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Tw: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, mild angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies)

Part 2

Dead Weight - Part 1

The air inside the looted storefront is thick with dust, the kind that clings to your lungs and turns each breath dry.

A shaft of light filters in through the broken front window, illuminating overturned shelves, a cracked plastic mannequin, and dried smears of something that once was red but is now a crusted brown.

A soft dripping echoes from a broken pipe in the ceiling. It’s quiet, but not peaceful — the kind of quiet that feels like the world holding its breath.

You’re crouched behind a old counter, pressed against the wall with trembling knees, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The door had shut behind you.

Locked.

Or jammed.

You hadn’t wanted to yell.

You've been hiding in this department store for three days.

The building across the street—the one where you'd holed up with the other tourists from your travel group—had been overrun.

You watched through a pair of binoculars as the dead poured in through the broken lobby doors.

Watched as your tour guide, the one who'd promised Atlanta was the safest place to be, got torn apart on the mezzanine level.

You ran.

Alone.

This place had been picked clean except for the upper stockroom, where you'd found just enough tinned food and bottled water to keep going.

Enough to buy time while you tried to figure out what the hell to do next.

Thousands of kilometers from home with no way to contact your family, no way to know if your country was experiencing this same nightmare.

The first night was the worst.

You'd barricaded yourself in a staff break room, wedging a metal desk against the door.

Every sound—the building settling, the distant moans of the dead, the occasional gunshot—sent your heart racing.

You'd clutched your passport like a talisman, staring at the smiling photo of yourself taken just six months ago.

A different person.

A different world.

By the second day, you'd gotten brave enough to venture through the store's upper level.

Most of the food from the small café had already been looted, but you'd found a forgotten stash of protein bars in a toppled vending machine.

You'd also discovered the staff locker room, where abandoned bags yielded a few useful items: a small flashlight, some painkillers, a multi-tool that had become your most prized possession.

Today, your third day, the water was running dangerously low. You'd been rationing it carefully, but soon you'd have to risk finding a way to venture outside.

The thought made your stomach churn with fear. You'd seen what happened to people who went outside unprepared.

You knew you where unprepared.

From your vantage point near the second-floor windows, you'd unwillingly witnessed at least a dozen deaths—people making desperate runs from building to building, thinking they were faster than the dead.

None of them made it.

The distant sound of a door opening sends you scrambling behind a fallen clothing rack, your fingers tightening around the jagged piece of display stand you've been using as a weapon.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The shuffling dead don't open doors—they break through them.

And now your heart stutters at the sound of heavy footsteps crunching over broken glass. Three or was it four of them.

"We need to be in and out," comes a hushed voice from below.

American accent.

Southern.

"Merle first, then we grab the bag of guns. No detours."

You peer through the slats of the clothing rack. Four men moving through the store.

Living men.

Relief floods through you so fast your hands start to shake. Then you see their weapons—a hunting rifle, a shotgun, a crossbow—and the relief turns to wariness.

But what choice do you have?

"Hel—" Your voice comes out as a croak from disuse. You clear your throat and try again. "Hello?"

The men freeze, weapons immediately raised toward the second floor where you're hiding.

One of them—Asian, wearing a baseball cap—points up toward your location.

"Who's there?" calls the tallest one, a man with dark hair and what looks like a sheriff's uniform. He keeps his gun aimed steady. "Come out where we can see you."

You emerge slowly from behind the clothing rack, hands raised. "Please," you say, "I'm just... I'm stuck here."

"Shit, it's just a girl," says a Black man with a blue t-shirt, lowering his shotgun with visable relief.

The fourth man, shaggy-haired and scowling with a crossbow held at the ready, spits on the floor. "What're we supposed to do with 'er?"

The sheriff gestures for you to come down. "You alone?"

You nod, moving cautiously toward the escalator. "My tour group... they didn't make it."

"Tour group?" The Asian man's eyebrows shoot up as you reach the bottom of the escalator. Your legs are wobbly from fear and dehydration.

"I'm not from around here," you explain, your accent immediately giving you away as foreign. The words tumble out too fast.

"We were on a cultural tour of the American South when everything went to hell, and we thought Atlanta would be safe because of the refugee center, but then these... these things were everywhere, and—"

"Slow down, slow down," the sheriff cuts you off, finally lowering his gun.

"I'm Rick. This is Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl." He gestures to each man in turn. "We came back for Daryl's brother and to recover a bag of guns I dropped when I first came into the city."

The man with the crossbow—Daryl—hasn't lowered his weapon. His eyes narrow as they scan you from head to toe, taking in your dirty clothes, your makeshift weapon.

"Ya gotta be kiddin' me," he growls. "We ain't got time for this shit. Merle's out there and y'all wanna play rescue for some tourist?"

"We can't just leave her," Glenn says, giving you a sympathetic look.

"The hell we can't!" Daryl snaps, his voice rising dangerously. "She's just gonna slow us down! Look at her—probably never even seen a gun up close 'fore today." He gestures at your pathetic makeshift weapon.

"What's she gonna do when the geeks come? Ask 'em for directions with that funny accent of hers? Think they speak whatever the hell that is!"

You flinch at his words but straighten your spine. "I'm not completely useless," you say, your accent thick with exhaustion. "I can follow directions. I can help carry supplies."

"Ain't about carryin' supplies," Daryl snarls, stepping toward you.

His face is inches from yours now, blue eyes blazing with frustration and something else—panic, maybe. "It's about not gettin' everybody killed 'cause you don't know a walker from whatever the hell y'all have back where you come from!"

T-Dog steps between you. "Man, back off. She's terrified."

"I don't care if she's the Queen of England! My brother was handcuffed to a damn roof 'cause of y'all, and now we're wastin' time arguin' over some skank!"

The words hit like a slap.

Rick puts a hand on Daryl's shoulder, which the man immediately shrugs off. "We'll find Merle," Rick says firmly. "But we're not leaving anyone behind if we can help it. That's not how we do things."

"That's not how you do things," Daryl mutters, but he finally lowers his crossbow, glaring at you like you're the source of every problem he's ever had.

"Fine. But she's your responsibility. She gets bit, she gets left. She slows us down, she gets left. She makes too much noise—"

"She gets left," Glenn finishes for him, rolling his eyes. "We get it."

"Can you handle that?" Rick asks you directly, his expression both kind and serious.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yes Sir"

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Daryl growls, turning his back on you. "Let's go. Now."

As your small group moves cautiously toward the stairwell, you can feel Daryl's resentment radiating off him in waves. To him, you're just another obstacle. Just another problem in a world already overflowing with them.

You grip your makeshift weapon tighter, determination settling in your chest. You'd survived on your own for three days in this hell. You'd watched friends die and kept going. You'd made it this far.

The rooftop was a sun-baked nightmare. Daryl's howls of rage when he found only his brother's severed hand still echo in your ears as your group makes its way down the stairwell. The discovery had only hardened his resentment toward Rick and T-Dog.

You keep your head down, focusing on each step. Getting into an argument now won't help anyone. Glenn leads the way, navigating the labyrinthine building with impressive confidence.

"The guns are just a few blocks from here," he explains quietly. "Rick dropped them when he got surrounded his first day in the city."

"How many are we talking about?" you ask.

Glenn glances back. "Whole sheriff's department duffel. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, plenty of ammo."

You swallow hard. The most dangerous thing you'd handled before all this was a kitchen knife, I mean sure you'd shot your father's .22 as a kid ... but you where 8 and it was one time.

The thought of carrying firearms makes your palms sweat, but you don't voice your discomfort.

Not with Daryl's eyes burning holes in your back.

As you reach the alley exit, Glen holds up his hand. "We need a plan. The street between us and the guns is crawling with walkers."

Rick nods. "Glen and I will make the run for the bag. Daryl, you and T-Dog cover us from here." He hesitates, then turns to you. "Stay with them. Keep watch on our six."

"Our what?" The term is unfamiliar.

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Behind us. Watch behind us."

"Got it." You say, determined not to be the liability he clearly thinks you are.

While Rick and Glen prepare for their dash across walker-infested streets, you gather the courage to ask the question that's been haunting you for days.

"Do you think... is it just America? That's affected by this?" Your voice is smaller than you'd like. "Or everywhere?"

T-Dog gives you a sympathetic look. "We don't know. All communications went down pretty fast. TV, internet, phones... everything."

"Military was talking about cases in Europe and Asia before broadcasts stopped," Glen adds quietly "But nothing concrete."

"So my family could all be..." You can't finish the sentence.

No one answers.

They don't have to.

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, then breaks the silence. "Y'all ready or what? Ain't got all day for storytime."

The plan goes sideways almost immediately. What was supposed to be a quick retrieval turns into a firefight—not with the dead, but with another group of survivors claiming the same bag of guns.

The ensuing chaos draws walkers from every direction, their moans growing louder as they converge on the sounds of shouting and gunfire.

By the time you're all reunited—minus Glen, who's been taken by the rival group—you're breathless and terrified.

The reality of this new world hits you anew, it's not just the dead you need to fear.

"What do we do about Glen?" T-Dog asks as you huddle in an abandoned office building.

"We go after him," Rick says without hesitation. "No one gets left behind."

For once, Daryl doesn't argue. Instead, he drags in a young man he captured during the chaos—one of the rival group—and promptly drops him in front of Rick.

What follows is an interrogation that makes your blood run cold. Daryl's rage over his missing brother transforms into something focused and frightening. He throws Merle's severed hand at the terrified captive, threatening worse.

"This how he is all the time?" you whisper to T-Dog as Daryl paces like a caged animal.

"Man's worried about his brother," T-Dog replies, though he looks uncomfortable too. "And now Glen."

The negotiation with the rival group—a nursing home protecting its elderly residents—ends peacefully, to your immense relief. Glen is returned unharmed, and Rick even leaves some of the guns with the elderly and their caretakers.

It's a moment of humanity that gives you hope. Maybe there are still good people in this nightmare world.

As your group prepares to leave Atlanta in a hot wired van you've acquired, the sky is already darkening.

The journey back to their camp takes longer than expected, navigating abandoned vehicles and occasional roadblocks.

"Where exactly is this camp?" you ask, from the back of the van.

"Quarry outside the city," T-Dog explains. "High ground, water source, good visibility. Been there since the evacuation failed."

"How many of you?"

"About twenty," Glen says. "Families mostly."

The thought of other survivors—a group, a community—lightens the weight that's been crushing your chest for days.

Maybe with them, you might have a chance.

Night has fully fallen by the time the quarry comes into view.

The trees thin at the edge of the ridge, and smoke curls upward like black ribbons into the moonlight.

You step into the clearing to see hell has broken loose.

Tents are shredded, the fire pits knocked over and smoking, sparks drifting like fireflies.

The smell hits first—burnt fabric, blood, and something rotting.

Something wrong.

And then—

A scream.

Not distant.

Close.

Too Close.

A figure darts across your vision—running, flailing—before being dragged backward by a grey-skinned walker. It sinks its teeth into the person’s throat with a wet, crunching snap, and your legs lock beneath you.

Blood sprays in an arc, painting the dirt and your boots. You stand frozen, your stomach lurching.

They’re everywhere.

Pale, mangled bodies lurch between the tents.

One drags a twisted leg behind it, intestines dragging like a grotesque tail. Another stumbles forward with one eye hanging loose, its jaw broken and lolling.

Their groans are low, thick, and wet, as if their lungs still remember what it was to breathe but their suspended in choking death.

A woman screams for her baby. A man tries to fight a walker off with a fold-up lawn chair.

A woman you will later know as Carol is sobbing, somewhere off to the side.

A small fire catches a tarp, flames rising into the air, illuminating the horror like stage lighting.

You stagger backward, hands trembling.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out.

“Hey!” Glen’s voice cuts through the chaos like a bell. He grabs your arm, wild-eyed.

