it just rang and rang until you were again met with the automatic voicemail. You sighed and typed him another text.

Hey I’m leaving the restaurant now. I hope you’re okay. Please call or text when you get this.

Then you grabbed your things, stood up and walked towards the exit of the restaurant.

“Oh my god, it’s about time she left,” you heard the hostess whisper to someone as you walked passed her podium, “She claimed to be meeting a member of BTS here for dinner!”

Her snickering was the last thing you heard as you pushed open the door and went back out into the warm Seoul night.

By the time you made it home to your and Jin’s shared apartment you were exhausted and your feet absolutely ached from the heels you were wearing. You unlocked the door and went inside, immediately removing them and rubbing your swollen soles.

All of a sudden, you heard noises coming from the living room. Jin was home?

When you turned the corner there he was, sitting on the couch, laughing at some show playing on the tv and eating ramen from a bowl on his lap.

Your heart sank. He was okay. So what you had feared was true after all. He just forgot.

Forgot your one-year anniversary dinner.

“Oh hi, (y/n)-ah!” he exclaimed when he finally noticed you standing there, a heap of noodles dangling out of his mouth.

He swallowed them and continued,

“Wow, you look really pretty! Did you go out with your friends?”

Your eyes instantly welled up with tears and a couple fell down your cheeks before you could stop them. You tried to swipe them away abruptly with the back of your hand but Jin still noticed.

“Jagi, what’s wrong?”

He set his bowl on the coffee table in front of him and rose from his seat on the couch to walk over to you.

He reached his arms out to hold you, but you instantly stepped back to avoid his embrace.

He cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows confusingly, his large red lips turning into a frown.

“Jagiya? Is everything okay?”

You sniffled and glared at him.

“So you just don’t check your phone anymore?”

He immediately reached into the front pocket of his trousers and pulled it out.

“Aiishh it must have still been on silent from the shoot today. I’m sorry if I missed-”

He stopped mid sentence as he finally observed all your missed calls and read your texts.

His face fell.

“Oh… fuck. (y/n). Shit.”

He looked up at you, an expression of worry and guilt evident on his handsome face.

“(y/n), jagi, I’m so so so sorry. Fuck! I-I completely forgot. I got caught up with work and- ”

You put your hand up to silence him.

“I don’t want to hear it, Seokjin.”

He winced. He knew you only called him by his full first name on two occasions: one when you were really really pissed at him, the other when he was making really really good love to you… and right now it certainly was not the latter.

You brushed passed him and headed toward the hallway. You were tired and hurt, and now to top it all off you had a massive headache. All you wanted to do at this point was take a shower, go to bed and forget this evening ever happened.

But you heard Jin follow you toward your shared bedroom.

“(y/n), please, I’m really sorry. I know there aren’t any excuses. I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.”

You scoffed, not turning back to face him.

“Yeah, you think?”

He paused in thought for a moment.

“Well, what if-what if we celebrate now? I can cook you up some really delicious food, all your favorite foods from home! And-and we can light some candles, have dinner, spend the whole rest of the night together…”

You stopped in the bedroom doorway and swung your whole body around to face him again.

“No. It’s too late, Jin. I waited at the restaurant for an hour for you. I’m exhausted, okay? I just want to go to bed,” you paused, “So please. Just leave me alone.”

Jin’s shoulders fell in defeat as his gaze went to the floor. His arm lifted to scratch the back of his neck.

“O-okay,” he whispered.

Then he squinted his eyes tightly shut, and that was the last thing you saw as you let the bedroom door close in his face.

The warm shower felt amazing on your body, but you couldn’t help the thoughts that plagued your mind while in there. Jin had forgotten arguably the most important date in a relationship. What was next? Your birthday? The next anniversary? It made you feel like your relationship wasn’t important to him, like you were an afterthought. It hurt your heart.

Once you were clean and out of the shower, you changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Your head still ached immensely; you had hoped the shower would have fixed that, but all that overthinking had only made it worse. You knew Jin usually kept some pain medication in his nightstand for when his body was sore after a particularly grueling day of dancing, so you proceeded to his side of the bed and sat down on the edge, reaching for the top drawer.

Immediately upon opening it you spotted a red envelope, “My (y/n)” written across the top in Jin’s messy handwriting. You hesitated for a second whether or not to investigate it, but ultimately, with a shaky hand, you pulled it out. You took a deep breath before opening it and removing the card inside.

In an elegant font, the front of the card read ‘Happy Anniversary to the one I want to annoy for the rest of my days’, and written on the inside ‘Hey, that’s you!’.

You couldn’t help but stifle out a small chuckle, accompanied with an eye roll, of course. It was so Jin. Your Jin.

Your eyes then scanned his handwritten message next.

Jagiya,

Congratulations! You have been chosen by WWH Worldwide Handsome Kim Seokjin himself as the person who gets to be annoyed by him for the rest of your life! Don’t you feel so honored? It’s a coveted position, there’s only one spot, and you got it! We’ll talk about the details later 😉

No, but seriously, my (y/n), thank you for putting up with me for a whole year. I know I can be pretty obnoxious, silly, stupid, goofy, forgetful (ha, he got that one right for sure), busy and sometimes moody, but you have stuck with me through it all and I appreciate it. You are so special and I hope you know how lucky I feel to have you. You’re so supportive and patient and kind. I can’t wait to share many more anniversaries with you.

All my love,

Jin

You clutched the card to your chest, tears streaming down your face again. But this time you weren’t upset. You were touched. His words definitely didn’t excuse what he did (or rather didn’t do) this evening, but at least you knew how he truly felt about you. He really did love you. Your heart suddenly felt full.

You stood up, holding the card tightly, opening the bedroom door to go find him.

“Jin?” you yelled down the hall. But, to your surprise, he was right outside the bedroom doorway, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his long legs spread out in front of him, his phone in his hands.

“Jin I-“

But he quickly stood up and turned his phone to face you.

“Jagiya, look I downloaded an app where you can save all your important dates! And you can set it up for reminders days, even weeks beforehand! So I put in today, of course, and your birthday, but please don’t think I would ever forget that, and the day we went on our first date, the day I first cooked for you, the day-“

He stopped speaking when you suddenly stood on your tip toes and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck. He immediately wrapped his around your lower back and squeezed you into him.

“I’m just so sorry, jagi.” he mumbled into your hair.

You nodded against his broad shoulder.

“I know.”

You pulled away and presented the card.

“I found this.”

Jin’s ears promptly turned bright red and he closed his eyes tightly. Then he put his head in his hands.

“Aiissh, it’s so cheesy, I’m sorry.”

You placed your hand on his upper arm, making him glance back down at you.

“No, Jinnie, not at all. It’s perfect. I loved it.”

He smiled, wrinkles forming at the sides of his eyes.

“See? I didn’t completely forget! I knew it was coming up. I just didn’t exactly remember when we were going to dinner and I should have-”

You placed your lips on his in a tender kiss to shut him up again. He pulled you closer to him, so your bodies were completely touching before you broke apart, still attached at the foreheads.

“Mmm Happy One Year Anniversary, my (y/n)-ah,” he breathed out.

You nuzzled your face into his strong neck.

“Happy Anniversary, my Worldwide Handsome.”

Masterlist

Hehe

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

#ffcc #wincest #switching #my writing #trying a slightly different style here #idk if it worked but #it was an interesting experiment #i hope it satisfies

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panda-noosh · 3 years

Text

lost in translation {draco malfoy x reader}

words: 11.8k

summary: draco finds a notebook filled with beautiful, painful words. he keeps it for himself. he promises he’ll give it back to the rightful owner when he eventually finds them.

genre: angst

notes: support my writing or ask about commissions! - masterlist - i literally don’t know what plot is any more okay. also i listened to i love you by billie eilish on loop whilst writing this so feel free to put that on if you want.

