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#(if we lived close enough to drive I could go with her no problem but. alas.)
kirby-the-gorb · 1 year
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hedgehog-moss · 9 months
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Here are 7 little facts about my donkey and how his summer is going :)
1. I received an anon the other day asking if Pirou was still a working donkey who carries my firewood for me, and the answer is yes. I've been cutting some branches from the big cherry tree that fell down the other day, and Pirlouit has been valiantly carrying them to the woodshed—fun fact, for this activity he likes to wear his ears like this:
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Probably because this T position is reminiscent of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross, which is how Pirlouit perceives himself as he carries heavy logs for me. He's willing, but his martyrdom should be acknowledged.
Here's Poldine acknowledging it with a nose kiss, because Poldine.
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I stopped so they could have their little chat.
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2. Pirou has been chatting with a lot of new friends lately—we met these horses on a walk and he was so happy to stop and touch noses with them while making equid noises. Llamas are good with the nose-touching but their llama noises are just less interesting to Pirlouit. He had such interested ears here! "Finally a serious grown-up conversation"
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We also met this goose during the same walk and Pirlouit was a lot less eager to go say hi to her. The goose was yelling threats at us and we prudently stayed away, and Pirou was clearly thinking "this bird is doing a better job at protecting her home from intruders than Pandolf ever could" (it's true, Pan assumes intruders are friends until proven otherwise)
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3. You'll notice that there are houses in this pic! Our walks got longer and longer until one day we went all the way to the village (it took 1 hour 20min at Pirlouit's leisurely pace). I was so proud of him. I've been trying to convince my friends to go to the village on donkeyback (this requires two people, because you can ride Pirlouit but you can't tell him where to go unless there's someone holding his rope and leading the way)—my friends were reluctant because they still sort of perceive Pirou as the feral animal terrified of everything that he was when I got him. They know he's made a lot of progress but going to town on donkeyback still seemed foolhardy.
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So we've been riding Pirlouit in the woods, in familiar environments, and we also went to town with him but without riding him. He was amazingly calm and brave! There's a river that cuts the village in two and the first time we went, we stopped before the bridge, since it's pretty narrow and cars would have to drive very close to Pirlouit, we didn't want to risk it. We just went to say hi to the librarian who lives on the right side of the river, but since Pirlouit was very serene, we did cross the bridge the second time.
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He did not care at all about cars driving very close to him (he had one familiar human on either side of him and the drivers were very considerate and went slowly), which emboldened us to stop for a drink on the terrace of the coffeeshop on main street (< also a narrow street with cars driving by quite close to Pirlouit). There was just no problem at all, Pirou let total strangers rub his forehead and was more interested in iced tea than main street traffic.
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It was a hot day and we gave him all the ice cubes from our drinks and he chewed them enthusiastically.
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4. We made a stop at the pharmacy on our way home because we had another 1 hour 20min walk ahead and I had a blister, and the pharmacist noticed my donkey parked outside his shop and in a determined tone he said, "I want to try something." He took one of the donkey milk soaps from the overpriced-Provence-soaps-for-tourists display and opened the door and offered it for Pirlouit to sniff.
... I'm not sure what he was expecting—for my donkey to go "ohhh this smells like Mother's milk and aloe vera 🥺"—but unfortunately nothing happened.
(4. bis—Sorry, this 4th fact was anticlimactic.)
5. Pirlouit is now the proud owner of a surcingle. Not for equestrian vaulting and not for his log-carrying job because I don't know if it would be solid enough for the weight of a bag full of logs, but I'd like to tie bags or baskets to it to take Pirlouit grocery shopping, now that I know he's okay with going to town :) He even seems to enjoy the adventure, and the attention he gets from children.
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And actually I shouldn't write off equestrian vaulting because Pirou is also remarkably chill with weird things happening on his back. I used to be very careful to climb on his back in a quick & fluid way so he wouldn't spook (because he used to! a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil used to spook him!) but now that my friends are riding him I can confirm we've reached a point where you can climb on Pirlouit's back in any way you want and he'll just be like "...... sure"
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6. I almost forgot to mention that Pirou turned 15 last month, according to his ID papers :) Donkeys have a longer life expectancy than horses, they can live 30-40 years on average so he's still a young lad really. Happy 15th birthday Pirlouit :)
7. I wanted to conclude with a nice aesthetic pic of Pirou's shadow on the road during all those walks, like I did with Poldine, but unfortunately donkey shadows do not have the chic je-ne-sais-quoi of llama shadows. Pirlouit looks like a hammerhead shark wearing a tiny fez and that's not his fault.
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You Slow It Down - LN
Summary: Lando lives in a fast world of fast cars, constant travel and always moving. But there's one person who makes it all slow down and lets him just breathe.
Themes: Smut (unprotected but reader is on bc) ;), fluffiness too
No part 2 requests please
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Being an F1 driver is the dream. Lando is living the dream, but it does meant comes at a cost in other departments of his life.
"Lando? Lando, radio check?" Will calls into his ear, the slightly impatient tone giving away that he'd zoned out so much he'd been ignoring the only voice in his ear.
"Yeah, yep. Loud and clear." Lando states giving his head a bit of a shake to snap himself out of it.
Getting back into the right mindset for the season isn't necessarily hard, but accepting that the car might be more on the back foot than he'd hoped for at the start of the season isn't exactly what he had envisioned.
It's better than the disaster that was how the 2023 car started out. But they have yet to see it compete in a race, so maybe it's not wise to speak too loud about it like that.
It's the last day of testing and he's driving the morning session rather than the afternoon as he had the first two days.
This session really doesn't go well, with a red flag from a drain over and them only getting 20 laps in with him in the car. Things aren't where this should be and he needs to really focus on finding the solutions with the team, preferably before the race next week.
"It's going to be alright mate." Jon tries knowing that as close as they are, he's no one the one who brings peace of mind to Lando when he needs it.
The problem?
The person who does bring him peace of mind isn't here.
As part of a promise to not get in Lando's way when he needs to focus, y/n said she wouldn't come to Bahrain till the race weekend starts. Which is actually on Thursday.
Meaning Lando won't be handing out any genuine smiles till at least Wednesday. Almost thankfully, Lando will probably be kept too busy with the team to focus on her absence and when he is forced to sit on his own in his hotel room he'll be too exhausted to properly focus on her not being there. Though no doubt he's going to be calling her for some comfort.
-
The team all leave late after the most detailed of debriefs following Oscar finishing up for the day, later than really intended since the whole day was messed up by the loose drain.
It's on the drive home that he's on the phone to y/n, not even waiting till he's on his own for some verbal reassurance.
"Hey, baby." Y/n greets softly over the phone. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you so early."
"Not a good day, I just wanted to hear your voice." Lando mumbles, not being particularly bothered if Jon hears how pathetically needy he is over his girlfriend and her lack of presence at the moment. "I could buy you a ticket to fly out earlier."
"Lando...you know I'm no good for your focus when it comes to prepping for a race. We both promised Zak." Y/n reminds him since it was Zak who asked as politely as he possibly could that Lando travel without y/n at least for the testing and run-up to the first race.
Y/n was actually pretty flattered at the fact that she’s such a distraction to Lando that even staying in the hotel and promising not to be in the paddock wasn’t enough to guarantee Lando’s focus in the right area.
“Can you at least come on Tuesday instead? The media stuff is all on the wednesday and I want time with you before the whole first weekend kicks off.” Lando sighs, at the ready to really do whatever he needs to so he can see her sooner.
"Lando..."
"Please baby." Lando mumbles failing to hide his voice wobbling a little. Thankfully Jon has the kindness to not even turn his head in a moment like this, he knows Lando wouldn't appreciate being stared at in such a way.
"You know I don't need good reason to see you sooner. I just don't want you getting in trouble because we told Zak Thursday."
"He'll live." Lando mutters then clearing his throat a little. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about my day. I want to hear about yours."
-
The next 3 days were the longest of Lando's life and to make the wait a little shorter for himself, he managed to get y/n on a flight at an ungodly hour in the morning so he wouldn't have to wait longer than breakfast to see her.
She actually appears just after he's ordered room service.
"Morning, handsome." Y/n smiles moving to him just to give him a kiss only to be yanked down into his lap. "Oh, ok."
Lando is certain, almost certain at least, that y/n isn't aware of just how much y/n soothes the rushing thoughts that make his head feel tight with stress. Actually he didn't even realise till she appeared with that warm smile that his chest had felt so restricted till he relaxed upon seeing her.
Holding her actually brings him a type of comfort he couldn't compare to any feeling he's felt before.
"Would you like to tell me what's going on in that head of yours?" Y/n whispers gently poking his head through the mass of curls. There's a long silence which she takes as Lando deciding he's not going to speak about it quite yet. "Glad you've not been fucking up your hair while I've been gone."
"I'd hate to undo all your hard work?" Lando jokes then kissing her softly. "I love you. I missed you so much."
"I missed you too, that apartment is so empty without you there." Y/n sighs earning a small smile since he does like to hear it. "What's on the agenda today?"
"I got the weekend off. Just a bit more training. Dinner with some of the team, playing golf later and maybe padel with some of the boys." Lando states as he smiles lightly at her. "Want to come with?"
"You know I do." Y/n nods before she leans into him. "What's first?"
"Eating. Did you eat before you got here?"
He's not sure why he asked, y/n has never been one for breakfast despite his attempts to get her to out such a habit have all fallen short with her compromise being a small smoothie.
"I had a late dinner because I knew you'd ask. I'm doubling it up as a very early breakfast."
"Breakfast so early you had it before you went to sleep." Lando laughs then biting his lip for a moment. "Do you know what I would love to do after breakfast?"
"I think I might be able to guess. Unless you're growing another limb down there." Y/n grins since the two are young and going days without sex isn't really either of them enjoy.
Y/n waits for Lando, the wait being enough for her to have let her mind run rogue to the point she's surprised he hasn't called her out for her shifting around. Though when he's done, he does stand up deciding he needs to "freshen up".
"Ok, you can stop squirming." Lando smirks reappearing as he looks at her. "Now. Where do I want you...?"
Admittedly there's something in getting to have sex that is going to help Lando destress a little.
"Lando?" Y/n frowns tilting her head, but there's something in her voice that tells him that she might need it more than him.
"On the bed, clothes off, I want to see all of you." Lando states making her almost scramble to do as he says. Her clothes removed and her body laid out like an angel.
These are the moments Lando wants to slow down and they do. He gets his wish every time and he couldn't be happier about it. She glows in his eyes and there's one specific part of her that is quite listening glistening for him.
"How much did you miss me, baby?" Lando asks, feeling his voice having dropped a little with the sudden urge to get inside her making his body fight itself from launching forward. "You're always so beautiful."
Lando climbs onto the bed after making a quick job of pulling off his own clothes, lips brushing up her torso before he kisses her and usually he'd make time for foreplay but he has to get inside of her.
"I need you, baby." Lando groans pushing into her and feeling euphoric from the wet heat of her body as she tightens around him, a moan passing her lips as he head drops back.
"F-Fuck. Don't stop. Please keep moving." Y/n pants, wrapping her legs up around his waist as he thrust in and out of her, grinding down against her to knock at her clit with expert movement and pressure.
Nothing if not a gentleman about her pleasure.
"Lando." Y/n moans like music to his ears, her heavy breaths complete mesmerising him as her skin coats itself in a light sweat.
Her stomach begins tighten as he gives a particularly deep grind down against her, managing to knock her cervix especially hard.
"F-fuck." Y/n pants running a hand up through his hair and tugging it a little while he repeats his action till she's rambling something incoherent before her whole body seizes.
The grip around him, pulsing heavily around his cock as she pulls him closer, seated full in her with no room to move. His own orgasm triggered as she shudders in waves of pleasure. The additional feeling of his cum spilling into her makes her eyes roll back as a new heat fills her impossibly full.
"You always feel so fucking good." Lando groans as he slowly eases himself out of her, much to her grumbling since she sounds unimpressed by him retreating before he pulls her in for a tight cuddle. "I wish I could spend the rest of my life doing this."
"As much as I would love to encourage you to retire to just spend ll day, every day having sex with me. I don't know if either of us have the stamina for that." Y/n laughs breathlessly before trying to shift only for Lando to keep her held tightly in place. "What?"
"Just stay like this for a bit."
"Baby, I'm leaking onto the sheets."
"Someone will come in and change them, it's ok." Lando shrugs then earning a grunt of disgust at the thought of someone else cleaning cum stained sheets for them. "I think they've dealt with worse."
"Still." Y/n mumbles before she lies her head on his chest. "Can you tell me why you were so upset? I hate knowing you had to literally beg me to come here."
"It's just the car...it's not where I thought it would be at this point." Lando states then gently hugging the woman. "I just needed you here really."
"You know if there's one thing the team proved last year, it's that they can make a bad car good. It might not be perfect but there's plenty of opportunities to improve. You never know what an upgrade can do...I remember how bad it was last year, you were considering other options." Y/n points out making him look at her with a sigh since she's right. "As for right now. I think you just need to take your mind off of the race and we'll get out, play some golf, padel, just enjoy the next couple days."
Y/n looks at him for a moment before smiling at him and sitting up.
"And there's always room for more sex and dirtying sheets between all that."
"You always know exactly what to say to me." Lando smirks making her grin at him.
"It's a talent."
So they spend the next 24 hours enjoying the free time, and then media kicks off on Wednesday, part way through Lando jumps at the opportunity of a break that he spends entirely with y/n. It's clearly to everyone that he only wants her to be the centre of his attention and has no interest in someone else interrupting the brief time he gets with her.
"How are you feeling?" Y/n asks making her look at him for a moment.
"I'm feeling better now you're here with me when I'm not busy. You're the best company I could ask to have." Lando declares softly while she smiles and tucks her head into his neck. "I love you."
"I love you too, you melodramatic muppet." Y/n whispers with her cheeky smile hidden from his sight.
"Oi." Lando laughs poking her side making her squeal and try to dodge his hand. "I'm not a muppet for loving my girlfriend."
"No. I support you're not."
Y/n slows the pace of the break in his day and with the rest of media being the type she can stand in the background for. He lets himself focus on her instead, which does somewhat drag out all the media duties but he'd happily take that if it means he can just admire her even when he's meant to be working instead.
Taglist: @namgification @hiireadstuff @jsjcue @geniusalpaca @itsjustkhaos
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sujikuna · 11 months
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[ 18+ ] DILF IN JEALOUSY! — TOJI FUSHIGURO
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“hmm, think ya could fuck her or sum?”
SUMMARY. toji fushiguro hates those dumb college boys who can’t leave his pretty baby alone.
DILF COLLECTION. guide . . .
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"i feel like you don't really have a boyfriend, do you?"
you sigh, for the tenth time in the night, he has repeated that same question for the past three hours. you want to go home so badly but you're stuck in a library with this annoying egotistical jerk who has done nothing but get to your nerves.
"im not single, how many times to i have to repeat myself." you glare at him, "now can you fucking focus? for godsakes, i wanna go home." you ranted to him clearly he still didn't give a fuck as he just darted his attention away from you paying attention to whatever catches his eye.
you tap your fingers on the table to get his attention back, "hey, can you please listen to me? so we can both go home." you were offered to tutor him for this semester, you accepted because you were getting paid and you earn extra points if he passes. the only problem is, this asshole does not listen. he did nothing but flirt with you the whole evening. the library is quiet and this is torturing you. "did you even read the book i sent you yesterday?" you asked.
he let out a lazy groan, "nah, it looked boring."
you look at him in disbelief, "then how can y-" you were about to confront him when he cuts you off, "your boyfriend. does he go here? is he a medical student? fine arts? or engineering?"
you had enough of him, "no, he's a grown-ass man with a fucking kid, for heaven's sake will you shut up and listen." his eyebrows furrowed at you, "you know you don't have to lie to reject me, jeez woman." you didn't fight back, it'd be worst. you can't bear him anymore. you just figured to just talk and teach whether his listening or not to get this over with.
after another hour the session was done, "you can leave."
"shall i drive you home?" he offered. you quickly shake your head without looking at him, "no, thank you." he's persistent, "im serious, it's late, your allergic to men or something? if you're that worried send your location to someone."
you think twice, it's 10 in the evening, and it's not very safe for a woman to be alone at night. he's probably the more safer option. so you agreed. just one ride. you told him the name of the building you live in he laughs and told you that it's close to his place. like you cared. he even went on to offer a late-night snack dinner close to your place but you refused to say you were tired. you're lucky he didn't force you on that.
it was a silent car ride while music was playing. you went to your bag to check your phone since you haven't since the afternoon. your lips parted when you saw the notification on your phone, and that's when you realized that you forgot to reply to toji and you forgot to tell toji that you were spending your whole night with a guy he doesn't know of.
21 missed calls and 17 messages.
you quickly called him without thinking about completely forgetting the fact that you were in the car with another man. he answered after three rings.
"wow, i didn't know you knew how to fucking call."
he's mad. uh oh. you bit your lower lip trying to find the right words to answer him.
"i forgot to check, im sorry." you start, "um, what are you doing now? is there a problem?" you tried to change the topic, you even lowered your voice so the guy inside the car with you won't bother. but you're pretty sure he is hearing everything.
you hear him scoff on the other line, "you're asking me? the fuck are you doing? where ya at?"
should you tell the truth? he would know if you lied. but he'll get more angry if he found that another guy is taking you home. "i'm ..." you mumbled, "..um"
"you're mumbling," he said in a monotone.
you sigh, "in the car, right now, um, going home." telling the truth hoping he would calm down. "car? you don't know how to fucking drive." toji states. you roll your eyes, there's no escaping him.
"someone offered a ride," adding, "cause it was late."
"who?"
"someone i know, toji."
"i asked who?" he was not fazed nor impressed by your actions and words.
you bit your lip, hard, before answering, "just a guy from college."
"for fucks sake," he grumbled, "give the bitch the phone."
your eyes widened, no, you look at the guy you were with, and his eyes were focused on the road, you tap his shoulder and he replies with a hmm you then pass him your phone signaling him to take it and talk as you put it on speaker for you to hear. his one hand on the steering wheel and one holding your phone.
"kid, why are you with her?" he didn't even hide the annoyed tone in his voice. the guy replied with a chuckle, "she agreed for me to drive her, can't leave a pretty woman alone in the library at night, can i?" he was teasing toji more, you can tell.
"alone in the library? why the fuck are you two there? ya following her so sum?"
you darted your attention away from them because you felt bad for not updating toji.
"sweet girlfriend didn't tell you?" he glance at you before speaking, "we were together all night actually, sir, have i told you how smart of a girl your woman is?"
oh my goodness he's making it worst.
"give the phone back to her," he ordered, "we'll talk later, looks like you have a lot of stories to tell me." with that he hangs up the phone and you let out a deep sigh in annoyance and embarrassment.
"so, that's the boyfriend?"
you can see your building from here, you arrived, you didn't answer his question but you tell him to drop you off now.
"he's very," he stops for a second making you look at him, "controlling. that's bad for relationship."
you stare at him and scoff, "the fuck do you know?" it was your cue to leave his car. the car didn't drive away till you reach the inside of the building. you really felt tired and just wanna rest. you can't handle toji now.
as the elevator reaches your floor, you walk to your unit, and toji.
toji was leaning against the wall just outside your door. he didn't notice you. he was looking down. how long has he been waiting?
"toji? what are you doing here?"
his attention finally went to you looking up, "oh, the friendly woman is finally here." he mocks you not looking very pleased, he looks sleepless and annoyed.
"im tired, baby, can we just fight tomorrow?"
you feel very sleepy. too tired to say sorry, explain, or whatever. as soon as you open the door you went inside your bedroom and to bed. you feel toji following behind and closing the door.
you feel him lying beside you, "im sleeping here, okay?" he asked for your approval, that's not a very toji thing to do, "why are you asking for consent?" you asked, now eyes close, you couldn't really see what his doing, all you know is that his beside you.
you feel him wrap his arms around you but you were already drifting to sleep, "that's not a very nice thing to do baby," he whispers, what you did, not responding to me all day, and i find out another guy is taking you home and that you spent your whole night with him?" you feel his breath on the back of your neck, "that's not how you become a good girl."
you feel him plant kisses on your shoulders, "but, we'll talk tomorrow."
the next morning you woke up without toji there. you figured his outside since you hear the tv on from the living room. you decided to wash up first before going to him. mentally preparing yourself because you know he'll scold you for last night.
when you go out of the bedroom you find him watching an action movie on netflix while drinking coffee, a newspaper beside him. classic toji. you sat on the couch he was sitting on but not beside him cause he might still be pissed.
"morning babe," you greet him softly and he hums in response, you bit your lip holding up for the correct time to start a conversation, his eyes never leaving the screen, "um, where's megs?"
you start with a small talk, "left him with his mom to check up on you." oh. now you felt bad. it was supposed to be toji's week to take care of megumi. it was a decision made by both parents. they go in an alternate way of parenting.
"are you still mad? im sorry, i should've told you."
"you could've." his gaze went to you, "why are you so far away? sit here." he placed the mug down and signaled you to sit in his lap which you immediately do so. he planted a kiss on your forehead when you were comfortably sitting on him, "so, tell me about it."
he's asking about yesterday.
"he, um," you start, thinking about how to say it without any misunderstandings, "he's failing, badly, and he needs help, the prof said that if i can help him pass i gain extra points in the final grading and they're paying me to do it."
"so?" he wasn't satisfied with that answer he wanted to know why you agreed for him to take you home, "you couldn't call me to pick you up. you let a dumb boy take you home? is that it?"
"im sorry," you pout, "it was late, i forgot to call you and i thought that it was safer for me to go with him rather than take the bus this late." you explain.
"this bitch like you?"
well, he did try, is it still relevant to tell him? you think. toji doesn't look angry. he just wants to know if anybody hits on what’s his. “i told him several times that i had a boyfriend!” without even saying it first you defended yourself in an instant, you don’t wanna look bad to him. 
 ��so he did.” toji leans back, “you seeing him again?” you think first remembering how it was supposed to be two sessions, “we have one more session before exams,” telling him honestly. 
“too bad, you can’t go.” his not asking or pleading with you to not go, his telling you you’re not going. “hate it so much when they think they can get you.” his hands softly caressed your face. “you get me?” 
 you nod in response, “good, tell em now your ass is not seeing him.” 
 you sent your prof a message that you won’t be able to attend and teach the guy because of personal reasons. 
 after a long week of exams and school, you can finally rest. toji knew you were tired. so he promised to take you out to dinner after everything is done as a reward.
he booked a table at a very fancy restaurant. very much like toji.
“i gotta go to the bathroom, sweets.” he suddenly lets you know as your lips curve to a smile letting him know that it’s okay.
into five minutes of toji being gone, you play with your food in boredom. you feel someone touch your shoulders assuming it’s toji you tilt your head to look at the person.  
"haven't seen you in a minute." 
oh god, it's him. the annoying college boy. 
 you glare at him, "my boyfriend's here." 
"where?" he mocks you and laughs sitting at the chair across from you where toji was at 5 minutes earlier. “i failed the exam you taught me, ms. tutor.” he starts, “you didn’t come to our next session, kinda offended.” 
your forehead furrowed, “that’s my fault?” 
“i guess bitches are not very good at being tutors.” he throws an insult and for the next 3 minutes you try to shoo him away but he wouldn’t budge. it was after those minutes toji’s big presence filled the room. “didn’t tell me you invited someone.” 
toji sat on the chair beside you giving you a questioning look and you shrug at him telling him that you have no idea why the man is there. toji kisses his teeth, his attention turning to the man giving him a smile, “ya got a head, kid?" 
the man scowls at toji feeling attacked, “i'm not a kid." 
“you always know how to bother people,” your boyfriend starts, “hmm, think ya could fuck her or sum?" he continues shortly laughing, your eyes widened at his words. vulgar.  
“why don’t we try? maybe then she’ll have a good reason to leave your old ass.” the men fought back. now smiling taunting toji. 
toji raised a brow, “that so? should i tell you something? ya know this woman right here can’t even suck half of my dick if i don’t shove it inside.” you look down shutting your eyes in embarrassment but you felt toji’s eyes laid on you for a second. your eyes open and widened when his hands grip your legs moving up towards your core. “something wrong, sweets?” he asked looking and acting dumb-folded.
you try to grab his hands attempting to stop him because of the humiliation but he smacks them pushing them away. "behave now, sweets." he whispers his eyes fix on the man facing him. 
he didn't stop there, "ya wanna know her favorite position?"
you feel his hands push your panties to the side to touch your core. he starts messaging and caressing it while talking to the man, you only bit your lips to stop the moans that want to leave your mouth. 
"this is the way you treat kids? sir? an old man trying to fuck with a 20-year-old." he jeers at toji resting his head on the palm of his hand his showing him the lack of respect he has for him as an older man, "that sounds kinda dumb, don't you think?" he adds. 
you grip the side of your chair when toji pushes two fingers in. he hasn't even moved them yet but his fingers were huge that your clenching so much already. you can taste blood on your lips from how hard you're biting them. 
"god, i wanna punch the sense out of you." toji starts moving his fingers, he starts slow, but it didn't last because his pace gets quicker every second to the point where juices leak out of your pussy, "it's really funny how your face is as big as my arm." 
you feel like cumming, you try to hold it. it'll be messy and you still have dinner to finish. toji is not cooperating. he knows that it's too much but for toji there's no such thing as too much when it comes to him fucking you, whether it's his fingers or his dick. he stopped to move his fingers to massage your clit with his thumb allowing you to calm down but he didn't pull out his fingers yet.
"im better than you." the boy states he sounding annoyed and offended by toji. his finger form to a fist. it was a public place. if he knew better he wouldn't start a fight here, you know toji is just taunting and teasing him. 
"pretty boy is annoyed now?" toji throws another gibe at him, "i hear you bothered her again, it'll be my fist kissing your face, now walk away kiddo" his lips curve to an unbothered smirk, and he leans back giving the boy a serious look, toji was territorial. the man took the call and accepted defeat when he stands up and walks away with an annoyed frown displayed on his face.
it was then that he started thrusting his fingers again turning his head to face you, "am i doing it right?" you don't know what he meant, you just know that you wanna scream right now and you can't stay still anymore. you couldn't talk back anymore you just felt something building up in your stomach, toji knows you're about to cum, he knows you so well.
"shush, it's okay," he assures you, "you can cum." he enjoys how you try hard to stop the pretty noises you usually make. he enjoys seeing you suffer under him. he never stops fingering you until you reach your limit, he never cared where you were or how the situation is. not being able to take it anymore, you let out a quiet moan when you came, it was enough for toji to hear. 
he pulls out his fingers and licks them, making you look at him in disgust, "oh my god toji!"
"what? can't take my baby's juices now?" his lashes fluttered, "you came so much with just two fingers baby." toji adds, "now, shall we take this to the bathroom or the car?"
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a/n: i promised!!!
taglist: @sameiyuz @wtfiswrongwithme1 @meiuchi @kazushawty @uchisatyro @sillyalo @dabisdickrider @ilovestevelacy2228 @hinata7346 @tojishugetiddies @zuuki @watyousayin @basicalyrandom @dytaluvrr @ssc7514 @aexlime @galactict3a @bluupen @alisonyus @natkookiecat @v-xxie @c-0-rr-x @aiyaaayei @burningkook @ushijimasslut @bunnyforhim @ana86
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mrrharper · 20 days
Text
Law, Order and Musk
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CW: explicit sections + slurs
Logan laid on the bed, Sergeant Cross looking down at him, preventing him from moving.
"You like that, don't you, you bitch" Cross growled, an arogant smirk on his face. "You need a man to show you your place in the hierarchy." He then flexed his arms. "That's the sight of a real man."