“Don’t stop now, come on! Stay low!”

You stumble and almost fall, but he wraps an arm around you—tight, urgent—and pulls you behind an overturned water cooler.

His grip trembles as he draws a breath.

“You see that guy?” he says, nodding to a older man fending off two walkers with a shovel. “He’s trying. That’s what we’re gonna do. Try. We stay small, and we move.”

A walker lurches around the corner, its skin torn open across the chest. Bones poke through slick red meat. It sees you—lets out a hiss.

You freeze.

Glen doesn’t.

He grabs a fallen tire iron and swings hard. The sound it makes when it hits the walker’s head is horrifying—wet, thick and final.

He breathes heavily, looks down at his blood-speckled sleeves.

“I hate this,” he mutters, helping you up.

Across the clearing, Daryl is already mid-fight—reloading and loosing crossbow bolts with brutal precision.

His jaw is clenched, his eyes scanning, and when he sees you and Glen still near the center of camp, he lets out a sharp bark of fury.

“Get the hell outta the open!”

You flinch but Glen shoves you behind him.

“We got it!” Glen snaps back at Daryl, more protective than you’ve ever heard him. “Do your thing, just—go!”

Daryl grunts, clearly frustrated. He turns and stalks off toward the noise.

You and Glen duck behind a tent, breath shallow. He presses a hand against your back, grounding you.

“You okay?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fair,” he says softly. “Me neither.”

A walker crashes into the canvas wall beside you, snarling—its fingers poke through the fabric, torn nails scraping toward you.

Glen grabs your hand. “Run. Now.”

You don’t think.

You follow.

Bodies fall.

Some get back up.

Some don’t.

By the time the last walker is put down, its head crushed under Shane’s boot, you’re splattered with blood—none of it yours—and your legs threaten to collapse.

The silence feels wrong. Heavy.

Amy is dead.

Jim is bitten.

Morales is holding his wife, trembling.

Carol sobs over Ed’s ruined body, with an unreadable look in her eyes.

You stand in the middle of it all, bloody, shaking, your wide eyes reflecting the flickering light of the smoldering fire pit. Your shirt is torn at the hem. Your hands are covered in someone else’s blood.

Daryl walks past the corpses without hesitation, checking the bodies with cold efficiency. He stabs one that twitches—then another, just to be sure.

He turns toward you, eyes wild, furious.

“What the hell were you thinkin’, just standin’ there?” His voice is a raw rasp. “This ain’t some storybook. People die ‘cause of hesitation.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

His chest rises and falls with heaving breaths. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. You see it now—not just anger, but fear.

For them.

For what could’ve happened.

Maybe even… what almost happened to you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, voice barely audible.

He turns his back on you.

The fire’s burned low.

“I knew it,” he snaps, shaking his head. “Shoulda left you in that damn store. Damn motherless, son of a b—”

You whip around on him, voice cracking with sudden fury.

“Dont you fucking dare!”

It stops him cold, you don't notice his almost imperceptible flinch at your tone.

Your voice is raw.

Loud.

The loudest you’ve been since anyone met you. It even startles Glen, who glances over from where he’s helping Dale fix a tent.

You take a shaky breath, eyes wide with unshed tears, lips trembling.

“My mother’s alive. She’s safe ... She thinks I’m okay.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t you dare say that we're Motherless.”

For a moment, there’s silence between you.

You expect more from him.

Another bite.

Another insult.

But instead, Daryl just stares.

You see something flicker in his eyes—not softness, exactly. But recognition. Like he knows what it is to hold on to something, even when the world tries to take it away.

Maybe he didn’t mean it.

Maybe he did.

But the look on your face—that broken, wide-eyed grief just at the idea—it shakes something loose in him.

He grunts and looks away, jaw tight.

“Tch. Whatever,” he mutters, stalking away.

[novamariestark]

Give Your Heart A Break [Part 2]

Summary: 4 months since your blind date with Hank. But your ex refuses to let you be happy.

Warnings: bad writing 🤣 the ending did not come out the way it plays in my head, fluff, some angst, hurt, abusive ex, kidnapping, threats, death, lmk if i missed any

Word count: 2113

Fandom: Chicago P.D

Pairing: Hank Voight x Reader

You should have told him. You should have told Hank about the envelopes, the pictures, the threatening phone calls. But you didn’t, and that’s why you’re chained to a pipe in some mangy old warehouse.

Erin told you to tell Hank, and you were going to, but you had other things on your mind, and you kinda... forgot.

It’s been 4 months since your blind date, and you and Hank continued your relationship whilst still keeping it professional at work. Well... as well as you could. I mean, working side by side with the man you loved was a little tricky sometimes. There were times when you thought you would combust if you didn’t touch him, hold him, kiss him. But you didn’t.

Maybe you should have listened to the threats. Maybe you should have done as you were told and broken up with Hank. You should’ve known that any shred of happiness you had would be taken from you. Why did you even bother trying to be happy. He was never going to let you. You were stupid to even try.

By now, everyone knew about you and Hank despite the fact that you two didn’t act like a couple at work. The first giveaway was the fact that he spent more time with the team and occasionally joined them at Molly’s.

Alvin was the first one to figure it out, followed shortly by Trudy. Adam was the last one to find out, and he didn’t believe it when he did. He received the deadliest death glare when he remarked that you were way out of Hank’s league.

And if they didn’t know before, they would now. Hank was even more out of control than usual. Anyone who had anything to do with your ex was in his sight, even someone who just passed him in the street.

Everyone now had pretty much found out your entire history, something you really didn’t want to happen. You didn’t want them to look at you with pity or worse, like you were weak. You especially didn’t want Hank to know, despite Erin telling you over and over that he wouldn’t look at you differently than he does. But you didn’t want to risk it. You also didn’t want to taint the relationship by even mentioning that prick.

Well, so much for that.

“Wakey wakey princess,” a sick, cold voice chuckles from beside you. A hand comes its way through your hair, gathering up a fistful and yanks your head backwards. You’re met with him. His face. His twisted, psychotic face. The only time you saw him smile was when he was hurting you, “Look at me when I’m talking to you,”

“I warned you,”

“What part of ‘We’re over’ don’t you understand?”

“You don’t get to decide that, Bitch,” he snapped, throwing your head back against the stone wall. You couldn’t see your head but you could feel something dripping from your skull.

“You think you can whore around and there wouldn’t he consequences?” He growled. Pain shoots around your body like a ball in a pinball machine as he stamps, kicks and slaps you anywhere and everywhere.

You bring your knees to your chest, doing you best to shield yourself. Shield your stomach. Another thing you hadn’t told Hank.

But he was about to find out anyway. He and Erin were on their way to your apartment to look for all the messages and things you’d received from your ex.

He found the texts, the voicemails, the photos of you two together going back to when you first started seeing each other but his face was crossed out of every single one. With something red. Lipstick. The same shade he insisted you wear for pleasing him.

As he moved to Investigate further, something caught his eye. A pregnancy test. His hand slowly reached for it, his fingers wrapping around it as he lifted it up to read it.

Positive.

“Did you know about this?” He asked turning around, the test coming into Erin’s view.

She looked at it and shook her head, “No. I didn’t know,” she sighed, “if I knew, I would have told you the second we knew she was missing,”

From then on, his temper was even more uncontrollable. Not only was the woman he loved in danger, but now his unborn child. And he’d stop at nothing to save them.

---

The room was cold, dark and dirty. Splatters of your blood adorned the floor and the wall. A chair in the middle of the room where he sat and watched you suffer. You have no idea how long you’ve been there and you’re starting lose hope slightly.

Your ex was completely crazy. More so than you thought. He somehow knew things. Things you hadn’t even had chance to tell Hank.

“Now we’re just waiting for another guest before we get onto the main event,” he told you, his tone dripping with something twisted that made you sick to your stomach.

You almost didn’t ask; you were scared to. But you had to know. It would have driven you mad, “What’s the main event?”

“Now, now sweetheart. I don’t want to spoil it for you,” he replied, stroking your hair. Like he did when you were his. His pet. You closed your eyes, your body shivering as you tried to stop yourself from crying. You didn’t want to go back. You couldn’t do it again. But with the threats and the letters, did you ever actually escape him. Or was it just some stupid fairytale you told yourself.

Right now, you thought the latter. You were stupid to believe that it was over and now you’d subjected your unborn child to it too.

It was night now, the small window at the end of the building completely filled with the black of night. The only light you had was the small light bulb dangling over your cage. Yeah cage. That was what it was. An actual visible cage similar to the one you’d been in since you moved in with him.

Like many, you didn’t see his true self until you were trapped. You moved far from your family and for years they had no idea where you were or if you were okay. The only person you had was Erin and it was just by chance that you met her and somehow she knew the situation you were in and if you ever wanted to leave, she gave you her card to call her for help.

Maybe you should have gone back home. Moved back in with your parents whilst you got back on your feet. But them you never would have met Hank... and that would have been a damn shame. The things that he made you feel you thought only existed in the books. You never thought you could feel so loved or that the simplest things he would do for you would bring you so much joy

The sound of screeching tires and slamming doors cut through your thoughts like a sharp ass blade. You blinked a couple of times, the hours you had spent in this shithole and the pain he’d put you through taking it’s toll. Were you hallucinating? Or were they really here?

Then you heard it. His voice. The sexy, gravelly tone completely unmistakable.

“CPD! Get on the ground!” he barked as soon as he barged through the door. No cover, just full on walked in and demanded he get on the floor. Your ex’s rough hands tangled in your hair, yanking you off the ground. You let out a strangled cry, your knees nearly giving out as you were forced upright and shoved in front of him like a shield. Hank growled, his gun still aiming at him, but also at you, “Don’t give me another reason to put you in the ground!”

His grip on you tightened, you could feel his breath wafting against your ear,  “You’re not taking her from me again!” he spat. Before you could even process what was happening, you felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade pressed against your stomach. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears you thought it drowned out everything else, “One wrong move and your kid is gone,”

Okay that you heard.

You felt the steel dig deeper into your skin as he pressed it harder against you.

Your chest tightened, you were scared and you felt helpless. All you could do was stand there and let him threaten you and your baby.

You could feel the life inside of you, so fragile, so vulnerable, and completely at the mercy of your asshole ex.

As his voice echoed in your ear, taunting Hank with the death of his unborn baby, something inside you shifted. Sure the fear was there, practically suffocating you, but something else was there too. A fierce, protective instinct that you hadn’t known could burn this hot.

You let him take so much from you and you sure as hell weren’t going to let him take your baby. Not now. Not ever.

You shifted just a fraction, leaning your body enough to shield your stomach from the blade. You didn’t want him to know what you were up to. You didn’t want to provoke him either. But the instinct to protect your child overpowered the fear that had paralysed you.

“I swear to God, if you touch her—if you hurt her—” Hank growled.

Your ex scoffed, tightening his grip on you once more, “You think you can protect her? You think you can take her from me again? You’ll watch her die before you even get close.”

In one sharp movement, you lunged backward, throwing your head back and cracking it against his jaw. You thought it might be enough to loosen his grip. He didn’t. But the shock of the hit made him stagger backwards and gave you enough wiggle room to get away from him, if only by a little. He still had a bruising grip on your wrist but now he was completely unguarded.

“You bitch!” he sneered lunging towards you, knife pointing directly at your stomach ready to make good of his threat. But he never got to you. The deafening sound of gunshots echoed around the room. One, two, three. And they were followed by a thud.

You thought you knew who fired the shots but if you put money on it, you would have just lost. Of course Hank was going to shoot him but someone beat him to it. Everyone turned, looking at the one who had killed him.

Erin.

She would have been your second guess. After all, she did threaten your ex the one time she met him.

Your breath caught in your throat as the reality of it settled in. Your ex was dead. He wasn’t going to come after you anymore. He couldn’t hurt you anymore. You could practically feel the relief washing over you.