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draco sees the words every time he closes his eyes.

repeated stanzas, never leaving him alone. a mouthful of words no mind should ever be able to conjure. a haunting imagination capable of driving even the sanest people out of sanity.

he found the book on a winters day at hogwarts. christmas time was just round the corner, meaning most of his friends had already fled the castle in favour of homes, somewhere out in the muggle world, where they could spend the holidays with families who cared for them as families often cared for each other.

draco decided to stay at hogwarts.

he didn’t want to - not really. his father was just being difficult, and he wanted to face the man even less than he wanted to spend the holidays with people like potter and teachers who didn’t like him because of his family name.

he is entirely on his own this holiday season, and it depresses him more than he would ever be willing to let on.

because, you see, the thing with draco malfoy is, weakness has been a taboo subject amongst his family for as long as he can remember. his father drilled into his conscience that malfoys always have their heads held high, that they must be able to cope entirely on their own in any circumstance, because that’s what strength is. needing no one. fending only for yourself. living life to get what you want without worrying about anybody else.

this is why draco doesn’t sit with the other students during the christmas feast. instead, he finds himself traipsing through the library, poking at spines of books so old the writing has been smudged and worn, the contents made up of words once spoken in england, now lost to time.

the place smells dusty. it makes him sneeze, and he grimaces when he pulls his finger away from a shelf to see it coated in a thick layer of dust which he hastily wipes on his already gravy-stained robes. his stomach grumbles with the reminder of the christmas feast waiting downstairs for him - all he needs to do is pull a chair up and dig in. none of the teachers will mind. the students might be a bit iffy, but when has draco ever cared about what they think?

instead, he slumps against the wall, pulls a book into his lap and starts to read.

he’s so engrossed in the old text that he doesn’t hear the library door opening. he doesn’t hear peeve’s taunting cackles until they’re right over his head, peeves pointed toes very nearly scraping his slicked back hair.

draco’s head snaps up. above him, the poltergeist laughs, throwing his head back.

“peeves!” draco scrambles to his feet, swatting at the poltergeist. “oh, for christ’s sake, do you ever give it a rest?”

“all alone for christmas, are you, malfoy?” the poltergeist taunts. “surely daddy can afford you a way home with all that money the dark lord’s been shovelling into his pockets!”

draco’s face burns. “go away, you annoying little roach, before i get the hoover!”

peeves only laughs harder. “what a threat that was! wait till i tell the headmaster about that one.” and before draco can say anything else, peeves has grabbed a single, tiny book from the edge of a bookshelf and dropped it on draco’s head.

it crashes against the crown of his skull and bounces to the floor unceremoniously, flipping open upon the carpet. draco makes to yell, his fury bubbling over, but his voice is lost to the sudden emptiness of the room as peeves does what peeves does best and disappears.

draco groans through gritted teeth, rubbing the spot the book bounced from. it aches a little bit, which is surprising considering the size of the book. not a textbook. not really anything any of his teachers would ask him to check out of the library. instead, it’s spiral bound, the words not typed, but handwritten in sloppy scrawl, like the author was in a rush when transferring their thoughts onto paper.

draco frowns; why should a book such as this be in the schools library?

he picks it up by the corner, as if afraid the book might bite him - it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. the book, however, makes no strange movements. draco feels no strange, magical pull coming from the pages. in fact, if he were to use his common sense, he would believe the book to be straight from the muggle world.

that alone should have been enough to deter him, but his father isn’t here, so he opens it and starts reading.

the first few pages are awkward poetry. awkward essays, a person’s thoughts and opinions filtered with the fear of someone reading over their shoulder, perhaps. draco can tell the author was holding back, but the further he flips, the looser said author seems to become. they start using words. just words, so beautiful and magical and heartfelt that draco finds himself enraptured with every one. he struggles to put the book down, curling into his tiny corner in the library, enamoured by such language. he wonders for the brief moment he is able to take his eyes off the page if perhaps the book has been cast under a spell, if perhaps there is a spell in this world that puts heaven and hell into words and has transferred it to the very book he holds in his hands.

draco has spent so long getting lost in the talents of wizards that he sometimes forgets muggles have talents and hobbies, too. there are creatives in the world who can create emotions from such small things. there are people outside the world of magic and wizardry who can do magical things, too.

he has the evidence in his hand.

---

he keeps the evidence in his hand all throughout the year.

he comes back to it after particularly stressful classes to remind himself that not all is bad; that’s the magic these poems and essays have on him. he could probably recite each one word for word, but he never does, because they belong to him now. he’s claimed them as a comfort blanket, something he needs to get through the day. he’s found an addiction within these words that he can’t let go of, not just yet, not until he figures out who wrote them.

and that’s really all it boils down to - he wants to put a face to the mind that created the world he so desperately wants to share.

it’s a tuesday afternoon in feburary when blaise asks him about the book.

“are you ever gonna share what’s in that notebook you keep carrying around?”

the question startles draco. he thought he was being so subtle. he hardly ever brings the notebook out to face the light of day, only ever reading it behind the curtains of his poster bed in the dorms.

nonetheless, he doesn’t deny it’s existence. he doesn’t want to sound stupid.

he pokes at the vegetables on his plate and, without looking up, mumbles, “not really any of your business, is it?”

blaise scoffs. “alright, be like that then. you carry that thing around like a little girl and her secret diary.”

“are you trying to tease me, blaise? because you just sound stupid.”

blaise rolls his eyes; he’s one of the few people that don’t get properly offended when malfoy fails to bite his tongue.

“and anyway,” draco continues, “i don’t carry it around. it stays in my bed.”

“oh, really?”

“yes, and that’s where it’s staying.”

“so is it yours, or did you take it from someone?”

draco pauses. “it’s mine.”

“i’ve never seen you write in a notebook before. not even in class.”

draco shrugs; he hasn’t got a very good answer to that, because the statement is true. he tends to get others to write his notes for him when he can get away with it.

blaise sighs. he leans back in his seat, folding his skinny arms across his chest. “so are you a poet now? some kind of shakespeare?”

draco raises a brow. “some kind of what?”

blaise waves a dismissive hand. “it’s a muggle thing. just answer the part you understood.”

“i’m not a poet,” draco grumbles. “the poems in the book aren’t even mine. i found it when i was in the library a few months back, and thought it was interesting.” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like this notebook has always just been a background prop in his everyday life. “it’s stupid, really. muggle stuff.”

“so why are you so obsessed with it?”

“i’m not obsessed!” draco’s grip tightens on the edge of his chair; he’s tired after a long day of quidditch practice, and honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with his friends bullshit any longer than he has to. “now, blaise, can you start minding your own business before we have some issues?”

that shuts blaise right up. together, they eat the remainders of their dinners before draco excuses himself and leaves the table. his mind is reeling, heart thumping both with embarrassment and annoyance; he knows he’s popular amongst the slytherins. in a way, he asked to be centre of attention when he started mouthing off about the importance of the malfoy household all those years back, but it’s frustrating that he can’t even do a bit of light reading without getting asked about it. he thought he was being so subtle, keeping the curtains closed every time he read, never taking the notebook from the confines of the dorms, never uttering a word about it to-

his shoulder crashes into yours.