Logan swallowed loudly. Cross lowered himself his face just a few inches from Logan's. "You feel it? The masculine musk of a grueling workout. This is how men smell, this is how real men feel." He then grabbed Logan's head and pushed it into his armpit. "Now feel it for yourself, you scum."
Logan took a few deep whiffs and then licked Cross' hairy pits, almost getting high on his smell. Cross held his head for a moment, before loosening his grip and letting Logan return to his previous position.
Cross flexed his arms again. "Look at these guns. This is raw, masculine power that will crush you if you go against it." He then grabbed Logan by his shirt and thrust him upwards, so that his face was now directed at his bulging biceps. Cross looked at Logan, who knew what to do.
He began worshiping these arms, kissing and massaging them. As he did, he felt his cock leaking, straining against the jockstrap he was wearing. Cross also noticed that.
"Duhuhuh, you like a man putting you in your place." he said as he cupped Logan's package in his hand. "You fucking faggot--"
Logan's work phone started ringing. Cross didn't react, still looking menacingly at Logan, who groaned and rolled his eyes.
"Ugh, fuck." He looked at the other man leaning over him. "Okay Cross, time out. Gotta take care of this." Sergeant's demeanor suddenly changed. He quickly got off of Logan and stood next to the bed, his arm up in a salute. "Sir, yes sir."
Logan smirked. "Glad we understand each other. Now go and do the laundry while I take care of this" he ordered the other man, who saluted him again and left the bedroom with a "Yes, Chief!"
Logan answered the phone. It was just a boring call from corporate that could have been an e-mail, but wasn't unfortunately.
It's been just under a month since Cross became a fixed part of Logan's apartment and he still couldn't get enough of that man.
Their paths crossed when Logan's close friend complained to him about a cop that stopped her on her way to work even though she was driving under the speed limit, then went on to be an extremely sexist douchebag during the whole encounter.
So he pulled some strings at work and found a way inside their local police department, where he found the man himself - Sergeant Dylan Cross. 6'4, broad shoulders and chest, bulky arms and legs, that man was the poster child for the police force. And the local gym. Everything about him screamed "I have the power." So Logan decided to change that.
At first he only wanted some revenge. Get the cop under his control with some fancy hypnosis, then humiliate him and make him painfully aware of it. Give him a short but painful lesson about abusing his position and disappear.
But he couldn't get enough. There was something about this man that pulled Logan towards him, and he couldn't deny it. So he changed course. Cross was single and lived alone so the first part was easy. Logan had an apartment way too big for one person, thus he didn't have a problem fitting the cop in.
Then came the training. Over the course of a week Logan worked on Cross, making him completely obedient to him. Using the parts of his police training that found their way into his subconscious Logan made sure that Cross saw as his boss - a Chief with all the power.
With that out of the way, Cross became Logan's personal cop, taking care of everything he needed taken care of. That meant house chores, work-related stuff, providing security on business meetings and so on.
It didn't take long until Logan's attraction to Cross became inescapable. It also didn't take a genius to figure out that the macho cop was straight, but Logan was ready for a challenge. It took him surprisingly little effort to turn the officer from a heterosexual player into a bisexual who exclusively slept with men. And one man in particular.
Depending on Logan's mood Cross was his caring lover or aggressive dom. Logan found himself enjoying Cross's arrogant demeanor and so he made sure that the cop's original personality was always somewhere under the layers of conditioning, ready to be unleashed whenever Logan was horny enough.
Logan was still on the phone when he saw Cross standing in the entrance to the bedroom, hands behind his back, looking straight ahead. He looked at the cop and, knowing that it would take him a while to take care of this call, he made a motion with his hand as if he was lifting a dumbbell. Cross quickly understood, saluted Logan and walked over to his gym that Logan made him organize on the other side of the apartment.
Another 20 minutes later, and Logan was finally free. A few moments after he finished the call Cross came back, his body covered in sweat and his tank top wet and damp. "Sir, reporting after a 20 minute upper body session."
"Good job, officer" Logan answered, already feeling the smell of sweat fill his nostrils "We can now continue where we left off." Cross saluted again, before his expression changed to that of pure anger. He immediately moved over to where Logan was standing, then grabbed and pushed him onto the bed.
Logan watched as Cross took off his tank top, which he then threw on the bed next to him. The cop then walked up tot he bed, standing over Logan and looking at him with disgust. He dragged his hand over his sweaty stomach and let the sweat dropping from it cover Logan's face. "You fucking faggot. Can't get enough of me."
Logan's dick got hard immediately. He licked some of the sweat from his face as Cross leaned over him, putting his arm next to Logan's head. The cop took the tank laying on the bed and put it up to the smaller man's nose.
"Feel it bitch? That's the smell of a real man."
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s-brant · 1 year
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Jealousy, Jealousy
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Nancy and Y/N are best friends. The problem is, Y/N and Steve have been secretly hooking up for weeks, and when Nancy asks for advice about possibly getting back together with him, Y/N doesn’t know how to feel.
“wow genuinely your steve fics are so good and seem to be super well thought out i’m literally scared that a prompt i send won’t be good enough!! i dont know i want to say “we shouldn’t be doing this” sex w steve because i’m a whore for it”
7k (18+)
Warnings: smut, penetrative sex, exhibitionism, praise kink, very slight dub-con if you squint due to wording but not really, it’s also just assumed reader is on the pill, and strong language.
This is wrong.
She knows that she shouldn't be thinking or feeling any of the things she is at the moment, but, when she looks up from her spot on the floor in the Wheeler's basement to find Steve staring at her, she cannot ignore the butterflies that stir to life in her stomach. Those pretty brown eyes of his are quick to avert back to the task at hand, but, for the short few seconds that they lock eyes, his lips twitch with the urge to curl up into a smile at her.
The thing is, Y/N and Steve have been secretly fucking for a few weeks now. In her defense, she didn't actively seek him out for the sake of having sex with him.
It was dark and rainy that night, and she was caught up in the storm on her bike as she pedaled home from cheer practice, eyes nearly shut from the wind that blew up the street at her face. The uniform she donned all afternoon was drenched from the downpour, and her hair stuck to the sides of her face as well. It annoyed her that she was two miles from home and her useless mother couldn't be bothered to part with her boyfriend to drive to get her, sure, but she tried not to let it bring her down.
Then, out of the gloom that hung over Hawkins, the headlights of a familiar BMW came up over the hill in the road to shine in her face, and she knew it was Steve before he even had the chance to slow to a stop and roll down his window to talk to her. If anyone else did this—even him a few years ago when he'd been the king of Hawkins High School—they'd come off as a creep, but it was Steve. Her best friend Nancy's sweet, if not a little clueless, ex-boyfriend who babysits her brother and his best friends. There was nothing to worry about.
He asked incredulously, "What are you doing out in this?" The doors to the car unlocked with a click. "Come on, I'll take you the rest of the way. You're gonna get sick."
So, she went. Her bike barely fit in the back of the car, and once she slammed the door shut, he wasted little time in driving off into the rainy night.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I was gonna go ask Nance if I could crash in the basement. My mom didn't answer, and when she doesn't answer, it's probably not a good idea to come home unless I want to walk in on something that'll make me wanna bleach my eyes. Learned that lesson the hard way."
The sound of his melodic laugh filled the car, then, when she just stared at him, the amusement fell from his face.
"Oh, you're not kidding?"
It was her turn to laugh.
"I wish," she said, cutting him a sidelong glance before setting her sights back on the road ahead. "She and her weirdo boyfriend literally demand that I don't come home on nights he's over. Apparently, it's their constitutional right to fuck on the kitchen counter, I don't know."
There was a dip of silence in which neither of them said a word after that.
In his peripheral vision, he could see her fiddling with the hem of her soaked cheer skirt awkwardly as she avoided looking at him at all costs, and, suddenly, something changed.
Y/N had befriended Nancy shortly before their breakup, so he hasn't been in close proximity to her many times. Seeing that they've been broken up for a year, he doesn't have a reason to interact with her except for when he's picking up or dropping off the kids from the Wheeler's house when she's hanging out there. But, that night in his car, she was acting strange around him. Strange in the way that girls used to act around him all the time back when they hoped and prayed for a chance with the most popular guy at school. He didn't understand why she was behaving in such a way now, though. The way he saw it, he was a loser who couldn't even get into college like his other classmates and worked at Family Video.
What he didn't know, however, is that she didn't think he was a loser at all. If anything, her view on him then made a complete turnaround compared to when he was dating her best friend. When she got stuck with him and the kids last year at Joyce Byers' house and watched him go head-to-head with Billy in defense of Lucas, she knew a small part of her heart would always belong to Steve Harrington. She was the one to clean the cuts lining his face, as well as the blooded nose caused by the beating he took, and place bandaids from under the Byers' sink on each one of them. After that, she didn't see him again outside of fleeting glances in the hallway and through the windows of his car parked outside the Wheeler's place until recently.
He said, trying to keep his cool with the smoking hot girl he never noticed last year due to his Nancy-induced heartache sitting in the passenger's seat of his car, "I just dropped Dustin off at Mike's and Nancy was on her way out to see Jonathan."
She asked, "How about your place, then?" and the rest was history.
It wasn't even a half hour later that she was laid back on his couch with his head buried between her thighs and a hand gripping a fistful of his hair as she panted for air amidst the build-up to her orgasm. Then, after she woke in his bedroom and snuck out of the front door before his parents could notice her presence in the house, it wasn't long before they crossed paths again...and again and again. She'd wait around the back of the school where she knew Nancy wouldn't see for him to pick her up from school after his shift at Family Video, and they began to develop a routine of swimming in his pool, having dinner together since his parents couldn't be bothered to hang around with him, and having sex before he had to drive her back home in time to do her homework before bed.
As far as she was concerned, they were just having fun and not labeling whatever it was that was going on between them. Steve, on the other hand, was already imagining how her name might sound with his last name attached to the end of it.
Now, as they're sitting in Nancy's basement and helping the kids with the projects they waited until the very last second to start, he's still fantasizing about all the things he wants to do with her. Not just sexually, either. He's been trying to work up the nerve to ask her on a date for the past few days, but every time he tries, his nerves get in the way. That voice in the back of his mind sings its doubts, telling him that she'll never want him in the same way that he wants her. No one has ever wanted him to be the one, so why should it start with her?
When Steve gets up from the couch to pay for the pizza they ordered to the house, Nancy casts a look over her should at him to ensure he's too far to hear and scoots closer to Y/N while the kids are engrossed in their own conversations.
She whispers, "Can I tell you something? It's about Steve..."
Anxiety tightens the muscles of Y/N's chest as she tries to keep her face schooled into a mask of neutrality. Although she feels like the truth is written across her face every time she comes into the presence of her best friend, she is outwardly as calm as can be. She doesn't know whether or not she should take pride in the skill she's acquired in lying since she and Steve began hooking up.
What else can she do except nod?
Nancy goes on in a hushed tone, "I've been kind of having these...feelings for him again lately. Feelings I haven't had since we were together before. And I love Jonathan, I do, but I guess I'm just worried about what I'm missing. I just don't know if I made the right choice now that these feelings are back." As soon as the words leave her mouth, she shakes her head and shuts her as if that'll take them back. "That was so fucked up of me to say, I'm sorry."
The news sinks home inside of her like lead weighing her down at the bottom of her stomach. Part of the reason she hadn't bothered entertaining the curious side of her that wondered if Steve felt anything more for her in the quiet moments after they had sex, when he'd linger on top of her for a few seconds longer and murmur his praises into the warm curve of her neck, was because she'd be confronted with the issue of her best friend being his ex. Granted, they weren't best friends for the majority of the time they dated. She was more of a post-Steve thing, but that isn't the point. The point is, her own moral code, as well as girl code, dictates that Steve is strictly off limits. But, if that's true, why does she want him so badly?
But because of this, she cannot do anything other than force a reassuring smile on her face as she reaches for her friend's hand and whispers, "Thoughts aren't inherently bad or good, they're just thoughts. Everyone has doubts to themselves, but I think it's important to remember how well you and Jonathan work together. I mean, he was the reason you left Steve in the first place."
The words she doesn't speak aloud but feels clawing at her from the inside begging to be released are something along the lines of, Please, don't drag him back just to break his heart again in another year. Don't steal him away if you don't really want him. But, she can't say that, not because it isn't her honest opinion regardless of her current relationship with him, but because Nancy would know based on the waver in her voice that something is going on between them.
To her mortification, her words don't appear to help the difficult debate waging war on Nancy's mind. If anything, it muddles things further and creates more discourse.
"You're right, you're absolutely right, but..." Of course, there's a but. "What if my instinct is trying to tell me something and I'm ignoring it?"
There's a drawn-out pause, then—
"Maybe just wait and see how you feel for a few more weeks before you say or do anything. It might just be one of those things that comes and goes, y'know?"
Nancy is quick to nod, setting her focus back on the partially painted piece of cardboard belonging to Max's unfinished project. For another minute or so, Y/N can't do anything but focus on her out of the corner of her eye, worry stirring to life within that the happiness she's experienced in the past few weeks will be taken from her the second Nancy decides to talk about the feelings she's having.
Steve isn't hers, so why does she feel this nagging possessive instinct whenever she imagines her friend acting on the feelings she just admitted to having? She never realized until now, but she doesn't think she can share him. Whether that means they will soon need to have a talk about their arrangement and how the feelings she's having are getting in the way of it being just "fun" or not, she isn't sure, but she knows one thing.
She needs to find him.
Y/N sets down what she'd been working in favor of standing from her spot on the floor, knees tucked beneath her bottom on a stray cushion, and offers up a placating smile when multiple faces around the room perk up to see why she's leaving.
"Where are you going?" Mike asks.
"Bathroom," she says. "Be right back."
With a quick, worried glance at Nancy calms her nerves instantly. There's no suspicion present on her friend's face. If anything, she's too focused on the task at hand, as well as the difficult debate going on within her head over the whole Steve versus Jonathan thing that has existed since junior year of high school, to notice or care about her sneaking away to "use the bathroom". It allows Y/N's racing heart to slow momentarily as she ascends the old staircase to the Wheeler's basement and enters the main level of the house. Slowly, carefully, she shuts the door to the basement behind her to keep any conversation she may have with Steve as private as possible.
The bright array of cozy lights strung up around the Christmas tree positioned in the corner of the living room passes in her periphery on her way to the front door where she sees Steve talking to the pizza guy with one hand casually propped against the open door. She assumes it must be an old friend, perhaps someone who used to be on the varsity basketball or baseball team with him back when they were in school together, but it matters little to her who they are at the moment. The only thing she can think to do is stake her claim before it's too late. Or, at least, have one last good night with him before Nancy takes him back.
She waits with her back leaned up against the staircase railing and watches him take the stack of three boxes from the delivery man after handing him the cash as payment.
"Alright, have a nice night, man," Steve says.
The man lifts a hand to wave goodbye over his shoulder as he's turning to walk off in the direction of his parked car, and, with that, the front door swings shut. When he turns around with the pizza boxes balanced precariously in one hand, it's difficult not to flinch and drop them all to the floor at the unexpected sight of her standing there.
"Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me," he says after a second is taken to steady himself, one hand pressed over his chest as though to soothe his heart after the drastic shock it received. When she remains quiet, he furrows his brows, continuing, "You're really quiet right now. It's actually kind of creepy." His voice then quiets as a new thought comes to him. "...Unless it's a weird sex thing, then I might like it."
All she does is allow her lips to curl up a bit at the ends in a slight smile before she turns to walk down the hallway to the kitchen. The living room is being used by Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler to watch a popular movie Steve so kindly held aside at Family Video for them when they asked Y/N if he could do so. And, of course, since she was the one who asked, it was delivered right to Mrs. Wheeler the second he arrived tonight.
In fact, the exact words he said, although quietly so anyone at the store couldn't hear, when she asked was, "Sure. Anything for my girl."
My girl.
As she walks through the entrance to the kitchen with her back to him, she picks the two words apart over and over again. Particularly, she gets stuck on the first one. My. It lights a fire in the pit of her abdomen, desire flaring to life at the memory of him casually declaring her as something that belonged to him. My. A possessive word. One he had been comfortable in using. The question is, would he be comfortable with it the other way around? The voice in the back of her head can't help but wonder...
Is Steve hers?
He keeps eyeing her up suspiciously throughout the process of setting the pizza boxes down on the kitchen island one by one and checking to make sure they're what they ordered before the delivery man pulls out of the driveway. Once it's confirmed that they are, in fact, two plain cheese pizzas and one pepperoni for Max and Dustin, he pauses to call her odd behavior into question again.
Steve asks, "Okay, you're really starting to freak me out. Are you okay? Did I do something?" She doesn't allow her face to give away any of her true intentions as she walks around the island, making sure in her peripheral vision that there's no one around to see them as she approaches. "If I did something, you can just tell me—”
His sentence is cut off at the end by her kissing him to shut him up.
It's a surprise, sure, but it doesn't take him any longer than a second or two to realize what's happening and react accordingly. As if it's an instinct as natural as breathing, he kisses her back with an urgency that brings a flushed color to his cheeks and settles both hands on her hips to tug them closer. The warmth of his fingertips touching the stretch of bare skin between her slightly too-short sweater and jeans draws a barely-audible noise from the back of her throat. But, he hears it. He always picks up on those little things about her, whether they be sounds, expressions she makes, or anything of the sort.
The kiss is cut short a second or two later out of fear of someone walking in, but his hands refuse to stray from her hips when she pulls away with a look in her eyes he knows all too well. Her pupils are blown wide with lush, glazed-over in a way they never get outside of moments such as these, and he knows straight away what she wants from him.
He asks, "So, it was a sex thing?"
Finally, she can't help but break her act of stoicism and offers him a bright smile.
"Shut up and follow me."
"What about the kids—"
The sharp tug of her hand wrapped around his wrist brings him away from the kitchen island, bringing him along in every step she takes toward the entrance to the hallway. She doesn't bother to look over his shoulder when she next speaks. Instead, she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze to get the same sentiment across as the words leave her mouth.
"They think I'm in the bathroom. And, for all they know, you could be outside talking to the pizza guy," she offers.
It's settled, then.
Still, in the time it takes her to drag him down the hall and up the staircase behind her, Steve can't help but check over his shoulder multiple times to ensure Nancy, Robin, the kids, or Nancy's parents didn't see them leaving to go up the stairs. The last thing he expected tonight was for her to pounce on him like a feral animal and drag him upstairs to have her way with him in a house filled with people. They've done it in risky places before, like on the break room table at Family Video and his car parked at Lover's Lake, but they've never done it in a place as risky as Nancy's house.
Despite the mild confusion it causes, whatever it is that has gotten into her, he prays it never leaves. It isn't unusual for her to initiate sex with him. Hell, half the time, she's the one who leans in to kiss him first or calls to ask if he's home, but he has always been the one to initiate in situations like these. It was his idea to fuck her on the break room table just like it was his idea to bend her over the hood of his car at Lover's Lake last week.
Every door they pass and briefly pause at is a no-go. Mike's room? Absolutely not. Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler's room? Never. Holly's room? That would be the most deplorable thing either of them has ever done. So, when they reach Nancy's half-open bedroom at the end of the hallway, Y/N has no other choice but to pull him inside and push him up against the shut door.
In between the eager, open-mouthed kisses she gives him, he murmurs, "We shouldn't be doing this. Nance will literally murder us if she finds out."
She shakes her head into the kiss and pulls back, breathless, to say, "Then, we're gonna have to be quiet, huh?" before promptly reconnecting their mouths.
His face lights up at the mischievous tone her voice takes, and he can't ignore how his cock starts to strain against the tight denim of his Levi's at the mere thought of fucking her while everyone else is unaware downstairs. She can feel him smirk against her lips, his chest jerking with the sound of him chuckling to himself at how this girl has him wrapped around her finger.
And there it is. With a conflicted feeling of acceptance, he finally realizes he's falling in love again.
As soon as he realizes that this is real, that they're truly about to do this, Steve takes control of the situation in a matter of seconds. His hands make quick work of tugging her sweater off of her body. Her arms rise to make the task easier for him as he frantically undresses her and tosses the knitted fabric onto the floor behind the locked bedroom door. When she's free of the confines of her warm sweater, she then reaches for his shirt and rips it off with the same frantic nature he had with her. There's a time and place for unhurried, slow sex, but this is not one of them. By her estimation, they have five minutes to spare before their friends notice their absence and begin to question their whereabouts.
He hefts her up into her arms with his hands grasping the backs of her thighs to bring them around his hips, but right before he can set her down on the bed, she shakes her head.
"No, Steve, the headboard hitting the wall will be too loud."
This earns a scoff from him.
Though he'd never be dumb enough to bring up his ex while he's about to have sex with her, Steve is as familiar with Nancy's room as she is, if not more. After all, he snuck inside a handful of times and had to get creative so as to not allow her parents to hear what they were doing while they were asleep across the hallway. Her headboard does bang against the wall, that she's right about, but her mattress doesn't creak much, and if he puts a few of her pillows between the wall and the headboard...
He tosses her down onto the bed with ease and crawls up to meet her where she lays with her head cradled against one of the pillows. His hand reaches to the side to grab the other one and maneuvers it between the wall and headboard, then grabs one of the many decorative ones to do the same on the other end before coming back to her.
Ignoring her previous statement entirely, Steve asks, "You're real cute when you're nervous, you know that?"
The button and zipper to her jeans come undone with a few deft movements of his fingers, and she can't help but grin up at him in spite of her fear of getting caught as he pulls her pants and underwear down her legs in one smooth motion.
There's something better to her about being called cute or beautiful by him rather than the typical "hot" label guys have thrown at her. Don't get her wrong, being called hot is flattering in circumstances of one-night stands or even random compliments from those she likes, but having the guy you like call you cute or beautiful in a moment of heady desire is different. She knows by the way he said it alone that she isn't just an easy fuck to him. He genuinely likes her, and that's not something she ever expected to happen seeing that he used to be a well-known jerk as well as her best friend's ex-boyfriend.
He hardly has the chance to undo his own jeans and shove them partway down his thighs before she's tugging him down onto her with a needy plea for him to fuck her. Her arms wrap around his shoulders as he kisses her, his tongue invading her mouth without warning, and uses one of his hands to guide his cock through her sticky folds. When his tip rubs against her throbbing clit, she can't help but whisper more desperately, urging him to get on with it.
"Steve," she says, a sharp gasp escaping at the feeling of his tip against her entrance, "Please"—her hips press up to sink the tip of his cock into her a little more—"Need you."
Usually, he'd be the insufferable little bastard he always is and retort something like, "Yeah?" or "Tell me what you need from me," for the sake of getting her to blush for him, but they have already used up at least a minute of their time before things become suspicious, so he gives her what she wants without protest.
She cries out beneath him when he sinks into her with no opportunity for her to gradually adjust to his thick cock. Her fingernails dig into the soft skin of his shoulders with enough force to leave crescent-shaped marks indented into him. Before she can think to make another noise again, though, Steve's hand is covering her mouth.
His eyes have gone wide, and the smooth motion of his hips stalling for a second as he listens for anyone coming up the stairs before he pulls his hand from her face. Somewhere to the right of her body, he reaches to grab something she cannot be bothered to look at.
He says softly, "Gotta be quiet, baby," and stuffs the shirt Nancy left on the bed into her open mouth.
Y/N doesn't even have the chance to be shocked or turned on by the fact that he gagged her with his ex-girlfriend's shirt—while they're fucking on her bed—because he starts to move the second he's sure her noises won't get them caught. Well, at least, the noises coming from her mouth. As for the sound of their bodies smacking together, as well as the wet squelching sound that accompanies it from how wet she is, whether or not anyone hears that is left up to chance.
His arms are braced against the bed on either side of her head, caging her in and forcing her to look at him while he ruins her. It doesn't take much for her to feel that fire in the pit of her belly flare up. All it takes is the feeling of him pushing in and out of her, the spare hair at the base of his cock brushing against her clit on the upstroke, and she's melting in his arms.
Seeing Steve above her is like seeing every one of her wet dreams come to life. Sometimes she does dream about him. Whether it be when she's alone in her bedroom or sleeping beside him on nights they're both too exhausted to stray from his bed, she'll wake on the edge of climaxing with her hands balling up the sheets into a fist. When she's alone, she'll take care of it herself. When she's with him, she'll roll over and start nudging her face into the curve of his neck, peppering kisses there until he begins to stir from his sleep.
The sound of her muffled moans coming through the makeshift gag encourages him in his efforts to press himself deeper inside of her on every thrust. One of the hands beside her head grasps one of the posts of Nancy's headboard for leverage while the other slips down between their bodies to press down on the lowest point of her abdomen. When he puts pressure there, it intensifies the pleasure felt from the steady rocking motions he makes into her, and she can't help but buck her hips up to meet his thrusts.
The heel of his hand presses down right above her pubic bone, leaving his fingertips in a perfect position to rub her clit for her. He knows they have very little time, so he doesn't bother trying to get her to come from penetration alone like he often does when they're alone in his empty house while his parents are out. Before him, she never even knew that was something her body was capable of. That's not to say every other guy before him was terrible in bed, but there's a reason he gained a good reputation with the ladies in Hawkins. The first of which was that he had, as she already knew from girls who gossiped about hooking up with him, a big dick. The second and most important reason of all was that he knew what to do with it.
The sight of her breasts bouncing, although hindered slightly by the bra they couldn't be bothered to remove, brings him closer to his end quicker than he expected. He'd like to think he's experienced enough to spend more than a minute and a half fucking a girl before he feels himself getting close, but, with her, one would think he's a touch-starved virgin with how easy it is for her to work him up.
His forehead drops down to press against hers as he mutters, "God, you're fucking perfect," with the words pitching up into a whine at the end from how she clenches around him.
Just when he thinks he can feel her tensing up and writhing beneath him with the build-up to her orgasm, someone knocks on the bedroom door.
He goes as still as death, and Y/N, too lost in a world that solely consists of Steve Harrington and nothing else, looks up at him with her brows scrunching in confusion until she too hears what drew his attention away from her and caused him to stop.
"Y/N?"
Her eyes go wide at the sound of Nancy's voice, her hand coming up to rip the balled-up shirt out of her mouth in time to respond to her. But, of course, Steve would never let her off that easily. As she opens her mouth to speak, he starts to thrust into her again—slowly, deeply—and it takes everything she has not to whine his name as he rubs her sensitive clit in lazy circular motions to interrupt her train of thought. With the careful pace set and the pillows preventing the headboard from hitting the wall, the bed's constant shifting doesn't make enough noise to alert Nancy of what's happening inside.
She clears her throat and calls out before he can snap his hips forward into hers again, "Yeah? What's up?"
The doorknob rattles as though the person behind the door is trying to get in.
"Why is the door locked?"
Y/N looks up at Steve with pleading eyes that beg him to cease this torture and allow her the time to respond, but he doesn't. He just dips his head down to kiss at her neck, careful not to leave a mark behind, and leaves her to fend for herself.
"Um," she says, voice a tad louder than she intended from a particularly hard jerk of his hips, and rushes to cover up the accidental outburst, "I figured I'd change into my pajamas for the night. If we're gonna be eating a lot of pizza I don't really wanna"—a whimper is choked back at his fingers speeding up their movement on her clit—"be uncomfortable in my jeans."
"Oh, okay. Well, we're all downstairs whenever you're done." There's a dip of silence, as though Nancy is hesitating before saying what comes next, then, "Have you seen Steve? Dustin was looking for him when he came upstairs. None of us can find him."
Under his breath, he murmurs in annoyance with his hot exhales puffing against her ear, shaking his head, "Henderson."
Of course, Dustin would be the one to send Nancy upstairs in search of him when he's seconds from coming inside her best friend.