Your legs were shaking but they were still moving towards him. You felt as though you were about to crash into the ground at any second, but you didn’t care, you needed him. You didn’t stop until you were in his arms. Safe and warm.

Hank’s arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you close, pressing you against him as though he was you might disappear if he loosened his grip even for a second.

You couldn’t hold it anymore. The dam that had held your tears for the past few days finally came crashing down, every single drop following suit.

“Hey, hey,” his voice was low and gentle. His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he gently stroked your scalp. “It’s over, you’re safe now. I got you.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried into his leather clad shoulder.

Hank moved back slightly, his hand untangling from your hair to cup your cheek, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He told you, his lips press a soft kiss to your forehead, “I’m so glad you’re okay,”

“I was going to tell you after work,” you said, one hand going to your stomach, “Are you mad?”

His brow furrowed as he stared at you, “Mad w–why would I be mad?”

You bit your lip, looking at your feet because you were afraid that if you look at him, you’d be right, "I—I thought maybe... you wouldn’t want this. I mean we never talked about it, and I—"

You were cut off by his lips pressing against yours, “Of course I want this,”

“I want everything with you”

[A/N] I'm sorry 😭 I had Erin kill him because we all know that if Hank's girl and baby were threatened and treated this way, he wouldn't just kill them, he'd hurt them first.

[boneapplet]

Servo Sanctum

Relationship: oc!Blood Angel x machine/afab!reader

Warnings: minor background character death, implied cultist

Word Count: 2232

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 pt 3 | pt 4

               A stillness that has lasted ages finally is broken by the sound of thunder cracking above, muffled and distant. Reverberating through the earth like the growl of something vast and dying. Dust drifting into unseen shafts. Somewhere, far overhead, the sky was burning.

               Pale, golden eyes flutter open adjusting to the faint blue glow within the pod. Condensation streaking the inside of the curved plasteel, her breath fogging against it. For a moment, she remains still, listening. The ground around the pod shudders, rubber grinding against metal as another impact happens above, closer this time.

Breath slow and measured, as she raises a hand up and presses against the pod’s surface. A faint beep fills the pod as it scans and recognizes her metrics. Seals disengaging with a hiss, hydraulics stalling as ancient servos fail. Metal screaming as she pushes on the hatch, bending open under her force. Dust cascading around her as the hatch drops beside the pod. Legs shaky from disuse, bare feet being met by cracked stone.

Charred stone and blackened rebar framing the cavern she lays buried in, fractured from a long-collapsed underground structure—an old transport hub. Crimson light filtering through from above where the roof has broken open—revealing nothing but fire and ash in the sky beyond. Her privacy garments cling to her synthetic skin, the white fabric streaked with time and dust, damp from the droplets of water that drip down from above. Touching the side of her face as she assesses herself, running fingers through long hair—still whole, still her. Then she sees it. A corpse—half-crushed beneath fallen masonry. A woman, once. Civilian. Dressed in a torn jacket, but intact enough to use. Pants, boots. She moves toward it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice quiet and warm.

Carefully, she lifts the rubble and carries the woman’s body into the small cavern. Murmuring her apologies as she strips the corpse of its clothes. The clothing, while rough and ill-fitting, is better than the ghost-skin she wore before. She leaves the woman’s hands folded. Climbing, hands and knees through debris and ruin, up through the broken earth toward red daylight.

Outside, the bombardment has eased. Distant shrieks still rake the heavens, but the land is quiet in that breath between violence. Smoke climbs in pyres toward the torn heavens, and the wind carries the metallic scent of flame, blood, and something chemical. She emerges a phantom—ashen and silent.  Moving through it quietly, careful with each step.

Pausing at the edge of a cracked roadway where the surface has buckled and broken like paper. A toppled hab-tower lays on its side nearby, its lower levels crushed flat. Head snapping to look toward a sound to her left, a cough. A child’s whimper. Then more— from within the shadows beneath a collapsed walkway. Survivors.

Cautiously, she approaches it, crouching down and peering inside. Three children are huddled in the makeshift hollow. One is barely older than five, cradled in the arms of a gaunt boy. A third child, a girl—maybe ten—holds a length of pipe defensively, trembling, eyes locked on the intruder.

“Stay back!” the girl snaps, voice hoarse, but with a courage big for her size.

Raising her hands, open palms, slowing her movements.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she gently says. “Are you hurt?”

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” the girl says, louder now, trying to summon anger over fear. “You’re not with them. You look too clean.”

“I woke up. Underground. I don’t know who ‘they’ are.”

The girl squints, trying to read her. After a long silence, her stance drops slightly. Creeping forward on her knees, she takes off her jacket and wraps it around the shivering smallest child.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

The girl nods slowly, the boy's stomachs answering for them before they could voice their response.

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

By nightfall, they’ve sought shelter in an overturned supply truck that’s been stripped of its wheels and half-eaten by rust. The children are huddled around the small campfire, digging into the can of synth-protein she’d given them. They watch her strangely. Like she was not quite real. Not quite human—but not frightening, either. More… uncanny. Like a story come to life. The girl especially studies her hands when she thinks she isn’t looking.

“You talk like the readers did,” the girl finally says.

“Readers?”

“The ones who used to say stories out loud. From the books.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Are you a reader?”

“No,” the woman says softly, tending to the fire. “I’m something older.”

Hours pass by, sitting by the small flame. The little one curled into her lap, already asleep. The older boy resting beside her, his thin frame finally still. The girl stays awake the longest, her pipe now lays beside her instead of clenched in white-knuckled fists.

“What’s your name?” the girl questions.

The woman pauses at that.

“I… don’t know,” she said. “Not yet.”

The girl blinks. Then nods once, as if it made perfect sense.

“That’s okay. You can borrow mine until you find yours.”

Smiling at that, she questions. “What is it?”

“Mar,” the girl manages to say as she yawns, sleep finally creeping in. “It’s short for something. I don’t remember what.”

The fire crackles softly, the wind sweeps over the bones of the city. For the first time in uncounted years, the woman with no name holds another life in her arms.

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

When the sun finally starts to rise over the horizon, they head out of the truck to continue with their journey. Staying low as they travel. Heat shimmering off the slag-scabbed pavement, and above, thunderheads of smoke roll over what remains of the spires. The woman leads the children from ruin to ruin, keeping them within the maze of sunken streets and hollowed subways. The little one, whom Mar calls “Pip,” clings to her without a word. The boy, Elric, doesn’t trust her, but follows. And Mar—Mar watches her like a wolf pup learning to believe in the moon.

There were others in the city. Scavvers. Militia remnants turned feral. And worse things. On the third day, they hear it. Voices. Laughter—ugly, brittle things echoing from an overpass overhead. Having the children hide before they fully register the sound. A gutted mag-train, split open like a tin husk, offering enough shadow to disappear in. She kneels with Pip tucked to her chest and whispers for silence.

Boots clang on steel. Harsh voices.

“…said there was a drop crate here—”

“—ain’t nothin’ left but bones in this sector.”

“Check anyway. Saw fresh smoke three klicks south. Someone’s lighting fires.”

A pause. Then “You hear that?”

A silence follows. Long. Tense. The woman holds Pip close. The child’s breath is barely a whisper. Elric squeezes Mar’s hand till his knuckles goes white. Clanging boots step closer. Then—a shriek. Gunfire. Shouting. One of the men screams, a sound not born of wounds but of sheer animal panic. The others curse, trying to bolt away. Something huge moves across the overpass, rattling rebar and steel. The children flinch at every sound, afraid they’ll be found, trying to keep silent.

When the noise fades, she rises slowly, passing Pip to Mar before peering through a jagged hole in the side of the train. Nothing remains on the overpass but a single smoldering shape. Too large to be human.

They wait for what feels like hours till they move along the compartments of the wrecked train. Finding a tarp as they shuffle down it, using it to cover up holes in its haul when they make camp near the caboose. A small fire crackles low, more smoke than heat, fed with splinters of what must’ve once been cargo pallets.

Pip sits nearest the warmth, knees tucked to his chest, his too large coat wrapped around him like a cocoon. He draws lines in the dust with one finger—first a lopsided bird, then a strange figure with wings like blades. The woman watches him from where she’s crouched, mending a torn strap on Mar’s pack.

“Where did you see that?” she asks softly.

Pip looks up, blinking. His voice is barely able to be heard above the wind. “He walks there,” he says, pointing toward the dark overhang of the broken skyway above.

Mar stiffens slightly, glancing that way, then back at the woman.

“He says things sometimes,” she mutters, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “Dreams, mostly. We think maybe he got sick back in the ash runs. Saw something. Could be nothing.”

Elric, ever silent, adds a twig to the fire and stares into the flame. The woman doesn’t press, only looking back at Pip with a small nod.

“Dreams remember things before we do,” she replies. “Sometimes they get to the truth first.”

Pip seems to like that, leaning closer to her. She lets him, gently wrapping the jacket tighter around his shoulders as he dozes off, head resting against her side. Elric watches, his frown softening. Not quite trust. But something less hard. That night, when the wind howls and ash falls like snow, the woman stays awake and listens. Something is walking out there.

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

By morning, the ash has fallen into pale drifts against the train’s edge. The fire is out, only a smudge of warmth lingers. The woman rises first, shifting Pip to lay with Elric, careful not to wake the children.  Moving with soundless steps to the train’s jagged opening and peers out. The sky is a sickly bronze, the kind that smells of charged ions and rain that burns. Nothing stirs along the overpass above, though soot-black feathers drift down from where crows once nested. She listens. Wind only. Behind her, Pip coughs in his sleep. Dry. Ragged. They need water.

Gently she wakes them up, gathering their packs before departing from the train. Heading west, toward where old utility maps in her half-recovered memory suggest there may have once been a water treatment substation. The ruins grow thicker there, taller. Buildings collapsed inward like dying trees. She leads them down a trench between sunken walls, past the husks of vehicles half-submerged in fused slag.

Suddenly, coming to a halt as they barely hear it, a sound different than the ruin’s usual sighs. Voices. Low. Chanting. Pressing them to a wall, one arm barring Elric, the other gently tugging Mar and Pip behind a rusted street hauler. From the alley’s far end, torchlight glimmers.

A procession. At least a dozen figures, barefoot and soot-smeared, wearing remnants of flak gear painted in crude runes. Some carry banners—jagged metal poles lashed with bones and faded icons. Others drag chains. In the center, a body. Or what’s left of one. Bound to a slab, its limbs twitching spasmodically. The woman covers Pip’s eyes.

“Elric,” she whispers, voice tight. “Where do they gather?”

He points mutely to a nearby structure: a shattered chapel, or what might have once been one, before rebar sprouted from its dome and rust claimed its sigils. They wait until the group vanishes inside. The chanting deepens. A low mechanical hum underpins it now. Machinery? A generator? Her head turns slightly.

There—just past the ruin’s edge—half-buried behind a collapsed wall, a vent pipe, weeping condensation. Water. She gestures quickly. They dart from cover to cover, weaving through rubble. Peeling back a sheet of twisted siding, revealing a sump tank collecting the condensation. It’s old, but clear. She tests it with a finger to her lips, tongue sampling. Clean enough from the readings her synthetic biology gives. They take turns drinking in silence.

Pip pulls her hand, pointing to something off to the side. “Look.”

She turns—and sees it. A mural, chipped and ancient, partially obscured by grime and burn marks. Painted across the wall of the chapel’s outer wall, it shows a winged warrior in gold. A giant, face noble and severe, holding a book in one hand and a blade in the other. Around him, angels with golden halos battle serpents of smoke. The words below, faded but legible in parts: “SANGUINIUS.”

Elric stares. “We’ve seen pictures like that. In the old reader’s den.”

Mar nods, quiet. “He was one of the good ones. I think.”