“shit.”

draco stumbles back, catching himself on the wall. he’s too dazed to say anything, but his anger is rising, and he’s prepared to start yelling-

but then he opens his eyes and sees you there, fumbling with a pile of posters that have spilled across the glossy corridor floor. draco blinks, glancing from you to the posters and back again.

“i’m so sorry,” you mumble. “so sorry. i knew the pile was too high, but hermione had to go to-”

“why don’t you just-” draco flicks his wand. immediately, the posters gather in a whirlwind and fly into his outstretched arms, a neat little stack, good as new.

you look up, dazed. your eyes are gorgeous, plagued with evidence of exhaustion, but riveting nonetheless. draco recognises you only vaguely, and the few memories he has of these quick glimpses have never left him dissatisfied.

“oh,” you say after a moment. “right. spells. magic. i forgot about that.”

draco narrows his eyes.

you stumble to your feet, wiping trembling hands on your robes. it leaves a streak of dirt against the black, and that’s when draco sees the red and gold lining of house gryffindor.

“sorry,” you repeat. “i mean, thank you, for - like - helping me. i completely forgot i could just-” you swish your hands in a mock gesture of wand-movement before laughing awkwardly. “weird, right? that i would - uh - forget that in a school of magic. when i’m a wizard. ha ha.”

draco nods, because he really has nothing to say. he can’t keep his eyes off you, your awkward movements, the way you don’t even flinch at the sight of him. most gryffindor’s would be hurling insults at him by now - hell, he would be hurling insults at the gryffindor’s, too, but his words are caught in his throat and he can’t even properly function.

so he looks down at the pile of posters in his arms.

“CREATIVE WRITING 101!”

you snatch the first poster off the pile as if that will stop draco from reading it. “it’s nothing. something stupid, really.”

he looks at you again. “you like creative writing?”

you shrug.

“that’s such a muggle hobby to have. where’s the fun in it?”

and for the first time this entire meeting, you scowl. you hastily snatch the posters out of draco’s arms, struggling to keep them neat and tidy in your own, but when draco raises his wand to help you out a second time, you swat his hand away and say, “i don’t need your help.”

“you’re going to drop them again-”

you’re already backing away. “you don’t need to come, you know. me dropping these in front of you wasn’t a bloody invite.”

draco blinks. “i didn’t mean it like-”

you run a hand through your hair, nearly stumbling over your own shoes yet again. draco lunges forward in his attempts to catch you, but you yell something incoherent in his direction, apologise profusely to a first year you nearly elbow in the nose before you turn on your heel and head back the way you came.

draco stares at your retreating form, unable to fully comprehend what he did wrong. he doesn’t think he said anything offensive, let alone anything that would prompt you to nearly wipe yourself out in your attempts to get away.

but then again, he isn’t really sure why he cares.

----

it’s weird how - after one brief meeting - you suddenly appear at every corner draco takes.

he never noticed you in his potion’s class before, but now he can’t avoid you. you sit at the back, a pen lodged between your teeth, brows furrowed together; despite your eventful meeting with draco only a few days prior, you don’t seem to have nearly as much interest in his sudden presence as he has with yours. he keeps glancing at you, not-so-subtly turning in his chair every now and then just to make sure you’re not some kind of illusion. nobody in the classroom is acting like anything is out of place, so maybe you have been his classmate for a while, and he just never noticed.

he finds that a little hard to believe, but he has to take reality as it comes to him, or else he’ll go insane.

he doesn’t talk to you for nearly a week, because he’s a little afraid of what you’ll have to say. he’s a little afraid you’ll say nothing at all, that you might have forgotten who he is entirely.

it’s you who makes the first move.

it startles draco nearly out of his skin. he’s packing up his stuff, ignoring goyle’s ramblings to his left, when you slip your hand in his robe pocket. he jumps, spinning around just enough to dislodge your grappling fingers, and he’s seconds away from whipping out his wand to hex you when he freezes, eyes meeting your own, heart immediately plummeting into his stomach.

you smile, wide and polite. “hello, old friend.”

“can you get out of my pockets?” draco hisses, swatting your hand away when you make another attempt to dive into his robes. “what do you want?”

“a pen,” you reply. “i broke mine.”

“i don’t have a pen.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his quill. “i have a quill.”

“aaaah, my bad.” you snatch the instrument from him before grabbing his hand. he yelps, stumbling a little bit. he beams bright red when the noise he just made actually registers in his head, and he makes a mental note to scold goyle for snickering behind him.

“what are you doing?” draco demands. he tries not to get too flustered at the height difference between you - your head could very easily rest in the crook of his neck, and he hates that he kind of wants to experience what that feels like.

you scribble words into his palm. “this is the time and place for the creative writing clubs first meeting.”

draco blinks. “what?”

“time and place for the-”

“why do you want me to go?”

you scowl, not once looking up from the jagged lines of draco’s palm. “i don’t, but hermione’s asked me to gather as many people as i can find, and i think you kind of owe me one after being so rude the other day in the hallway.”

draco falters; so you remember.

“i wasn’t being rude at all,” he grumbles. “you’re just sensitive.”

“maybe.” you drop his palm and shove his quill back in his pocket. “if you want to come, be my guest; it’s going to be a lot of fun. lots of - uh - writing and stuff, i can assure you.”

draco scowls. “i won’t be going.”

“okay.”

“so this entire conversation was pointless.”

you fold your arms over your chest, as if challenging him. “okay, draco. i’m not forcing you to come if you don’t want to, but - you know - i’ll save you a seat or whatever.”

and draco doesn’t understand why that is the promise that tears him down, why that is the thing that makes his mind up for him. even as he gives you no solid answer, he knows he now has plans automatically built into his schedule to see you again, no matter how much he dreads the thought of it.

he looks down at the writing on his palm, and his heart stops.

just for a second. a brief moment of death, before life is pushed back into him when his brain kicks into overdrive and he’s certain he’s going to pass away for real with how fast his heart is suddenly beating.

he blinks rapidly. goyle is saying something, and the students are filtering out, but draco is lost, lost, spiralling as he recognises the messy scrawl, smudged even though it shouldn’t be, messy but coherent, familiar and amazing.

he’s read heaven written in this exact same handwriting. he’s read heaven, and hell, and earth, and space, and the moon, and the stars, and he’s experienced an entire new existence written in this very handwriting. it’s the same handwriting that covers every single page of his sacred notebook, hidden in his pillow case back at the dorms. it’s the same handwriting that gives a form to the aches and pains and anxieties of the person who has just walked away from him, the person who’s brain draco has lived in since christmas.

----

“you’re actually going?”

“it’s the least i can do.” draco fixes the collar of his robes, ruffles his hair a little bit. “i did nearly wipe them out in the hallway a few days ago.”

“that was an accident.” pansy throws herself across draco’s bed, as she often does when she wants the attention he has never given her. he simply glares at her reflection through the mirror, silently willing her to get up and leave so he can set off for the history of magic classroom in which the creative writing club is meeting tonight.

pansy, however, doesn’t take the hint.