Her cock-drunk brain takes a delayed few seconds to conjure a believable alibi for the man fucking her into the mattress right now as she claws at his back and bites down on his shoulder to stifle the moans that try to escape the back of her throat. As Steve grows more and more confident with his ability to ramp up the pace and depth of his thrusts without the bed making too much noise, she starts to unravel rather quickly. She can sense it building in the bottom of her belly and starts shaking her head at him as if he can do anything to get Nancy to go away.
She has to concentrate all of her energy on keeping her voice steady as she says, "He said he was going out to get some soda for the kids 'cause he heard El asking Mike if you guys had some. He was just going to the store for it, so he'll probably be back in like ten minutes."
The second the last few words leave her, she tips over the edge, and his hand comes down to smother her mouth to prevent any noises she makes from echoing in the small room. Neither of them acknowledges whatever parting words Nancy offers before she retreats downstairs to the kitchen for dinner. Steve is far too preoccupied with watching and, more importantly, feeling her come beneath him.
The euphoria rushing through her has tears falling from her watery eyes as she embraces the intense high with her arms clinging around his waist for support. Now that he hears Nancy bounding down the steps, every one creaking beneath her shifting weight, he pounds into her with no thoughts present in his head other than those relating to her and the climax he chases with little care for how the bed begins to squeak beneath them.
"Steve," she cries out with tears slipping down her cheeks.
He brushes her hair from her face in a soothing, repetitive motion and whispers, "Such a good girl," as he pins her to the bed with his weight and uses the remaining scraps of energy left in him to slam his hips down against hers with a ferocity she can hardly cope with in her sensitive state. It doesn't take any longer than a few seconds for him to be tipped over the edge along with her.
His eyes are squeezed shut on instinct when he spills into her, hips jerking haphazardly, but she's quick to remedy that.
"Look at me," she whispers with a hand closing around his neck to force his head up, and he obeys without hesitation.
And, of course, she was right to tell him to do so. As soon as he meets eyes with her, the explosive pleasure felt in the span of ten or so seconds it takes for him to ride it out is heightened to a degree he rarely experiences it at. Even as it begins to slip away from him, he keeps rocking into her at a slow pace until the dying undulations of his hips give way to an exhaustion he can no longer ignore.
He pulls out of her, careful in his movements to mind her sensitivity, and falls onto his back on the empty space atop the mattress beside her. The second he leaves her, she's quick to tug her discarded panties back up her legs to avoid staining Nancy's bedding with his cum.
His hair-smattered chest has a thin sheen of perspiration over it, a drop of it rolling up and down with the rapid rise and fall of his panting breaths. Y/N watches its path as she turns onto her side and scoots closer as subtly as she can to savor the warmth emanating from his body.
Steve doesn't even pretend not to notice her sneaky attempt at cuddling up to him. He stretches his left arm over her head and uses the other to scoop around her waist, bringing her in to rest her head on his shoulder how he knows she likes to. They don't have much time to spare, but, for the next half minute, they lay together in the afterglow and pretend they have eternity to waste away together.
Breaking the silence, he groans and rubs his eyes, saying, "Shit, now I have to go get soda for the kids."
The sound of her giggling brings his attention over to the pretty girl laying with her head on his shoulder. Her hand trances circles in the layer of sweat shining on his chest, playing with the hair growing there whenever she becomes bored with her designated pattern of tracing every once in a while.
"Sorry about that. I couldn't think of anything else," she says softly.
He just shakes his head, then presses a kiss to the top of her head.
"Don't worry about it."
She's the first one to leave the bed to search for her discarded clothes, and once she gets up, he doesn't have many reasons to continue laying there other than the fact that he gets especially tired after he comes. Still, he forced himself to get up out of bed after pulling his pants back up into place and zipping them up.
Together, they redress in silence and listen to the sounds of the younger teens shouting at each other and laughing in the kitchen below them. It brings a soft smile to her face to imagine everyone having fun together after all of the heartache they've shared as a group.
"What are you smiling for?" Steve asks.
Her head snaps up from where it had been craned down to search through her backpack for the pajamas she mentioned to Nancy not long ago.
She shrugs.
"I just like hearing them have fun. They deserve it after everything they've been through."
The conversation drops back off into silence again after this, and he can't help but smile to himself as he thinks over what she said, trying not to look up and watch her redress while doing it like a creep. It's only another minute that passes before they're both fully clothed again—he in the same outfit he was wearing prior to their impromptu fuck, she in the pink matching pajama set he's seen her wear a million times. Once she runs her fingers through her hair a few times, it looks as though nothing out of the ordinary happened during her trip upstairs.
While he waits for her to fold up the clothes she changed out of, sitting on the edge of the bed, a nagging curiosity compelled him to ask her, "Not that I'm complaining, but what made you so..." He trails off for a second, trying to find the right word for it. "Horny. We could've just gone on a drive to the store together and pulled over if you asked."
For the first time since she dragged Steve upstairs, the words Nancy said to her in the basement come back to the forefront of her mind. This time, however, it doesn't haunt her as much as it had before she came to find him. There's a lingering sense of insecurity, but after what just happened, she has a good feeling he's been over Nancy for a while. If he weren't, he probably would've freaked out and stopped when she knocked on the door, but he hadn't. Instead, he decided to keep going for the sake of teasing her and acted as though his ex wasn't even standing on the other side of the door.
Y/N avoids making eye contact with him at all costs when she finally answers.
"Um," she says, "When you went upstairs for the pizza, Nancy said something to me about wondering if she made a mistake breaking up with you, and I guess I got a little...jealous..."
Before he can even take a breath, let alone process everything she said and come up with a coherent response, she continues rambling out of fear of what he'll say when he responds. Part of her still fears that he'll end whatever it is they have for the sake of rekindling what he had with Nancy.
"I know we aren't—like—dating, obviously, but I haven't been with anyone else since we started doing this, and if you wanna get back together with Nancy, I won't get in the way. I promise. If that's what you want, it's fine." She starts to pace back and forth in front of where he sits, dumbfounded, on the foot of the bed. "I just—I like hanging out with you, and I guess I like you, and the idea of seeing you with anyone else makes me go nuts, so—"
This time, it's his turn to shut her up with a kiss.
She was so caught up in her improvised speech, she didn't even see him standing up from the bed until his hands were cupping her face to pull her into a desperate kiss. It doesn't last any longer than a moment, but, fuck, it makes her even weaker in the knees than she already is from getting fucked by him a few minutes ago. Her hands shoot out to grasp onto his biceps, squeezing hard to keep herself upright, and he reciprocates by allowing one of his arms to cocoon around her back to provide her additional security.
When he pulls away, she starts to chase his lips, and he must fight the urge to smile hard enough to make his cheeks ache at the sight of it. The hand cupping her face moves to tuck her hair behind her ear, then drags his pointer finger along the edge of her jaw until she opens her eyes to see him staring at her.
"I don't want Nance, I want you."
Heat rushes to her cheeks in response to his honesty to add to the flush already present there from the strenuous exercise they endured together. And he loved it. He relishes in how bashful and skittish his unabashed desire makes her. Typically, she never lacks confidence in their time spent together. She was the one who suggested they go to his place that first night when he found her biking home in the rain. She was the one who dragged him upstairs demanding they have sex. Yet, now, she's turning all shy on him.
She tries her hardest to play it cool, though, shrugging and saying through a smile, "Good," before taking his hand to drag him over to the window he used to use to sneak into Nancy's room.
It's the same window she uses to sneak into her room on nights when Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler say no to their daughter's pleas to have her friend over, so she's quite familiar with how easy it is to enter and exit from. Thank God he has his wallet and keys stowed in the pockets of his jeans. If he left them downstairs, he could always go out and window and come through the front door pretending he "forgot" them, but that wouldn't be the most believable excuse considering how long he's been gone.
Seconds after she opens the window, he's crawling through with a fumbling awkwardness that ends with him bumping his head on the side of the house with a soft, "Ouch!" muttered into the cold night air.
When he's finally settled on the other side of the window, standing on the roof of the garage with his hands gripping the window sill, he takes another few seconds to look at her.
"I'm gonna miss you tonight. I didn't know you were sleeping here," he says, not wanting to leave just yet.
To this, she simply bends down, pokes her head through the window, and kisses him goodbye. Her hand grasps the hair at the base of his neck to guide him into it, and he returns the enthusiasm immediately, rising onto his tiptoes to deepen the kiss as if doing so will make the short time they're to spend apart easier somehow.
Their lips are still brushing when she pulls back to whisper, "I'm coming over tomorrow night, remember?"
He pecks her lips again, then pulls back, saying, "It's a date."
Throughout the ordeal of Steve jumping down from the roof and landing on his feet in the driveway with a muffled groan, she watches with a goofy smile on her face from the bedroom window. The look he shoots over his shoulder at her to check if she saw him stumble on the landing only widens that smile, and she knows he's blushing in embarrassment without the porch light being on to light his face.
It's only when he drives off in the direction of the nearest store that she shuts the window to keep out the cold that's raising goosebumps on her skin and turns to lean against it with a sigh. It isn't an exasperated one or even a sad one. It's a sigh caused by disbelief and joy. It doesn't matter that he's her best friend's ex at the moment. They'll find a way to break the news with as little fallout as possible when the time comes.
The only thing that matters to her at the moment is that he wants her.
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ephemeral--dreams · 1 year
Text
Making you cry during a fight (2) - Scaramouche, Yae, Kaeya
Okay guys here you go never ask me for anything ever again /j
(part 1)
☆ ☾ ☆ ──────────────────
Scaramouche
There's a sort of deep, instinctive fear that takes root inside the place where a heart would be, as he watches tears fall after a few too-harsh words. 
He's hurt you. He's been careless, he's been too difficult, too much - and it's going to drive you away. You're going to abandon him because of this incident, surely. Why would you stay with someone who makes you cry? 
It's… it's not a feeling he's dealt with for many years. The fear of being left. He has not allowed anyone to get close enough to him to have any concern over whether they're around or not. Scaramouche had learned his lesson about getting attached and having emotion, after all. He had spat out whatever  bitter words he pleased and felt nothing when he upset anyone he spoke to.
But those days are past, and while that's a good thing in many ways, right now it feels anything but. 
"I-"
"Sorry. I shouldn't be crying," the way you apologize as if you're the one in the wrong stabs right through him. You're the one crying, yet he is being wounded just as much. It's an awful thing, caring. "Just. Just give me a moment…"
Scaramouche hesitates. He's paralyzed, caught up in the idea that anything he does or says may make things worse. But what wins out is the idea of fixing it, fixing things before you give up on him—
"Stop it. You shouldn't be the one saying sorry here. I shouldn't have said that to you, alright? You should know better than to take everything I say so seriously, honestly, I-" he sighs, irritated with himself more than you, before pulling you into his embrace. You don't pull away. Good. Maybe he hasn't entirely fucked things up. "...I didn't mean it. Sorry."
Yae
Yae Miko is not the sort of person who yells during a fight. Or at any time, really. So that hadn't been at all what had happened during your little conflict. 
Rather, her words were pointed to hit where it hurt, an attempt to shut down whatever silly human nonsense you thought was worth causing a riot over. Problems came and went, and most weren't nearly as important as they may seem in the moment. Living many years had led her to this conclusion. She was a busy woman who had little interest in wasting her time arguing. 
...Calculating and perhaps dismissive she may be, but she isn't cold. Yae still very much has a heart, and it skips a beat when she realizes you're nowhere to be found at the usual time she would meet with you after finishing her shrine duties. Surely you weren't that upset over it all, right? 
No, you couldn't be still lingering on the issue hours later… 
Well, you could. Others were far more sensitive to these things, a fact she often forgot. Yae should know better. Isn't she used to highly emotional people, after all? At least your tantrums weren't going to practically destroy the nation…
She finds you at the foot of the mountain, sitting and idly staring into the distance. The tear tracks on your face are all too telling. 
Yae is not above realizing when she has done something wrong. Though she's also not one to openly apologize. She doesn't do much of anything openly. 
"You don't listen to me," you tell her. 
"Well, I'll try to listen more, then. Is that satisfactory?" She offers a hand to you. You wait a moment before taking it, allowing her to pull you up. "Just remember to consider my side of things as well. We can work on it… But let's not linger on this too long. Time is fleeting for mortals like you, hm?"
Kaeya
Kaeya is excellent at one thing - avoidance. In fact, he's been successfully avoiding you ever since your fight a couple of days ago. It's easier to simply wait until you've both cooled off. 
That's what he tells himself. It's certainly not  that the fight made him feel anxious. He's not running away from his problems, of course not.
(He's lying to himself. One wrong word and you'll leave. He knows that. It's bad enough that you had an argument, archons forbid he confronts you and it's the last straw.)
So Kaeya carefully stays out of your way, doesn't speak to you, doesn't let you catch sight of him. He'll have to deal with things eventually, he knows, but… Until then, he's content to keep things this way. Four days in you finally seek him out yourself, looking exhausted and absolutely miserable. 
"Can we- can we stop fighting? You're right, I'm wrong, all that-" He can only watch as you start breaking down in front of him, a cold, sinking feeling of guilt settling in. "...Just stop ignoring me, please?"
His life has been filled with bad decisions - it seems that he's made yet another, by avoiding you so long. Now Kaeya is faced with your tears as you practically beg for his attention. It's quite the opposite of what he intended. He reaches a careful hand to brush them away. "Shh, shh. No more, alright?"
You sniffle, looking up at him. "You're not mad at me?"
"Of course not, sweetheart. I never was. We can talk about it later, okay? Let me make you feel better."
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skipper1331 · 6 months
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hypothetical questions // Alessia Russo
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"Hey guys" you greeted your fans, placing your phone on the table, "next to me, we have our gorgeous blondie" the italian waving at the camera, comments already blowing up the live chat. "aka her girlfriend" she added grinning, her arm going around your shoulders, clarifying her statement as she pecked your cheek.
"There is this trend 'asking my jealous girlfriend hypothetical questions' so we‘re gonna to this" you told them, showing them your note. "I‘ve got some questions here but If you got some ideas just ask and we try to answer as many as possible" you looked at the striker who was looking at you like you hung the moon. "Lessi" you whispered, your hand squeezing her thigh under the table. "Hm?" she asked, still admiring you. You looked so beautiful. "We‘re live on Insta"
Like in trance, "Yeah?" smiling lovingly at you.
"Stop giving me googly eyes" you laughed.
The comment section went crazy 'the way she‘s looking at her 😍😍' and more, they loved the two of you together, match made in heaven. "oopsie" the girl winked towards the camera, pulling you closer. (Not to mention that you were already sitting as close as possible next to one another).
"First question: I go to a club and my friends pay for me to get a lap dance"
Her grip around you tightened, her emotions clearly written over her faces, jealousy peeking through her eyes. "Your friends are my friends?" she chuckled, "they wouldn‘t do something like that" her voice sounded amused until she added, "otherwise they‘d have a problem with me"
"Fair enough. We’re at a house party and are playing twister"
"Don‘t really care, i love games, even though i‘m horrible at twister" she looked at you, smiling, eyes shining with love. That girl was head over heels and every person in your live stream could see that.
"My ex texts me and asks if i can drive her to her grandmas funeral"
"Are you and your ex still friends?" she asked, her fingers absently playing with the lose strand of your hair which had fallen out of your messy bun.
"Let’s say no"
Alessia pictured the situation, your ex crying in the car, yourself sitting behind the steering wheel as the ex girls hand touchs your arm searching for comfort - a little too touchy. "Nah! Absolutely not. Rest in peace granny but you‘re a passenger princess, my passenger princess, you wouldn‘t drive." A loud gasp escaped your throat as you clutched your heart dramatically, "are you saying i wouldn‘t be good driver?" her eyes widened, "no- i- you- i enjoy driving you around" laughing at the italian, you cupped her cheeks, pressing kisses all over her face, her nose scrunching in return as she giggled along, "but to be fair, if you want to go to the funeral that‘s totally fine - just not as her personal driver"
After a few more questions, the comments always going crazy after each reply from Lessi about how much in love she is with you, how perfect she is, how hot her jealousy was. And you agreed, your heart fluttered at each respond, the way she‘d pull you possesively closer, making sure everybody knew you were of the market as she answered the questions. Some of them more likely to awake the green-eyed monster in her than others.
"Last question of mine: We‘re playing truth or dare and i‘m dared to kiss someone that isn‘t you"
"Game ended"
"Well that was very straight forward" you laughed, leaning your head on her shoulder, "these lips are mine" she whispered, looking down at your face as her index finger shushed you. "mine" her jaw was clenched, her eyes dark yet held so much love. As your lips curved in a smile the blondes heart melted, herself smiling wide.
Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, you leaned torwards the camera, scanning the chat for some questions.
"Okay first question from you guys: we‘re at a bar and someone buys me a drink, how would you react?"
Alessias responds came way too fast, "I don‘t think i would really mind to be honest, as long as the person isn‘t flirting with you"
you looked at her raising a brow.
user123 how can she be so chill? i would go mad
user124 nah, no wayyy
She smirked at you, knowing very well that she would go mad if someone bought you a drink.
"That‘s a total lie!" you stated, smacking her arm, playfully. "Guys, she‘s lying"
-
Mary, Ella, Zel, Alessia, yourself and a few other United girls were at a bar, celebrating the derby win. Everyone was having a great time as they talked or danced.
Alessia was talking to her best friend, Ella, with her hand on your thigh while you were in a conversation with Maya and Mary.
"I‘m gonna get a drink, does anyone want something?" you asked everyone at the table. They all declined, still having their glass full or needed a stop. Like always Alessia pressed a kiss to your skin as you walked away, her eyes following you, the same love struck smile on her face she had since years. But back in her conversation with Ella she didn‘t notice the woman next to you at first. There was no need to watch you like a hawk, she trusted you. "Is that Lady buying Y/n a drink?" Mary asked loudly, pulling Lessi out of her conversation. The striker whipped her head in your direction, taking a deep breath to control herself. Alessia‘s jaw clenched, fingers gripping her legs.
"The green-eyed monster has woken up" Ella laughed, the italian already making her way over to you.
"Hi baby" she said in an oh so sweet voice, lips possessively pressing against your own as you turned to face her. Only stopping when girl was gone. "Hi" you giggled, out of breath, "jealous?"
"Nah" she rolled her eyes, not letting you go though, "ups, spilled your drink" the girl stated after she had smacked your glass with her elbow (on total purpose). You could only laugh at her jealous state, your heart melting at the sight in front of you - your perfect girl. Of course, she ordered your favorite drink again, her body pressing against your own, "i‘m the only one who buys you drinks" she purred in your ear before kissing your head.
-
"How many times do I have to tell you that that girl was totally flirting with you!" she grumbled, crossing her arms over chest.
user132 grumpy lessi = hot lessi
"Oh, my girl" your fingers poked her cheeks until she started laughing, throwing her arms back around your body, "guys, i promise you the woman was flirting with my woman" she declared, "can‘t let someone steal what‘s mine huh?" she winked at the camera, yourself shaking your head with a loving smile.
"Next question: We met a new group of friends and a girl tells me I smell good"
She thought about it for a moment before she answered, "If she‘s genuinely being nice and likes your perfume, something like: oh my god, you smell good, what kind of perfume are you wearing? that‘s perfectly fine - your perfume does smell amazing but when it‘s in a flirty way, i wouldn‘t like it. I wouldn‘t say anything though, I trust you. But If you asked me to say something or you’re uncomfortable i would do something"
Wiggling your brows, you replied "My protector" pressing a peck to her cheek. You leaned forward, searching in the chat for a question.
"You‘re talking to a friend and turn over and see me doing a body shot"
"Uh, that‘s a good one" taking a minute to think about it and imagine the scene in front of her eyes, her thumb drew circles on your leg, "i‘d be pissed probably and wouldn’t talk to you for the rest of the night" she answered, her hand wandering higher, coming to rest on your inner thigh as she gave it a gentle but firm squeeze.
Losing track of time many more questions have been answered. The later it got, you finally decided the next question that caught your eye would be the last. "This is a good one! So last question is: my celebrity crush sends me a dm and asks for a meet up"
Clutching her hand over her heart as the other one wiped away the imaginary tears, she sighed dramatically "I‘m not your celebrity crush?" the italian knowing exactly who your celebrity crush was "you’re the love of my life"
Alessias smile couldn’t have gotten bigger yet it did, her heart jumping around while her cheeks were on fire.
user1453 to be loved the way y/n loves Less
user342 they‘re so cute😩
user94 parents
The striker wanted to kiss the life out of you, show you how you made her feel, what that reply made her feel but she didn‘t. Not in a live stream, not with the world watching. You were her own - she was the only one who was allowed to see your dazed state after those kind of kisses so instead she answered, "i would encourage you to go - really - i‘d be so happy for you! Like that would be huge!! I‘d do anything to see you happy" she looked at you, every inch of her body so deeply in love with you, "wouldn‘t let them steal you though, you‘re my girl after all" her famous and your favorite smile covering her face as you stared at one another, the blue eyes shining so bright.
The two of you thanked the fans for watching and said good bye before ending the live.
Later that night, you laid on the blondes chest while her fingers traced over your arm, "there‘ll be a million edits of you baby" you chuckled, pushing your head further in her chest, trying to find a more comfortable position. She hummed, eyes already closed "i don‘t care as long as you‘re my girl, i‘m all good" looking up, you saw her closed lids, her arms looping around your body in addition for a better sleep, holding you tight. You nestled your head in the crook of her neck, your breath hitting her jaw as you whispered an "i love you" pressing a soft 'good night kiss' below her ear.
In fact there were many edits of the both of you but neither of you cared. As long as you‘re together everything was, is and would be perfectly fine. That‘s how it always had been.
Perfectly fine.
The love you shared was powerful, deeply and something people wished they had.
It was magical - it was your love.
————————
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megamindsecretlair · 7 months
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Run it Back
Pairing: Tyrone x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, Daddy kink, pet names. You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Smut, PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (male receiving), cum play, possession kink, size kink, breeding kink if you squint, all consensual. Degradation/Praise kink.
Summary: You forgot to check in with Tyrone and he calls while you're at the club. You rush home to apologize properly.
Word Count: 2,603k
A/N: Oh look, I'm zooted and feral again. This was so hot. I had a lot of fun writing it! Thank you all so much for all of your support and for reading! Goodness, how did this taglist get so big? ILY FRFR. Likes are always awesome. Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers!
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You dug your phone out of your purse as you danced to the music in the club. You were too turned up and had been having a blast with your friends, turning away guys but accepting the free drinks. Tyrone’s name flashed on your phone and you stopped dancing. 
Your friend noticed and elbowed you to get your attention. You waved her off. Your stomach turned sour. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that third drink. Or was it the fourth? 
“Hey, baby,” you said. 
“The hell you at?” Tyrone’s voice was like a punch through the phone. He was mad. Scratch that. He was furious with you. 
“Um, I’m a little busy,” you said. You knew he could hear the thumping music. There was no need to tell him where. 
“You know what time it is?” He asked. 
You looked at the screen on your phone. Shit! You were  way, way past the time you told him you’d be home. You didn’t even text him to say you were staying longer. He loved that you were independent but it killed him when you were reckless with your safety. 
“Baby, I’m sorry. We started dancing and they played all of my songs. You know like–”
“If you’re not here in ten minutes, I’m comin’ for that ass,” he snapped. 
“Wait, I’m farther than that,” you said. Mentally, you thought about the route to your place with Tyrone. Even if you broke all of the traffic laws on your way over, there was no way to make it in ten minutes. The dread in your stomach gave way to hefty need. Your core ached and the hairs on the back of your neck raised. 
“Nine minutes,” he said. 
He hung up the phone and you got up. You didn’t say goodbye to your friends or stop long enough to breathe. You rushed out of the club and raced to your car. Your heart thumped in your chest and your hands shook. 
You pulled out of your space and pulled into late LA traffic. They said New York was the City that Never Sleeps. So LA must be the City that Never Learns to Fuckin’ Drive. A car honked at you as if you were the problem. If a muthafucka ain’t got their headlights on, how the fuck you supposed to see them? 
You made it home, barely legally. There were too many close turns and random cars enough to spook you. You thought you were going to get into an accident. But the closer you made it to Crenshaw, the more the traffic died down. Hood people knew when to take they asses home. 
You straightened out your outfit as you got to the door. His car was still in the driveway. You wondered if he really would have come to the club and scooped you up. You didn’t need that embarrassment. 
You got inside and listened out for where Tyrone may be. The living room and kitchen beyond were dark. You didn’t see a light upstairs either. Surely, he would have waited until you were inside, right? 
A light popped on to your left and you jumped. Fear mixed with desire until you shook a bit. Tyrone sat in his favorite chair in the living room. A recliner that you both picked out. But more so him. He kept eyeing it and you knew that he never treated himself. His mind was always on the hustle and more money. You were trying to buff that rough edge of him. It wasn’t easy, but baby steps. 
His hand was on his knee while the other propped up his head. The light had a thin shade so it covered a good portion of him. The other side was cast in shadow, giving him an eerie look. 
You bit your lip and fought off shivers. If you thought you were needy before, you were downright feral as you looked at your man. Sometimes, you simply watched him. Watched the way he moved. The slow way he walked, his big hands, his wide smile, and his fine lips. His hair needed a little touching up. You made a mental note to do that for him tomorrow.
“Hey baby,” you said.
“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me. The fuck you doing out this late?” He asked.
“I didn’t look at the time!” You said. 
“That’s not good enough. You think I like yelling at you?” He asked. He wasn’t really yelling. He never truly yelled. His voice went up in volume, that was about it. Tyrone held his anger inside. As if he were fueling his own angry battery. 
“No! I’m sorry! I’ll do better,” you said. 
“What you say?” 
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you said. That didn’t seem to appease him. He stared at you. He was still as a statue. Then his tongue darted out to lick his lips.
“Bust me this nut and maybe I’ll believe you,” he said. He crooked his fingers at you. 
You took off your jacket and threw it onto the sofa next to you. You tossed your purse on top. You had chosen to wear a dress and you were so happy you did. You kept your heels on and slowly got to your knees.
You crawled across carpet. It was a short distance to his knees. He spread them as you got closer. You kept your eyes trained on him but in your peripheral, you saw his sweats tent up. 
You stopped and knelt in front of him. You rubbed his knees as he looked down at you. “Get it nice and wet for me,” he said. 
You leaned up further and started to untie his sweats. You could feel your arousal soaking your panties already. Your inner thighs tingled. You freed him and his dick twitched. You stroked him, always marveling at how it was both soft and hard. 
Precum leaked on the tip and you ran your tongue over it. You were not supposed to be attracted to dicks. They were gross. And men hardly took care of themselves as it is. But Tyrone at least cared about hygiene. His hairs tickled your nose as you sucked him in.
Tyrone groaned and threw his head back. He settled further into the chair. You grabbed his meaty thighs and took in as much of him as you could. Your loud and filthy slurping noises filled the room. Tyrone moaned and it only turned you on more. You were doing this to him. And he was loving it. 
His hands dug into your hair and gripped your head. He pulled you down further on his dick and you gagged a bit on him. You tapped his thigh twice. He let up some so that you could finally breathe. You tapped him once to let him know that you were okay now.
He continued to fuck your mouth. He once told you that he didn’t know which he loved more: filling your mouth with dick or sliding into the wet, hot heat of your cunt. Watching your eyes tear up or watching his dick disappear inside you. There were so many good options. 
“Fuck, this mouth is good for somethin’,” he said.
Your pussy fluttered at the backhanded compliment. He was such an ass. A cocky muthafucka that ain’t never been told no twice. But fuck he was delicious. The line of his neck was visible since his head was thrown back. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack. 
You swirled your tongue around his slit while your hands worked him up and down. He twitched at the added sensation. There was enough of your spit to slide between your fingers and coat him while he drove into your mouth. 