The woman steps closer, fingers brushing the flaking pigment. A jolt. A flicker of sensation not her own. Fire. Blood. A golden-winged figure falling, broken. A voice whispering an oath older than memory. Then it’s gone. She staggers back.

“What is it?” Mar asks.

“I don’t know,” the woman answers, her voice barely above a breath.

Behind them, the chanting crescendos. Metal shrieks. A scream. Pip starts crying, small and silent.

Standing up, eyes hardening. “We’re not staying here.”

Allowing Pip to climb onto her back as they shuffle away, mindful not to make sound as to not alert the inhabitants of the chapel’s ruins

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

That night, they take shelter beneath in the cellar of a destroyed shop, wrapped in an old mylar blanket and each other’s quiet. The children sleep deeply after the day’s strain. Keeping watch, glancing up towards the stars, what’s left of them beyond the smoke—and whispers a question to the dark.

“What has happened since I went under?” No answer. But far above, beyond the burning sky, something moves. A vessel. Crashing, bleeding fire. And within it… an angel.

[saw3amanda]

The thing is, Clark doesn’t even like coffee. Yet there sits a shitty drip coffee maker, glass carafe and everything, on his worn linoleum countertop. The office was throwing it out, as they had recently upgraded to some single-serve machine (pods full of damp coffee grounds soon filled the break room trash can, and Clark has to hold back a gag every time he passes it) and was giving away their old one.

Clark stares at the chipped black paint on the coffee maker from his bed. Gentle morning light filtered through his curtains in his studio apartment, and Clark turned to watch how the glow and shadows played along Bruce’s bare back. HIs hand starts reaching out of its own accord, determined to feel if the sunlight had warmed Bruce’s skin. But millimeters above a scarred, broad expanse, Clark stops and lets his hand hover.

Because him and Bruce? They don’t do that. There’s no loving caresses, no morning kisses with horrible breath. Each touch is purposeful, yanking off shirts and ripping down zippers. There’s slamming against walls and hungry hands, and, if Clark is really lucky, rough kisses and wine-stain marks left on his neck. Bruce is, if nothing else, an efficient man, so Clark knows why they do this. Bruce will come in after patrol, peppered with bruises, and push Clark against the wall. Or Clark will hover over the entrance to the Batcave after flying halfway across the world for a tsunami, screaming of those he could not save ringing through his head, until Bruce will let him in. They aren't gentle, and they aren’t romantic, and Clark has almost gotten used to having this. Tantalus finally gripping onto the fruit to take a bite, and having it yanked away after the first taste.

Because he wants it all. He wants to cook for Bruce in the early hours of the morning after patrol. He wants to wrap gently around him in bed, for no reason other than he wants to be close, and he wants forehead kisses. He wants to soothe Bruce from nightmares and have dinners with Bruce’s kids. He wants Bruce to look at him with a soft smile and gentle eyes.

He wants to make Bruce coffee in the morning. 

And so the coffee maker sits in Clark’s kitchen, glass glinting as if to make sure Clark can’t ignore it. 

Clark sighs and lays back in the bed with a thump. He glances over to Bruce, sheets pushed around his torso and the rise and fall of his hips,  If this is all he gets, he will gorge himself on these small moments. Clark zeroes in on Bruce’s heart rate (something that is halfway to an obsession at this point. He’ll find himself reaching for the steady beating multiple times a day, just to check, he tells himself. Just to check.) and realizes the tempo has increased too much for Bruce to still be asleep.

Clark doesn’t rouse him with doting kisses on his neck, or wrapping his arms around his waist. He doesn’t thread his hand through Bruce’s foppish hair and he certainly doesn’t run his fingers lightly down his back.

So Clark waits. He glances around his room, something to distract him from gazing at Bruce with what he is sure is an entirely too honest face. His eyes catch on the glare of the coffee-machine in the kitchen once again and he feels his heart pick up its pace.

It was an impulse decision to bring it back to his apartment, fueled by some pipe dream that maybe he could be something for Bruce besides a stress-reliever. He regrets it immensely. Every time he saw it, it was a stark reminder of what he couldn’t have and hopes that would never be realized. He should just throw the damn thing away. Clark rubs his hands over his face and sighs heavily, then glaces over to Bruce. Soft grey eyes peer up at him.

“G-goodmorning,” Clark stammers, feeling caught.

“Goodmorning.” Bruce says, low and even. 

Neither of them move, and for a moment the two meet eyes. In moments like these, where Clark is not only looking, but he’s being seen, that he has hope. He feels it flutter in his chest now as he takes in Bruce’s pillow wrinkled face and sleep-laden expression. 

Clark wants to be brave in love. He wants to reach out and try and not be ashamed if he fails. He wants to stand on that precipice and see if he’s caught when he falls. And as Clark stares, he smiles gently, and swears he sees something reflected in Bruce’s eyes. Bruce breaks contact and looks away, and the moment should be gone. The ache in Clark’s chest should dissipate, and yet he can see a light flush in Bruce’s cheeks.

Maybe Clark can be brave. If Bruce doesn’t leave, if he stays in the bed for one more minute, Clark will ask him. 

So Clark waits, counting silently along with the beat of Bruce’s heart. He stares up at the ceiling, the glow of sunlight trapped in his curtains, down at his hands. He avoids and he waits.

Bruce shuffles to sit up in bed around the 45 second mark, and Clark’s heart drops. But Bruce simply props his pillow up and lounges, glancing over.

“Clark,” Bruce clears his throat. 50, 51. “Are you..alright?”

Desperate to not lose count, Clark holds up a finger. 58, 59, 60.

He finally turns and faces Bruce, only to see a softly furrowed brow and concerned eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

His heart drops and Clark wants to be brave. He can feel each word lodged in his throat, ready to be spit out, and distantly he’s aware that he is simply about to ask if Bruce wants coffee, as any mid-westerner raised properly would. But he knows Bruce, despite the distance the vigilante tries to create. He knows what this invitation would mean to both of them.

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, he thinks.

“Bruce, would you like some coffee?”

Bruce schools his expression immediately and Clark feels the wind whipping his clothes as he falls.  Clark glances down at his hands curled in his lap, and he waits and he waits. He hears Bruce clear his throat once, twice.

“I would.”

Clark feels a grin lift his lips, unbidden, and he laughs a gentle huffing thing.

“Yeah?” He looks over at Bruce and sees a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Let me, um, let me get that started then.”

He lifts the sheet and quickly walks over to the nearest pile of clothes (he may have superspeeded a bit) to grab a shirt. He throws it on and walks towards the kitchen, hearing a shout of, “It better not be that awful bottled shit you drink, Kent!”

Clarks laughs again, giddy, and yells back, “Shucks Bruce, I had just picked some up at the gas station for you!”

CLark moves around his kitchen, grabbing a mug and the bag of grounds he had picked up the day prior, before moving over to the coffee machine. His coffee experience is limited to glass bottles of cream and sugar with the barest hint of coffee in only the direst of circumstances (days of no sleep or after battles with kryptonite), so he tries to emulate the movements he’s seen at the office. He dutifully fills the carafe with water and pours it into the machine, then reaches over to grab one of the filters he had stolen from work. After successfully filling the filter with grounds, he reaches over to flip the switch and … nothing. He hears a teasing huff from behind him.

Bruce leans against the counter and Clark marvels at how quietly the man moves. Bruce forwent a shirt, standing only in boxers. Clark stares for a moment, taking in sharp hip bones, a stark v-line, and pale skin before realizing Bruce had spoken.

“I’m sorry?” Clark asks and tears his eyes away back to safety.

Bruce huffs once more.

“I said the machine wasn’t plugged in.”

Clark flushed and quickly went to plug it in, fumbling on the way there. He tried once more to push the button, and lo and behold, the machine started with a small whirr. Coffee collected and dripped into the glass carafe, the sound filling the silence left in the kitchen.

The light had shifted to something brighter, heartier as it fell through Clark’s windows. It hit the side of Bruce’s face and Clark let himself look unabashedly, for once. He felt almost hedonistic, basking in the presence of a sleep-warm Bruce and the morning light.

“So you’re a big coffee drinker, huh?” Bruce said, a smile playing at his lips.

“Rao, no.” Clark protests. “I just thought it might be nice for when I have, uh, guests over.”

Clark can see the ghost of a smirk and has never felt more transparent. He takes the leap.

“You’ve never stayed.” 

“You’ve never asked.” Bruce replies and the two let that hang in the air.

“I wanted you to一 want you to.” Clark breaks the silence with a sheepish smile. “I just never thought you’d want the morning-afters.”

Bruce moves to grab a mug from the counter and starts to fill his cup up. He takes a sip, and Clark knows that the coffee is too damn hot just as he knows Bruce needs a second to process. And he’s more than happy to wait.

“I wasn’t sure of the parameters of … this. So I erred on the side of caution.”

Clark stares at him for a moment, trying to decipher what Bruce meant. Reading Bruce has become a skill (an artform) that he’s honed over years. He tries to rid himself of a hopeful bias as he discerns what Bruce meant, but it almost sounds like一

“I was happy to take what I could get too.” Clark says softly. He can feel every desire he has bubbling in his chest, fueled by hope. He wants to say it all, but he swallows down his words. He couldn’t break this fragile moment. Now was not the time. But there would be a right time, Clark knew now. 

They let the minute stretch quietly, both content. Bruce takes another sip of coffee and grimaces.

“Clark, this is terrible.”

Clark laughs, a bright, surprised thing and looks over at Bruce. Both men are smiling, carrying a lightness that Clark hadn’t seen before. 

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, but you are the hand I grip as we slip off the edge. Clark thinks.  

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #29: Conscience

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, stabbing

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

When his eyes fluttered open, Heather was right there. 

She was right on top of him. In her hand, she held a knife.

He was too stunned to even scream. But he really, really wanted to! Because why the fuck was she there? Oh God. He was so close to her. She was so close to him. His pulse went machine-gun fast. He could smell the orange blossom soap on her skin, the conditioner in her hair, the faint coffee scent of her sweater. He thought, for a moment, that he was dreaming, but this was too vivid to be a nightmare.

He swallowed. His throat was raw, arid and scratchy. He wanted to beg but he couldn't even bring himself to move. His limbs felt like they were wrapped in cellophane.

She pressed the knife lightly against his shirt. The point of the blade twisted against fabric.

His breathing slowed, the longer he stared at it. He was not in any danger, he realized, not any worse danger than before. If she was going to kill him, he didn’t mind dying again.

Well, then, this was a walk in the park! This was a slice of pie. Skittles and beer and vanilla ice cream. Life was going great. He was out of the basement. Everything was going to be okay.

He could even see sunshine! The curtains no longer covered the window. From his left, light spilled over the window ledge with reckless grace. The living room was much less dim and dreary. He could even see the blue sky, a merry robin-egg shade stretching over the snow. Jackie could get drunk on that sight.

She narrowed her eyes, as if just noticing he was awake. “You're quiet.”

He shook his head and left it at that. He felt much better, compared to last night. Sleeping in the basement was hard. He would wake up in bursts and starts, easily startled by a noise he’d imagined or a spider darting across the wall. This was his first deep rest in a while.

“I was checking if you were asleep,” she said.

Jackie nodded distantly, already thinking of other things.

Just then, the doorbell chimed. She cleared her throat and stood up, off the sofa, and walked around the corner. The door opened. He didn’t get up. Back then, he would have taken this opportunity for escape with eager arms, but escape was a distant pipe dream now. He was so much older, so much more exhausted. Shameful, to give in so easily, but…

Outside the window, a cardinal flitted across the snow. He closed his eyes and put his head back down. The sofa was so comfortable. Shameful, this docile sort of life, but he was happy.

The front door was not far from the living room. Jackie could hear the faint murmur of conversation. Nobody he knew, nobody he could recognize.