“i just think this y/n person is trying to get in your head,” she continues. “your head, your bed, all of the above...”

draco’s face warms. “you can think whatever you want, pansy, but i’m going whether you like it or not. in case you’ve forgotten, you have absolutely no say in the way i live my life.”

pansy rolls onto her stomach, tugs on the back of draco’s robes. “oh, you’ve made that very clear, malfoy. don’t come running back to me when you show up to this stupid muggle club and get ostracised for being who you are.”

draco clenches his jaw, stepping out of pansy’s reach all without turning round. he knows she’s right, of course - there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to show up tonight, only to be met by the usual hostile glares he gets from everybody outside the slytherin house. he brought it upon himself, and he knows that - but he’s trying to fix it. he’s trying to prove himself as a good person to you.

to the world. not just you.

he swallows and turns. pansy stares up at him, hands curled beneath her chin, that sleezy little smile on her face. draco grimaces, points to the door and says, “the girls dorms are up the other staircase.”

pansy’s smile falls. she scowls, stands up and leaves without another word. draco doesn’t care that he’s pissed her off - pansy, in recent months, has become a little bit too much. he’s given her the most wiggle room he can provide, and she has done nothing but bombard him further.

he shakes the thought of his friend from his mind as he walks over to his bed and digs around in his pillow case. inside, he finds the poetry book he so desperately cares for, flicking to a page he has marked; he’s highlighted a few passages, and he reads them over as he steadies his breathing. this is such new territory for him. if his father finds out what he’s up to right now, he’ll be getting a very stern speaking to, possibly even a back-hand to the face if his father is in a particularly bad mood.

but then draco remembers your expression, your hand digging around in his pocket, your stumbled words that somehow manage to pull together so beautifully when you want to express yourself.

he has to see you tonight, whether it’s in a creative writing club or not. he’ll take just running into you in the hallway again, but to reach that point, he has to actually leave the dorms.

he stuffs the book back into his pillow case, flattens a particularly frustrating strand of hair, and walks out the door.

---

the history of magic classroom is dimly lit.

draco has seen pictures of muggle poetry readings before; they kind of remind him a little bit of exorcisms, and the set-up he’s currently walking into is no exception.

there’s candles lit upon every desk, the lights dimmed to create some kind of ambience that draco doesn’t understand. people are sat in a circle - people in every colour of robe, though draco is the only slytherin, it seems. this makes him a little nervous, and he hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the scene in desperate search of you.

he spots you in a matter of seconds. you’re leaning over a candle, frowning into the flame like you can’t quite understand why it’s flickering like that.

draco makes a b-line for you.

you look up only when he’s by your side, and immediately your expression brightens. those eyes of yours widen a little bit, a smile adorning your face. you straighten up, grab draco’s arm, and he’s certain he’s going to explode.

“you made it!” you exclaim. “i can’t believe you actually came, mate; full of surprises, you are.”

draco frowns, feigning frustration, like this is something he went out of his way to attend. “why are you staring at the flame so intensely?”

“i’m staring at the flame so intensely-” you put on a pompous british accent, just to tease him, and draco doesn’t mind, “-because apparently you can turn the flames a different colour with the right spell, but it’s not working for me. watch.”

you elbow draco in the side, prompting him to shuffle over and give you more room. draco folds his arms over his chest, watching as you kneel down until your cheek is very nearly pressed against the desk. you point your wand at the flames and wave it, just once, but nothing happens. the flames barely even flicker.

you blow it out in frustration. “fuck that.”

draco laughs. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s bursting out of him at the sight of your furrowed brows, and your pouting lips. you scowl at him, and it startles him how unsurprised you are to hear such a noise escape a man like draco malfoy.

draco shakes his head and nudges you to the side. “watch.”

you grab his wrist. “no. nope. absolutely not.”

“what? i’m gonna-”

“you’re gonna show me up, is what you’re gonna do, and i didn’t ask for it.” you pluck his wand from his fingers and stuff it back in his robes. draco has to fight the urge to shudder, your fingertips tracing across his ribcage as you fumble for his inside pocket.

you pull away then, shaking your head. “it doesn’t even matter, anyway; you show me up in every other class we have together.”

draco scoffs. “and i can assume you’re going to show me up tonight, so we’re even.”

you grin, because draco is right, and you both know he is right.

you make a bit more idle chat before the final people make an appearance, and you’re finally asked to sit down. draco is confused to see hermione granger being the leader of this group of creatives, as he’s almost certain he’s never read anything more beautiful than your work; surely you should be up at the front, guiding people through the craft of writing, a craft you have so brilliantly perfected.

draco sits beside you and says nothing. he fiddles with his fingers, coughing into his fist, rolling his eyes anytime someone makes a stupid suggestion. honestly, granger can talk forever, and draco is starting to get bored within the first ten minutes. all he wants is to hear you recite something, or for you to just. . . say anything about any of your pieces; draco could probably do it for you if that didn’t look creepy and uncalled for. he could stand at the front of this group and recite whatever piece of poetry he wanted from the notebook he took so long ago, and then maybe you’d get the recognition you deserve. maybe then you’d be able to share your potential instead of just sitting by draco’s side in a circle of poet-wanna-be’s.

finally, hermione turns her attention on you, however.

“y/n,” granger chirps. you jump, fumble with your wand, let it drop on the floor to roll beneath draco’s chair. he rolls his eyes and picks it up for you as you struggle to respond to hermione’s summons.

“uh, y-yeah? yes? did you ask me something?”

hermione’s brows furrow. “do you ever pay attention to anything i’m saying?”

“sometimes,” you reply, sheepishly. “definitely sometimes.”

hermione rolls her eyes. “anyway - i was just wondering if you’ve done any writing recently that you’d like to share.”

draco tenses. he flicks his eyes to his left to see you awkwardly ringing your hands in your lap, biting your lower lip.

“uh....”

“none?” hermione demands, eyes popping. “but i thought-”

“i’ve been a bit busy,” you grumble. “it’s not that big of a bloody deal, hermione, goodness me.”

“well, yes, i - i know that, but-” hermione gestures vaguely. “this is a creative writing club. i asked all of you to bring something with you. do you not even have an old piece of writing you could share with us?”

“nope.”

draco’s heart leaps. “what?”

and suddenly, all eyes are on him.

he slouches in his seat, but keeps his gaze on you. you stare back at him, eyes wide, clearly shocked at his contribution.

“you’ve got nothing?” he prompts.

you can’t even reply. you just stare, and draco knows he’s being confusing, is aware that maybe he should just shut his mouth. or, better yet, do everyone a favour and walk out before he says any more stupid things that will do nothing but embarrass both you and him.

“okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. “okay, fine. that’s fine.” he looks up, meets hermione’s eyes. “you know what, granger, i don’t think this little club is my cup of tea. i’m going to head back to bed.”

hermione blinks. no one says anything when draco stands and walks out, but he expected nothing less. he wasn’t welcome there in the first place. he should never have even made an appearance. he should have stayed in bed and let his feelings fester until he fell asleep.

feelings are stupid anyway.

----

he ignores you.

in fact, he starts treating you how he treats everybody else - like they’re beneath him. a habit he once wanted to escape from has yet again become his comfort blanket, the thing shielding him from talking to you. every time you try making conversation, he sneers and walks off, barely even giving you the time of day.

in truth, he knows what happened is no big deal. everyone probably forgot about it as soon as he left the room, getting absorbed in their own works of poetry. however, draco knows you want to discuss it, that you probably want answers he is far too afraid to give you. if he starts explaining why he said what he said, he’ll have to talk about the notebook, and then you might ask for it back, and draco is selfish because he doesn’t think he can give it back just yet. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and so, he just ignores you.

he sits in potions and pretends you don’t exist. he walks past you at lunch and doesn’t even give you a smile. he looks over your head every time you stand to wave at him. he doesn’t want to risk any inkling of conversation trickling in between you.

pansy notices this, of course, but draco isn’t surprised. with how closely pansy has taken to watching over you and him, it would be more surprising to think she hadn’t caught on to the situation.

she sits beside him at lunch, slamming her tray of greens down just loud enough that a few heads turn - including your own. draco quickly snaps his eyes down to his plate, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the back of your head.