“Naw, I wanna cum in my pussy,” he said. He stood up abruptly and picked you up under your arms. You squealed. He knows you hated being picked up like that. You were a chunky girl your whole life. You wanted to quit it, but it didn’t want to quit you. You loved your body. You’d much rather have your gorgeous ass than be stick thin. Every blue moon, your insecurities flared up. You didn’t want him to strain something trying to lift you.
He’d only tell you to mind yo’ damn business. While he proceeded to pick you up any time he wanted. Especially in the bedroom. He made it his personal mission to toss you around as much as he could. 
He dropped you onto his recliner. Your hands and knees dug unto the leather. It faintly smelled like him. Clean, earthy. Tyrone bunched up your dress in one hand. He leaned down and grabbed your ass cheeks. He wiggled them a bit and then gave it a light smack. Your pussy clenched and you moaned a little bit. 
“You know Daddy worries about you, right?” He asked. He ripped your panties and slid inside of you in one powerful thrust and your head dropped to the chair. Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream. He stretched you out. You were ready for him but fuck, that sweet middle between pleasure and pain had you in a vise grip. 
You nodded to answer his questions. “I’m sorry Daddy,” you said. 
He smacked your ass, hard. You flinched and cried out. “I don’t believe you,” he said. He smacked your ass again and you nearly jumped off of the couch. 
You started to beg him to forgive you. It truly had been a mistake. “You did this shit on purpose, didn’t you?” He didn’t let you answer. He smacked your ass again and kept smacking you. Your ass was on fire. The wind from his hand was starting to hurt you more than the slap did. 
You relaxed and sagged against him. Once you were relaxed, he started to move again. He slammed into you hard and the momentum drove you into the chair. You felt every inch of him. The veins on his dick tickled the walls of your pussy.
“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you said. It was like the tip of his cock pressed up against your soul. He touched that deep, aching core of you. He hit it just right and continued to hit it. Your ass slapped against his thighs. 
You didn’t know if your moans were louder or if his were. His thumbs dug into the top of your ass and you keened. 
“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how sorry you are,” he said. “Let me hear it, mama.” 
You gave him every sound you were capable of producing. Every moan and sigh. When he hit it how you liked, you made all kinds of incoherent sounds. Your body would jerk and twitch. He liked when you could barely shriek because he felt so good. 
Your hand reached down to rub your clit. You were so close. You just needed something else. Tyrone’s hand came out of nowhere to slap your ass. “Shit!” You yelled. 
Tyrone sucked his teeth and hit you again. “Move yo fuckin’ hand. Don’t touch my shit,” he said. He grabbed your wayward hand and brought it up behind your back. He bunched up your dress again and held it and your hand against your back.
He pushed into you more until your ass was the only thing in the air. He somehow slid deeper and you cried out. Your orgasm whipped through you, dragging you under and higher and inside out. Your eyes were clenched shut as you rode wave after wave.
Tyrone continued to chase his own orgasm. Your walls squeezed him and he twitched. He unloaded inside of you. He filled you up still. His hot cum pulsing inside of you. You felt a bit of him leak out and you groaned at the sensation. He stroked another few times before finally stopping and panting. 
Your erratic breaths matched his and you both tried to come down. Tyrone pulled out and you both groaned at the sensation. He spread your ass cheeks so that he could watch himself leak out of you. 
Your ass was still cresting the edge of pain. His fingers dug into it, making the pain flare in random bursts. You were so fucked out. You would have agreed to a twenty-four seven bodyguard if it meant that you never had to leave this headspace.
“You got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he growled. He brought his hand up to rub along your clit and pussy. He pushed a finger inside of you and you moaned. 
“Turn over,” he said.
He helped you get off of the recliner and then position yourself on your back. He gripped your thighs and pulled you to the edge. He bent down and entered you once more. “Can’t get enough of this shit, huh? You need more don’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy, fuck,” you moaned. You peeked over your boobs to watch some of him slip inside you. When he pulled out, he was coated into your juices. Glistening in the low light with it. Then he’d slide back into you and you threw your head back. 
He had your hands pinned to the armrests and your knees crooked on either side of his arms. You couldn’t touch him. And more importantly, you couldn’t touch yourself. 
“You owe me a few more,” he said. He pounded inside of you. You jerked from his powerful thrusts. Sweat gathered on his forehead. He leaned down and gave you a bruising kiss. His lips were warm and inviting. He pulled away before you could really enjoy it.
“Good girls get kisses. Yo ass been bad as fuck tonight,” he said.
That only made you wetter. He noticed and moaned. He leaned forward putting all of his weight on you. You were almost folded in half. You choked on the lack of adequate air but he was pounding into you and you just had to take it.
You had to take his thick cock however he wanted to give it to you. “Daddy, please,” you begged. You sniffled as your arousal built higher and higher. You tensed for half a second. That second seemed to stretch as you balanced on the precipice. Like a drop of water on the faucet after you turn off the water. You knew it was going to fall, it was only a matter of when.
You came with a loud scream, moaning in his ear. “Tyrone!” You yelled. He bit your neck, your shoulder, and licked away the sting. He kissed the sensitive spot below your ear. 
He came right after you. It was like you were in sync. Hot jets of cum filled you up once more. You were truly a soaked mess right now. His cum slipped out of your pussy and dribbled onto your ass cheeks. The sensation was slow and tickled a bit. 
He rubbed your sides and your thighs as you both calmed down. He nuzzled your neck. He kissed your cheek. 
“I ain’t even half done with you yet,” he said. 
You shook your head back and forth. “I can’t, Daddy,” you whined. You didn’t have the strength for another one. He lightly tapped the side of your face until you opened your eyes and looked at him. 
“Naw, you can give me some more,” he said. He leaned down and bit your ear. You shuddered and clenched around him. “Be a good girl for me and take this dick.”
You nodded. Well, when he put it that way…
He pulled out of you. Then he went back in slowly. It was going to be a long night.
&&&
A/N: If you enjoyed this, there's more here: The Secret Tyrone Files
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gojomamashouse · 4 months
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I certainly can. And I did. Well, sort of. I took some creative liberties with this one. Crossposted on Ao3.
Warnings: 18+ Content Vaginal sex, Praise kink, Loss of virginity (both reader and Mike), soft!dom Mike.
Pairing: Mike Schmidt x Reader
Summary: From the name written on your sneakers to the hickey on your neck, Mike had left his mark on you in more ways than one.
Words: 5.8k
According to fandom wiki, Mike is 25 in the movie. The timeline of this story is based on this fact.
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In Permanent Marker
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1995
Mike has a problem. An even bigger problem than his annoying younger sister, or the bills he cannot pay that keep piling up. That problem is you, his new next-door neighbour.
It all began when he had been unloading the boxes from the car, calling out to Abby as she disappeared to explore the new house. The place was small, but enough for the two of them. More importantly, it was as affordable as it could get, given the savings his parents left behind, the money from the government, and his new job. That was all he really needed.
"Need help, there?"
A voice broke him from his thoughts, a voice belonging to you. He did a double take as he looked to his side towards you, nearly dropping the box in shock. He blinks as if you're nothing more than a hallucination, induced by his lack of sleep, dehydration, and the summer heat. Because there was no way that you were standing there. Someone his age. Someone so attractive. Someone exactly his type and talking to him. You take notice of his shocked expression.
"My folks and I saw you from the window," you point to the house left of his, "thought I could lend a hand.”
"Yeah. Yeah, uh," he nods eagerly, breaking eye contact as he fumbles over his words. He looks back towards the house, "If you could watch my little sister while I unload these. She’s somewhere inside…”
“You’ve got it,” you flash him a smile.
He’s sweating and close to passing out as he places the last box down in the front hallway, bracing himself against the wall as he catches his breath. He then looks around. There’s no furniture yet. He couldn’t afford movers to help move the couch or the kitchen table from his parent’s old house, instead opting to sell the furniture and find cheaper options once moved in. That meant he’d be eating on the floor until he had time off work again. This also meant he’d have to take Abby table-shopping and listen to her complain every time she picked something out of his price range, then cry the whole drive back home. He groans to himself, annoyed by his endless stream of thoughts. He supposes that’s just adulthood, now. There’s always something to think about.
He hears giggling from down the hallway, grabbing his attention enough to raise himself from the wall. He creeps towards the sound, peeking past Abby's door. A box was open on the floor, toys and crafts scattered across the carpet. You sit cross-legged in the middle of the room at Abby’s side and she’s pointing to her drawings, chattering away.
He wonders how you make it look so easy.
"I don't like it here." Abby tugs on the leg of his jeans, "Can we go back?"
It’s the last thing Mike wants to hear the morning after moving in, his back and arms still sore from all that he carried. He looks down to see her lips were pulled into a frown, her brows furrowed. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking instant coffee from a mug he'd managed to dig out from one of the kitchenware boxes, staring at all the shit he has left to do. And, of course, his sister could never let him do that in peace.
"This is where we live now."
"Why?"
"Because it is."
"I don't want to live here."
And I don't want to work shitty hours for shitty pay just to afford this dump, he thinks to himself.
Still, he can't blame her. The place is a downgrade. The toilet in the main bathroom doesn't really flush, her room is half the size of the one at their parent's old place, and he’d discovered more than a few suspicious stains on some of the walls and carpeting around the house.
"Well, that's just too bad."
"I want to go back!" She shouted, her little fingers digging harder into the fabric of his jeans, now trying to tug his leg. He tries to nudge her off, shaking his leg just enough to make her lose her grip, but she doesn't budge. He sighs to himself.
She's at that age. Five years old, and a complete menace. She was smarter than she looked and had begun to realize that sometimes creating a fuss could get him to bend the rules for her, which now meant she was constantly defying him. Constantly picking a fight. Constantly whining about something. And as much as he loved her he could not stand to hear another tantrum, especially not this early in the morning.
"Stop it, Abby. I'm not dealing with this today."
"Nu-uh!"
She screams when he tugs her away with his hands, lifting her in the air while she tries to kick and shove him away. He knows he's bound to have bruises from where she kicks his torso and scratches where her nails dig into his skin. Had he any energy left in him, he might have been tempted to raise his voice at her. That's one good thing to come out of his restless nights, at least.
The doorbell rings and she's still whining when he places her down on the floor. He kneels to her level, hands on either of her little shoulders.
"We can talk about it later, okay?" He lowers his voice, desperate for her to be quiet. Anything for her to be quiet. "Behave. And quit being such a baby."
His words were enough to render her silent, by some miracle, and so he goes to the door, only to see you standing there. You . He knows he's ogling again and he hates himself for it but he can't help himself, not when you're so pretty. He leans against the doorframe, clearing his throat.
"Hey, uh. What are you doing here?"
"Good morning to you, too. Thought you might need more help," You lean forward, taking a peek inside the place and noting all the boxes, "Judging by all this, I guess I thought correctly."
"Guilty as charged," he holds his hands up, cherishing the sound of your laugh.
The moment doesn't last long. He fails to notice that behind him, his sister is teary-eyed, her lower lip quivering. You furrow your brows, about to say something, but the little girl beats you to it.
"You— you jerk!" Abby finally lets out, and you stand dumbfounded at the door, watching the crying girl. She turns to Mike. "I hate you!"
She runs off to some room somewhere and slams the door, the distant sound of sobs easily heard from down the hallway where you two stood. While you stood there in shock, Mike had grown used to these outbursts, but it didn't leave him entirely unfazed. There was still a tug on his heart like there always was.
"She's just having a moment right now," he sighs, his fingers rubbing his temples, "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"You're not going to go and talk to her?"
"She hates me. Didn't you hear?"
"You know that's not true," you shove past him, your hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment longer which certainly did not go unnoticed, "come on."
"What do I even say?"
"You're going to go apologize, dumbass."
That's how he found himself standing outside his sister's door. He was about to simply walk in, until you stopped him, your hand on top of his as he reached for the knob.
"Knock first."
He would've asked why but he's too distracted by how your little touches keep making his face grow hotter, so he simply nods and does as you say, raising his fist to the door. He hears Abby's sobs halt the moment he does. He looks to you, and you nod, as if to signal him to start talking.
"Abs?"
There's a sniffle. "Go away."
"Look, I'm sorry for hurting you. Just open the door." You toss him a glare, "Please?"
There's a pause.
"Liar," she hisses, "you're only sorry 'cause they're making you."
Mike is about to retort, but you raise your hand to silence him.
"Abby, we both want to make sure you're alright. Could you please open the door so we can talk?"
There's a pause and then a shuffle, the sound of her moving from the floor to go and open the door. She's red in the face, snot-nosed and teary-eyed. Mike's heart can't help but break at the sight. He's an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.
"I-I'm not a baby," she blinks at Mike, lifting her arm to wipe her snot on her sleeve, "Y-you're always s-so mean to me. I hate that."
"I didn't mean it. I just, uh... I say stuff sometimes." He frowns, a trembling in his voice. He speaks softly as if it will compensate for all the harsh words spoken prior, "I promise I won't say mean stuff anymore. Honest."
"Pinky promise?"
She raises her pinky finger.
"Yeah. Pinky promise."
He raises his own, letting her little finger curl around his. She quickly wipes her tears away.
The rest of the day is spent doing whatever Abby wants. Mike discovers quickly that you seem to love spoiling her. You take her to the park, let her unpack all her toys and leave them tossed all around the house. You end up ordering pizza at her request, as well, and by the end of the day, she’s saying she wishes you were her older sibling instead. Though it’s said jokingly, it still pierces him through the heart.
The day ends with a tired Abby curled up in her sleeping bag on the floor of her room. Now he's with you, you sitting atop the counter at his side while he places the leftover pizza slices from the takeout boxes into ziplock bags. If he had it his way, the day would have ended with all the moving boxes being unpacked, but he supposes a happy Abby makes his life a hell of a lot easier than an unhappy one.
"She's a lot easier than most her age."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I'm the oldest ' kid ' in this neighbourhood. I've babysat for practically every family around here," you sip your drink, "she was very quick to forgive you. Not just any kid does that."
Garett had been the same way. Every prank he played, every cruel joke, he forgave him for because that’s just what older brothers do. The difference being that he was a child back then, not an adult. He may be Abby’s older brother by blood, but he needed to be more than that now. She needed him to be more than that.
He finishes packaging the last slice and throws the leftovers in the fridge. He's now fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie— a poor choice of clothing for the midst of a summer heat wave, but he didn't exactly have lots of options. He supposes he should add clothing shopping to his already long to-do list.
“What am I doing?” He says aloud, “I can’t do this.”
“Don’t say that.”
"This always happens. I get annoyed, she gets hurt, and it’s going to happen again.”
"Nobody's made for this at our age,” you gesture around at the house, then at him, “You're bound to fuck up, that's just inevitable."
"Yeah, thanks,” he deadpans.
"That’s not what I meant. You live and you learn, that's what you do. No one's perfect but we can always try.”
“What if me trying isn’t enough?”
“It’s better than not trying at all.”
He looks back down the hallway, at Abby’s door. Does she care that he's trying? Does she know how much he has sacrificed to give her a semblance of a normal life? He scoffs at himself internally. She's a child, of course she doesn't. That's not her fault. It’s not her responsibility either. She’s the kid, and he’s the adult now. It’s unfair on both sides but that’s the way things are.
"Thank you. For all the help, and everything," He finally says, turning to you.
"That's what neighbours are for, right?" You’re hopping off the counter. It was dark outside now, and fair to assume you’d be on your way home. Only, you halt in your tracks for a moment. "Wait, one more thing."
You pull out one of those disposable cameras from the pharmacy. It’s scratched and beaten up, evidence of its use. He freezes up when he feels your arm draping around him to pull him into the frame and snap a quick picture. He blinks from the flash, and you laugh at the way his eyes squint, shoving the camera back into your pocket.
"The hell?" He raises a brow, "that's going to be an awful one, just so you know."
"I don't care if photos look good. It's about the memories and all that." you roll your eyes, "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early. We're going to finish unpacking.”
You're out the door before he can even reply.
He starts to learn who you are, piece by piece. He learns that you don't know a single thing about keeping your curtains drawn shut and that you're completely oblivious to how he's seen you in your room in your pyjamas at night, talking on the phone while you twirl the telephone cord around your finger. He learns that you go to college out of state, which is why you're so insistent on taking photos of everything you can because you get homesick so easily. He learns, that because of that, he won't be seeing you after the summer for many months and struggles to figure out why that thought leaves a dreaded ache in his heart.
The ache only grows the more time he spends with you, whether it’s with Abby or one-on-one. He thinks he’s going to die when he sees you packing up your car at the end of the summer, but offers to help you out regardless.
"Have fun," he says to you, hating how disingenuous the words feel on his tongue.
Your car is now packed, and you're on the steps, him standing on the stone path below. You look up at him with a smile while you're lacing up your shoes. It's those damn shoes you always wear, always torn up and dirty and desperately in need of being replaced. He's not one to talk when it comes to proper footwear, but he swears they are only a thread away from being torn apart.
"I'll try."
You finish doing up your laces, and pull out a permanent marker from your pocket, handing it to him. He gives you a confused look.
"Sign it."
"What?"
"My shoe," you repeat, and he takes notice of your sneakers, varying names written along the white rim already, all in different colours and sizes. "It's something I've been doing since high school. Just to remember."
Knowing how you treasure your photos, it only makes sense to him now. He kneels down and signs it in the black marker, his handwriting atrocious, but evidently an effort to make it appear more legible than normal. He lets go of your ankle when he's done and you smile, raising it to look at his handiwork.
"I tried."
"Hey, it's not that bad."
"It's pretty bad."
You both laugh, and you stand up finally, stepping down to his level. He tries not to show his shock when he feels your arms wrap around him, pulling him tightly towards you. He happily accepts the embrace, soaking up the affection like a dried-out sponge.
"One last thing," you whisper to him, and he feels your hand slip something into his pocket. “Look at it later, ‘kay?”
"I'll miss you."
"I'll be back."
And though he wants to believe you will, he can't help but stare into your dark windows that night, counting down every day until your return. Not everyone in his life has, after all.
He checked his pocket the moment you left earlier that day. It was the photo of the two of you in his kitchen, from one of the first days you met. It was blurry and dark but he could make out the sight of your smile and his face of confusion. The back side has the date written.
He places the photo on his nightstand and rolls over on his back, staring at the Nebraska poster on his ceiling. He took his meds not long ago, his eyes drooping, but his mind unable to stay focused, his thoughts drifting towards you.
1996
The last time you called his home line, you said you'd be home in a few weeks, but he still hasn’t seen you yet. The light in your bedroom window remains turned off. He wishes the thought of seeing you again didn’t have him so restless.
Today is his birthday. A whopping twenty-one years old. If he were a normal person, he'd be out with friends, pouring liquor down his throat until he couldn't drink anymore. Instead, he went to work, then returned home late to greet the babysitter on the couch, her middle school textbooks sprawled on the coffee table and Abby already in bed. She’s gone the moment he hands her a twenty-bill, peddling away on her bicycle.
Though the house now has furniture, it still feels so empty. He sits alone on the couch, the sounds from the TV turning into a soft humming. He doesn’t want to think about the dirty plates in the sink or Abby's toys and crayons that littered the living room floor.
His heart skips a beat when he hears a knock on the door. He tentatively gets up, swallowing dryly. It couldn’t be you. You would have called him or said something, right? He’s never been so thankful to be wrong in his life because when he sees you standing there on his steps, in those torn-up sneakers with his name on them, with a six-pack of beer in your hands, he’s immediately grinning like a child.
"Where the hell have you been?" he looks down at the alcohol in your hands, "what's this?"
"A gift for the birthday boy," you grin, "twenty-one. That's a pretty big age."
"Are you twenty-one yet?" He raises a brow.
"You want the beer or not?"
"Alright, alright," he looks into the house, the place dead silent save for the TV. "Let's go out back. Abby has school tomorrow. I don't want to wake her."
Sharing the company of another had become so foreign to him at this point that he forgot how nice it feels to be human. To feel the summer breeze through the fabric of his t-shirt, to feel the condensation from the cold can drip down his fingers, to feel the warmth of the alcohol sitting nicely in his stomach. Hell, he doesn’t even mind how shit the beer you bought tastes, though the initial shock causes him to cough the moment the first gulp is downed.
"Don't tell me you actually waited until now to have your first drink," he hears you say.
"I didn't, but I don't drink that much. Especially not this," he eyes the brand name on the can.
"I was tired of college parties and all the watered-down shit alright? I needed something different."
"Must be exhausting . Getting invited to so many parties."
"Oh, shut it," you shake your head, "trust me, college is lonelier than you think."
He stares down at your sneakers, noticing that not a single new name has been written. One part of him wonders how anyone could not want to become your friend. The other part of him is proud that he’s the last person to sign it, his name standing out compared to all the other old, faded-out ones.
"That's one thing we have in common."
"I take it life's not so great, either?"
"Abby has been acting out less but now she barely talks.” He sighs, “It's... another thing to think about."
There’s a pause.
“Then don’t think about it. Not tonight.”
“Easier said than done,” he rolls his eyes.
"Come on, it’s your birthday and we’re out here moping on your back porch. That's no way to celebrate."
"What do you suggest we do?"
"Something. Anything. I dunno, you're the birthday boy. What do you wanna do?"
"I..." his eyes trail down to your lips and stop. He knows he's being obvious but he's tired enough to where he doesn't really care anymore to hide it. He sees how your brows knit together, and he looks away. "I'm fine doing this."
"That's not what I asked." He feels your hand creep over to his, flat against the porch. Your touch is electric. He allows himself to look at you again. Your eyes are determined and your touch is intentional, he's sure. "I asked what you want ?"
Hesitantly, he lets his hand intertwine with yours. He's barely able to meet your eyes, embarrassed by his cheeks which he knew were most likely pink by now.
"I want you."
His other hand raises to your cheek, his cold hand against warm skin. His eyes speak to you, though his mouth says nothing, asking for permission. You lean in yourself, tired of his hesitation. You can taste the alcohol on his lips, his mouth so tender and sweet against yours. He's gentle and endearingly clumsy but above all else, he's desperate and he kisses you like you'll disappear the moment he lets you go. His hand is tighter around yours and the other that had first been against your cheek drifted to the back of your neck. You hear him let out a sound when your hand runs through the back of his hair and you're both pulling away, still craving something more.
"How much of me do you want?"
"So much," he gulps, "so much more."
There's a grin on your lips as you drag him by the hand, abandoning the half-drank beer cans as you enter the house. Careful not to alert Abby, who was sleeping next to his room, you both tip-toe down the hallway, unable to help the giggles that escape your mouths. Then, the moment you're in his bedroom, you're pushing him against the door, seizing his lips. You feel his abs under his T-shirt, realizing just what he had been hiding under all those hoodies last summer. You feel the warmth radiating from him, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You smile against his mouth when you feel his hand at your waist, slipping under your top to fit right into the arch of your back. He's holding back, you can tell, and it only makes you want to fan the flames and let him burn even brighter.
You tug him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards the mattress until his legs hit the edge and he’s sitting, your body crawling on top of him. And, for someone who had been concerned about not waking his sister, he sure allows himself to make so many pretty noises. He pulls away for air once again and looks up at you like he worships you, his hands on either thigh while you lean your forehead against his own. He then lets out a laugh, still genuine, though hushed.
"What's so funny?" You murmur.
"This is the best birthday gift I've had in years."
"But you haven't even unwrapped me yet," you quirk your brow. "You said you wanted more, didn't you?"
"I did," he hums, his eyes dragging down over your body, shyly. "Still do. If that's what you want, too."
"You already know I do."
He brings his fingers to the hem of your shirt and slowly lifts it, your arms raising to help him slip it off. You feel yourself shudder under his analytical gaze, even though the night is sweltering. You feel the goosebumps rise under your skin as his fingers brush over your body as if to memorize every curve and texture with his fingertips. And though you had done your best to mask your inexperience all night, it became obvious to him, the moment you were squirming before him— topless— the truth.
"I've never done this before," you admit before he can ask you, feeling more vulnerable than ever as he stares up at you, the most anyone had ever seen of you beneath your clothing.
"That's okay," he tilts his head, big brown eyes looking right back at yours, "if it's okay with—"
"I've already told you it is. Everything is okay with me. Please. "
He nods, his hands reaching behind you, and you feel his fingers at the clasp of your bra. There's a flush on his face as he fumbles with it, brows scrunched as he tries to pull it apart. Then, it hits you. The look in his eyes, the uncertainty in his actions, the constant need for reassurance. He's been trying to hide it just like you were. Had your own mind not been so clouded, perhaps you would have noticed it far sooner. You reach behind yourself, hand brushing past his own to unclasp the bra yourself, before letting it slide down your shoulders. There's a glimmer in his eyes as he takes in your half-naked form, mouth parted slightly.
"You've never done this either, have you?" You ask, hands looped around the back of his neck as you seat yourself better in his lap. You try not to make a sound when you feel his erection through his gym shorts, pressed right up against where you need friction the most.
"Never," he manages to say, somehow. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"We'll figure it out."
You're kissing him again, and this time you're the one fumbling to remove his shirt, unable to properly admire his exposed body as his mouth is pressed against yours the moment the garment is removed. You feel yourself start to crumble at every little noise he makes, every little touch and grinding of his hips into yours. Then his mouth is trailing down your neck and his hands are on your breasts, his touch gentle but his lips hungry. You feel his lips suck on a particular spot on your collarbone and hiss, your fingers threading through his hair.
"You're gonna leave a mark.”
He pulls away, not quite sporting a grin, but the look in his eyes tells you he’s proud, regardless.
"Is that a problem?"
"Bastard," you retort.
With that, you're pushing him down until his back is against the mattress, leaving your own trail of kisses down his neck and chest, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach every time you hear his noises, and whispers of praise. You reach down for his shorts, tugging them down, this time you're able to get a better view of him beneath you. Your hand traces the outline of the muscles on his abdomen and chest, feeling your face heat up, again reminded just how built he was. As if he couldn't get any hotter, you notice the trail of hair leading from his belly button, disappearing beneath his boxers. You suck in a breath, your pupils blown wide.
“I'm gonna go insane if you don't touch me right now,” he says, allowing you to realize just how long you had been staring him down.
The words go straight through you, reminding you of your arousal between your legs, and how you were currently sitting right on top of his dick, the only barrier between you being each other's underwear. You rock your hips against him and hear him whine, your hands flat against his chest. It almost scares you how good it already feels, without having done much of anything at all.
"You have any condoms?" You ask.
"Yeah, think so," he stammers, his eyes darting towards his dresser.
You get up, feeling his eyes on your ass as you dig through the drawer, sifting through clutter. Momentarily, you smile when you find the photo you gave him last year— before returning to the task at hand. You find a condom buried at the very back.
"Were you prepared for this?" You tease.
"I don't think that far ahead. They’re free handouts from sex Ed, senior year."
"If you actually paid attention in that class, you'd know that condoms have an expiration date."
"I did pay attention," he says as you settle yourself back on top of him, the foil between your fingers. "They're not expired yet ."
"Yeah? What else did you learn?"
You suppress a yelp when you feel your position forcibly switched, your back now against the mattress with him hovering over you. The condom had disappeared into his hand.
"That you probably shouldn't be on top for your first," you feel his hand at your panties, brushing your clit over the fabric, "and that you're gonna need more foreplay than just dry humping."
You notice how he looks at you for approval before tossing your underwear aside, admiring how your slick coats his fingers. You'd touched yourself enough times before to know what this feels like but somehow, when it's him doing it instead of yourself, you already feel you'll fall apart at any moment. Your clit is swollen and your hole flutters around nothing as his fingers continue to tease you. Fortunately, he slips his middle finger in before you can scold him for being a tease— and fuck it's so much more than you're used to. His fingers reach inside you better than yours ever did you feel your mouth go agape, your hand reaching to clasp over your mouth out of fear your noises will echo through the mostly silent house.