It was brief. Only a couple of words were exchanged, then the door was shut again.

There was the dull crunch of footsteps in the snow, and the lock clicked into place. He heard more footsteps, echoing against the wood floors. Outside, a bird tittered its song, piecing together a hesitant melody. Branches crackled in the cold.  

He heard a heavier thump, closer to him. Jackie started upright. There was a white box at the foot of the sofa. Kind of like the boxes bakeries used for cakes. It was heavy, judging from the sound, but not too big. Only about five inches tall, five inches wide. There was no label on it, no shipping company, not even an address.

Heather hadn’t put the knife down. Did the visitor notice? Did they not care? Her stare was boring holes into him. She stepped closer, until they were no more than a rat’s-tail apart, and he did nothing.

Before he could even register what had happened, he flinched. There was a blur of movement. A sharp motion. The ache in his chest flared up to a burst, and he clutched the wound on instinct. A spurt of blood dripped down the knife and across the curve of her hand. She had stabbed him. He could hear his pulse get weaker, feel its sad convulsions in his throat.

“A—ah. Shit.” He would never get used to the pain of dying, no matter how often it happened. He pressed a shaky hand to the knife’s handle. “Good morning t—to you too.”

Heather made a slight, small choking sound. Her hair hung down like torn rags around her face, brushing the edges of his jaw. She staggered, then… put her head down on his shoulder. Tears wetted his shirt. Their cold, salty sting bled through the fabric to his skin.

“Oh.” He cringed. This was not his idea of a good morning.

“Jesus…” She shuddered against the crook of his neck, against his chest.

“Yeah. It happens. Do you want a hug? Or… what’s in the box?”

"Morphine.”

Not all her drugs were homemade, then. “Do you want some morphine too?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “Yes to both, please.”

He didn’t know how to administer morphine, or how to reach them with Heather leaning on his shoulder, so he settled for the hug. Around her waist, around the thick maroon fabric of her sweater.

He patted her back, a rhythmic motion below her shoulder blades. “There, there. It’s okay. Why are you sad?”

“I—“ Her voice hitched. “I stabbed you.”

“I’m fine. I’m immortal, remember? I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not that, it’s—I don’t know why I’m being so cruel to you, Jackie. I don’t know! I wish you would—” Another hitch. “But it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just scared.”

“Yeah…” He glanced down at the knife. His slow-dripping blood had an odd viscosity to it, and it was so dark that it nearly shone black. The blade was embedded so deep in him that it was barely visible, rimmed by the slightest glint of light. It was one of those kitchen knives. They usually came in a set. Three silver circles dotted the handle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even want to keep you here. I was going to kill you. But I don’t—what was I supposed to do? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I forgive you.”

“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re saying whatever you think will make me happy. You hate me. You should hate me.”

Such a picky girl. Take the forgiveness and leave, or else say nothing, because there was nothing he could say back. If he kept acting cute, she would hurt him regardless, and if he started spitting insults at her, she would probably bash his head into the wall. But it wasn’t his opinion she was searching for—no, he was a prop for her guilty conscience, and he’d have to play along.

“I love you, Heather.” He pressed up against the side of her face. “Don’t go.”

“You…” She let go of the knife. This shifting caused his wound to sting anew, but he made an effort not to wince. “You don’t love me. I hurt you.”

“I don’t care. Just… don’t leave me alone again. Please. It was horrible. I don’t want to go back.”

“I won’t.”

A prop, a perfect prop, never complaining or talking back. A doll, a sweet and shallow toy. Maybe that was what she wanted. Jackie probably couldn’t do that for her, but he could try.

The doorbell rang again.

She sat up straight almost instantly, tearing away from him. He felt a dizzy ache clog up his throat, as her heat left his skin. She scrambled off the sofa, conjured up yet another tissue. After impatiently rubbing at her eyes, she threw it on the coffee table. Off and around the corner she went.

There was a shrill sound—it was the door swinging open. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Hello, officer.”

Officer. 

Jackie froze like a deer. 

He clutched the knife still stuck between his ribs until his knuckles felt sore. If he screamed now—no, Heather would lock him alone again, and she’d kill the witnesses, whatever it took to silence him. He stared at the crumpled tissue instead. A torn, crushed, fragile thing. So immaterial in the glaring sunlight.

“Hello.” The voice was rough but reedy, husky but not deep. “I wanted to ask a few questions—“

“Questions?” Heather’s voice was calm, even confident. “Ask away, officer. Is something wrong?”

“There’s been a disappearance in this neighbourhood.” Jackie’s heart pounded like snares in a metal crusher. “Have you heard anything about Matthew Markham?”

Oh. Of course. The dead body. The unlucky guy who had annoyed Heather. Of course nobody was looking for Jackie. He swallowed the sinking feeling in his gut and continued to listen.

“No, I haven’t heard anything. My apologies.”

“That’s alright. We've been searching the area, you know how it goes. Would you mind if we talked inside your home?” There was a tiny creak—Jackie imagined him leaning forward, trying to push through the doorway.

“Do you have a warrant, officer?”

There was a curt, painfully obvious pause. “I'll return in two weeks or so. I appreciate your help.”

“Okay, officer. I hope you can find Matthew.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

The door closed. He wasn’t a dirty cop, then. Not some pig. What luck. Jackie wanted to kick the guy. If only he were a brute! The law was fair, but it was not always kind. If only he’d barged in, shoved Heather aside, and taken Jackie home…

Home? What home? The apartment was gone. Repossessed, returned to the landlords, rendered to dust and white-wash wood. This was his home now.

“Jackie!” Heather ran back into the room. All that confident composure had crumbled away. Panic warbled in her voice. “Fuck! What should I do?”

He sat up straighter. “Why are you asking me?”

“Who the fuck else should I ask? Matthew?” She began to pace beside the table, back and forth, tracing her steps over and over. She ran a tensed hand through her hair. “Shit, shit, this is bad.” She paused her pacing to glance at him. “Don’t just stare at me. You have a plan, right?”

“Not really. Sorry."

This was not the answer she wanted, but she finally stopped running laps across the living room. Instead, she stood against the wall opposite him, looking more haggard than ever. Jackie seriously doubted that this mysterious cop with a missing warrant could rescue him. If Heather thought he was in danger of being discovered, she wouldn’t simply give up and let him go. She’d stuff him in a closet, or hide him in her trunk, or lock him up somewhere equally uncomfortable. It was in his best interests to nudge her towards a plan that didn’t involve being shoved into small spaces.

“Heather. Do you trust me?”

She laughed without mirth, her head bent down, her ruffled hair falling over her eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “I get it. It doesn’t matter. More importantly—you have a lot of money, right? You’ve got a rich daddy who up and died or something. That’s why you can afford this house and all those drugs and still never go to work. That’s how you got all those nice chiffon scarves. Am I wrong?”

“You’re… uh, you’re right. I live off a trust fund. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Lucky guess.” Nobody who earned their own living had time to play with pharmaceutical drugs. ”Listen, if you’ve got the money, we could just leave. Go to Hawaii, maybe.”

“Leave… how? We can’t drive to Hawaii. Can’t take a plane, either. I don’t have your passport, it would look suspicious. Perhaps we could go to…”

“Kentucky?”

“No. I was thinking of somewhere temporary, like…”

“A hotel?”

“A hotel!” She clapped her hands together. “You sly devil. That’s perfect. They won’t suspect a thing.”

Sly devil. That was a new one. Sounded coy. Very suave. Better nickname than subject, anyhow. “When are we leaving, then?”

“I’d say… three days to pack, then we can leave right away.”

And he hoped, crossed his heart and hoped, that this would not backfire. Just one nice thing. Just one streak of luck. Lord knew he needed a break. He just needed this to go right. Just one good day.

“By the way,” she said, gesturing to his chest, “you’ve got a little something…” 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He wrenched the knife from his heart. His blood soaked the front of his shirt and smudged on his hands. For a minute, he could not feel his pulse—how odd. He did not have a heartbeat at all.

Heather took the knife from his hands. Although she hesitated, as if she wanted to speak, she left the room quietly.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation

@creppersfunpalooza

[d0tt0re1smyw1fe]

ᴬᴷᴿᴬˢᴵᴬ || ᴾʸᴿᴿᴴᴵᶜ ⱽᴵᶜᵀᴼᴿʸ {wriothesley x [Fem!] Reader]

CHAPTER 1 : ᴾᴵˢᵀᴬᴺᵀᴴᴿᴼᴾᴴᴼᴮᴵᴬ

PISTANTHROPHOBIA  /// (???) 

—————

Murder is intentional killing someone. When you kill somebody, and you meant to kill {Meaning it wasn't an accident} that would be classified as Murder. 

  A common thought that comes with Murder is Knifes, guns, and poison. All of those are valuable tools of self defense, all can be used to harm. 

I meant it with my entire being.

It was completely and entirely deserved. Those are the consequences of his multiple vile acts. Considering the fact that nobody was going to do anything, It was only right for me to settle this.

That failure of a man and pretender of a father knew he wasn't supposed to be near me, yet he still was. I hope that rotten piece of shit is burning down there in hell, forever engulfed in both the agonizing fire, and the constant reminder of his ever prominent sin. 

"According to the judgement of the Oratrice Mecanique D'Analyse Cardinale, Madam Y/N is declared guilty for the murder of (FATHERS NAME). She will be sent down to the fortress at once." Neuvillettes booming voice created a roar of excitement and discussion across the (quite ignorant) audience.

I stood there, not in shock nor in grief, but rather in rage— a sweltering rage. The hypocrisy of this flawed judicial system never fails to make my blood boil. I shut my eyes. 

The Oratrice Mecanique D'Analyse Cardinale is pathetic. Fontaine is labeled the "nation of justice", but its justice is black and white. Having to use a machine whom in-which cannot feel empathy for individuals nor see beyond the tunnel vision they were programed to have is beyond disgusting.

"Oh-Impartial Iudex" my ass, he HIDES and cowers behind that ruthless machine. "It was a gift from the hydro archon!" Some would cry in response, but hiding behind your religion when faced with criticism is cowardly and rather strange for a nation that seeks truth and justice. Questions create progress. Progress betters the livelihood of those who art innocent and pure, without a single sin held in their hearts. You will get nowhere without thought.

I tensed as I felt a presence behind me. It was (presumably) a guard, coming to take me away towards the prison. I was correct. I felt the cold metal of the cuffs wrap around my wrist, tight enough to cause those reddish-pink indents that we all know of.

I spared no glance to the guard behind me, keeping my eyes forward as how they always are—metaphorically , obviously. 

///

The fortress reeked of Cholera and rust. This place was filthy, and looked like a breeding ground for pestilence and plague. I scrunched up my nose.

I had just been temporarily blinded by the bright light of a Kamera for my mugshot. That area was the only well-light area of the fortress, at-least— from what I've seen so far.

Now walking down a significantly darker hallway, water dripped from ceiling and occasionally it hit me. There was no lightbulbs or lamps like the other rooms, just...strangely illuminated panels of glass.

I shook off the thought. Eventually—after much walking—we reached the core of the fortress, the lobby if you will. In the middle, there was this...tall pipe-looking thing. "What is that?" I inquired, pointing towards it. 

"Thats The dukes office." The guard answered, that was the first time I had heard her talk. She was medium height, with magenta hair that was short and choppy. It's probably short for efficiency. Her eyes have dark grey-purple bags around them, sleep deprivation present in the glint of her eyes. She had a flat nose as if it had been broken before, and a bruise on her lower cheek—maybe because of a blow from an inmate? She seems as she has worked here for a while, maybe in her early 40's?

"Ah, I see." I had never seen the duke of meropide, to think he'd reside in such an...oh whatever. I nodded my head, shutting my eyes as I did so.

She then showed me around and with each room she explained to me their purpose and what to do in them. 