“so,” pansy begins.

draco licks the stuffing from his fork.

pansy leans in, elbow hitting against his. “so. how did it go?”

“how did what go?”

“your little date with y/n! you never updated me on it!”

draco scowls. “that was days ago, pansy.”

“exactly. so now that i’ve got you trapped, you can fill me in on all the details.” she leans even closer, if that is possible. draco can smell the old woman’s perfume wafting from her robes and has to take a glass of water to quell the itch it summons to his throat. “y/n doesn’t look too happy with you, i’ll say that much. i sit behind them in care of magical creatures, and they’ve been awfully quiet since the club meeting; care to explain?”

“why is it any of your business?”

pansy grins. “because i told you someone like y/n wasn’t worth the trouble; a gryffindor, draco, really? were the robes not a big enough red flag for you?”

draco scowls. “first of all, pansy, y/n and i are just friends, and have always been just friends. i’m not doing anything to impress them.”

pansy scoffs, finally moving away to start spearing at her dinner with her fork. “how stupid do you think i am? how stupid do you think we all are? goyle doesn’t keep your little infatuation a secret, you know. he told us all about how close you and y/n get in potions together.”

draco’s grip tightens on his fork. “close isn’t really the right word.”

“the bickering? the way they make you laugh? the way you help them with their potions when they’re struggling so snape won’t tell them off? that sounds awful close to me, draco.”

he has no answer to that. his chest aches, memories of such delightful times flooding his mind and making him crave it all again. he remembers those times when he would glance over his shoulder to see you running your hands through your hair, struggling to comprehend what on earth snape has just ordered you to do; if it was anyone else, draco wouldn’t have given them the light of day, but seeing the fear in your eyes every time snape gave you even the briefest flicker of attention saw draco abandoning goyle to come save the day at your desk.

“so what went wrong?” pansy continues. “a lovers tiff?”

draco closes his eyes. “it was nothing, pansy; just me being an idiot again.”

pansy gasps, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “you? being an idiot? and you’re openly admitting to it! goodness me, y/n must be a lot more skilled at magic than they let on, huh?”

“i don’t know what to do.”

it’s a plea. draco knows it’s a plea. in his heart, the cracks are beginning to form, and he can’t pretend any longer. he watches the back of your head - has been watching the back of your head since the meeting, because that’s the only glimpse of you he will let himself have. it hurts to see you laughing, smiling, slapping ron weasley on the arm. it shows you’re healing, moving on from your attempts to get draco to listen.

he’s ruined everything.

pansy leans forward. her voice is softer now, surprisingly kind. “draco, are you serious about this? i know i’ve been teasing, but do you actually like y/n in that way?”

draco bites the inside of his cheek. he remembers the times he had with you, how he used to laugh so freely with little care as to who heard. you teased him and made him feel normal, and he isn’t sure when his appreciation for you went past the poetry you wrote and emerged into you as a human being, but it’s happened, and he’s nodding to pansy’s question before he can think better of it.

pansy draws back, letting out a shaky breath. “wow, okay. . . this is definitely new territory for me. for you. i’m not sure how to go about it.”

“i took their notebook from them,” he mumbles.

pansy raises a brow. “their - their notebook?”

“y/n writes,” he explains. “beautiful things. addictive things, and i found their notebook in the library over christmas and i kept it for myself. i only found out it was theirs a few days ago, but. . . i never told them i have it. i got scared to.”

pansy pauses. draco’s never used that word in a sentence before. it sounds fake, like he’s made it up and just thrown it at the end of his sentence for the fun of it.

“well, that would be a good place to start, i think.”

his eyes snap up. “what?”

“give them their notebook back.” she says this like it’s obvious, raising her brows. “it’s a good way to start a conversation, and once the conversation’s been breached, you can go on to explain everything else - it’s pretty simple when you get your head around it, draco.”

he blinks. it does make sense, but again, there comes that burning protectiveness he can’t seem to shake.

selfish, selfish, selfish.

he glances over at the gryffindor table. you’ve got your head thrown back again, laughing so loudly and so carefree that draco’s heart trembles because he isn’t the one making you laugh like that. it’s ron. it’s harry. it’s everyone who thinks he’s an awful human being, bringing joy to the one person who’s ever seen him as decent. they’ve probably told you a joke about how draco’s scum, how he’ll never amount of anything, how he claimed his spot at the top purely because of his father.

fury pools in the pit of draco’s stomach. he spears his food with his fork, pushes away from the table and walks out of the dining hall before giving pansy an answer as to whether he simple plan is one he’ll actually take into consideration.

but now that he’s storming through the halls towards the slytherin common room, he knows it’s not something he can just consider. he can never move on with you with your notebook stuffed in his pillow case. he needs to be honest, and he needs to apologise, and these are all things he struggles with greatly, but all things he needs to learn before he loses you for good.

---

the notebook hasn’t seen the light of day past draco’s dorm since christmas.

it feels weird carrying it so freely now, slowly making his way through the halls with it pressed against his chest, the spirals digging into his lower arm. people look at him, but nobody bats an eye at the notebook, and why would they? it’s not suspicious. most of them probably think it’s nothing more than a school notebook, used for taking notes in classes.

still, his anxiety runs at a million miles per hour. he wants to yell at anyone who even glimpses the tiny square peeking from over his arms. he wants to tell them it’s none of their business.

but he doesn’t. he keeps walking until he’s reached the gryffindor common room.

it’s just his luck that ron weasley is the one stood outside. the ginger lad spots draco immediately, and it’s reflex when draco scowls and says, “got nothing better to do, weasley?”

ron glares. “what are you doing here, malfoy? the slytherin common room is back the way you came.”

“good thing i’m not going to the slytherin common room.” he nods towards the portrait hole. “is y/n in there?”

ron pauses. “what do you want with y/n?”

“i need to talk to them.” he swallows before gently unravelling the notebook from his arms. “i accidentally grabbed this in potions - i need to give it to them.”

“right, give it here then.” ron reaches for it, and draco stumbles back. he stumbles, not even bothering to swat ron’s hand away as pure panic seizes him. ron pulls back hastily, eyes widening at draco’s response.

draco, through gritted teeth, says, “just go get y/n for me, will you?”

ron stares at him a second longer before turning on his heel and walking back into the gryffindor common room. draco tries calming himself down in the minutes it takes for ron to reappear with you at his side.

the attempts are futile.

the minute he lays eyes on you, his heart starts thundering in a way that confuses him to no ends; he shouldn’t feel like this over someone so ordinary, and in truth, that’s what you are. you’re a student, just like him, struggling through school life, just like him. you go about your day in almost the exact same way as he does, and yet he’s never before felt so intrigued by another individual.

when your eyes meet his, you don’t smile. you don’t even look surprised. you grip the front of your night gown, glaring at him, not saying a word in greeting; draco’s mouth has gone dry, however, and saying anything is the absolute last thing on his mind when you’re standing in front of him, hair a mess, more beautiful and casual than he’s ever seen you.

ron is the one who has to break the silence. “he said he’s got a notebook for you.”

draco inhales sharply, suddenly remembering the artefact clutched in his hands. your eyes drift to it, and for a moment, you look puzzled. your eyebrows scrunch together, head tilting a little before you say, “that’s mine?”

draco thrusts it in your direction. “please take it.” he turns to ron. “and you - please leave.”

ron looks offended, looking at you for back-up, but your eyes are peeled on the notebook, not paying even the slightest bit of attention to ron. in the end, the weasley man rolls his eyes and stalks back into the gryffindor common room, leaving the corridor empty besides you and draco.

and draco feels every sliver of tension like it’s been injected into his bone marrow. flashes of his behaviour play on loop in his brain, the way he ignored you, the amount of times he scowled at you every time you tried speaking to him; he never meant any of it, of course, considering you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever come across, but he did it anyway, and that’s what he has to patch up.

somehow, he has to patch this up.

he looks to the floor, tucking the notebook back against his chest when you don’t take it from his hands. the silence is crushing, but draco has absolutely no idea what to say to fill it in - pansy made this all sound so easy; he would hand you the notebook, and a conversation would immediately stem from that.

but no. draco’s mind has gone completely blank, and you still look furious, and neither of you are doing anything to resolve the mess he has made.

finally, however, draco can’t take it any more. “i found your notebook.”