"Mike," you plea, but to no avail, one hand still desperate to muffle your sounds while the other gripped the bedsheets.
“Is it… am I doing it right?”
“Yeah,” you nod, “please, don’t stop.”
You’d heard horror stories before from others, about how aggressive some men were with their first times. But you think Mike is the opposite. So gentle and considerate— uncertain and awkward, sure, but with a willingness to learn and try.
“Doing so well,” he whispers sweetly, “you’re so perfect.”
You're so close to reaching your high that you almost wish you could strangle him the moment he pulls away, leaning down to capture your lips into a kiss. You then hear the sound of the foil being torn apart and the feeling of his dick rubbing against your centre. Despite his smile, you notice the worry behind his eyes. He's terrified. So, you bring your hand to his cheek.
"I want this," you reassure once again.
He nods.
He slips the tip in and your body spasms, the intrusion feeling so foreign. He watches your expression change with each passing moment he spends pushing into you. He loves the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter shut. Loves how your brows scrunch together. All because of him. You’re so soft and warm around him and he’s struggling to cool himself down.
"So much," you comment, your eyes half-lidded when he finally bottoms you out, your bottom lip pulled by your teeth. He tries not to let the compliment get to him, otherwise, he knows he’ll be finishing faster than he wants.
"You're doing so good," he whispers, his hand intertwining with your own, "taking me so well. Can you keep doing that?"
You nod, and he whimpers, taking another thrust. Your nails are digging into his shoulder blades but he doesn't care. It’s another distraction, helping him hold himself together while you take him. He takes another thrust and nearly loses it when he watches you whine, tilting your face to the side.
“More,” you let out.
You feel every inch of him inside you, pressing against your most sensitive parts and though the initial discomfort hadn’t fully yet faded, you start to feel yourself getting lost in pleasure the more you accommodate him. You continue to drag your nails down his back, the knot inside of you growing tighter. You reach down to touch your clit, aching for more stimulation, but he’s quickly replacing your hand with his own, rubbing circles into you.
“So good.”
“Yeah?” He stammers out, finding it difficult to string words together in the moment.
“You feel so good, Mike.”
He didn’t realize how fucking hot it would be to hear you say his name while you’re fucked out like this until you do, and he feels himself losing a grasp on himself.
The feeling inside of you starts to snap and your body is thrashing around as you approach your high. He feels you grasping onto him like he’s your lifeline, shaking through your cries, which are muffled by your hand on your mouth. He, too, reaches his limit, and he’s burying his face into the crook of your neck in the hopes that he isn’t too loud.
All that’s left is the sound of both of you breathing when it’s over, and you hear him get up, throwing the rubber away. The bed dips at your side and you feel him on top of you again, head buried into your neck as he holds you. You can’t help the smile that forms on your lips, your fingers raking through his brown curls.
It's different from all the times you've touched yourself beneath your sheets in the dead of night. Instead of coming down from your high and laying your head against a cold pillow, your head is against him. You can feel every beating of his heart, every rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. You can feel the stubble on his chin and jaw tickling the crook of your neck. You're shaking, sweating and your whole body aches, yet you want nothing more than to lay here with him. And though you could have given yourself to some other person in college, you know it would not have been the same with anyone else other than the messy-haired brunette who lay atop you.
"Missed you so much," he whispers, "please stay?"
You stare at your house through his window, choosing not to think too hard about the view he has into your bedroom from this angle. Your family wouldn’t care.
"I'm here," you respond, pressing a kiss to his head.
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withacapitalp · 1 year
Text
“Okay, so now we add the water, right?”
“No! No water!” Steve practically shouted, grabbing the pot and holding it high above his head so Joyce couldn’t reach it, “Joyce, we’ve talked about this,”
She rolled her eyes, putting the measuring cup on the counter and sighing. Robin and the kids giggled from their spot in the living room, the parade turned down low so they could hear every bit of the clownery going on in the kitchen. Steve turned the evil eye on them and put one hand on his hip. 
“And, peanut gallery, if you want to have food, you’ll want to keep your snark at bay. Unless you want to be the ones in here helping me make an entire Thanksgiving meal for fourteen.”
“Always the mom,” Max sighed, patting her stomach, “I’ll have you know if we’re not eating by five o’clock sharp, Nugget here will be making Lucas drive us to McDonalds,” 
Steve waved her off and turned back to the stove, placing down the pot and stirring his perfectly prepared potatoes. It felt kind of weird to keep thinking of them as kids now that they were all graduating from college. But, to Steve, they would always be kids. No matter how tall, how old, how many nuggets of their own they had, those seven little kids would always be the stupid pre-teens that had given him his life. 
“Now, it’s important to remember to continue to whisk, or else they’ll get clumpy.” Steve instructed in a no nonsense tone. He had eaten enough of her radioactive cooking to know where she would start to lose sight of the final product. 
“Are you torturing my wife?” Hopper asked as he entered into the fray, grabbing another round of beers for him and the boys. Steve could just catch the sound of Jonathan and Wayne yelling at the TV in the bedroom upstairs, calling the referee out on some bullshit play. 
“This is the real question, Hop. Is your wife torturing my husband?” A voice came from behind him, soft and buttery. A voice Steve had desperately missed, even though this trip had only been a short few weeks.
Steve hummed, leaning back into Eddie’s arms and letting his eyes slip shut for a second. Eddie had only been in Chicago for three weeks to re-record something for his newest album, but to Steve it was always too long.  Warm pale arms littered with scars came up around him, fingers playing with the silver chain around his neck. No government would ever recognize it, they couldn’t really tell the world, but the ring on that chain was everything to Steve, just like the man who had given it to him. 
“She is,” Steve fake-whispered into Eddie’s ear, “She’s trying to poison us all with liquid potatoes,”
“Lucky for us, we have you,” Eddie whispered back, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek from behind, “God bless you, Mr. Potato Man.”
Steve snickered, turning around so he could fully face his partner. Eddie’s hair was shorter now than it was when they were young and stupid, and he was starting to get crows feet in the corner of his eyes.
He was more beautiful every time Steve saw him. 
“Quick! Eddie distract him while I put water in the potatoes!” Joyce cried. Eddie immediately went along with it, yanking Steve away from the stove and ignoring his protests as she began to experiment. Steve conceded defeat the second the paprika was pulled out of the cupboard. Some things would just never change. 
Eddie dragged him into the hallway, hiding them ever so slightly from the rest. 
“Glad to be home,” He murmured, hugging Steve close and resting their foreheads together. 
Home. The home Eddie had bought him all those years ago. The carpet in the living room was a soft cream now instead of gaudy orange, and there were boxes filled with mums in each window. The mold problem had been fully eradicated, but the screen door still swung open and shut in the wind. 
Steve didn’t mind it anymore.  It was just a part of the charm of their house. 
Their house. Even now it made his heart fill to the bursting to think of it. Their house.  
But now that Eddie was back, it was really home. 
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xiaosonlybeloved · 3 months
Text
7 Minutes in Heaven- Gojo Satoru
featuring:- Gojo Satoru x fem!reader, Shoko, Utahime, Geto, Nanami tags:- fluff, y/n and gojo being absolute lovesick idiots, dumb and cringy pickup lines, kisses a/n:- again, i apologise for the cringe but your wishes have been fulfilled. i swear, next time it REALLY will be angst. Also this was based of a req i got on my main haha
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wc:- 2k || masterlists
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Shoko and Utahime were dragged by you into a nearby room, the door shutting behind them forcefully. “Guys you can’t literally be serious.” You exclaimed. Shoko yawned as she said, “It’s literally just a game, [Y/N]. Relax, you’re getting all worked up for nothing.” You looked at her in sheer disbelief as you whisper-shouted “But he’s here too! What if we- god forbid- get paired?” Utahime chuckled at your nervousness as she put an arm around your shoulder and said, “Well, that’s a great opportunity for you, isn’t it? I mean, no offence [Y/N, you’re my best friend and I love you, but you are driving me crazy with all your rambling about Gojo. Like, I get it, you like him, please go and confess.” She sighed. You were about to retort with a denial before a series of soft knocks sounded on the door. “Are you guys there? We’re waiting, if you’re ready.” Geto’s ever-calm voice came from the other side of the door. Shoko immediately responded with a “Yup, just [Y/N] being silly.”
The room to be used for the game had been appropriately darkened and set up. Nanami was working on the chits they’d used to select the two people for 7 minutes in heaven when they re-entered the living room. You released your breath in relief. Nanami was the most trustworthy in the group, and there was definitely no chance of rigging the chits. You know that if it was anyone else, probably all the chits would be filled with your and Gojo’s name.
Yeah, you have no idea how it even came about in the first place, but you had developed a terrible crush on one of your best friends, Gojo Satoru. Every moment you spent with him casually just made it worsen, as you noticed more and more things about him- the small twinkle in his eyes when he was up to some mischief, the assured self-confidence in his grin, the way his demeanor softened a bit on seeing all of you, and so much more. Even worse for you, you believed that he would never reciprocate, leading you to rant about it to your best friends, lovesick. (To the point that they consulted Geto and Nanami about it without your knowledge, only to find that those two were facing the exact same problem. Safe to say, Nanami was even more pissed than usual by Gojo.)
You’re brought back to the present from your daydreams by Geto calling out, “Hey, could you and Gojo please get the timer and some snacks from the storeroom? It’s gonna be a while.” You swallowed a bit as you nodded, “Yeah sure.” ,walking towards the said location with Satoru close behind you. 
It took the both of you some time to find the timer, which had been buried in some box somewhere, and you couldn’t help but feel that it was on purpose. By the time you two came back, the others were ready with the chits and waiting impatiently for you. “Took you long enough.” Utahime grumbled as she grabbed the snacks from you without bothering to ask nicely, passing over some packets to the others. There was only one bowl with all your names, ‘to make it more interesting’. 
The chips and cakes and drinks were passed around as Nanami drew the first two chits- Him and Geto. He shrugged as if bored already, as he followed Geto into the designated room. From beside you, Gojo groaned that this was a waste of time because absolutely nothing would happen between those two, as he impatiently tapped his foot- another thing you’d noticed about him. To while away the seven minutes, you put on some of your favorite songs, the others beside you perking up as they recognised their all time favorite artist. (im listening to taylor rn lmao)  At the end of the time, you guys noiselessly padded over the carpets and barged into the room to find both of them- asleep. 
You merely deadpan at the sight while Satoru instantly ran over to Nanamin and grabbed his arm to pull him up, the said man spewing a string of curses at the sudden disturbance, Shoko doing the same with Geto. Then Nanami pulled the next two chits, and your heart sinked as he first called out your name then, “..Geto?” 
Everyone at the table simultaneously frowned as Geto leaned over to look at the chit. “...That’s literally Gojo in my cursive handwriting.” Frowning, you grab the chit from Nanamin to confirm, and indeed it was Gojo’s name written on it. Geto leaned back in his chair, unimpressed at his friends’ inability to read his writing, while you weren’t sure whether to be happy or upset that you’d be locked in a room with your long-time crush. 
“Well, let’s go now, the seven minutes are ticking away!” Satoru laughs as he pulls you gently into the designated room by the wrist. Utahime and Geto cheerfully call out “Good luck!” and you swear you can see everyone sigh with relief.
You take a deep breath and walk through the door Satoru is chivalrously holding open for you with a grin, and Satoru follows as the door is locked from outside. But just a moment later, he trips and falls. He quickly gets up though, as he looks at you and says, “Hey, do you have a bandaid? Cause I scraped my knee falling for you.” 
You blink at him, once, twice, till you start laughing. He pouts, upset. “That’s so rude of you [N/N]!” You respond with “You should tie your shoelaces- I don’t want you falling for anyone else.” Now its Satoru’s turn to be flabbergasted, and you’re sure both your friends would be highly disappointed with your cringy as hell pick-up lines, but hey, atleast you’re not nervous anymore. “You don’t need to worry, cause I was enchanted to meet you. Still am, by the way.”
Your smile turns sad as the reality of the situation sinks in. Satoru was probably just using these to while away the time, and the fact that you really were in love with him didn’t help. “Satoru, I think we should stop now, because it hurts to know that you don’t really mean any of this.” “But I do!” Satoru protested vehemently. You turned away from him to face the wall. “Stop joking, please. Fine, I’ll admit it. I really like you Toru, and I wanna be more than just friends with you but I know you don’t feel the same. Still, its not nice of you to play with my heart like that.”
A beat of silence, then another, and suddenly you’re scared that you’ve ruined everything that was between you- friendship or more. 
And then you feel Satoru hugging you from behind, as you freeze up. You think you might just malfunction, because the Gojo Satoru just kissed you on the cheek with a lopsided smile. “Now now, who gave you the impression that I didn’t like you back? If anything, I thought that my feelings weren’t returned.”
You spin around in his embrace, shocked. Mistake, you realise, because your faces are so close to each other now, that if either of you leant forward a bit, you’d be kissing. “Are you being serious right now?” You whisper. “For once, yes, I’m being dead serious. But since we both like each other, can we just skip the formalities and kiss? Because right now, you’re the one torturing me with this proximity.” Satoru replies back, fully serious, and it makes you laugh a little as you finally, finally, pull his pretty face towards yours to kiss him like you’ve been longing to all this time. 
Satoru immediately responds in kind, and you’re not quite sure how much time passes while you two are lost in each other, but eventually Satoru pulls away a bit, and you frown at the loss of contact. After a moment, you hesitantly say, “..Well? What do we do now?” At this, Satoru smirks as he fully pulls away. “Of course, we go back to acting like we did before. Let’s make our dearest friends think their genius ploy to get us together has miserably failed. I always love a good prank, and this’ll be one of the best.” 
Again, you can’t help but chuckle at this. “So you suspected something was up? Yeah, me too. What I’m wondering is how they convinced Nanamin to join in. I genuinely didn’t think Nanami would ever do something like this.” “Remember when we all went to see Geto and him? I bet that at that time, Shoko and Utahime switched up the bowl of chits. That's like the only way possible.” “Nanami must still have been in on it though.”
“The seven minutes are almost up, I think. Right, so I’m gonna go to this wall and you go there, and we’ll pretend we haven’t been talking much. I can bet you they’re eavesdropping on us even right now, but I know from experience that its very hard to actually make the words out. So basically, they won’t know shit.” Amused, you go along with his plan. Except that now its actually embarrassing to act the way you used to, all lovesick at the mere sight of him, and you think he feels the same way from the way he’s blushing slightly.
A minute or two passes, and you’d think it was incredibly awkward, but its actually funny by the way Satoru keeps grinning at you, or says even more dumb pick up lines occasionally. Suddenly, the door bursts open, as if your friends are hoping to catch you in the middle of some heinous act. Imagine their sheer disappointment to see the scene in front of them.
Utahime stomps over to you as you rush out of the room, the way you would have done a day ago. “Well?” she demands forcefully. “Did anything happen?” 
Its so very hard to keep a poker face at her furious expression on hearing the blunt “No.” from you. She mutters something before proceeding to strangle Geto, who was strangling Gojo. Your and Satoru’s eyes meet, and you almost crack up at the mischief sparkling in his eyes- another thing about him that made you fall in love.
Oh well. You’re sure your friends will find out soon, but for now its highly entertaining to watch them at their wit’s end. You smile at Satoru when no one’s looking, and he sends a wink your way.
Bonus:-
Lessons had ended, and Satoru, being the gentleman that he is, came to fetch you from the class. The others were nowhere to be seen, and taking advantage of the moment, Satoru decided to kiss you- no one is here after all. 
Unfortunately, you lose track of time as a screech resounds in the empty and silent class. You two jump away from each other, startled and guilty as charged, while your friends stand at the entrance of the classroom with a betrayed look on their faces. The two parties just stare at each other till Geto finally, slowly asks, “How long?”
You sheepishly respond with the truth, and the look of shock on is just priceless. You sigh internally- Your friends are something, and your now-boyfriend is an entirely different kind of something.
Satoru sticks out his tongue at them before kissing you again, on the cheek this time.
Cue Nanami strangling Gojo. (They all gag, but they’re very relieved.)
Reblogs, Votes and comments are very much appreciated <33
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adventuringblind · 8 months
Text
Drive With You Forever
Chapter Six: When they realized then needed a bigger bed
Max Verstappen x reader x Charles leclerc x lando norris
Chapter Summary: Lando is a bit insecure, sleeping arrangements are changed, reader gets an ominous letter, Charles is furious with Ferrari
Warnings: anxiety, insecurities, creepy people, ferrari being idiots
Notes: so, hear me out here y'all. Any thoughts on adding a fifth 👀
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Lando spent the rest of the break with them. Or, as much as he could.
He felt like he belonged every time he was near them. Even if they were just sitting. He felt loved and wanted.
They hadn't officially said what they are yet. Lando has no idea where any of this is going. But for now, he's enjoying it.
The start of the season came around quickly. All of them are back to traveling around the world in now time.
Something new is in the air, however.
Covid had been a possible threat to their sport. It had already canceled other events and prohibited people from leaving their houses.
They got to spend a few days in Australia before being sent home. Ordered to tay inside.
Lando was terrified. He hates being cooped up, and he hates being alone. Two of his worst nightmares come to get him. The idea makes him want to vomit.
It's her idea that he stays with them. He practically lives there already anyway. Max is especially excited to have his gaming buddy in the same house, and Charles is glad that Lando is open to the idea of all this.
All of you hated the idea of not being able to leave the house. The only thing keeping everyone sane is each other.
The boys have taken to streaming. The setup in every room made to look like it's an entirely different house.
There have almost been a few close calls. Her awareness of tlwhen they have a camera on not the greatest. It's specifically difficult when all three odbthen are playing and she has nowhere to go.
Max took the main bedroom. Lando has been living in the guest bedroom and set up there. Charles has a corner of the living room. It leaves very few safe spots for her.
Their sleeping arrangement hadn't changed. Lando is still holed up in the guest bed. Despite all three of them making it known he could sleep with them if he wanted.
She saw the anxiety flashing through his eyes every time they brought it up. They'd tried talking to him about it it multiple times now only for Landonto shut down right before their eyes.
"You could just kiss him." Suggests Max one night like as the three crawl into bed.
"And send him straight into a panic attack?" Charles counters. His hands under his pillow and spine facing the ceiling.
"Have we ever considered that maybe he doesn't want this?" She ponders. Her arms wrap around her legs and pull them into her. Both boys just shake their heads. They'd all picked up on how he was testing certain boundaries. Slowly getting comfortable with being more touchy. He asks questions about them whenever he sees them do something new. Longing glances cast between him and the other three when they do something romantic.
“I think he’s just shy.” Charles voice is muffled by his head in his pillow.
“Maybe we need a slow start.”
~
Lando can’t sleep that night. The tossing and turning he’d been doing forever, not helping him. There are too many thoughts. There are too many wants. Not enough sleep.
He'd been listening to someone tiptoeing around outside. The hushed whispers of deep male voices. Sometimes, the cats would pur outside the door.
He was already when he heard someone softly knocking on the door. "Yeah?"
The door opens, revealing the outline of a female figure. She pads over to the bed and crawls in next to him. "Can I stay? The boys are snoring. Only if you're okay with it, though."
'"Yeah, sure, it's no problem. I can't sleep either, actually."
She slides herself under the covers and curls up into his sides.
He'd been more touchy with then recently. He didn't know the limits and it seemed like touch is a secondary form of communication. But this felt different. Seeing her completely relaxed, head on his chest and his arm now wrapped around her. It's more intimate. She's letting herself be completely vulnerable with him. Something very few get the privilege of.
He did even realize he fell asleep until he's awoken by another set of knocks. They just come in without knocking.
"Can't believe you left us." Charles feigns and exaggerates a look of heartbreak.
"You sounded like your engine at the start of a race." She counters.
Max keels over from laughing so hard.
None of them mention the way Lando is holding her. Neither of them make it awkward.
"Can we join you? You look so cozy." Max smiles at them. His voice raspy from his previous sleep.
"Sure, if it's not weird or anything."q
"Why would it be weird?" The girl on his chest asks. He looks at her, and there is genuine confusion in her eyes.
"I'm not - you know - with you guys."
"Do you want to be?"
He's grateful the lights are low because he can feel the heat in his cheeks. Everything in him wants to say yes.
"The offer is there Lando, if you want it."
He goes to sleep with that thought in his head. The presence of other people comforting enough to send his head into the bliss of unconsciousness.
~
The way they wake up in the morning is absolutely ridiculous. The girl is still on top of Lando's chest. The two of them are tucked protectively into Max. His arm managing to grip both their waists. Then Charles is sprawled across their legs.
He's met with pretty eyes batting down at him. A smile creeping on his face at the sight. "Is this normally how you wake up?"
"Depends on the night." She answers with a chuckle. He lets himself relax into the soft feeling of the bed. The other two males waking up slowly to the sun drifting in through the window.
"Why me? I don't add anything to the group."
"You don't have to add anything. Yourself is enough because we love you." She smiles. "Seb says I spent so much time away from people that now I have too much love to give."
The German had told her it's okay to want to love more than one person. It just means she has a big heart and wants to share it.
"Is it bad that I like waking up like this? With everyone?"
Max tightens his grip. "We can do this all the time, if you want."
Lando gains the biggest grin on his face. "I think I would like that."
"We're going to need a bigger bed." Comes Charles voice, muffled since his face is in the bed.
His comment making everyone giggle
Then three became four
~
They did manage to get a bed big enough for them. Instead of a set place they had previously, the file in where ever seems most comfortable for the night.
It didn't take long to move Lando in. He didn't have much left at his apartment anyway.
They did have to rearrange some furniture and get another dresser. Their original storage far from enough now. They'd give new purpose to the guest room by basically turning it into a closet. They are proud of their handiwork on that.
Now, if someone wants to stay with them, they'll have to explain why there is a room full of dressers and drawers. Not that they're complaining, though.
Lando had fallen right in sync with how they've been operating. Even adding his own things to their routine.
The four of them were on the couch just talking about anything and everything. Lando with his new hobbies, Max and his iracing team, Charles and his music, her with her new inventions.
They'd wanted to know for a while now what been keeping her attention. She'd done small projects up til this point, and now she had been working on the same thing for weeks. They had yet to figure it out.
Then Max's phone was ringing. Then went Charles. Followed by Lando. The three darting to seperate room to answer without bothering eachother.
She considered calling Seb. Only to cure her boredom while waiting for them to return. She called him and Hanna almost daily. They'd laughed when she told them about Lando. Seb commented that she's collecting drivers at this point. The joke made her laugh so hard she alerted the entire house.
It doesn't take long for Max to come back, practically jumping with excitement. "We can race again!" He cheers. His celebration continued by lifting her into his arms and swinging her around.
Charles and Lando do the same thing, and by the time they finish, the floor is moving beneath her. She had yet to get a phone call. She works for Ferrari, so she figures it will come soon.
She is, however, very wrong.
She gets a call from Mattia hours later. The boys exited to celebrate the return of their livelihoods with her when she comes back with the good news.
All three are shocked to see her return downcast. Her phone call lasts longer than the other three combined. They can't hear anything aisde from small sniffles.
She doesn't want to tell them what was said. She dosen't want to ruin their night with her problems.
Mattia had called just to tell her not to come anywhere near the garage. Somone had been leaking Ferrari designs and data to Redbull. The most likely suspect is her because she's dating Max, but that's their only evidence.
It feels wrong. She feels let down in a way. Did they really think she would do that?
She's drying her tears before they can see them, but they know. They'd seen her upset enough times to know when she's hurting.
Charles is the first to embrace her. The hug causes her to fall into him. She choked on her sobs as she hid her face in his chest. His fingers fall into the same soothing pattern that always calms her down.
"They think I told Max Ferrari secrets." She sobs.
The other three exchange looks of anger and confusion. Obviously, someone had done it if they had a reason to think this, but to blame it on her makes no sense. She'd been with them longer than Charles. She practically lived in the garage helping the mechanics.
"I promise I didn't, Charles. I could never hurt you and Seb like that."
"I know you didn't, mon chéri. You're too busy trying to help Max not crash his car. Our secrets won't fix that.
Lando bites his lip to hold a laugh in, and Max dramatically clutches at his chest. "I'm offended by this Charles. Next time, I'm crashing into you."
~
Their first day back, she immediately ran off to find seb. Only to hault in her tracks when she sees him in the Ferrari garage. She looks at Charles, who followed close behind since they needed to go to the same place anyway. "Can you tell Seb I'm out here and want to see him, please?"
The Monegasque nods understandingly and stalks off. Still angry that they've kicked her out of any Ferrari places in the Paddock.
Seb nods his head at Something Charles said, then comes in her direction. Despite the protocol, the German hugs her anyway. "I'm trying to sort things out, I promise."
"I'm alright, really, I'm just disappointed that they think so low of me after all these years." She sighs.
The engineers are looking at her with sad and longing glances. She was immensely helpful to their strategy and safety. Very few of them really believe what they've been told.
She spends her newfound freedom to see those she hadn't in months. Daniel's smile is still as big as the last time she saw it in person. Alex and Lily haven't changed a bit. George seems to have gotten taller over the break. Then Carlos, his jokes just as bad as when they last saw each other.
Pierre and Kika end up finding her. Pierre spent a good chunk of time with Charles, and though he hasn't said anything, she gets the feeling the Frenchman knows there's something going on.
She doesn't know where to go. Everyone knows her as the Ferrari girl. It hurts seeing everyone in red and wishes she could be there with Seb.
Redbull is out of the picture for now. If Seb is trying to fix things, that would make it worse. McLaren seems like a good option, but even then, she doesn't know if she'll be wanted.
She finds a corner of the paddock that's secluded and tucks herself away. Her mind is doing its best to try and escape the reality that she is no longer with Ferrari.
~
It seems nobody is going to disturb her. That she may get to sit here in peace. Until someone she doesn't recognize is standing in front of her.
He looks like a fan. "Excuse me, sir, do you need help?" She asks. Her voice made to be friendly since he's probably not trying to disturb her and she dosent want him to feel bad.
"Actually, I was looking for you." He fishes around in his pockets and pulls out a note. The envelope folded and creased and he hands it to her.
"He said he's nit finished with you." Is his only statement before turning on his heels and leaving her alone again.
~
She texted the boys that she was going to the hotel. The encounter left her with a sick feeling. She just made up some excuse about not feeling comfortable around the Ferrari garage. It's only Thursday. They won't miss her with their media duties to keep them busy.
Her fingers hold the crinkled envelope. No address or name on it.
Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she's ripping it open to soothe it. The letter itself is just a handwritten piece of white lined paper. Nothing special.
The contexts inside the note make her sick. She knows this handwriting. It's her father's.
Sentences about how he's going to come back for her when they let him off parole. How he's been spending his free time learning everything the government would teach him. He was a benefit to them and he is benefiting from them.
There are instructions about how to keep herself in top condition for when he is finally able to continue his work. To make her whole. To let her atone for her sins.
The room feels as if it's closing in on her. She can't breathe. All sense of reason lost to the idea she could be going back there.
But she's an adult now, right? He can't tell her what to do.
She tucks the note into her coat pocket. Praying the boys don't go rifling through her things. She's not going to tell them. Worry about what it could do to them eating her up inside.
They have jobs to do. She's just here now. Alone and lost. Just like all those years ago.
~
Traveling with the four of them makes trips fun. Somone is always getting up to something.
The constant banter filled with love and tender moments makes everything worth it.
She feels guilty for hiding what happened. The note still hidden in the same pocket.
She's analyzed every bit of it. Her free time still massive since Ferrari determined they are not taking her back. Charles and Seb have been struggling more since her departure. The mechanics are trying to make up for her speedy repairs, and the engineers spend more time looking and analyzing data.