"And now to our least important room; the Pankration arena." The arena was loud, with the shouts of many prisoners almost masking the guards—who I recently learned was named "Lillian"—voice. Inside of the ring, two men boxed with utmost concentration—actually only one was concentrated, the other one was quite sloppy. 

The sloppy one was bald and slightly tan. He was however, quite muscular. He had a few tattoos from what I could see, all sailor themed. He must've worked at a dock previously. 

The concentrated one however, stood out from the other inmates. He had black hair that almost made him look like a dog, and piercing blue eyes that make people uncomfortable when you make eye-contact. He has a few visible scars, which makes me wonder where he got them. He was also quite muscular.

"Ah, it appears The Duke has decided to fight today." She aimlessly remarked, pointing to the black haired man. Just as she had said that, the duke had knocked the other guy out with a crippling uppercut. The crowd cheered. "He always wins..." she shook her head. "Well if it wasn't obvious enough, the pankration ring is— well a fighting arena. You can bet on who might win or you can participate yourself. Personally, I don't see any reason to participate, but if you want to then do it." I nodded in response.

I heard a thumping noise to the right of me, like heavy boots walking upon the shitty metal floor. "Ah, Lillian, it's nice to see you again." I turned over to see the duke himself. His voice was as smooth as melting ice gliding upon a table. 

"It's nice to see you as-well, your grace." She nodded. I've never seen her so tense before. His eyes jerked over to me, "I assume this is a new prisoner you're showing around? Unless shes in trouble.." He ended with a chuckle, fixing his tie. He seems like a rather playful individual. 

"Mhm." She nodded, shutting her eyes as she did so.

The Duke took a step forward, then held out his hand for me to shake. "Its nice meeting you. Im glad that its on a positive note rather than a negative one." He stated with a smirk.

I stared at his hand for a little, just barely touching it while shaking his hand. I've always been quite iffy around my male counterparts, and it's always strange when they are even the slightest bit nice to me.

I assume the duke noticed my...reluctance, simply because there was a small—yet very certain—twitch in his eyebrows, and falter in his eyelids. 

I then retracted my hand and returned it back to my side. He crossed his arms over his (well-built) chest. 

Lillian noticed the stalemated conversation. "Im going to go show  Y/N her room. It was nice seeing you, your grace." She waved goodbye and grabbed my wrist as she scampered away. I like Lillian, I hope me and her become friends. 

"..." it was a quiet walk to my cell. Lillian had let go of my wrist, I almost missed her touch. "Well, here you are." It looked like any other cell.

Without a word, she left. I walked inside of my cell, knowing I would have to get used to it soon. Sitting down on the bed, I marveled at the [COLOR] blanket, for it was a lot softer than you would expect. 

I sighed, the realization that Im in prison now setting in. Do I regret it? No. If anything Im just marveled at the double standards—and they say that neuvillette is impartial, for shame! 

I scoffed and shook my head. I need to work up enough coupons to afford days off because sometimes I just...

I grew dim at the thought, shaking my head and praying it didn't happen again. 

"I should probably go to bed.." I thought mindlessly. I stood back up and took off my shoes, then lifted up the covers so I could crawl under them. I sat up, and hesitated a nightly prayer.

"The Gods have failed me then, surely they will fail me now." I said with a heart of stone. Solemnly, I lied back down.

Before I fell asleep, my mind wandered to...people. I thought of the crowd and their ignorance applause, I thought of Lillian and her mother-like-nature, and I thought of The Duke and how cold my stomach got when I was near him, How my bones racked with terror that I covered up with an indifferent glance.

Thats all men do, they hurt, they steal, they touch, and then they cry and wail when someone calls them out on it. 

I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts, riling myself up is not a good course of action, especially when Im about to sleep.

I shook off the thought, then drifted into a slumber..

————

AHHH

Idk abt yall but wriothesley reminds me of like william the bastard (Battle of hastings)

But anyways this story has been in my drafts for a while— i actually had to rewrite it bc it was so ASS OMGOODNESS IT WAS SO BAD

Anyways I hope u like the story giggle giggle

[sufficientlylargen]

Merry Crit Miss

'Tis the night before Crit Miss, and all through your house, not a sound can be heard save the click of your mouse. You scroll through your dashboard with nary a care; you've no clue that Saint Nicholas soon will be there.

You reblog your 500th Goncharov post, and continue to scroll, completely engrossed. When, from up above, there arises such clatter that you leap from your bed to see what is the matter!

In your haste, you forget you were browsing your dash - your laptop is hurled 'cross the room in a flash! It lands on its corner; you're sure it's just broke - with a crunch and a flash the machine belches smoke.

The cloud makes you dizzy, your vision gets blurry, and you lurch through the door to escape in a hurry. You misjudge the door frame, trip, stub many toes, and fall face-first forwards to land on your nose.

The main room is dark but stars flash in your vision and you feel blood drip from the site of collision. Dazed and confused you sprawl out on the ground, when you suddenly hear an odd rapping sound.

It sounds like… A horse? Or some other hoof? It's prancing and pawing up there on your roof? Oh right! You remember that something had clattered! That's why you'd jumped up, why your laptop was shattered!

And now there's a scraping noise from near the flue - Is this some weird break-in? What should you do? You grope for a lightswitch and just as it's hit, a kindly voice booms "HO, HO, OH HOLY SHIT!"

In a twinkling you realize your awful mistake as the room fills with screams and the air starts to bake. The switch which you thought ought to turn on the light was instead that which makes the gas fireplace ignite!

And now you can see, by the light of the fire, the shape of a man wrapped in flames like a pyre! He's trying to open the grate to get out, but it's stuck - rusted shut through neglect, you've no doubt.

You take up a poker and rush to the grate, Prying and trying with all of your weight to force it apart! SNAP! It breaks from the wall! And you and the flaming man to the floor fall!

The grating is hot, and it burns at your skin as you work your way out of the heap that you're in. One last shove and you're free! You stand up, and look down at the stranger who's lying, too still, on the ground.

He's dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, though a lot of it's now turned to ashes and soot. The stump of a pipe still protrudes from his teeth, While ashes encircle his head like a wreath;

The beard of his chin, once as white as the snow, is stained red with blood in the embers' dull glow, And his blankness of eye, and the twist of his head, Soon give you to know that this dude's super-dead.

With horror you notice, right in this man's chest A long metal rod is quite firmly impressed. The poker you'd grabbed when the grating was stuck! It went right through his sternum! Oh shit, you think, fuck!

In shock you lurch back, but your foot hits a snag - It's caught on the edge of late Santa's toy bag. You trip and expect to land flat on your back…

But instead you plunge into the toy-toting sack…

And that, I'm afraid, is the end of this tale, For my observational powers here fail. The toy-bag of Santa's a curious place Where infinite gifts drift in transfinite space

But without good Saint Nick there to tend to the mess What happens within it I only can guess. Perhaps you keep falling. Perhaps ground you hit. Perhaps you awaken some Thing in the pit.

The things that I do know: your house does burn down, And in its remains just one body is found. It's chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, (now stabbed and flambéed by your since-vanished self).

A lot of deer droppings are seen the next day, But nobody sees a reindeer, or a sleigh. And so this poem closes, we've come to the end. Merry Crit Miss to all!

You are not seen again.

[reddevilmcnt]

muse: slade simms [ 42, mechanic, veteran street racer ] open to: m only pls! your muse would obv have to be a street racer at some level. plot: fast and furious vibes let's goooo!!! based off of the race wars scene; slade's ex-partner ended up in a violent accident that caused significant memory loss, including most of their relationship. now, slade is slowly trying to help them remember everything.

The desert stretched endlessly, rolling dunes shimmering under the blazing sun, air wavering with heat, and a small, light breeze carrying the scent of dry Earth and scorched sand. Desert dirt billowed in clouds around the sleek black tires of Slade's car------- a roaring beast of American muscle. It was a 1970 Dodge Charger, jet black with polished chrome accents that caught the light like shards of a mirror. Its rumbling V8 engine was a growl of raw power, and the dual exhaust pipes spit occasional bursts of fury as Slade eased it forward, one hand casually resting on the wheel. His body reclined in the leather seat, exuding an effortless, rugged confidence, but beneath the surface, his chest clenched. His heart scrambled with a cocktail of hope and dread; he knew better than to dream too big... memories lost weren’t easily recovered, and even the doctor’s words replayed in his head like a warning. To keep expectations grounded, realistic. However, his love, even for an ex-partner, couldn't be so easily snuffed out. The endless desert road finally widened into a massive open expanse, buzzing with energy. A pandemonium of cheers and revving engines filled the air as they rolled into the scene, hundreds of vehicles glinting under harsh sun, forming a chaotic gridlock around the makeshift raceway. Massive billboards, spray-painted with bold black and yellow letters reading "RACE WARS," loomed overhead. The crowd was fully alive with excitement, a sea of bodies surging between the rows of cars. Experienced racers flaunted their machines, each one a masterpiece of engineering and decadence. Sleek Lamborghinis gleamed with metallic wraps that shifted colors in the light, their angular bodies slicing through the crowd like predators. Suped-up Skylines and Supras, fitted with custom wide-body kits and neon underglows, hummed with modified turbochargers that promised impossible speeds. Each car had been fine-tuned to perfection------- engine swaps, nitrous kits, and oversized spoilers hinted at the sheer chaos they could unleash. Slade slowed the Charger, the low rumble of its engine diverging from the high-pitched whines of European and Japanese speed demons. His companion’s question broke through the storm of his thoughts, pulling his gaze from the scene. Slade tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement crossing his sharp features before a slow, confident smirk claimed his lips. At their curiosity, his golden-brown skin caught the sun’s glow as he turned toward them, voice low-toned but dripping with assured pride. "...Come here? We invented this place."

[witheringhouls]

An odd to life chapter 5 is out-!

Preview below the cut

Steve wakes up groggy sore and aching, feeling like a small gnarly creature was trying to claw it's way out of his skull with blunt scraping nails. Air thick viscid and slimy with a putrid acidic smell clogging his throat and slowly suffocating him, his bedroom smelt like a food bin that had been left to fester in the middle of summer, he gags, gently prying himself out of Eddie's tight embrace, climbing across the floor towards the bedroom door, hoping for respite from the stench curling itself around his lungs until they burst, quickly discovering - much to his dismay- that he was the one who reeked so viciously. His head pounded even at the ghost of the idea he try and remember why.

He stumbles towards the bathroom door, so close to the bedroom it was almost baffling it wasn't made an ensuite or at least have an entrance through the room, crashing the solid sturdy wood behind him, locking it with the rusty metal bar that stuck and gripped as he slid it along with screeches and squeals which grated at his hearing, clicking into place surprisingly quietly. He turns the shower on so it can heat up while he undresses, hoping the piping hot water will wash away last nights ill decisions, tendrils of steam swarming the enclosed space, hiding cracking discoloured paint, the binbags duck taped over the massive hole in the wall where the tiles had collapsed, the cracked dirtied mirror ,the taps and sink diseased and dirtied with tooth paste stains and rust. Water beats down on him and he can feel it burning through layers of grease in his hair and the sweat on his back like millions of sparking cigarettes being dropped from the shower head sparking and simmering out on his back. Skin red and almost flaking, scrubbed vehemently , nail scrapes in a pattern against his back, intricacies of lines that will not wash away. 

He'd promised Ed's he'd stop drinking, he had stopped drinking, last night was just an anomaly that he couldn't let happen again.

Having neglected to bring any clothes with him, he tightly wrapped a  warm towel from the radiator about his waist, water dripping in a puddle at his feet, running down in fast flowing rivets, diverted in different direction by hair, but all ending up streaming and pattering into the dirtied grit between the tiles. Early morning sun peaks through the frosted window and penetrates the darkness, shimmering off the droplets on Steve's skin, the cord for the light hanging uselessly by the door, the light had been broken for months and neither him nor Eddie had gotten around to fixing it, making do in the dark, it was strangely peaceful.