“yeah. ron said.” you pluck it out of his arms. “where did you even find this? it’s so old.”

“in the library.”

“the library? what was it doing there?”

draco shrugs. “how would i know that?”

“considering you’re the one who stole it-”

“i didn’t steal it. i just didn’t know who it belonged to.” a lie. he shouldn’t be lying. that’s a bad way to go about things. “i mean, i took it back to my dorm with me, kept it safe, but - like - i was of course going to give it back once i figured out who the owner was.”

you hum. “i’m sure you were.” you flick open the pages, immediately spotting a passage draco has highlighted in bright orange pen. “you tabbed it?”

he shrugs. “sometimes i read it when i got bored.”

“i should be angry at you for that, you know - that’s a big invasion of privacy.”

“yeah. you should be.” he looks up sheepishly. “are you?”

you pause, eyes continuing to drift over the pages of your own work, work you haven’t seen or reread since at least christmas time. you don’t look impressed, or angry, or anything at all, really. you just read the lines and nod, as if taking inventory.

then, you look up and say, “i’m more angry at the way you’ve been treating me this past week.”

draco wilts. he knew it was coming, that this was the main source of hostility for the both of you, but he really thought the presence of the notebook would somehow buy him some time, maybe make this conversation a bit easier.

you snap the notebook closed, shoving it into the pocket of your night gown. “you didn’t even tell me what i did wrong!”

“you didn’t do anything wrong!”

“then why were you acting like that? why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

draco squeezes his eyes closed, trails his hands through his hair, tries to calm down before he says something he’ll immediately regret. “you know, it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be.”

you pull back, puzzled. “how is it complicated? you’re nearly eighteen years old, draco! it shouldn’t be complicated to talk to someone when you’re mad at them!”

“ i wasn’t mad at you! i thought you were mad at me!”

you throw your head back and laugh, and this is the very noise draco has been craving for days, but he doesn’t want to hear it now, not here, not in this context. you’re not taking him seriously. you’re not listening.

“this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard,” you cackle. “is this about the fucking club meeting? you think i gave a shit about what you said?”

draco shakes his head. “again, love, it’s not as simple as that.”

“then explain it to me. explain to me what the hell was going through your head to make that switch flip so suddenly.”

something inside draco snaps, a string he didn’t even realise was being pulled so taut.

“do you wanna know what’s been going through my head recently?” his voice drops, your expression faltering. “it’s that fucking notebook of yours. it’s been all i can think about for weeks, because i can’t wrap my head around the idea of you being the author of those poems.”

you blink. “w-what?”

“you’re so carefree. you’re so. . . so you, y/n, and it seems impossible to me - unfathomable! - that you could be thinking such harrowing thoughts and not a single person has picked up on it besides me - and i’ve only done so by complete accident.” he inhales, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve read your poems a thousand times over, and even though i know they came from you, i still can’t put your face to the words. i still can’t figure out how on earth you and that notebook are related in any way, and it’s been driving me insane. i want to help you, and it’s driving me insane.”

again, you blink. the corridor goes quiet. draco’s breathing slows, stabilises, and he has no idea what he’s just said, or if any of it makes sense, but there is a weight off his chest that provides such a great amount of relief he wants to cry.

finally, you swallow. your knuckles protrude from your hand with how tight your grip on the notebook is. your eyes stray to the ground, throat bobbing, mouth opening for just a second before you seem to think better of it and go silent again.

draco takes a step back. “look, you can have it back,” he says. “i don’t want it any more. i don’t - i don’t need it any more. but i just want you to know i’m sorry, and i never wanted to hurt your feelings. i was just. . . feeling things, and it wasn’t normal for me, and i got scared.” he raises his hands in mock surrender, taking another step back. “feel free to never talk to me again. i’ll understand.”

he waits for another second. hope springs to his chest, hope that you will tell him not to go, that you’ll forgive him on the spot and the two of you can live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work that way. you meet his eyes and nod, before turning on your heel and heading back into the gryffindor common room.

---

“how did you mess that up again?”

draco presses his knuckles into his eyes, as if pushing goyle’s words out of his brain. he should never have told the other slytherin about his encounter with you, but goyle was the first person on the scene, and malfoy just lost control; he needed to rant to someone. he needed to get it off his chest.

and it seems now goyle has suddenly developed a perfect memory, as two days after the meeting in the corridor, he has not let the subject drop.

the two sit together in defence against the dark arts; their teacher has long since left the classroom in search of some more work sheets for them to get cracking with, and the class has erupted into an expected chorus of conversations. draco wants nothing more than to put his head on the table and ignore the world, take this break as a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he has been robbed of these past few weeks, but goyle doesn’t let him go that easily.

the bigger boy leans over and taps draco on the back of the head. “come on, man, talk to me. there’s got to be something we can do.”

“there is nothing,” draco barks through gritted teeth. “and i’m sick of repeating myself, goyle, so shut your trap before i shut it for you.”

goyle sighs, leaning back in his seat. “so y/n just. . . didn’t even say anything? they just walked off without a word?”

“they did, which i took as a clear sign they never want to see me again.”

“do you not think you might be looking too deeply into that reaction?”

draco glares, eyes bloodshot, probably more terrifying than they have ever been. “tell me where on earth i could have looked too deeply.”

goyle shrugs. “well, you did admit to spilling this massive, emotional speech over them in the middle of the night - maybe they just didn’t know what to say at the time. i bet if you go up to them now and ask for a follow-up conversation, they’d be more than willing to sit down and discuss everything.”

“there’s nothing to discuss. i said everything i wanted to say, and y/n rejected me - i’m man enough to take it at face value and move on.”

a lie, of course, but draco just wants goyle to shut up. he wants to continue sulking on his own, because that’s what he does best. he doesn’t need friends patting him on the back, trying to cheer him up. he knows he’s messed up, and he’s willing to suffer in solitude for his stupidity.

“i’ve just never seen you act like this around anyone.”

draco’s head snaps up. “what do you mean?”

but he knows exactly what goyle means, because goyle is telling the truth. nobody has ever made draco this stupid. nobody has ever plagued his mind like this, and it’s driving him insane.

goyle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “i’m not saying it’s a bad thing, draco; sometimes it’s nice to see you unravel a little bit. god knows you’ve had a stick rammed up your ass for long enough.”

draco rolls his eyes. “well, there’s no point in dwelling on it; nothing is going to happen. whatever friendship y/n and i had is gone, and i’m just gonna have to accept it.”

goyle scowls, but draco pays him no attention. instead, he goes back to idly tapping his pen against his bottom lip, trying desperately to put his own words into play. he just needs to get over you. he needs to go back to the cold hearted, uncaring wizard he was raised to be, because that was the only version of himself that never got hurt. he never let himself get hurt. it’s strange how you walk into his life, and suddenly that entire side of him is being stripped away, replaced by this oversensitive, overthinking, annoying piece of shit who suddenly relies on someone else to get them through the day.

draco hates it, but he hates the idea of not having that even more.