The boys can see she's hurting. Charles sees it every time he's heading to the paddock. Lando notices when she looks at her old Ferrari shirts. Max can seem to pull her head away from trying to figure out who did leak the information. Terrified it could hurt Seb and Charles more if the same person is able to do it again.
Max had even made a statement about it along with Charles. Neither of them being heard.
She's basically glued to Lando now. The McLaren garage her new safe place since corners are now seemingly dangerous. They welcome her in with open arms. Lando enjoys sending pictures of her to their group chat, much to her displeasure.
Seb is the one who catches wind of redbull not having a second driver yet. Silly season in full swing with the German moving to Aston Martin, Carlos moving to Ferrari, and Daniel coming to McLaren.
He's over bugging Christian within minutes. Max being dragged with him.
"Just give her a chance. You trusted me once and I wouldn't lie to you. It could actually hurt my career more if you let her drive." Pleads the German.
Christian turns to Max. "Have you seen her drive?"
"Yes, and I can confirm that she fast."
"I'll Gove her one test drive to prove it."
Seb and Max are smiling in excitement. Max is rapidly texting the group. All of them cheering in the message stream.
A week later, she's able to test drive an older car. They geared her up. Her nerves settle in as she slips her helmet on and slips into the car.
All the boys are there to cheer her on. There are a few skeptical looks from people here and there, but they don't say anything.
She fires up the engine and waits for the go-ahead. Her mind fires up as well. Her fingers are getting every piece of information from the car she needs to get the best out of it.
Then engineers release her, and she drives out of the pits. Starting a slow lap to learn the car and track.
She lets small images in of what could happen. A possible spin on her third lap that can be avoided by staying on the inside of the turn. She's flying by lap three and is able to correct the mistake she saw herself make.
Her lap times are gradually getting faster as an engineer gives her data and things they want her to try.
It's not perfect, but she's fast, and she listens. She takes the corrections she's given and gives some feedback of her own. Even asking questions here and there.
She's signing the papers that afternoon. Seb having looked over the contract with her since she doesn't have a manager herself.
She calls Hanna first. The older woman practically screams into the phone, and the kids are chanting her name.
The boys are all over her that night. The four of them celebrate her monumental achievement. The smile doesn't leave her face all night.
~
The off-season is back, and she is busier than she's ever been. Max had to force her to set up every social media account under the sun. The PR team are attempting to get her out there so she dosent go into the season a stranger.
It's weird posting updates about her life for strangers. Though she will admit it is fun to see what her friends and partners post.
It's a controversial subject. She is hardly known and did a little racing prior but nowhere near the amount she should have to be in Formula 1, and she's female.
Some fans have taken a liking to her, and others are ripping her to pieces. She's incredibly glad the boys are there to help her navigate the shark infested waters of the internet.
Speaking of the boys, they've been trying to let her come to them. The guilt that's been eating away at her is showing in everything now.
Her smile drops when she thinks nobody is looking. She's struggling with simple daily tasks. She been more reserved than normal, and frankly, it's scaring them.
Lando decoded he wanted to try his hand at a new recipe, and Charles decided he wanted to be a menace in the kitchen. Max and their female quarter are lounging at the table.
Max is trained to notice small things. He has to as part of his job. So when her eyes flicker to the pocket of her blue zip-up, he knows something isn't as it seems.
"Is your jacket more interesting than me now?" He pokes. Trying to make light of her gloom and ease her into opening up.
Her eyes winden the smallest bit as she shakes her head no too fast for his liking. "Just distracted, sorry."
He can't take it. His instincts are clawing at the back of his mind that something is wrong and her jacket it the answer.
He throws himself over the couch, grabs her jacket, and then plops himself right back down next to her. Lando's frustrated wails echoing in the kitchen as he does so.
"I know something is bothering you and it's something to do with this jacket. Now, either I'm going to find out via investigation, or you can tell me." He quirks his eyebrows at her in a questioning look.
She's shaking now. Her face losing the slightest bit of color. Her hands find her head as the word no falls from her lips repeatedly.
Max places a hand on her knee. "Whatever this is, we'll get through it together, all of us. We want to help you, okay? But we can't do that if you shut us out." He keeps his voice steady and soft. The words he said resonate with her.
She reaches her hand into the pocket and pulls out a letter. Her fingers tremble as she hands it to him to read.
Max takes it cautiously. He can see the panic increasing in her body language. The note crinkled as he unfolds it. His eyes scan furiously over the words.
It makes sense why she's been distant, he thinks. The letter obviously causing her to pull away in case something happened to her.
Max tugs her into his side. "We're not going to let anything happen to you. Honestly, I think Seb may actually start a war if something does."
A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. "I'm sorry for not telling you. It was just scary how it all happened."
"I understand why you are so scared. Just remember you have three very protective boyfriends who won't let him anywhere near you."
"Seb says he wouldn't be shocked if we get a fifth at this rate."
"Honestly, I don't think any of us would."
The moment is interrupted by shreiks from the kitchen. "Charles! You ruined it!"
~
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look-at-the-soul · 7 months
Text
Behind the scenes- Peaky Blinders (Part 1)
Cillian Murphy x reader
BTS master list
Request
A/N: I wrote this to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the series… right on time before this day ends! I had to cut it into two parts because it got a bit longer… there are no words enough to thank each of you (the peaky fam) for what writing and reading has given me. This little project is really really special and I want to thank @notyour-valentine for tagging me in this request a while ago, thank you for your generosity Val, there’s a little gift between the lines for you. And for the help you provided for another part related to horses♥️
But also @heidimoreton for creating this gorgeous moodboard to go with this story! And my dear @holacia3 for the help you gave me too about horses and @forbidden-forest-witch this is for your belated birthday and the little surprise♥️
Word count: 4,745
✨ Summary: Join us at the stables as Cillian gets riding lessons for his iconic role as Tommy Shelby in the series Peaky Blinders. He came to learn all about horses, but he ended up falling in love not only with them.
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During his career, he had played several roles, learned how to walk on heels for Breakfast on Pluto, about space for Sunshine, even played a part in a film that was close to home in “The wind that shakes the Barley” about the historic war between Northern Ireland and Great Britain.
Acting was such a treat to calm -in a way- his hyperactive mind.
He preferred to not answer what he wasn’t willing to do for a role, because he’d probably do anything.
That included riding horses. Which, in reality he wasn’t a bit familiar with.
He had never even been close to one in his life. His driving skills were so poor, how would he fucking manage an animal that big?
Yet, here he was waiting in the living room of the horses sanctuary located in a remote place of England he had never heard before.
The sighting was breathtaking, the air so pure, no city noise, it was quiet, calm, everything he was looking for before the storm started, he had never been on a series before and the mental challenges of this character was the biggest of his entire career, he had never met a man as complex and with so many layers as this Tommy Shelby he had spent weeks reading, the internal turmoil this man has been through after the war wasn’t his only problem, his background included a household with lots of family problems, taking care of his younger siblings while stepping up to build an ilegal business and endless enemies that he would encounter along the way.
Cillian was greeted by the teenager behind the desk and asked him to wait because the trainer hadn’t show up that morning and she rushed to call someone else on a radio.
“Someone will be here shortly, can I offer you something to drink in the mean time sir?”
Cillian chuckled at the sir part.
“Water would be great.”
Turning around, he was able to see through the window, finding a woman galloping at speed and coming down from the horse without really stopping with just a jump.
Seconds later, the same woman entered the reception out of breath and walked straight to the girl.
“Your horse trainer called in sick again.” Cillian heard the teenager say.
“Thanks Willow, can you help me reschedule the appointment with the bank?”
“Sure, Y/N. Will you also reschedule his sessions?” The teenager pointed at him.
Until now, Cillian had only being able to watch her from behind; petite but lean frame, she had black tight pants, riding boots and a cream jumper on, her hair up in a high pony tail cascading on her upper back.
But when she turned around, Cillian was lost for words as the most angelic face met him.
And he wasn’t one bit religious.
“Mr. Murphy nice to meet you, I’m Y/N.” She offered her hand firmly along with a smile. “Our trainer isn’t available today, please accept my apologies could we reschedule?”
He stammered, not knowing what to say.
“Y/N, you could show him how to ride too.” The teenager proposed.
“I thought you’d be on your way to school young lady.” Y/N raised her eyebrows at the girl. God she was just like her aunt.
“Whatever, I was just saying.” Getting her bag, she stormed from behind the counter. “Should I tell aunt Val dinner is cancelled?”
Oh no.
She knew that look, it was the same her aunt would give her.
“Honey don’t tell your aunt anything.”
“Bye auntie! Bye Mr. Murphy!”
“Sorry, so? I think one of our trainers comes back from a horse fair on Saturday if that day works for you.”
Leaning on the counter, Cillian decided to take a risk. There was something about her.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry, would it give you a lot of trouble if you show me?”
“Not at all! I just thought you wanted a professional trainer that’s all.”
He smiled and for an instant, Y/N’s heart skipped a beat.
“Right, well… follow me this way.” She lead the way outside of the property. “Is this some kind of bucket list thing?” Mondays were usually quiet days at the sanctuary, nothing like the weekends when they were usually packed.
Cillian walked next to her, hands inside his pockets. Unsure about how much to reveal.
“I need to learn how to ride.” He chuckled a little, the script was phenomenal and he was extremely excited about it, but until now he wasn’t able to talk about the project.
Y/N guided him towards the stables, he had seen a few in movies or the telly, but being there in person, it was another story, it was huge and his heart got too excited as his eyes found the horses.
“Do you’ve a particular preference for a horse?” Y/N asked curious about the hermetic man before her.
“Racehorses.”
Y/N turned around slowly to look at him. There was a subtle accent different from his voice, but she brushed it away.
Cillian tried to clear his throat, aware of the voice tone he just used, he was still practicing the accent and mannerisms he had been building over this new character.
“Okay… I can’t let you ride a racehorse if you’ve never been on a horse.”
“Why not?”
“Look, horses are just like people, they’ve their own temper, feelings, the know when we’re scared or aggressive, we don’t mess around them… I’d suggest you start with a gentle horse first.”
“You seem to know a lot about them.” Cillian observed the way she was caressing one as they walked.
“I grew up in this place, my grandparents started this sanctuary, my mother was the only child and she kept the family business, then it was my time to take over.”
“How long have you been running this place?”
“Since I was eighteen.” Y/N admitted. “This is Sally, she’s a good girl.”
Cillian observed Y/N’s moves, the way she approached the horses. And she showed him the right way to caress the animal.
“Can I touch her?”
Bringing the hose to her by the muzzle, she giggled. “She says you can.”
“What else does she says?” It felt soft and he noticed the way Sally was moving her ears.
“That she doesn’t believe you, horses are one of the most intelligent creatures.”
Cillian chuckled, accepting the snack Y/N brought over. He was fascinated by the level of trust she showed with each animal, the way each of them reacted, it was so true, as he was noticing little differences in each horse as their own personalities, it was amazing and as Y/N shared more details about the place with him, he found it was impossible to keep lying to her, she had such an energy that was so inviting, giving him a lot of comfort.
Y/N introduced him to all of the horses, caressing each of them, mentioning little details about their personalities or a couple of qualities. She seemed to know them all well and Cillian was marveled by the way each horse behaved with her. Y/N spent a good amount of time explaining him some of the basics.
“I think I learned how to ride a horse before I started walking, all my childhood I was eager to get out of school to come home and run straight to the stables. They’ve been with me through my worst moments, they own such a healing power humans do not understand about, they’re pure creatures… sorry, I’m boring you.” She mumbled feeling her cheeks burn.
“Not at all, I find it fascinating… the way you talk to them and about them, it’s magical.”
“Y/N! The foal is coming early!”
Y/N’s face went blank they still had a few week left. Turning to Cillian she apologized, but she needed to be there, so she asked Jonah the guy how took care of the saddles to show Cillian around while she was gone, but it could be hours.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, I’m staying at the small bed and breakfast that’s close.”
And he saw her run out of the stables, Jonah explained to him they built a small facility to those special occasions. The boy around his early twenties showed him the racks full of saddles and other equipment they used, he was surprised by all of the things they had around to use with the horses.
It was until around nine o clock when Y/N came down from the stairs, after taking a long bath, she had been so tired helping in the delivery that she just wanted a cup of tea and head off to sleep.
“Jesus, what are you doing here?” She gasped closing the robe tight against her body, she wasn’t expecting to find Cillian sitting by the window.
“Well I asked if I could use the books you’ve here and they said it was alright.” He smiled gently pointing at the pile of books he placed on the table next to him, an empty cup in the corner.
“You’ve been here reading since I left the stables?”
He chuckled a little, not aware of the track of time, he had been reading. “Yes, they’re fascinating.” He debated himself whether revealing her the truth or not.
Y/N threw him a puzzled look.
“You live here? Upstairs I mean.”
She nodded. “Yes, the house was so big so I turned the first floor into the main offices, the kitchen is in the back if you need anything.”
“Thanks, I’ve been looking around at the portraits, hope you don’t mind.”
Just as Y/N was about to answer him, a loud thunder echoed through the property. it was so loud it felt like the house would come crashing down. The sound of droplets of rain against the windows followed right after.
“I’d love to stay and talk about the books with you but I really need to go.” Y/N explained just as she rushed upstairs to get changed when she came back down a few minutes later, he noticed her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, cascading down her back.
“Wait.” Cillian stopped her placing his hand on her arm, “can I come with you?”
She was unsure because of his lack of knowledge, but Cillian seemed to read her mind. “I promise to stay back.”
“Okay.” She nodded and offered a rain jacket from the small closet next to the door.
“Is everything alright?” Cillian asked her with curiosity after getting in her vehicle to protect themselves from the heavy rain.
“It’s one of my horses… he gets pretty scary of this terrible weather.” She explained absently, holding the steering wheel with such force that made her knuckles turn white.
“Tell me about him.”
“Thunder is… special, he was born on a night like this and I know doing this sounds ridiculous, but how can I stand there and do nothing?”
She looked at him for an instant, all of her feelings right there in the surface for him to see and read. Cillian nodded, fighting against the lump on his throat that formed after detecting the passion in her voice.
In silence, Cillian followed Y/N inside the barn rushing immediately towards Thunder.
“There it is my good boy.” She started caressing the horse by the muzzle, gently. The horse was extremely agitated. “Everything’s fine… just a loud noise, you know that.”
Cillian found himself staring at her, unable to look anywhere else, he was under some kind of spell.
“Shh, shh.” She held the horse by the curb rein, -he now knew some of the horsemanship-. “Listen to me, Thunder.”
Marveled by her tactics and control over the horse, he couldn’t help it but start whispering a Romany poem he recently learned as part of the script for the series he was working in. Locking eyes with the beautiful animal, he felt like time stood still, it was as if the horse was going through every layer of his mind and soul and the rest of his surroundings faded away. Eventually, the horse started to give in, coming to a calm state.
“What did you do?” Y/N asked squinting her eyes. “It takes me ages to calm him down.”
Cillian shook his head, realizing the deep connection with the horse was gone but it was impossible to explain that it wasn’t him… it was his character’s nature. It was in his blood.
“It’s a poem.” He admitted quietly noticing the storm was coming down.
“In a foreign langua-?
“Thunder!” A boy stormed through the barn directly in the horse’s corral.
“Arlo what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“I thought Thunder might get scared.” He argued, poking his head in to make sure the horse was safe.
“You’re not allowed to come here by yourself in the middle of the night.” She argued.
“But Muuuum!”
Cillian’s heart skipped a beat.
“No buts, Thunder is perfectly fine.” She transformed into a completely different person. “We’re going back to the house right now.”
“Who are you?” Arlo gave him a look, a serious one.
“I’m showing him to ride a horse, focus… on the truck now.” She then turned to look at Cillian. “The only road that could take you to the b&b is probably stuck, it would be better if you stay at the house tonight.”
He wanted to argue, but judging by the intensity of the storm, she was right.
“Sure, thanks.”
She touched the horse’s nose a few times before closing the gate. Cillian followed them in silence, still moved about what just happened with that horse.
“How long are you staying?” Arlo asked Cillian from the back seat.
“A week.”
“What’s your favorite horse?” The kid asked.
“Arlo, it’s late and Mr. Murphy is probably tired.”
He shook his head. “Just Cillian please and it’s fine.”
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she saw Cillian giving her a wink and tilting his head.
Parking the truck, Arlo flew inside the house, leaving a wet patch on the floor of his footsteps.
“Boots and bed.” Y/N instructed with a firm voice. “You can stop by tomorrow morning to meet the new Filly.” Cillian saw her kissing the top of the kid’s head and the hint of a smile spread on her lips. “Sorry about that.”
“He looks like you. Must be awesome to have them help you around.”
Y/N made a face. “Them?”
“Arlo and his father?” Cillian asked in confusion.
And now she was moving her head from left to right. “There’s no father around, he left us after learning I was pregnant.” Y/N looked towards the stairs where her son disappeared a few minutes ago, shuddering. “Can I offer you some tea? It’s cold.”
“‘M sorry… shouldn’t have assumed.”
Brushing off the topic, she started the kettle and Cillian went back to feel extremely comfortable around her. And considering the personal revelation she just shared with him, he needed to be honest in return.
“I’m working in a project that involves horses, but like such a real passion for horses.” He ended up confessing after meeting all of them.
“That sounds interesting.” She admitted but decided to not ask further.
“Yeah,” Cillian ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I need you to show me everything about them… please. I’m portraying a character that involves a man that used to be in love with them, horses are a huge part of this man’s soul, it’s for a BBC series.”
Y/N turned with two cups in her hands, her mind trying to register his words.
“I-I’m an actor.” Cillian revealed after an instant. “But I need you to keep this between us because I signed a confidentiality contract and I could get kicked out of it.”
“Goodness I’m sorry, thought I had seen you before but I couldn’t remember where,” an adorable blush turned her cheeks pink, “I hope you understand I don’t go to the movies a lot, my whole life is this sanctuary and my son…”
“Please don’t even say it.” He chuckled. “I actually prefer it that way.”
“I think the last movie I saw you in…” Y/N stared into the ceiling thinking about it, “was it Inception? Probably.”
Cillian smiled and he lighted the entire kitchen with it.
“Yeah.”
Pouring both cups, Cillian stood up to take them from her hands.
“So uhhm… this project? Why exactly do you need a racehorse?” She asked cautiously.
“My character is a bookmaker, he arranges races… it’s placed in 1919 so he moved around horses after World War I. It’s quite interesting.” Cillian raised his eyebrows in appreciation for the tea after taking a sip. “Fascinating actually.”
“Definitely sounds intriguing.” Y/N admitted leaning her elbow on the table.
“As soon as I started reading the script I was attracted into his world.” He smiled, revering when he got the call for the audition. “Sorry I don’t want to keep you up.”
“It’s fine, I’ll stay for a little longer checking some paperwork.” Her thumb rubbed a chip in her mug. “So would it be okay if I show you everything? From brushing the horse, how to hook the saddle? The way you should approach one?”
Leaning back, Cillian looked at her with his head tilted to the side. “I actually need to learn how to ride bareback.”
****
The following morning, Y/N was preparing the lunchbox for Arlo when a deep voice startled her.
“Good morning.” Cillian saw the little jump she did.
“Hello, did you sleep well?”
Nodding, he smiled in her direction. “Thank you for the accommodation, much better than the B&B.”
“So! I just came here to check the new-” Val announced from the front door just as Arlo stormed into the kitchen but she cut herself when she spotted a man in the corner, “horse, but I see you’re busy.” She replied looking at you. “Just wanted to say it’s highly approved by the comitee. Hello, I’m Val.” She greeted Cillian.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Val…” Y/N added as a warning, knowing how Val was.
“What? It fills all the requirements… great breed, elegance, experience.” She made an OK with her hand.
“Val.” Y/N repeated. “Arlo go or you will be late for school.” She kissed the kid goodbye and felt Val’s eyes on her.
Of course her best friend wasn’t talking about a goddamn horse!
“How about I see you later today? I’m about to get a bit busy.” Y/N asked, she needed to get her friend out of her house before she could keep talking about Cillian as if he was a horse. “We’ve a riding lesson about to start.”
“Have a great time at the barn!” Val gave her a look before leaving them.
After a quick breakfast, Y/N gave him a pair of high boots and introduced Cillian to the different tools they used with the horses.
“To check the heel, you have to take your horse from here.” Y/N showed him how to carefully bend the horse’s leg. “It’s important to let them know that you know what you’re doing. They’re very sensitive.”
Cillian watched intensely every single move she made, how her tone was soft while she had a firm grip on the horse. He couldn’t get to move his eyes from her as she used one of the many tools to brush the mare’s neck.
“They also love to get petted.” Y/N added as she noticed Cillian got quiet. “Would you like to give it a try?”
Finally snapping from his trance, he took the brush and tentatively started to brush the mare.
“She likes that.” Y/N encouraged him noticing the little noises Goldie was making.
“She’s beautiful.” Cillian complimented.
“One of the most gentle ones I’ve seen so far.” Y/N caressed the mare from the other side, giving Cillian space to get comfortable around Goldie. “Her owner, Cia is a great friend and client.”
“And I assume the name is because of the color?” Cillian asked with interest, toiling the soft texture of Goldie.
Y/N nodded profusely.
“She’s recovering from an injury so well, now just needs some rest and she’ll be able to go back on the road in no time.” Cillian noticed the way she whispered to Goldie, looking straight into her eyes.
And she showed him how to get Goldie saddled, adding important tips and tricks to do it right, how to do it properly. It took him a few tries to do it right, but Y/N was so patient, she even admitted that was a virtue she had to thank the horses for.
“Y/N I’m sorry for not coming yesterday.” A woman approached them. “They said I could find you here.”
“Brie don’t worry, is everything alright?” Y/N asked while she eyed Cillian from the corner of her eyes.
That’s when Bries’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! Oh! Y/N… I’ve something to tell you.”
Cillian didn’t even look at them, he was totally engrossed on Goldie, all of his senses on brushing the mare, carefully to not stand behind her just like Y/N instructed. She had been answering all of his endless questions.
“Brie what’s happening?” Y/N looked at her horse trainer with curiosity.
“I just found out I’m pregnant!” She explained with excitement, unable to contain it or hide it any longer.
Y/N pulled her for a tight hug. “Brie, congratulations! This is the best news.”
There were tears in her eyes. “That’s why I couldn’t make it yesterday, I got morning sick and stayed in bed all day. But everything is perfect!”
Y/N couldn’t be happier, by the corner of his eyes, Cillian noticed the genuine smile on her face.
“Okay, so how about you go into the office and help me with the paperwork? I will be in charge for the training from now.” Y/N wrapped her arm around Brie and gave her a tender squeeze. “Made some sandwiches, help yourself.”
“That’s delicious! I brought some chips because, well cravings!” She chuckled giving Cillian a quick glance, it had been ages ago when Y/N went to the barn to give riding lessons.
Turning again towards Cillian, Y/N noticed how good he was, and he learned fast. “You’re a natural.”
Cillian smiled pleased with his improvement, he couldn’t wait to get on the horse.
“Got the best trainer to teach me.”
As time was flying, she noticed it was almost time for Arlo to come back home. “Look, how about we take a break? I need to make lunch for my son but you can join us if you want.”
“I don’t want to disturb your dynamic, Y/N.”
Y/N shook her head. “Non of that.” After caressing the horse’s ears, she added; “come have lunch with us.”
Leaving the boots right next to Y/N’s, Cillian changed into his shoes as they walked into the kitchen, finding Brie with her back at them.
“I hope you don’t mind, I made some pasta.” She smiled at them. “Enough for all of us.”
“Brie you’re going to spoil me just like that baby with some delicious food all the time? I mightjustb open the guest bedrooms and rent them.” Y/N joked leaning over the pot, the smell made her stomach growl.
“Well given the financial circumstances that isn’t a bad idea.” Brie admitted.
“Congratulations.” Added Cillian from the corner of the kitchen.
“Thank you!”
“Mum! I’ve already chose a name for the filly!” Arlo’s voice resonated from the entrance.
“Hello, good evening to you too, can you show some modals please?”
“Hello!” Arlo went to wash his hands and started helping his Mum set the table, Cillian offered to assist the kid. “Do you like riding?”
Looking at him, Cillian nodded. “I’m hoping I won’t be an embarrassment.”
“It’s easy!”
Cillian chuckled at him. “You say that because you were born riding.”
“Are you friends with my Mum? Does it means you’re my friend too?”Arlo gave him a hopeful look. Cillian answered him with a nod. “She needs some.”
Catching the last part of the conversation only Y/N approached them with the food, Brie following her steps.
“I need you to not bother our guests.” She answered and disheveled his hair playfully.
“Y/N I was thinking on what you said.” Cillian looked at her cautiously. “If you want of course… I could pay you and stay here instead of the B&B.”
“Are you sure?” Y/N asked considering his offer.
He nodded. “I rather stay here and use the driving time from there to here and back in learning more.” Deep down he loved the familiar energy.
“Mum, say yes! I can show Cillian my cars collection!” Arlo suggested excited.
“Well, yes. How can I say no?” She accepted earning a round of happy chants from everyone.
By the end of the day Cillian learned how to get the horse saddled, it was so important to hold it firmly in place. But also he learned to listen to the horse, he needed to make sure the horse was comfortable. Y/N suggested they could go for a walk and take the horses, it was extremely important for Cillian to learn to control the horse while being on the ground first to then be able to ride one.
The following day, they spent a good amount of time working on showing Cillian how to get on the horse, it took several attempts. It was harder than Y/N made it look. But Cillian was determined to give all of him. And more than once, he found himself staring at her until she motioned him to get closer to have a better look and he’d snap out from his trance.
In just a few days he realized Y/N had a very kind heart judging by the way she treated the horses, she showed them respect and loved them with every fiber in her body. The work she did was admirable, being right there away from everything and everyone allowed him to really understand a fundamental part of his character.
By the third day in the facility, Cia paid Goldie a visit, she wanted to take her mare back home but Y/N suggested waiting a few more days until she was fully recovered. While Y/N walked Cia to her vehicle, Cillian decided to stop by Thunder’s corral.
“Hello! Is Y/N around?” Val approached him. “Arlo said she was here.”
“She went to walk Cia out after checking her mare.”
Val doubted whether to ask him directly or not, but she knew her friend better than anyone. “I hope you don’t find me or what I’m about to say rude… but I’ve seen the way you look at her, Brie says Y/N is smiling again, something she hasn’t done much apart from Arlo of course. Do you like her?”
Cillian took a step back, surprised by Val’s sharp eye. But he ended up nodding.
“Don’t look at me like I grew another head, I care about her but I also know she has been disappointed and hurt before,” Cillian looked down, not knowing what to do or say, “she likes you, secretly.”
Val’s words made him snap his head up to look at her.
“She does, I can see it in her eyes… so all I ask is give her time, slowly just like you would start riding a horse, you don’t go galloping after getting on them. She’s like a wild horse after getting kicked so many times, she acts on defensive mode but underneath she’s a softy.”
And just as she arrived, she left, leaving Cillian alone to face an avalanche to a door he closed because when he signed the contract for the Peaky Blinders series, he decided to end the relationship he was in and making the firm decision that he’d focus on this project only.
But sometimes, life has a different plan than yours.
“I came here willing to learn how to ride, but I think I’m getting so much more than that.” Cillian confessed to the thorough, extending his hand to caress the horse’s muzzle.