The screaming lock gives way and Steve exits the bathroom, shuffling across the floor with his bundle of clothes in his arms, holding them as far away from him as possible, and holding his breathe for good measure, throwing them in the washing machine without checking the pockets.

[consanguinitatum]

David Tennant's Obscure Performances: His Involvement with Read Not Dead (pt 4) - The Insatiate Countess

And here, my friends, is the fulfillment of my promise - the last of the four threads about David Tennant and his involvement with the Read Not Dead (heretofore called RND) project at Shakespeare's Globe. This will concern the second of the two unattributed plays David did for RND and is the last of the two never-before-talked-about-in-the-fandom plays he did with them. If you feel like you need to catch up on the first three parts and understand a little bit of the history behind the Read Not Dead project before continuing with this one, go here for the first part about Edward III, here for the second part about The Fleer, and here for the third part about What You Will. Then come on back!

With all those links out of the way, we can continue with the last of the four plays - and the second one which I believe new to the David Tennant fandom.

When we last left our intrepid Scots thespian David T., he'd just wrapped up a staged reading of John Marston's What You Will for the RND. He had managed to fit the reading in between the April-May 2002 and the July-August 2002 runs of his then-current hit play, Lobby Hero.

Between then and November of 2002 (the next time he stepped on the Bear Gardens stage to do another RND staged reading) David had been seen on a number of other projects. In 2002 alone he'd been featured on an episode of Foyle's War and in the short film Nine And 1/2 Minutes by Josh Appignanesi. Lobby Hero had got him noticed; his star was on the rise. He was getting busier (and he'd get busier still when his next two plays, 2003's The Pillowman and 2005's Look Back In Anger, as well as his seminal role as Peter Carlisle in 2004's Blackpool, would catapult him into the public consciousness.) And - of course! - Doctor Who was also barreling down the pipe. But all that was still in his future.

David Tennant in (clockwise from top left): Foyle's War, Nine And 1/2 Minutes, The Pillowman, and Look Back in Anger

No, for right now it is Sunday, 10 November 2002, and we're along for the ride as David arrives at the Globe for the morning's balls to the wall rehearsal of the Tony Bell-directed John Marston play, The Insatiate Countess, before getting on stage at the Bear Gardens Theatre. We don't know whether David signed up for this one (or any of them, for that matter)! If so, he received his script a few days before, but if he was drafted at the last minute he would've received his script only hours before taking the stage that afternoon! Either way, he was surely up for it.

In the previous thread on What You Will I spoke about playwright John Marston. But this play - The Insatiate Countess - is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Marston started writing the tragicomedy in 1608 and had the first act and part of the second written before - oops! - he was thrown in jail. Following Marston's imprisonment, the play languished for a while, and when Marston was released and took holy orders he wanted NO part of finishing it. Two other writers took it upon themselves to finish the draft: actor William Barksted, and Lewis Machin. This multi-authored approach caused significant issues - the other authors juggled the names of the characters, for one - and suffice to say, it really isn't a "finished" play in the way we'd envision the meaning of the term. It finally got published in 1613.

Scholars have had a lot to say about the play's provenance, and there are many different editions of it. It's also widely studied because it's been acknowledged as highly unusual for its time - since it shows female characters driven explicitly by sexual desire.

According to UK Theatre Web, The Insatiate Countess is "a play dripping with innuendo from its very first lines [as] sexual obsession leads to murder as Isabella, widowed Countess of Swevia, wastes little time in remarrying before running off with another man. And then another. And yet another." And, as is usual for plays of this period, there is also a second comic plot going on. "Meanwhile, two new brides coolly frustrate their husbands' wife-swapping attempts at revenge."

So...if the uniqueness of The Insatiate Countess has intrigued you and you'd like to read (one version of) a full text of the play, you can find it here:

That link will take you to the version of the play used during the RND performance reading.

But back to that staged reading. When RND staged it in November 2002, they stated "it was the first performance of the complete play - tragic and comic plots together - since the 17th Century." David played the role of Rogero, Count of Arsena and Massino, later Isabella’s lover. The actors all donated their time to the project for free.

And here (again thanks to the Globe Archives) is the cast list from the digitized programme for the 10 November 2002 performance:

In February 2020, the Shakespeare Institute Players (their student theatre company out of Stratford) performed The Insatiate Countess, by William Barkstead and Lewis Machin, from a draft by John Marston." There appears to be no full version available online, but here is a short snippet of it if you'd like to take a listen:

And with that, my patient listeners, we wrap up the history of David's four interactions with the Shakespeare's Globe Read Not Dead project, which brings dead plays to life. While David did only four plays, the Read Not Dead project continues to this day.

One last postscript: the performance of The Insatiate Countess was recorded - as were all four of David's staged readings with RND - though I haven't listened to it (and sadly, the archive notes the start of the audio is cut off.) You can listen to the recording of the performance and others from the series, as the recordings are archived in the Globe Archive and Library in London. Access to the archive is available by appointment only for professionals and academics affiliated with institutions of higher education.

I've listened to Edward III and The Fleer, but have yet to hear What You Will or The Insatiate Countess. On my next trip to London, I'll be sure to make time to listen to both - even though some of the audio is missing on both of those, that's all right. I'll listen to them anyway!

I hope you all have enjoyed traipsing with me down the memory lane of David Tennant's works at the RND. 'Til next time!

[theplumbnerd]

Detecting and Repairing Hidden Water Leaks: A Pro Guide by Plumbnerd

Detecting and Repairing Hidden Water Leaks: A Pro Guide by PipeMaster

Hey, plumbing enthusiasts! I'm Jack Thompson, your friendly plumber, or as you might know me, "PipeMaster." Coming at you from the vibrant city of Denver, Colorado, I've been diving into the depths of plumbing for over a decade. Today, we're unraveling the mystery of hidden water leaks. By the end of this guide, you'll be equipped to detect and conquer those sneaky leaks like a true plumbing detective. The Stealthy Culprit: Hidden Water Leaks Hidden leaks are like water's mischievous sidekick, causing damage silently. In this guide, we'll explore the art of detecting and repairing these elusive leaks to keep your home dry and your water bills in check.

Tools and Materials You'll Need

Before we embark on our leak-hunting expedition, let's make sure you have the necessary tools and materials at your disposal: Tools: - Water Meter: To monitor water usage and detect irregularities. - Plumber's Leak Detection Kit: Includes tools like listening discs and moisture meters. - Adjustable Wrench: A versatile tool for various plumbing tasks. Materials: - Pipe sealant: for fixing minor leaks. - Pipe Insulation: To prevent future leaks in exposed pipes.

Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Monitor Water Meter - Record Baseline Usage: Note your regular water usage when no appliances are running. - Check for Spikes: Periodically check the water meter for unexpected spikes in usage, especially when no water is being actively used. Step 2: Conduct a Visual Inspection - Inspect Exposed Pipes: Check visible pipes for signs of moisture, discoloration, or corrosion. - Examine Fixtures and Appliances: Inspect faucets, toilets, and appliances connected to water for any visible leaks. Step 3: Use Plumber's Leak Detection Kit - Listen for leaks: Use listening discs to detect hissing or dripping sounds in walls or floors. - Check for Moisture: Utilize moisture meters to identify hidden leaks by detecting elevated humidity levels. Step 4: Inspect Water-Using Appliances - Examine Washing Machine Hoses: Check for bulges, cracks, or dampness in washing machine hoses. - Inspect the water heater. Look for signs of rust, corrosion, or water around the base of the water heater. Step 5: Check Underground Pipes - Monitor the the Water Meter During Inactivity: Note any movement on the water meter when no water is in use, indicating a potential underground leak. - Consult a Professional: If you suspect an underground leak, it's advisable to consult a professional plumber equipped with leak detection technology. Step 6: Repair Minor Leaks - Isolate the Leak: If you discover a minor leak, turn off the water supply to that specific area. - Apply Pipe Sealant: Clean and dry the area, then apply pipe sealant to fix the leak temporarily. Step 7: Insulate Exposed Pipes - Prevent Future Leaks: Insulate exposed pipes to protect them from temperature changes, reducing the risk of future leaks. - Use pipe insulation: Wrap insulation around pipes in areas prone to temperature fluctuations. Step 8: Regular Check-ups - Schedule Periodic Checks: Make it a routine to inspect visible pipes and check the water meter for irregularities. - Address Issues Promptly: If you notice any changes or signs of leaks during checks, address them promptly.

Additional Tips

- Educate Household Members: Inform everyone in your household about the importance of reporting and addressing leaks promptly. - Invest in Smart Leak Detectors: Consider installing smart leak detectors that can send alerts to your phone when leaks are detected. - Seek Professional Help: For complex or hidden leaks, don't hesitate to bring in a professional plumber with specialized equipment.

Conclusion

Congratulations! You've mastered the art of detecting and repairing hidden water leaks. By following these steps, you've not only safeguarded your home but also gained a bit more insight into the world of plumbing mysteries. Remember, a vigilant eye and proactive maintenance are your best allies. Happy plumbing! Read the full article

[sin-sidejob]

Inside Job + Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentines Day!! I tried to at least write a little something for the holiday since I’ve got a bit of a tradition going

Warnings: NSFW + MINORS DNI mentions of sex, vague and genderless, safe for all genders. Mentions of food and eating. Monsterfucking? Misuse of candy + absolutely gratuitous cum play and cum eating. I mean it. I wanna say machine fucking for Robotus due to that one line, “you’re about to fuck a machine!”, I love that line lmao — anyways, enjoy!

JR Scheimpough:

- he’s absolutely taking you out to an overly expensive restaurant, there may or may not be chocolate involved that you’re allergic to. He tries to go above the expectations of above and beyond, black card on fire from the amount of times he’s swiped it.

- I can see that kind of conversation where he needs to be told he doesn’t need to do so much, y’know? Something of a sweeter, softer ending with you telling him that he doesn’t need to go all out, all you want is him (plus: “so you don’t want the jewelry?” “I never said that.”)

- then just Valentine’s Day fucking where you may or may not be decked out to the nines in heart jewelry or something lacy beneath whatever red or pink outfit you’ve got on, littered with hearts in your attempts to steal his. JR’s too oblivious to realize that it’s been yours all this time.

- you’ve got him beneath you in his obscenely large bed in those custom 3k thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and he’s drained and blabbering and essentially orating his last will and testimony as you urge another after another orgasm out of him, poor little thing, empty after giving you everything to feel full. what a gift he is.

- the night ends sticky and sweaty, coated in that salty, glimmering sheen of a fresh fuck. His glasses are askew if not abandoned completely and he’s out of breath, staring at the ceiling and grinning like a fool as you curl around him, pulling up the blankets and sheets around you both and nestling up against him. JR needed the reminder of how it’s the little things that matter, not the grander gestures. He gets it when he feels your breathy little goodnight kiss against his shoulder right before you fall asleep. He gets it.

Alpha Beta Robotus:

- i can see AB’s attempts to do the cliche things he’s seen from sitcoms and realizes through personal error that it just doesn’t work — both for him being the one orchestrating things and then just shitty hijinks of things not working out

- like baking and he only realizes afterward that his hands aren’t calibrated enough for the delicate art of piping. Or when he tries to order you flowers and they don’t arrive or they’re the wrong ones, unfortunately the kind you’re allergic to. He spends too long picking out the stamens to make sure there’s no pollen that could make you ill.

- you think it’s sweet and you didn’t want or need much from him, and you’re just happy that he tried. He made an effort, and you reward him for it, showing him with your mouth wrapped around him how gestures truly speak louder than gifts, especially as you swallow him down between your thighs.