----

“so are you going to tell me why y/n won’t talk about you?”

draco looks up, his scowl a reflex when he makes eye contact with ron weasley. he stands over him, arms folded over his chest, wearing a set of school robes with little burn marks pecked into the material; draco has half a mind to tease him for it, before finding he has absolutely no energy to do such a thing right now.

instead, he leans back against the tree he has been sat under, gazing at the sky as mountains of homework piles up in his dormitory - piles of homework he has yet to touch, because every time he tries focusing his mind on a single task, it veers off and he can’t do anything.

ron raises a brow at draco’s silence. “no? you’re both gonna keep your mouths shut?”

“i don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“no, of course you don’t.” and then, ron does the most surprising thing - he slumps down next to draco, their shoulders clicking. “i’m gonna take a wild guess and say you fucked things up again.”

draco swallows, closing his eyes. “again, none of your business, weasley.”

“good answer. it makes perfect sense now.” ron nudges his arm. “what happened?”

and draco knows it’s out of character. of all the people he could rant to, ron weasley should - and always has been - the absolute last on his list, but he looks at ron and he’s reminded that he is your friend, that ron makes you laugh, and he’s probably cheered you on during this uncomfortable time with draco. with that knowledge comes a sense of warmth, a gratefulness he’s never felt before, one he doesn’t completely understand.

but he leans into it, because he’s too tired to fight it off. with his cheek pressed against his knees, he tells ron the whole story, from start to finish. he goes back as far as christmas, that god-forsaken day in the library when he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a nice bit of light reading whilst he ignored the rest of the students downstairs, how peeves had dropped that notebook on his head, and he’d grown attached to it, rereading the poems every day until the day he had to surrender it back to you.

“sounds quite stalkerish,” ron comments.

draco scoffs. “it does, doesn’t it?”

ron sighs, shifting slightly. in the distance, a group of first years run screaming away from the whomping willow. a stone gargoyle shakes its winds atop the astronomy tower. such beautiful sights, and yet draco can’t feel a thing.

“okay, look,” ron says. “don’t get any of this twisted, alright? i still hate you. more than i thought humanly possible.”

“cheers.”

“but, i care about y/n. a whole lot. they’re like family to me. they’ve been miserable these past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on me. so, i’m here to give you a bit of advice.” he turns, leans in, lowers his voice. “don’t give up so easily.”

draco jerks away. ron snickers, leaning back against the tree, gazing out at the green grass without a care in the world; draco, however, is stunned, heart racing though he doesn’t even know why. those words just hold so much hope, a hope he hasn’t let himself feel since it happened. he was slowly coming to terms with the idea of never talking to you again, and here ron weasley walks into the scene, ruining everything - like always.

draco splutters, swallows, pulls himself together. “w-why do you say that?”

“i thought it was obvious, mate,” ron replies. “y/n clearly has a soft spot for you. god only knows why, but that’s neither here nor there. all i care about right now is the fact they’ve been moping around for days, not even laughing at my jokes or anything. it’s getting exhausting when all you need to do is talk, and this entire thing could be resolved.”

“it’s not as easy as that.”

ron raises a brow. “oh? and why not?”

draco opens his mouth to respond, because he’s certain he has one. however, when he thinks about it, there really isn’t a decent answer to that question; he’s young, dumb, embarrassed. he stole your notebook, gave it back, confessed his feelings and then fled the scene - the only reason he hasn’t spoken to you since that fateful day is because he doesn’t want to bring up his own embarrassing gestures ever again. the quicker he buries them, the better.

but at the cost of you? maybe he should rethink it.

ron laughs. he stares at the side of draco’s face, pure amusement dancing across his features. draco scowls, because that’s what draco always does when he sees even the slightest flicker of joy on the weasley boys face; it’s become routine by now, even if he doesn’t feel the same contempt he’s so used to.

“it’s bizarre, isn’t it, that i’d be the one giving you relationship advice,” he says.

“it’s bizarre you’re helping me out at all, to be honest.”

“i’m not as heartless as you like to think i am, malfoy.” he stands, wiping his hands down his robes, smearing muck on the already dirty cloth. “if anyone asks, we were arguing and i won.”

draco blinks. “thank you, weasley. i mean it.”

ron rolls his eyes. “i’m sure you do. now never speak to me again.” he turns on his heel and strolls back down the hill without a second glance in draco’s direction.

----

draco’s heart is going to burst from his chest.

he’s been in this state far too often these past few weeks. he wants it to stop. he wants to go back to a life where he didn’t have a care in the world, where he owned this school, where he had the confidence that has carried his family name for decades.

the only way he’s going to reach that point again is by sorting things out with you.

or at least letting you know how he feels, because he can’t deny any of it any more. he can’t go around pretending you mean nothing to him. no, he still can’t explain where these feelings came from, if they started with the poetry and grew, or if they started that very day he laid eyes on you in first year and thought you were the prettiest one of his lousy classmates. he can’t explain any of it, but he doesn’t need to try. he doesn’t need to go as far back at that. all he needs to do is talk to you, let you know that you have changed him in very scary ways, and then he can move on. no matter your reaction, he can move on.

at least, that’s what he tells himself as he walks through the school corridors in search of you. it’s already getting dark, the january days lasting what seems like only a handful of minutes. students are flooding from their last classes of the day, and it’s only when draco spots a gryffindor bustling through the crowd does he stop.

he grabs the unsuspecting student by the arm, not even surprised nor offended by his look of pure disgust. draco simply grins, because that’s reflex for him, before saying, “have you seen y/n l/n anywhere?”

the boy furrows his brows. “i saw them talking to filch when i was walking to class. what do you want with them?”

draco raises a brow; talking to filch? what could you possibly want with argus filch of all people?

draco shoves the gryffindor away, thanking him with a nod before he turns and starts towards the caretakers office. he’s never been there before, mainly because he’s never wasted his time trying to hold a decent conversation with the caretaker, but he finds it in good enough time - an ordinary brown door, decorated only with the name ‘argus filch’ written across it in what looks like normal, muggle sharpie pen.

draco racks his knuckles against it, uncertain if he’s doing any of this right. in all his years at hogwarts, he’s seen filch in his office only a handful of times, and even if he just happens to be in his office now, what will draco even ask him? what he was talking to you about? if he somehow knows where you went after the conversation was over?

he waits there, however, because he has no other leads, and he needs to talk to you. he needs to get this over with, or else he won’t be able to sleep, and he can’t afford to be groggy during quiddith practice; he’s been performing bad enough these past few weeks, and if he can just get this off his chest-

the door swings open.

it isn’t filch.

“argus, i promise i’ll be done in-”

you pause. your eyes widen. your mouth snaps closed, grip tightening on the door frame, and draco is certain he’s going to explode at any moment.

“y/n.”

your name is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his racing heartbeat. he doesn’t even know if he said it, or maybe it was just a thought. at this moment in time, the two things are interchangeable.

“draco.” you swallow, shuffle awkwardly, look to the floor in a rare look of timidity. “w-what are you doing here?”