***
Part 2
A/N: Nothing, just THANK YOU! ✨♥️🚬🥃
Tag list: @lyarr24 @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @datewithgianni @cloudofdisney @gretelshelby @gypsy-girl-08 @lespendy @onlydeadcells @fastfan @stevie75 @prettylittlehoneyeyesxoxo @esposadomd @forbidden-forest-witch @ange-thoughts @moral-terpitude @elenavampire21 @forgottenpeakywriter @thenattitude @winchestergirl22 @zablife @elk96 @heidimoreton @imichelle-l-rigby @allie131313 @already-broken144 @peakyscillian @babaohhhriley @shelbydelrey @shaddixlife @sloanexx @sydneyyyya @adaydreamaway08 @pono-pura-vida @thomashelbyswife @darleneslane @everythingelseisextra @kmc1989 @rangerelik @lovemissyhoneybee @ironpen @kittycatcait219 @shelundeadxxxx @speckledemerald @creativepawsworld
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colsonlin · 2 years
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“Cape Cod”: a good old-fashioned short story (a 45-minute read)
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“Cape Cod” is an analysis of our society’s tendency to produce narcissism, sociopathy, and casual dehumanization. It felt so good to get all of this off my chest! —Nina
A lot of how we talk about middle school in America is something I take issue with—like, for instance, that it’s somehow not the most formative experience of our lives. (It is.) A lot of people say “college,” but I had already cycled into an idea of who I was going to be as an adult by then—an A student, a talker, a birdwatcher, a take-no-prisoners observer of human social life. I studied sociology at the University of Maryland. At my retail job now—I work at a Nordstrom in Connecticut—I interact with a dying breed: old rich white women who still buy their cashmeres at the mall. At my old retail job in Farmington I was a cashier. At Nordstrom I’m more of a saleswoman—I don’t hand my customers their purchases after I’m done folding their clothes into the bag, I walk around the counter to deliver their parcels to them personally. I work six nights a week until the mall closes at 11 and on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays I drive to my second job at a call center in Southington. I earn enough money to pay for my Hyundai and an apartment above the laundromat, have coffee on the weekends, keep up with my student loans, and map out what the next step will be.
College feels like a million years ago.
Middle school still feels like yesterday.
“Brenda” (not her real name), my supervisor at my old department store in Farmington, was the portrait of managerial incompetence. She was fat and unmarried and all of the associates who weren’t actively helping a customer used to crowd into the stock room whenever she came out of her office, usually to berate one of us for misplacing a store key. We all know a Brenda from middle school. Everything you say is wrong, and everything she says can’t be improved upon. Three of us quit within the first ten months of Brenda’s arrival, and at least one of us later wrote an anonymous email to the district manager about her obvious drinking problem.
My old department store—I don’t want to get into any trouble here so let’s just call them “Not-Quite Sephora”—was in a strip mall. I never knew who to feel more sorry for during the day, myself or the customers who came in. I once explained to my boyfriend that we were kind of like Wal-Mart’s “more youthful older sister”—a high school varsity cheerleader perhaps, but still stuck in the past all the same.
There were ten of us on the first floor—the second floor, “Men’s,” might as well have been a different planet entirely. Brenda acted like she was better than all of us, because she has a master’s degree in “Global Business Administration,” whatever the fuck that was. Brenda didn’t seem to understand that all her master’s degree did was make her look both underqualified and overqualified for her job at the same time. (Her main role, from what I could tell, was assigning holiday bonuses and amplifying customer complaints.)
Not-Quite Sephora has a dying business model, but we were kept artificially alive by a steady stream of suburban glum as the principal anchor of a once-iconic strip mall. The first floor was perpetually understaffed—our Google reviews under Brenda’s mismanagement decayed from 4.2 to 2.8 stars (and this coming from a woman who tends to take “American public opinion” with a grain of salt). The turnover rate among everyone except me, Ashley, and Gabby seemed to be such that a new Chris, Brian, or Andy was being fired every three months. Good riddance, I always thought.
Men don’t understand how to take orders from a woman, and the ones who say they do are liars from the black lagoon.
I understand Brenda.
I really do.
Brenda’s most direct feature was that you couldn’t get a direct answer out of her, ever—it was either caustic sarcasm or happy-peppy self-deprecation. Everything she said was either designed to suppress or to charm. She was intelligent, which was the problem—quick-witted even—she prized competence, prided herself on being everything everywhere all at once (with self-pity), once complained to me in the break room that she was an ex-spelling-bee champion. Appearance-wise, what once made me jolt awake at night was that she tries, she actually tries. Not doing anything to set Brenda off had become something of an obsession of mine by her third month there. I applied to other jobs, but only in non-retail.
Trying to go non-retail—my life in a nutshell.
Brenda took over at a precarious time. Inflation was rising. Covid was either over or about to be over, but either way, brick-and-mortar seemed to be one of its death tolls. Brenda had mousy blond hair, wore black trousers to work, and used to tramp around the store carrying an inventory clipboard whenever she was upset about something. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to take fashion-merchandising so seriously. Her first day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda compared our fitting rooms favorably to the fitting rooms at her old Kohl’s in Florida, now shuttered (“So coming back up here was kind of like coming home for me, y’know?”). Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey and you can tell.
You can guess what her politics are.
I think what appealed to me most about the Cape Cod trip, if I were to be honest, was the right to tell Brenda that I’d have to take a few days off in mid-September because my boyfriend had invited me on a trip to “the Cape.”
Here was a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had located the profundity of her self-esteem in “competence”—and yet it never finally occurred to her that the only way to be “competent” in your everyday life is to command the trust of those around you. Trust is earned, Brenda, and it’s lost with unreliability. I could never really trust that woman not to not trap me inside a rule without being able to explain to me the reasons—not to not be imperious and self-certain and in self-protection mode at all times—and not to not explode all of her emotional wreckage on me, drenching me in the black mist of her self-absorption. Brenda was always right. Brenda is never to be questioned. (Brenda’s real name is “Karen,” which is why I didn’t want to say it at the time.)
It felt so good to able to tell Brenda that—all of her anxieties about the back-to-school rush aside—I’m going to have to take three days off in mid-September because my boyfriend has invited me on a trip with his three friends to the Cape. (I met my boyfriend a year ago on Opal.) It pained me to be so petty—no, not the reference to Cape Cod, which was just a kiss on the lips, but the reference to having a boyfriend, which was my primary poison. I wore more eyeliner to work, not less, the longer the weeks went by trying to circumnavigate Brenda’s imperialism. I enjoyed looking like a magazine cover while supplicating to her at the makeup counter.
We worked at a department store.
(“—so that’s my life, okay?”)
I could see it already. I love how Brenda, with her master’s degree in Global Business Studies or whatever the fuck she majored in, has to flinch every time who I really was blinked in front of her. I bet you flinched every time you saw me shrug into your office, Brenda, no matter what you called me into your office for, because I know about the Us Weeklies you stole from the front stands—I told Accounting about them!—I know how responsive you are to young women with movie-star looks who had won the genetic lottery. I smile at you, Brenda, precisely because I know how my angelic dimples make you feel. It makes you feel like you want to protect me.
It makes you feel you need to defend your true queen.
Beauty was my one and only power over Brenda, but I can assure you I only used it sparingly (all it took was sparingly with a woman so obsessed with appearances). We don’t talk about being pretty enough, which is another way of saying we don’t talk about seeing only the appearances enough. Seeing only the appearances was how I, prior to this weekend, once saw Cape Cod. What do you know about Cape Cod anyway? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mentally google it? I want to leave you now with an image of seagulls.
I matched with my boyfriend last September on Opal.
Now I know what you might be thinking—this whole story basically amounts to one long humblebrag about how I have an account on Opal, lol. No. First of all, I deleted that account six months ago. My boyfriend and I both did, on the same day—that was how we agreed to be serious.
Opal’s cornered the market on young attractive people who like to paraglide to remote destinations—the one and only trick it has up its sleeves is “exclusivity,” which in America is a royal flush. I’ll tell you real quick how I landed an account on Opal. A hedge-fund apparatchik I had gone on two dates with wrote me a recommendation letter after I told him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us, but did he still want to be friends? (And what do friends do?) It was his fault. He was the one who’d bragged to me about having an account on Opal in the first place. He even helped me pick out my profile pictures.
I left the Alma Mater field blank.
Opal’s about what you’d expect—videos of narcissist after narcissist who summer in Thailand. I swiped past all of the alpha males, which took days. Men who were earnest or men who were silly were the only men I could take seriously.
My boyfriend’s in that five percent of men just below the top ten percent that most women don’t know to circle the ocean for. You know the type. He’d be unstoppable if just one or two more things had gone right for him, but as it were, the wrong job, the wrong company, the wrong alma mater, had kept a handsome face trapped beneath a monthly gym membership. You’ll recognize these five-percenters from their personality—pure souls who’d lucked out facially, two sevens on the slot machine, but whose unambiguous victory had been stunted by some existential lemon. Some of them have eating disorders. Some google “male plastic surgery” in the dead of night. In my boyfriend’s case, he’s pansexual. Open-minded women have rejected him, which gives him a chip on his shoulder, and now he thinks he understands what it’s like being a minority. My boyfriend’s the type to care a lot about social issues. I’m not sure he even knows we’re interracial.
His parents have a house in Cape Cod.
His dad’s a federal judge and his mom’s an immigration attorney. Until we met and he started showing me pictures on his phone of his childhood vacation home, I had never really thought a lot about Cape Cod. I only knew it as the brand of a potato chip one step up the class ladder from Lay’s, and as a cultural metonym for white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, and the Kennedys. Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey, but I’m sure she must have learned at her master’s program what Cape Cod was.
Cape Cod was where she wanted to be.
And as it so happens, Brenda?
Cape Cod is me.
I wanted so desperately to tell her but I couldn’t.
I wanted so badly to inform Brenda that I had more important things to worry about than making sure the lipsticks were alphabetized, or that the powders were arranged in alternating shades of rouge and beige: namely, that a splitting image of one of the stars you read about in Us Weekly had a life to live, and she was going to enjoy the fruits of her beauty—fruits that Brenda could only live vicariously through (I tallied six missing issues of Us Weekly over the course of a year; no other magazine had gone unaccounted for during the same period except for a single issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which I found one night crumpled on top of Brenda’s desk).
The way Brenda’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Mackenzie Davis—I just needed Brenda to recognize my own beauty in the same way! It flipped around, you see, like a head trip—sometimes Brenda bowed to her true queen, and sometimes she said mean things to me. I wasn’t thought of as “intelligent” by Brenda, and I could never tell if it was because of my race or my beauty—the two possibilities flickered around in my head like a dueling candlelight until one night I decided, “It’s both,” and just let it die.
Resentment was brewing between me and Brenda.
Ever since I realized I would have to lie to her about my Cape Cod trip, because September would be the back-to-school rush, and there was no way Brenda was okaying me those vacation days. At Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda’s first rule was: “Just be honest. I want to know everything.”
But do you, Brenda?
Do you want to know how I plan to get out of work during the back-to-school rush, because I’ll be with my boyfriend and his three Yale Law classmates traipsing across Cape Cod? Do you really want to read about a beautiful woman’s life in Us Weekly? (Just steal my diary.) I’ll call in sick. I’ll lie and cough right to your face over the phone, Brenda, and I’m telling you it’s corona. I don’t have to be honest with you about anything because you rule by fear, not trust, and in a world of fear without trust anything goes.
Fear without trust is the animal kingdom.
And Not-Quite Sephora is the animal world.
The night before my last day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda humiliated Ashley in the stock room. (Ashley had made the mistake of asking her for paid time off for a wedding in December.) I didn’t overhear it, but I heard about it, which was enough. I have always had a way with words, and I gave Brenda some direct evidence of it by way of a resignation letter I wrote to the district manager—only it wasn’t really a resignation letter, it was more like a record of how Karen McHiggins was a terrible supervisor, sent to Corporate and cc-ed to the entire floor. (What mattered wasn’t that I had cc-ed the entire floor, but that the next morning, every single person on the floor congratulated me.) The group chat I’m in with Ashley and Gabby pops off more than ever now ever since I quit, only I didn’t mean to quit.
I only wanted to take a truthful temperature.
Brenda showed all of her cards when I showed up to my shift the next day. “Nina? My office. Now.”
I made eye contact with Ashley, who was already in her uniform, and we both smiled.
She kind of gave me an eye hug.
I wore nude lipstick that day.
The email I had sent Corporate was subject-lined “Management’s Mismanagement,” and it listed six bullet points about Brenda’s bad behavior (one involved throwing a purse at a mannequin; the last five were instances of emotional abuse). It ended with a paragraph about Brenda’s encounter with Ashley in the stock room (Brenda had called Ashley “unlikable,” “self-absorbed,” “a fucking dipshit”).
I laid out the case like the lawyer I couldn’t afford to be (I had other interests, hobbies, and pursuits in middle school, like not killing myself). Brenda was probably shocked I could write. She was probably shocked I could read, but I wield words as weapons—that’s the only thing you ever have to know about me. (In third grade, I won the spelling bee too.)
How did I dress for work the day after I wrote “Management’s Mismanagement” (and really I should say the morning after, because I sent the email at 4 a.m. and had to wake up three hours to let an exterminator in)?
I looked like a star.
I had even spent the last six months of my life casually coaxing Brenda toward the mixed-race celebrities I wanted her to subliminally see me as. Cape Cod would smile. I’d fit in well there, because in my late forties or early fifties I’d have the sort of personality that everybody at Beach Road would know to be impressed by—I could lift my life up to heights that the bourgeois rabble couldn’t even see. Not a single one of my applications to a white-collar job had ended in a palatable offer. Not-Quite Sephora, founded in Vermont, has a labor-friendly CEO. My benefits were good—I even had vision and dental. “One way or another, I’m bringing up my Cape Cod trip,” was the last clear thought I had before knocking on Brenda’s door.
“Come in,” a harsh voice gruffed.
I opened the door.
“Close that please,” was the first thing I heard Brenda say before she and I even made eye contact.
I closed the door dutifully.
Karen McHiggins was standing next to her desk in red pants and a black blazer. She had tied her hair into pigtails that day for some reason, although her hair was so short that they ended up looking more like ringlets, and her eyes behind her glasses were blue and pixel-like. Brenda made a quick gesture at the floor with her hands, almost like she was trying to say “Enough!”, and then said: “What is going on, Nina—what is going on, because I do not understand you.”
Her voice was hoarse.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her red pants—but your blazer is black?—so I just said, “I—” while panning my gaze to her desk, waiting for her to continue.
Brenda’s desk was a mess.
Just like her thought processes.
“If you have ever had a problem with me, you could have come to me directly. What have I always told you, Nina—” Brenda was now screaming.
Brenda thinks screaming has an effect on me.
She’s right—loud noises do have an effect on me. Elevated decibels have an effect on every animal that evolves through nature. How much do I hate Brenda right now? My eyes are staring into hers—but I don’t see a human.
I see an animal.
The power of volume is that it throbs the ear—and ears desire music. Ears desire harmony. Wild animals make me forget poetry as I bolt into the jungle—how much do I hate the woman screaming into my ears right now? Well, there’s a simple formula for that, and all of us are making it, even if we don’t know that we’re making it. We take how much anxiety we experience from being around a person, and then we multiply it by a factor.
My factor is 1 when that person is equal to me.
My factor is a fraction of 1 when that person is homeless.
My factor is greater than 1 when that person is greater than me.
And for Brenda my factor was 42,137—that’s 1 for every dollar that the winds of Brenda’s turbulence lorded over me, granting me vision and dental.
The ensuing number is a hatred.
How much anxiety was Brenda creating in me? Well, for starters—how much did I distrust Brenda? (And how much did I secretly want Brenda to like me?) All the eyeliner I wore to work every day—it wasn’t for mall patrol, it wasn’t for Ashley, and Lord knows it wasn’t for Gabby.
It was for me.
But maybe a little bit of it was for Brenda.
And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now?
And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now? Well, let’s see—I submitted 42 job applications, all non-retail. Interviewed at 11. Final-rounded at 7. Received an offer at two—both in New York, which I couldn’t afford. A young white boy at a social media marketing firm told me during the interview that I was “obviously brilliant” before offering me an internship. By July, Brenda towered over me like a god. I fell asleep at night fantasizing about her supervillain origin story. Brenda complained so much about Americans who weren’t vaccinated that I once asked her if she was a childhood polio survivor. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” Brenda laughed, and I laughed too. “Oh, I was just curious.”“How many times have I told you, Nina…”
My expenses have been going up, thanks to my new boyfriend. (As a matter of fact, I am the type of girl to go Dutch!) Taking over Brenda’s position would mean a four-percent raise. To my surprise, Brenda took off her glasses, put them on top of a crinkled magazine on her desk, and started crying. Like, actually crying.
Two actual teardrops leaked out of her eyes.
Self-pity makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable when the powerless do it, because now I have to do something, and it makes me uncomfortable when the powerful do it, because now I have to eat them. When somebody more powerful than me expresses self-pity, I can’t help it: I want to guillotine them. I want to take away their right to exist, but I want to watch them suffer first. If I were God, I’d invent Hell just for Brenda. It satisfied me that Brenda would most likely die without children or a partner. I want all capitalists in the First World to die without children or a partner, but to have afterlives that go on forever.
It still doesn’t seem enough though.
Brenda’s office has a desk, no windows, and a door that leads to the loading dock. A poster on the wall behind her desk, and I was just noticing this about her office now for the first time, was of a lighthouse in Cape Cod. “—the back-to-school rush—” Brenda was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
The ceiling light was fluorescent, and the walls were built of the same beige bricks that made up my elementary school. I once applied to a master’s program in sociology at Johns Hopkins University.
I got in, too.
I hate it here in America—doesn’t anybody else? Is this really that much better than the Soviet Union?
Sympathy for Brenda?
Brenda who lorded over my vision and dental like a bureaucratic algorithm—my boss Brenda?
I did good work.
I was Brenda’s star employee! (I left that part out because I’m not the bragging type.) The only work I couldn’t charge for was the work I didn’t want to do—navigating around the runes and mysteries of Brenda’s uncharted sensitivities like Leif Erikson. The truth was, I hated Brenda for not being able to see me as a beautiful woman just because I wasn’t a beautiful white woman like the pin-up girls she’d gone to school with in New Jersey. Brenda bleeds white guilt, but she rarely ever let me massage any of it toward my favor, except superficially (and you can guess by now how I feel about superficiality). Brenda’s insincerity dehumanized her to me. We humanize each other first as leaps of faith, and then through trust—and nothing about Brenda’s way of existing suggested she could be trusted by me. Not her white guilt. Not her New Jersey liberalism.
Not even her tears.
In fact the longer Brenda cried, the more intensely I wanted to punish her—the phrase “white bitch tears” comes to mind. I wondered if Brenda sincerely didn’t understand that if I could push a button to keep her trapped inside a hole for the rest of her life, I would, and her tears only made me want to push harder. Still, it gave me a start to see—this woman who could take away my ability to not go into debt like checking “Buy Now” on Amazon—reduced before me into a person now trying to trick me into believing she has a soul.
Don’t the workers of the world understand?
Powerful people don’t have souls.
Brenda having a soul would have meant taking my ideas about the BOPUS orders seriously, and not dismissing them out of hand because how could any good ideas come from Nina, the pretty one, if Brenda’s even not-racist enough to see me as pretty (BOPUS is industry slang for “buy online, pick up in store,” and it’s basically brought Not-Quite Sephora to its knees—that and Brenda’s mismanagement). I could divide my hatred of Brenda by a factor to account for the fact that she was fat and unmarried—but whose fault was that, Krispy Kreme? Do you think I actually like exercising?
Are you ready for some real talk now?
I can tell you about the runner’s high until I’m blue in the face, but I’m not built inside like a runner—I’m built inside like a girl who understands that nothing tastes as good as being pretty feels. I don’t know how American society decayed to this point—my Ph.D. dissertation in sociology at Johns Hopkins would have been about the link between an artificial society and the importance placed on appearances, but I couldn’t afford to go, I had actual work to do in middle school (like not killing myself) so I never bothered thinking very long and hard about anything. “Quitting would mean losing my gym membership,” I suddenly remembered.
A new recognition suddenly dawned over me—no gym membership would mean no Cape Cod. It takes a couple hundred months and a couple thousands steps to get there, but trust me, I’ve worked out the odds.
(I make my brain work for me.)
I looked at the lighthouse poster behind Brenda’s desk and said: “Brenda, it’s just—how you treated Ashley last night in the stock room…”
“You weren’t even there!” was what a clear-headed Brenda would’ve said, but Brenda the Tender said nothing.
“I heard about it from Gabby,” I continued. “You know, we’ve talked about this so many times.”
“I know, I know,” Brenda whispered.
“You don’t know how to create a functional work environment sometimes. Groups are held together by trust, not fear.”
I wasn’t quitting.
I was saving everyone at Not-Quite Sephora from Brenda’s bad temper. Brenda’s boss Charles would understand—he’d say, Nina made some good points in this email, but it sounds like you guys have everything worked out, so get back to work—and everyone would move on.
Only Brenda would now be moving into the light.
She would see how her anxieties about Not-Quite Sephora’s declining sales figures were spilling into her paranoias about job security (“And what will I do with all of my competence now that I can’t find a job because I’m old, fat, and ugly?”) and have been spilling into us as sarcasm and curt dismissals ever since her second day on the job. (Her first day was lovely—I was obsessed with Brenda! I even nicknamed her “cool Mom” to Gabby and Ashley.)
How Brenda appeared to me that first day was how Cape Cod once appeared to me too, before this weekend—white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, the Kennedys.
Cape Cod had told me a story—and so had Brenda when she first took over Kristi’s post at Not-Quite Sephora (Kristi got pregnant and never came back). Cape Cod’s story was Yale Law, benevolence, intellectualism. Brenda’s story was that she was loud and earthy and understood how to make an entrance—if she’d been honest, she would’ve just said: “I can use my power to make you feel however I want you to feel about yourself. I’m an emotional abuser.”
But the story I heard, because I’m a gullible sweetheart, was “Fun Mom.”
I laughed along amiably to “stressed-out Mom,” bopped along bewilderedly to “not everything is functional upstairs Mom,” and—how do I put this?
I didn’t like the mother who had a master’s degree.
Self-protection was Brenda’s middle name, and nothing I said using the tools of reason or logic could penetrate the fortress of Brenda’s first impressions—that’s the definition of “closed-minded,” by the way (Brenda has a lot to say about closed-minded people—that’s the crazy part).
How we look is the first story we tell each other about who we are. It’s our audiovisual accompaniment to the words that make up the second half of our story—the “spoken half”—and everyone understands that this isn’t fair, everyone understands and then does nothing. Brenda isn’t the only person who learned how to survive in America by going to an American middle school. She’s only lost her temper at me a couple of times, but I’ve been tracking all of them.
I’ve been watching you like a falcon, Brenda.
I’ve been watching you like a true A student.
True A students are out of favor in America for a reason. We’re only mortal, but we’re a little bit supermortal too. Because what I really didn’t like about Brenda was her insincerity—“When have I ever said no to you, Nina?” Brenda was now drying her eyes with a tissue and screaming.
It was a change in the air—a subtle bit of misdirection that she probably thought I was too stupid to catch (I’m not).
I was the powerful one now.
And Brenda McHiggins was now “the victim.”
“You threatened to fire me right after Easter for being late on a BOPUS order,” I treaded carefully.
“Nina, ninety-nine percent of our Google ratings come down to the BOPUS orders—”
“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t .”
“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t here.”
“But I never threatened to fire you.”
“You told me you’d have my name forwarded to Charles!"
“Exactly!”
“Which is the same as getting fired!”
“That isn’t true, Nina—I would have protected you.”
This statement was so stupid that it almost broke my brain. “Wha—protected me: do you not understand how Charles operates?” Brenda turned her back to me, waved her hand in the air, and said: “I’m not going to go into this with you again” as she looked for her glasses.
“It’s right there,” I said. “On top of Better Homes & Gardens.”
“Oh,” Brenda said without acknowledging me.
Brenda put on her glasses and then sat down into the chair, which made a sound like it was about to snap in half.
This was how she always liked to berate us—from her chair. I had seen that painting of the lighthouse behind Brenda’s desk so many times—it just never occurred to me that it was Cape Cod. Sometimes, I’d overhear Brenda berating Gabby on my way to the restroom and I’d think, “Well, she isn’t wrong—Gabby is kind of stupid—but that’s still not the way you talk to her. You have to incentivize her to trust you first.” (Gabby was the one who first changed Brenda’s nickname from “Fun Mom” to that cunt with a stick up her ass.) Ashley and I burst out laughing. (What else is there to do inside a dying country?)
“Everyone here is so short-tempered with each other because you set the tone. I’ve been too afraid to ask you for three days off in September to go on a trip with my boyfriend for our one-year anniversary because I knew you weren’t going to say yes, so I was just going to take them off as sick days—and that’s not a functional work environment if people are constantly doing things like that all the time, because what you really need to do is go to Charles and ask for more staff.”
“This September—oh, Nina, you got to be kidding me!”
It was the first honest thing I ever heard Brenda say.
I thought about my naïve dream from earlier—how I thought I was going to turn Brenda around.
How I thought I was going to save the store. “The problem is we’re under_staffed_” was what I should’ve said—I get that now, I do, and I don’t know why I couldn’t wear it in my mouth even as it was trying to form in my subconscious. Because other forms were rising in me now too, forms like: “Brenda is a world-class manipulator. She butters you up just to brine you.” (I couldn’t even trust her tears, and if you can’t trust someone’s tears, you can’t trust them to ever find help.) I don’t know how I’d fare if it were just me and Brenda on a deserted island—I could see her killing a cougar for us with her own bare hands, but I could also see her killing me. “I never said that, I just told you I’d have to forward your name to Charles”—Brenda the liar. Brenda who could probably play dead about as well as she could play stupid—any falcon worth its weight in bird could see through it.
“I’ve been having issues with my boyfriend,” I suddenly blurted out.
Where had I learned this from?
Middle school.
“The anniversary trip means a lot to him, and I can’t even say yes or say no—it just hangs there over us, because he knows about the back-to-school rush. And he’s not even someone I—even feel fully comfortable with in some ways. But I’m also scared to lose him, I’m scared every time I come into work on Tuesday because I don’t know how you’re going to change my hours. Everything we do revolves around my not having enough time—I’d have issues building a perfect relationship with him if we had the rest of our lives to ourselves on a deserted island, but every weekend until closing? He works a normal job! He’s tired all the time too, but he makes time to see me and I can’t—I can’t come to you about anything.”
I didn’t cry.
But I did smile in my head:
“Wanna play victim, bitch?”
I could see Cape Cod now—I could see its lighthouse drawing my boyfriend and I closer and closer, I could see us dancing now to The Strokes at midnight like we were back in middle school because I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life, I don’t want retail, I don’t want resumes and cover letters and I don’t want to meet any more Brendas—what I want is for the Brendas of the world to collapse at my feet, but all I can see are the Brendas of the world closing in on me until death and so I need a release, I need to go back to middle school (I was popular in middle school, I can admit that now, I had bee-stung lips, and a bee-stinger too)—I need The Strokes (haven’t you ever made out with a boy in a hot tub while stroking your nails across his abs, parting the hair where his lower back begins?)—“Is this it? … Is this it?”—(my boyfriend and I swimming in the stars of our liberation, and I’ll give him all the vision and dental that he likes)—prey: always just a one-click order away (and we’ll eat lobster, because lobsters hold harms forever)—I the warm body and he the warm arms, holding me in his lanky-panky forever (and if Connor ever got a gym membership I would die—I don’t need a perfect 10, I can settle for an 8.9)—my captors: do they know? Do they understanding I’m not living my one true life? Wearing Ray-Bans while gazing out at the Atlantic from a yacht, because Comfort is my one true God—I’m ready, Mr. DeMille, for my one true closeup to begin. How am I still in Brenda’s office? I’m twenty-seven years old—how am I twenty-seven years old and still smoldering in Brenda’s office? In middle school I listened to The Strokes while everyone else listened to pop hip-hop—another Universe has been calling to me all my life. And all it would take was just a few more thousand steps to get there.