“i was looking for you.” he speaks fast, like he’s running out of time, and maybe he is. maybe you’re only giving him a few seconds before the memories flood back and you slam the door on his face, ruining his chances once and for all. maybe you think his attempts are idiotic, embarrassing, and you’re only letting him talk out of pity.

but you don’t slam the door on his face. not at all. you stand there, looking more beautiful than draco has ever seen you, even though nothing has really changed.

draco swallows, curling his fingers into fists. “someone told me you - you were in here.”

your eyes snap up. “i didn’t tell anyone where i was. that was kind of the whole point.”

draco nods like he understands, because part of him kind of does - hiding away, pretending you are the only person to exist. it’s a comfort sometimes.

“what do you want, draco?”

and just like that, everything he wanted to say is swept from his brain.

you fold your arms over your chest, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor. “d-did you have anything to say to me?”

you almost sound hopeful.

“ron told me not to give up so easily.”

you pause.

draco rushes on, because he knows he hasn’t done this right. he’s gone so far off script, and he hasn’t even got to the main point of his argument.

“i don’t listen to weasley - ever. quite frankly, his advice is usually more detrimental than helpful, but - but he told me earlier to come find you. he told me you weren’t doing so good-”

“ron-”

“and i don’t know if that’s true on your end, but it’s true for me.”

you blink.

draco exhales shakily, running a ringed hand through his hair. “i’m not doing so good, y/n. i don’t like the way we left things. i don’t like the fact that we left things at all. i should have explained myself a bit better, or come to you sooner, but you know how i am. god, you know how i am better than anyone else in the world, so please, please understand that i’m trying so hard to put my dignity aside to let you know how much i care about you.”

there is a silence. a silence so heavy that draco feels crippled beneath it, unable to do anything but wait in anticipation for a response he might not even deserve. he’s done so many things wrong - not just with you, but with life in general. he is a bad person, and he knows this, and he’s trying to change, because you don’t deserve a bad person.

you swallow. he watches your throat bob.

“i don’t know if i believe you.”

your words are a whisper, but they shatter everything around him like they were screamed at the top of your lungs.

he shakes his head dumbly, like that is answer enough. he wants to say something to argue his case, but his tongue feels heavy and a cloud has passed over his brain.

“draco, i don’t know if i believe you,” you correct, sounding almost desperate. “y-you treated me like shit for no reason. you took my notebook and didn’t give it back. you’re a dick to my friends-”

“i know,” he bursts through gritted teeth, like he is in physical pain. “y/n, i know. i know, and i’ve been beating myself up over it for weeks. but that’s what i do - that’s what i’ve always done. i play the victim card and blame everybody else for my wrongdoings, and it’s childish. i’m trying to stop. i’m really, really trying.”

you open your mouth to respond, but draco takes one look at the tears in your eyes and barrels on, suddenly desperate to dig himself further into the dirt.

“you know what? i don’t even know why i’m here. i’m sorry. i should just - i should just leave you alone and let you get on with your life. you and i were never meant to be together, and i just need to accept that and move on.” he can’t stop talking. he can’t stop hating himself. “i’m sorry, though. for everything i did to upset you. for every stupid thing i said or did - know i didn’t mean it. from the bottom of my heart, y/n, i would never hurt you. never. so that’s why i’m gonna go. i’m gonna leave you alone. i’m g-gonna support you in whatever you want to do in the future. as long as you’re happy.”

he tries for a smile, because that’s the way you’re meant to end these things, isn’t it? you smile, and you shake their hand or something, but draco can’t bring himself to do that, so he turns on his heel instead. he turns away from you, knowing this will be the last time, that there is absolutely no going back, no matter what horrible advice ron weasley gives him. he needs to get over you. he needs to let you go once and-

“draco.”

you grab his wrist and he stumbles. he stumbles because of your grip, but he stumbles, too, because his name on your lips will never get old. it’s music to him, music he never listens to because his father always said it was a waste of time. he basks in it, spinning around to meet your eyes, and his heart crumbles at the tears now rolling down your cheeks.

his own eyes widen. “y/n-”

“you’re so stupid,” you sob. “so fucking stupid, do you know that?” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a desperate hug. you sob into his shoulder, and draco is frozen, hands hovering over the small of your back, unsure how to take this reaction. “you’re literally the most idiotic person i’ve ever met in my life. how is it you? how is it always you?”

draco blinks. “how is what always me?”

“everything!” you wail, hugging him tighter. “it’s just always you, draco. always.”

and draco still has no idea what you mean, but he’s learning to understand that maybe he doesn’t need to know what you mean all the time. maybe he just needs to be there for you to yell and cry and make no sense, and that will be enough.

he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. he’s never been any good at hugs, but he’s melting into this one.

“idiot,” you whisper into his neck. “thinking i’m just gonna let you leave like that. . . thinking i don’t like you back. . . thinking i’ve stopped thinking about you for even a second these past few days. . .”

draco holds you tighter.

you pull away after a moment, quickly swiping your hand beneath your eyes. they are puffy now, red-rimmed, and draco knows he will have to explain this to ron in some way or the other without giving ron the benefit of knowing his advice might have actually been beneficial for once.

“i think we both messed up a little bit,” you mumble through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “my reaction wasn’t exactly very helpful, was it?”

“well. . . no, but-” draco exhales. “i meant what i said, y/n; i never meant to hurt you. i would never do that.”

your smile trembles. draco has only a second to smile back before you’re throwing your arms around him again, pulling him in for a hug that he is getting strangely fond of.

----

your pen scratches against the paper. draco can’t sleep; he doesn’t really want to sleep, despite the hours of classes and quiddith practice he has to endure in a few hours time.

you never sleep. not really. draco is convinced you live entirely off caffeine and words, staying up into the early hours of the morning with that notebook of yours, your muggle pen darting back and forth over the pages. he scolds you for it sometimes, but he’s always smiling, and you always roll your eyes in response.

now, however, he has one arm thrown over your shoulders, watching you work. it’s already three in the morning, but he’s too enamoured to bother falling asleep; he’d rather stay up and watch you work.

“bic,” he says out of nowhere, shattering the hours of silence the two of you had collected.

you pause, looking up. your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. draco smiles.

“what?”

“bic.” he nods at the pen in your hand. “that’s the name of your fancy muggle quill, isn’t it?”

you frown, taking another second to catch onto what he means, despite the clear explanation he has just given. however, it eventually dawns on you, and you frown even more.

“oh, right. yeah. bic. that’s the brand name.” you place it in draco’s hand. he holds it close to his face, squinting to read the tiny letters written in the plastic. “the best pens in the world, i’d say; much more practical than those bloody quills we have to use in class.”

“nothing wrong with our quills,” draco says, tilting the pen back and forth, examining every inch of it. “mine cost me a good lot of money.”

you scoff, snatching the pen back. “i’m sure it did. waste of a good lot of money, too, when you could have just bought a pack of twelve bic pens for a fiver.”

draco furrows his brows. “a fiver? what’s that in real money?”

you roll your eyes, smiling fondly, and it’s that very smile that has draco leaning forward to peck you on the lips. it takes you out of your work, which he knows will frustrate you in the morning when you wake up to see you didn’t get as much done as you might have liked, but for now, he doesn’t really care. not when you’re melting against him, dropping your dumb bic pen into the crease of your notebook so you can cling to him with both hands.

there are some days when draco thinks you love him only out of pity. he was the boy who lost himself to his feelings for you. he was the boy who came crawling back, the boy who was lost when he didn’t have you by his side. some days, draco has to ask you if you really want to be part of this relationship.

but then you go and kiss him like this, and he is left with no doubt that you’ve meant every single “i love you.” then you go and hold his hand at the gryffindor table, smile fondly at him as he bickers with your friends, and he knows this relationship is not a chore for you. maybe, if he lets himself hope, he can convince himself that you love him as much as he loves you.

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