I’ve been running every day since I was thirteen. I don’t even eat my desserts correctly—I just spit and chew.
Ashley and Gabby remind me of who I was back in middle school. I had power over everyone back then except Abercrombie Couture (not her real name). Abercrombie was the class favorite—it’s hard to explain, but among the very-outgoing girls, Abercrombie was Frivolity Personified. And when only the people who needed to see it could see it, Abercrombie was the cruelest human you’ve ever met—she’d ignore you so subtly you’d drive yourself crazy for days asking the other girls if she was mad at you. Back then I had already begun telling myself I was too cool to care—but I still have nightmares about Abercrombie sometimes, about the way she’d say hi to everybody else at the party except me. “I just can’t deal with your emotional up and downs anymore, Brenda! Like I’m sorry—I’ve defended you to Ashley and Gabby so many times! I’m sick of having these conversations with them.”
Abercrombie, I later realized during college, must have been unsettled by how candidly I could talk about her behind her back. That was my little power over her, and I’d like to think I wielded it gracefully. (Abercrombie was dethroned by a lurid sex scandal involving a used condom in eighth grade, and I’d like to believe I led our class to a more open and inclusive place after her dismissal.)
“Three days—where you trying to go, Wuhan?”
“No. The Cod.”
“The what?”
“The Cod.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Massachusetts.”
“You mean Cape Cod?”
That was how quickly I realized I had fumbled the ball—that was the speed at which I realized I had fumbled the fuck-you—the one thing I needed to do correctly and I had fumbled the ball trying to cross the finish line. “It’s the Cape, not the Cod sweetie,” Brenda was already huffing to me by the time I realized my mistake, with a smile on her face. She’ll deny it to this day, and in absolute candor I can’t really say it was a “physical” smile—I don’t remember what it looked like, I don’t remember if Brenda actually huffed or if she even moved her mouth all that much at all, it was more in the eyes, but that bitch smiled.
I grew up in Nevada.
My boyfriend graduated from Yale Law and with him I can see a way out of my life—and I really don’t understand why that’s such a terrible thing to say. And I’m about to lose him—it’s in between the lines, but I can just feel it, I have him wrapped around my little finger because that’s the only way I’d ever have any man who loomed so tall over me, with him it’d be Cape Cod until the end of my days and nobody would ever laugh at me for calling it the Cod again—I’ll just rename it.
My hatred of Brenda in that moment was rivaled only by my childhood hatred of Abercrombie Couture.
But I knew I had to proceed gingerly.
I began to feel like Leif Erikson again—what other uncharted sensitivities do you have, Brenda?
Do white people really have white guilt?
Verbalizing the subconscious is like navigating by stars—Pequod knows where it’s trying to go, it just needs the conscious mind to plot out the steps to get there first—only I couldn’t verbalize any of this, all I could do was feel the mind for throbs like the twitches of a rat’s tail inside the forest below—and I was throbbing for a release, I was throbbing all my middle-school embarrassments, I was throbbing Cape Cod. A woman who understood nothing but appearances stood in front of me, utterly preoccupied with her own self-preservation—neither wise, open-minded, nor beautiful—but who could mean the difference between me and my income, between me and my livelihood, between me and my boyfriend breaking up (which would mean the difference between me and Cape Cod)—and I couldn’t even get anyone on the second floor to take her magazine theft seriously. How do I even begin to tabulate all her subtle knife-wounds to the psyche?
My favorite song by The Strokes?
“Hard to Explain.”
“You can correct the way I say things all you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I live in fear of you—okay? I go home every night and cry. You bully Ashley and Gabby every day but I’m not Ashley or Gabby—okay? You have not created an emotionally safe environment in the workplace and it’s affecting my life—okay? I’m sorry you take yourself so seriously, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with your fear that all the girls who thought you’d never amount to anything in middle school might be right, but if you have to terrorize other people just to feel better about yourself, that’s not how I roll—okay? That’s not me. The way you talk to Ashley, Gabby, Mike, Chris—it’s un-ac-cep-ta-ble, Brenda.”
And this is where my ship was trying to go:
“I don’t think you belong in your position. So that’s what I told Charles.”
I’d set fire to Cape Cod if I could.
I’d set fire to my boyfriend’s lake house, I’d set fire to Brenda’s Us Weeklies, and I’d certainly set fire to the poster of the lighthouse with seagulls behind Brenda’s desk.
“I don’t work here anymore. Not until you apologize to Ashley,” I added quickly.
My speech was now outpacing my life decisions.
“And I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, okay? Because you know how hard I work, you know how much I give to this store every day but Wannabe-Nordstrom isn’t my life, okay? I am not living the life I want to live every single day—so that’s my life, okay?”
Were ordinary people in the Soviet Union this unhappy? Has anyone ever bothered to ask them?
The only thing I ever knew how to do around Brenda was say whatever I needed to say to make her feel comfortable.
Like seagulls exploding out of a cove, that was the only thing Brenda ever seemed to value: her personal comfort. I don’t remember how Brenda looked in that moment. She kept darting her eyes between Better Homes & Gardens and the floor, and her glasses were foggy. I gazed at Brenda with a falcon’s stare and said:
“Think of last night as my last straw.”
It’d be worth it, you know.
It’d be worth it to suspend my gym membership for a few months to see Brenda have to swallow the fruits of her own disorder. I hadn’t coaxed Brenda into reacting the way she did to Ashley’s request—I had only coaxed Ashley into talking to her, and that was a sincere act of friendship: “You have to stand up for yourself with people like that, Ashley.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Brenda and you are like best friends.”
“We are not.”
“You have her wrapped around your little finger, Nina.”
“No I don’t,” I said, and then I hit Ashley’s face with a big fat pillow until feathers fell out, which of course never happened because Ashley and I don’t have open and honest conversations about anything. All Ashley said was “You’re probably right,” and I could sense in Ashley’s eyes that she was perceptive enough to understand I was probably wrong—but even I couldn’t pick that up, at least not consciously, so in a way, Ashley doomed herself by failing to correct me.
I was Brenda’s star employee and everybody knew it.
I’ve been an A student all my life.
I’m the picture of good anger management.
Management hates it when you quit. That’s the one thing you can still lord over them, even during a recession (and July 2022 in America was anything but)—replacing an employee costs time, and time is money. Every store manager knows that—even Brenda (her management woes don’t source back to her inability to optimize).
And then Brenda said something so stupid that for a second I almost thought she was parodying Gabby.
“I thought you and I could speak openly to each other.”
Brenda.
Girl.
Just because you tell me about the medications you take for your back problems doesn’t mean we’re friends.
Was this really happening right now?
“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I told Brenda. “I did speak openly in the email.”
Was Brenda really buying into Ashley’s delusion that management and workers can be just friends?
Or was she just calculating that I—because I’m pretty—was stupid enough to buy into it too?
“Actually, no—the way you engage with others doesn’t seem intended to provide a pathway for sincere and open conversations. You have a ‘No Assholes’ policy that seems intended to make other people suppress their true feelings around you at all times, because anybody who contradicts you is automatically an asshole.”
I didn’t say that.
I just said: “It can be intimidating to speak to you sometimes.”
Even when you try to laugh with me about your muscle relaxants, I laugh back, but what I really want to say is “Brenda, a certain percentage of the population is going to have back problems, and you have given me no particular reason to care about yours.” I think again now about if Brenda and I were stuck on a deserted island. I’d probably have to save her life from the elements from time to time, and that’d build trust between us. “What we’d need to do is charter a plane somewhere, and have the plane crash. That’s the only way to resuscitate this relationship.”
“How many times have I told you, Nina, you can come to me about anything…” and before I could even respond, Brenda began comparing our dynamics to a mother-daughter relationship and I was one second away from saying, “Bitch, that’s your problem,” but I caught myself and said calmly:
“Brenda, that’s the problem.”
Brenda looked at me earnestly.
“Just, that right there—the word you used. I don’t think you really understand other people’s boundaries? I tell you obligatory anecdotes from my personal life because you specifically ask to hear them, not because I want to volunteer them—again, that’s how afraid I am of you, Brenda, because I don’t even feel like I have the right to tell you that my dating history is, actually, now that I think about it, none of your business. And then you lecture me about how I talk to my boyfriend? Again, because you asked to hear the details, and you actually make it so that now I’m thinking about my boyfriend at work instead of focusing on my job, which you then get mad at me for? I don’t think you really understand, Brenda, how your friendliness comes off when it’s mixed with so much—neediness, I don’t know, this need to control everything all the time—to make everything perfect.”
The first time I ever met Brenda, we got along so well that after our shift we went to a Red Lobster on the other side of the strip mall, where she bought me three milkshakes. I told her about growing up with my mom in a trailer park in Nevada and she told me about growing up with her mom in a trailer park in New Jersey—we laughed a lot that night. I don’t even remember what we laughed about, but we were both talkers, Brenda and I, we were both tellers, and we were both showers. I could tell after my first milkshake that Brenda must have floated in the margins of the sub-popular crowd in middle school, and she all but confirmed it on the second (she just had one of those I’ve seen it all energies).
“So how does it feel being back in the Northeast?”
“Honestly?” Brenda said, grabbing a French fry. “I’m ready.”
You couldn’t hear the ocean from where we were sitting, but you could hear a highway.
I understand Brenda.
I really do.
Sometimes at night, while I fantasized about quitting a company whose Corporate was famous for giving their employees vision and dental (and anyway, what else would I do besides marketing or retail? In what other way might I be called upon to serve the good people of America?), I’d climax with an image of Brenda sitting alone at home on a Thursday night (that was Brenda’s day off), crocheting to Fleetwood Mac, with a cat rubbing up against her ankle. The only mystery was how many paintings of beaches dotted her apartment.
I know Brenda doesn’t talk to her mother anymore (“Neither do I!” was probably one of our first laughs), and I’d fantasize about how much she probably secretly admired me—because I was pretty—because I could always talk my way into classes and parties she could only stare through the curtains of (I once helped Brenda create an account on Plenty of Fish), and now it was too late for her because she was already in her late forties or early fifties—and I?
I was bound for Cape Cod.
“What are the locals there like,” all summer long I used to wonder. I work at a Nordstrom now.
And I no longer wonder.
“Oh, sweetie—it’s called the Cape, not the Cod.”
Wasn’t that how she had said it?
Even in her most helpless moment, she was still so condescending—she was still just so frivolously condescending—I mean think about the stakes here, girl, you’re about to lose your star employee right before the back-to-school rush—was the poison dart worth it?
Was the poison tip worth it, Brenda?
“I don’t think it’s healthy for me to work here anymore,” I suddenly blurted out. “You’re not a good influence on me.”
“What can I say to make you stay just through September?”
It was so quick and direct that it snapped me instantly out of my sympathy spell.
Brenda.
There’s the Brenda I knew—Brenda, you’re back!
And you’re still holding onto threads in the air.
This store will dissipate, Brenda. Your job will dissipate, and then you’ll have to go right back out there again and sell your competence at another round on the roulette wheel. (Just don’t end up at another store that sells beauty supplies, Brenda—I don’t think you quite understand what they’re really telling the world.) “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Brenda. I know how hard the last few months have been for you, and I thought very long and hard about doing this to you. But I have to prioritize my own mental health.”
“You know Charles is only giving me a year.”
Brenda said this with a vulnerability I had never heard from her before.
Her voice was like a child’s.
Guilt—it’s impossible to summon it for a person you’ve already dehumanized. Cockroaches die every day.
My subconscious was churning again—I would have a child with my boyfriend someday, and I would protect her from people like you, Karen McHiggins. “Brenda, you have the mental age of a child,” was what I really wanted to say to her. “When I fuck up at work, who do you think I go to? Nobody—do you understand that, Brenda, because adults take responsibility for their shit.”
But I would have to sugarcoat it, because someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would be unable to understand that the powerful can’t be friends with the powerless, no matter how hard they tried—and someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would also need everything sugarcoated for them.
“Brenda, I don’t know how to break this to you but there isn’t going to be any back-to-school rush! It’s not 2019 anymore—Covid killed retail. We don’t know whether we want to be bargain basement or high-end and the middle class is dead, everyone wants either a bargain or an experience! What did they teach you in that master’s program?”
Only I couldn’t say that either, because Brenda would somehow spin it into me losing my cool, which is the one thing I never do—I’ve been one thing and one thing only all my life, and that’s an A student.
“You’ve given your life to a dinosaur, Brenda—move on. Department stores are dead—this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Your image of America—it’s a façade, and I can prove it. It’s that picture of the lighthouse you keep behind your desk that you pilfered from returned merchandise, and I can prove that too. We’re like explorers in an uncharted land. Things are going to fall apart for us in ways we have no templates for, just like they did for all of the generations before us—only they weren’t as trapped inside the façade of returned merchandise as we are! Settled mores are changing. This century could still look like anything—it’s all up for grabs, and more and more people are just beginning to wake up to this new dawn. Maybe what you really need to do is start a YouTube channel. You have the voice for it, you have the charisma, and you have the storytelling abilities—we could all profit from hearing from your perspective, only nobody will because you’re not young, thin, or beautiful, but hey—it’s worth a shot! You’ll have a better chance there at the lighthouse than you do in retail.”
Only I didn’t say any of this either, because I knew Brenda couldn’t hear a word I was saying. Brenda was dead between the eyes—her soul died in middle school, and she’s been dragging the corpses of would-be lives ever since.
“You’re not a particularly smart or competent person, Brenda, and what’s happening right now speaks for itself. You didn’t just get unlucky, Brenda.”
Brenda once whistled to me when she saw me change into a sundress as I was leaving my afternoon shift—“Whose heart are you breaking tonight, Nina?”
“None of your business!” was what I wanted to tell her, but I wanted to let Brenda live vicariously through me—it was the only gentleness I could ever offer her.
“You know Charles is only giving me the year,” Brenda had said, and she was staring into the void now. I could feel her back pain. She had given her whole entire life to Not-Quite-Sephora, six days a week, and on most nights on my way to the restroom I could hear “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac playing from a small Bluetooth speaker. I looked at Brenda and said: “I have no idea what you want from me. It’s not my job to make you look any better than you are at your job. And I don’t know what your agreement with Charlie has to do with anything—in fact, I had lunch with him the other day.”
Brenda lifted her eyes.
“What?” she said stupidly.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I was trying to get a vacation approved. No, Brenda. I needed to talk to him about a few things.”
“What things?”
And then, before I could offer an answer, “What are you trying to say, Nina? Just spit it out!”
“You have a problem, okay? I’ve seen the way you’ve unraveled in the last few months—Gabby and Ashley are afraid of you, Chris is about to quit, literally nobody can handle your emotional volatility anymore. Everybody’s so short-tempered with each other all the time and coming to me for help, and it’s not my job to help them—that’s your job! You’ve created a situation where nobody can even talk to you. We just smile at you out of fear. You don’t command anybody’s respect—you know that, right? So we basically have to operate without a supervisor—you understand that, don’t you?”
It feels good to eat.
I no longer have a gym membership anymore. Instead, I jog every Tuesday and Friday at the public park.
“So yeah—so I guess I just thought it was about time Charlie heard all of this. He’s actually very reasonable if you talk to him in a reasonable way. He said he’d look into opening one or two more positions for us to cover the weekends. But you probably won’t be there to oversee it.”
Not-Quite Sephora was founded as a regional competitor to J.C. Penney in 1991. It never expanded beyond the Northeast, Minnesota, and California, and it’s about to die—it’s only a matter of time. Unless if maybe Corporate in Burlington saw the light and hired someone like me and actually listened to her ideas for turning all of their stores into “experiences,” which is what I’ve been trying to tell Brenda every time she questioned one of my lipstick arrangements. A lot of what I miss about middle school is the taste-test of freedoms I enjoy every day now as an adult: you build a friendship with the highest person who’ll take you in.
That’s how you climb a hierarchy.
Brenda looked at me like a wounded animal.
There really isn’t ambiguity, is there, about which one of us would survive if it were just you and me on a deserted island. A new recognition was forming inside of Brenda, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it settle in—you can’t treat people like you treated Ashley the other night in the stock room, this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Of course, Brenda was too obtuse to work out that I was only bluffing. The truth was, I had talked to Charlie briefly on the second floor, but he just told me to “put it all in an email,” and I knew he was never going to speak to Brenda long enough to ever contradict anything I had just said—Charlie’s not exactly the open type. Besides, Charlie did agree to look into hiring more part-timers, the way Charlie ever agrees to anything—by pretending it was his idea all along. “It’s the unreliability of when customers come in, that’s the problem,” Charlie had explained to me. (“Yes, that’s true. Unreliability is always the problem,” I told Charlie.)
You can’t rely on other people’s testimony when you ask them about Abercrombie Couture.
You have to come to me.
I’ve seen sides of Abercrombie that nobody else has.
“So what’s the dating scene like out here?” Brenda had asked me that first night at Red Lobster, while popping a French fry. I remember trying not to look at Brenda like she was serious. “It’s just men!” I remember laughing to Brenda in front of two tall glasses of milkshake. “It’s just a bunch of men—that’s the only way I know how to put it!”
And then Brenda in her black blazer and black pants laughed too.
Like we were girlfriends.
“I would’ve given you those vacation days, Nina,” Brenda finally said in a whisper. “If I had just understood that you knew what you were doing when you took them—what you were doing to the store—I would’ve given them to you.”
A new sincerity is trying to grow in the air all around us—I can hear its infant-screams, can’t you? (Couldn’t Brenda?) “Oh my God, Brenda. This is about so much more than whether or not I can go on one trip to Cape Cod.”
“That is all this is about to you, Nina, and don’t you pretend otherwise—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“—because you have a fancy boyfriend now.”
“Leave Connor out of this.”
I don’t really know where my life’s going to go after Cape Cod. Colson’s mental health—it causes collateral damage to people (Colson was one of Connor’s three friends that had stayed with us at the lake house). I don’t really think he understands that his actions have consequences on other people. He thinks I’m one of the popular kids who terrorized him in middle school, but the truth is—I’m just a little bit higher or lower on the pecking order than he is. All of us are—all of us down here. I can’t really bring myself to fully hate him for what he did, but then I remember what his life is and I do—I hate him by several orders of magnitude more than I ever hated Brenda. And what Colson and Brenda both have in common, of course, is their dripping self-pity: they’re both absolutely lacquered in it (what is it about competitive social environments that produces so much self-pity anyway, dripping like honey?). I didn’t have too much compassion for Colson when he asked me to feed some of his honey back to him with my fingers. “Money,” I wanted to tell him.
“How much money you have is an easy way to tabulate what your self-pity is worth to me.”
But to be honest, I couldn’t even lift a finger to care.
Cape Cod was only four days ago, but it’s already just another memory now—that’s how all of our weekends are bound to end. Several hundred more of these and then it’s lights out. Connor and I listened to the first season of Serial on the way up, and as we walked through Martha’s Vineyard later that afternoon, we saw fifty migrants from South America file onto a bus bound for a military installation.
There were cameras and cake everywhere.
We’re all participants in this gladiatorial contest to see who ends up in Cape Cod as the sun sets over our lives.
Colson recently wrote a book called A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite.
I wish him luck.
I have plans for him, you know.
No matter what his next chess move is—I have a plan to stop him. I left Brenda alone in her office that day. I never learned where she went after she was dismissed from Not-Quite Sephora, all I remember is Ashley and Gabby coming over to hug me as I grabbed my purse from the break room, and they both quit two days later. It was because there’s something in my soul that doesn’t like to see other people are in pain—even people without souls like Brenda (Colson doesn’t count because he’s not really a human in my eyes, he’s more like a bad anecdote you shake off)—that I found myself hugging Brenda right before I said goodbye, holding her as she kept saying to me that I’d been like a daughter to her: “Brenda—Brenda, listen to me. My boyfriend has an ex-boyfriend whose stepmom also has a drinking problem, okay? Brenda—are you listening to me? They live in Westport…”
Cape Cod will die.
It’s only a matter of time before it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. I sail America’s values like Leif Erikson now—other people have built their homes and comforts here, but I don’t mind. I wonder sometimes what Abercrombie Couture anesthetizes her listlessness to these days—HBO? Unsubtle affairs with younger men? “How long before mundane dehumanization bears fruit?” I smile to myself every day at Nordstrom, as I walk around the counter to deliver my customer’s parcels to them personally.
I see Abercrombie sometimes in the eyes of the women I help at Nordstrom. They’re all moms, and if that’s the final meaning of our lives—then yes, I agree.
Let’s all be moms.
You don’t know the Hell I’ll reign over America’s guilty class in the twenty-first century, but you will soon: I will mother the destruction of America’s guilded gilts into existence. I broke up with Connor this morning. Something about his reaction to Colson’s breakdown in Cape Cod just didn’t sit well with me—he couldn’t see through Colson’s insincerity, and that makes me think he might not have what it takes in this life to go where I’m trying to go. At my new job at the mall, I nibble on old memories like a woman who hasn’t eaten now in years. The last person I ate was my narcissistic mother in Nevada—she ruined my childhood—she was the Leif Erikson of my formative years—but then again?
So was my middle school.
College feels like a million years ago. My sorority sisters are all married with kids now. Mothers will do anything to protect their young.
#MeToo.
2022
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throneofsapphics · 7 months
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angst. that's it. that's the ask. i don't care with who!
thank you 🫶🫶
kiss my knuckles before you punch me in the face
(part two)
Rowaelin x f!Reader
Summary: “My decision is final.” Her eyes were  full of pain, but no regret - only determination. 
Warnings: dark aelin/rowan, angst, mentions of suicidal ideation, implied violence, toxic relationships
Word Count: ~1.3k
A/N: this turned dark yikes please mind the warnings, but thank you for the request!
They never thought she would leave. They always thought it was enough, that they could be enough - despite all of the difficulties in the relationship. Love, everyone always said love was enough. They saw it play out around them, with their friends and family. Everyone made it work. 
Maybe she didn’t … didn’t understand the true strength of a mating bond. How far it would drive them, how much they would do to get her to stay. They thought that if love wasn’t enough, the strength of the bond would be. 
“My decision is final.” Her eyes were  full of pain, but no regret - only determination. 
“Why are you doing this?” Rowan asked. Hurt and anger rolled from him in equal waves. 
“All of those things you … didn’t do, didn’t say, didn’t fix. They have consequences.” 
Consequences. 
“What the hell does that mean?” Aelin raged, consequences - like they’re toddlers in need of a lesson. 
“It means you lost me.” Y/n’s lips set into a tight line. She doesn’t want to say this - Aelin can tell. But, she believes it to be the truth. Her eyes scanned them one last time, standing at the gate. A discreet, side one. Her mare was already saddled, saddle bags packed. 
Y/n took her reins, leading her out of the gate, out into the side path crossing behind the castle - to avoid the city. Aelin watched as she mounted, her heels digging in, and took off. 
She and Rowan stood in shock, watching her. She cast her eyes to the side once, looking at the castle, but not back at them. 
“Do we..?” She swallowed harshly. 
“No.” Rowan answered, and he shifted, soaring overhead. Aelin found Kasida, and took off behind her. A punch in the face, that’s what this felt like. Fixing the issues, resolving the problems, that can come later - after they get her back. She won’t let her mate go, no. Whether or not she understands it, this bond is for life and she won’t live with the agony of never having her. 
-
Her heart shattered with each movement, each bolt of the saddle. Every second felt like agony. All she wanted was to turn back and run into their arms. But, she knows her worth. Mates or not, she won’t let herself suffer. So many times she’d tried, so many damn times to get them to fix their actions. Each hurtful word, unintentional or intentional, struck something inside her she couldn’t rebuild. Not in their presence. 
She kept reminding herself that every step away from the castle was one step closer to reclaiming herself. To being her, not the King and Queen’s mate, but to be completely herself. Find the person she was before, and bring her back to life. 
The tears came and she didn’t fight them. Holding back would only make it worse in the long run. And she’d held onto them long enough already, already asked them to change the way they treat her. Each time, they would lighten up for a few weeks and she would finally start believing things were better, that this could be fixed. But, it was never permanent. Each time, she truly believed in it, and each time her heart shattered when it went back to normal. 
She stood on the balcony, several stories above the garden and contemplated what it would be like - to put herself out of her misery. Would that even work? She caught herself in the spiral of thoughts and turned, closing the door shortly behind her. That thought - of ending everything - that was the last straw. That night, she started planning her departure. Not from this world, but from the castle. 
She spotted a white tailed hawk above her, seconds before hearing the pounding of hooves, quickly she pulled her mare to the side, just as Kasida - Aelin’s beautiful Asterion, passed her and turned. Blocking her path. A flash of light, and Rowan stood beside her. 
What part of her message hadn’t been clear? Anger bubbled inside her chest - anger that they couldn’t respect her decision. They made theirs, she gets to make hers. 
“Leave me alone.” Y/n said through gritted teeth. “Go back.” Aelin slid out of the saddle to stand next to her. She didn’t move quick enough to avoid Rowan tugging her out of hers, bringing her to stand before them, on equal ground. She shoved at his chest, but only took a few steps backward, brushing against her horses side. Y/n quickly grabbed the reins before she could startle. 
Neither moved or said a word. Her frustration grew and grew. “Was I not clear enough?” She hissed. 
“You were perfectly clear.” Rowan answered. Stone, his face was pure stone. Unyielding. 
“You don’t get to run away. You can’t leave this.” Aelin picked up. Her emotions showed a bit more, but the same determination was there. 
-
“I gave you so many gods-damned chances,” Aelin watched as angry tears flooded her face. “You never learned. Things would get better for a few weeks,” she was yelling, her voice rising. “And it would go back to the same. Did you expect me to live like that forever?” 
Rowan was quiet and contemplative beside her, trying to figure out the best response. She was scrambling for words as well, but y/n kept going. 
“Did you know, a week ago, I stood on the balcony and thought about putting myself out of my misery? If nothing else will make you wrap your heads around how miserable I am, maybe that will.” 
Every word was a jagged knife in her chest, slowly cutting a piece of her apart. Aelin suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes grew wide, filled with fear. A fear she hadn’t felt in years. That she might have truly, permanently, lost her. That she was that close to losing her mate for the rest of her immortal life. 
Y/n turned her back, one foot in the stirrup, but Rowan dragged her back before she could. She yelped, flailing to try and get away from him. 
“No,” he growled. “No.” His arms wrapped tight around her, and Aelin knew nothing could break that hold. 
-
His arms were a cage. A hold I wouldn’t be able to break - not unless he let me go. He spun me around, letting me see the tears dripping down his cheeks. “I will not lose you.” Pure possession laced his tone. 
“I’m not yours to lose,” she screamed. She’s past the point of reason, of speaking calmly about this. He shifted so one arm held her close to him, and pressed on the small bite mark on the left side of her neck. 
“This says you are. Every part of you belongs to us, every part of us belongs to you.” 
His words weren’t any comfort to her, if anything they pissed her off further. “I’m not a possession,” she seethed. Panic began to sit in. Would they drag her back to the castle, kicking and screaming?
“What would it take,” Aelin’s voice was so soft, so gentle, that she couldn’t help turning to look at the female, “to keep … for you to choose to stay.” 
“Nothing. Everything.” She pounded a fist against Rowan’s chest, “let me go.” 
“I can’t.” The mask finally broke, and she could feel every single one of his emotions - the turbulence of losing someone he thought was his mate in the past, of nearly losing Aelin. Everything they’d told her, all about their past. It hurt her, knowing she was activating those memories, bringing those feelings to the front. But, it wasn’t her damn fault, they dug this hole and she’s climbing out of it herself. “I can’t,” he repeated, emphasizing it further. 
“You will.” She forced confidence into her tone, and brought another hand up - intending to try and push away again, but Aelin caught it, bringing her knuckles to her lips. A soft, gentle kiss that threw her off balance. 
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, and in the next second she was unconscious.
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