- I can see this being early in the relationship too but fuck he’s just overwhelmed and out of sorts, taking his hand and placing it where your jaw meets neck and guiding you to take him further, spouting sentences of praise in the holiday spirit littered in debauched terms to describe how he feels, how you make him feel, and how he plans to return the favor.

- he shuts up though, right about a minute or two in, after you roll his balls between your palm and gently tug and the robot man is flooding your mouth until it coats your tongue and trickles past your lips to drip down your chin and land atop your chest. He needs to learn how you’re supposed to take those valentines cliches tongue in cheek, but you supposed something between your will do for now.

Brett Hand:

- goes all out with a homemade meal then dancing but in the comfort of home, spinning you around barefoot in the grass of your backyard as the radio plays something sweet and soft

- you’re soft and warm in the moment, well fed and well loved, and you let him twirl you back into his arms underneath those fairy lights you both hung up last autumn. It’s tender and sweet and you taste it on his lips like the promise of next autumn, and the seasons to follow, threading your hand in his hair to bring him close.

- you take lead from him, no longer following, urging him back through kisses that turn wet and messy, getting him to sit atop the outside dining table as you stand between his legs and make a mess out of him. You smirk against plush, swollen lips as he whines once you palm him through those precious Simply Southern khakis with the heart embroidery, sweet man, so precious for you.

- he even moans sweet, Brett’s mouth gaping as you pump him in your fist, layering thick all those compliments you always seem to have stocked away. He cums soon, quickly, but you pay it no mind, licking your hand clean from where he’s painted it white and sticky. He carries you into the house and barely makes it to the kitchen before bending you over, knocking over the festive heart garland over the doorway as he goes, and he laughs loud at your shitty joke about how he’ll always be a heartbreaker.

Reagan Ridley:

- she’s fallen trap to your bargaining and lovely eyes once more, but this Valentine’s Day she’s in a theater watching a shitty but kinda’ good movie, popcorn rich with artificial butter, giant sodas, and sidled beside you in one of those luxe movie theaters with the larger seats.

- you press kisses to her shoulder and cheek between scenes of the movie, occupying yourself with thanking her for the outing and having fun, even though it wasn’t her idea. It’s better than being home, and hey, she still gets to wear sweats.

- her interest gets piqued though when you start rubbing at her thigh when a scene gets busy, your eyes trained on the screen as your hands busy themselves with toying with her, pulling that drawstring bow undone and sneaking your warm, smooth palm beneath to linger over the warm cotton, gently pushing to the side her panties to slide through the slick pooling at her cunt.

- Reagan’s legs widen and part in efforts to get more of your touch, her hands white-knuckling both armrests. You shush her whines and little halfhearted comments with pretty kisses, the shadows making you both seem like a cute couple, your jacket covering her lap and allowing you all the privacy in the world to go knuckle-deep and curl into her cunt, swallowing her moan with a sweet smirk. She can taste the candy on your tongue too, tart and sour and sweet in the way you make everything sweeter.

- it doesn’t take long and the action scenes from the movie and the laughing audience scattered about cover her moans and how she gushes around your hand, soaking her panties and the inner lining of her sweats. You kiss her through it and work her down until you can slide your fingers out and suck them clean, getting back to the movie and finally grabbing some popcorn, hands still sticky-sweet and glinting with that spit shine in the light reflection. Yeah, Reagan can’t say she’s having a bad Valentine’s Day at all.

Andre Lee:

- it initially starts with making those silly tissue box - valentines boxes and shitty cards and filling each other's up at work with silly little dollar store cards with cheap candy attached. Soon, as the day progresses, and every time you stop by his office or send anyone his way, he finds better cards that get bigger and bigger, some with gift cards for date activities or little homemade coupons.

-he was mid-conversation with Myc as he flitted through the coupon book and spotted the more sexual ones, seeing how they got more filthy the further the flipbook went on, prompting him to ditch the dollar store heart sunglasses and stare openly and swat away Myc as he tried to peek.

-due to the fact he already finished his work — which was a lie — he hurried over to your office and shut the door, locking it promptly as he neared and sidled between the desk and your chair, standing between your legs. "I'd like to redeem this little coupon here, hm?" he smiles, giggling light as you take it and look it over, smirking at the words and which one he chose.

-"Alright then, strip for me, and let's get to it," you murmur, already unbuttoning your shirt and watching as he undid his own after eagerly tossing off his labcoat and shucking off his crocs. Andre stands in just his cartoony heart print boxers between your thighs and watches as you strip slow but reveal inch by inch of what you wear beneath, and you get to watch as well as he grows hard against the seam of his boxers.

-"C'mon then," you murmur, "I won't bite," you trail a hand through the sparse hair over his lower belly where it peeks out just above where his dick is, smirking devilishly as you watch him tremble, rocking back on his heels, rewarded as your fingers lower the waistband and take him in hand, pumping slow, "but I think its in the holiday spirit to be adoring, and I know how well you love the bite."

Gigi Thompson:

- the day goes by fast, having spent it out the entire day from brunch to dinner, shopping throughout and by the time you get home you are both exhausted yet just absolutely aching to strip and go at it, having teased one another throughout the events of the day. Shopping bags from boutiques and department stores linger in the hallway, abandoned along with the trail of clothes that leads upstairs and t your shared bedroom.

-you have her wait as you get ready, kissing her in lingering, longing pecks that are laced in reluctance as you pull away before heading to the bathroom for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to strip and splay herself across the pillows in strappy, tight magenta lingerie, semi-sheer in some places, cut out in others, exposing a lot yet bound and wrapped like a present just for you, a heart pendant centered between her breasts with your initial carved into the back, close to her heart.

-you return, in your underwear as well, and take a moment to marvel at her risque ensemble before revealing the toy hidden behind your back, that little rose number you saw she had been eyeing, and you let her know that you were intent on comparing how the toy does to your mouth. Before that even commences, you inch forward upon the bed and press your thigh between the apex of hers, knocking against her cunt and you watch her keenly as her pussy throbs against soaked cotton.

-you watch with eager yet lazy eyes as she grinds against your thigh, breezing through a soft sigh as you shift it, hands smoothing across her nylon-covered thighs to toy with the hem of her underwear, thumbing her clit through the fabric as you urge her closer. "There we go, look so pretty Gigi, pretty angel," you mutter as you watch her pant, grinding desperately against your thigh and wriggling as you flexed and twitched it. "Keep going, gotta' earn your surprise baby, make it a Happy Valentine's Day."

Myc Celium:

- there’s an annual tradition you and Myc have where you try to make it through a rom-com or shitty valentines movie without getting bored and fucking.

- this time it goes awry because the rules were never about getting horny because of the movie and holding off on fucking one another. You started squirming in your seat first at a line the love interest said, or more accurately, ground out. It sounded rough and deep, harsh and mean in just the way you like it. Myc could practically smell it on you before he noticed it — well, in his way.

- you both try and occupy yourselves in the sake of competition with snacking or talking shit about the movie, but every once in a while that love interest would say something similar to how Myc would phrase words, form them into those digging, deep comments that get you clenching and sweaty. In an effort to distract yourself, you consume an entire bowl of chewy fruity candy.

-you both eventually give up, and you're quickly sprawled across his lap with him pumping loads down your throat, hands jacking him off as you ride another flagella, staining pretty pink underwear thoroughly but you pay it no mind, focusing on how even his orb is in the festive mood, pinks littered throughout, and it turns nearly fuchsia as he cums with a shout of your name, nearly whimpering as you hollow your cheeks as you suck him clean, still riding and chasing a slow-build high.

- last coherent thing the bastard says after recovering and pulling his spent appendages from your wanton mouth is something along the lines of “happy Valentine’s Day to me, you little tart” as he places candy hearts atop your cum-coated tongue, chuckling to himself as he watches you swallow down the little pure candies down with something so dirty.

Glenn Dolphman:

-he managed to get everything done in time, prepping after work for something intimate at home, doing the grocery runs and the preliminary work ahead of time to make sure it was great.

-Glenn's not great at the whole public scene and he more than makes up for it in how he tries to do right by you, making an effort where it counts. He's got your favorite foods and snacks available and the weekend is cleared, his kids are away with their mother for the weekend so there isn't any worry or concern about being quiet and private.

-you arrive a bit early, not by much, and you know how he loves punctuality. You didn't expect to walk into his home after unlocking the gratuitous amount of locks on the door to come across him, sleeves rolled and dolled up in an apron, to be cooking over the stone and looking so good doing it.

-He notes your approach and before he can comment, you do, murmuring something along the lines of skipping dinner and going straight into dessert as you snare your arms around his abdomen, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. Glenn blushes something along the lines of how he worked so hard and you nearly drop to your knees right there and then to pay homage to his efforts.

-instead, you save it for later, helping him cook and moving about the kitchen, getting shooed out when he catches you doing anything, being sweet, and you don't complain, the seat at the countertop allowing you to watch him move around. At some point, after everything had been cooked and set to a low or gentle, warm temperature, he finally gives into those little tempting comments you muttered out as he moves about, the last one about his forearms making him literally drop the spoon he was holding into the sink with a clatter before he rounds around and starts undoing the ties of the apron. "Get over 'here and bend over darlin'. I'll give you your dessert."

[violetsandfluff]

Nighttime Routine

concept from @reveriehs

Harry and Y/N had been doing their skincare together every night since she moved in with him. Their products created a long, colorful row across the bathroom counter, which they navigated with ease.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed as you peeled open one of your favorite face masks. It felt so cooling and refreshing, you were sure Harry would love it. You laid it gently on his face and his eyes widened in surprise before you coaxed them back shut. “If that feels good, wait ‘til you feel this.” You ran your jade roller all over his face, lifting it up rather than pulling it down.

Harry practically purred at the sensation, his head falling back against his neck. “Yeah,” he groaned.

“Yeah, H?” you questioned, and he gave you a lazy nod in response.

“Feels so smooth,” he moaned wistfully. “ ‘F only I had some of my own.”

“Too bad,” you piped cheerfully as you continued rolling the stone up his face. “It makes your skin feel so smooth, it’s almost unrealistic.”

“You are unbearably unrealistic,” Harry groaned, head still back. “Goddess.”

You let out a soft hum in place of a giggle as you finished massaging his face. You peeled off the mask, leaving him in awe of his smooth, hydrated complexion.

“Now what are you gonna do to me, Mr. Styles?” you asked, giving his bare chest a playful slap.

“I haven’t quite decided yet,” he replied as he examined you with a smirk on his face. “Maybe…”

You watched his eyes scan the array of products before him as he carefully selected his favorite face soap. “This.” He squeezed some onto his dampened fingers and lathered it onto your face. He rubbed gentle circles across every inch of it as you blushed subconsciously, a result of the attention from Harry.

His eyes were glittering before you, enthralled by your beautiful face.

“Who’s got you so bothered?” you inquired, to which he didn’t respond.

He only reached for his moisturizer and spread it across your face, taking extra care to be gentle.

“It’s so smooth,” you commented.

Then, it was your turn to pamper him again. “Close your eyes and pick.”

His fingers fumbled around a small brown bottle and he handed it to you. “What is it?”

“Anti-aging serum!” you exclaimed, your chipper tone driving him mad. “Just perfect!”

“I am not aging,” Harry contradicted, folding his arms in retaliation.

“You sure look a lot different that when I first met you,” you reasoned, dripping the golden serum onto his forehead and cheeks. “Obstinate, aging baby.”

He let out a growl at your words, but he wasn’t unhappy, because every word was spoken out of your adoration for him.

Your fingers worked the serum into his skin, and, when you’d finished, he looked in the mirror, claiming to have aged backwards. “I feel rejuvenated,” he remarked coyly. “I am your baby-faced baby again.”

“Shut up,” you hissed through your giggles.

Harry picked up your new vibrating contraption that was supposed to tighten your skin, and turned it on.

“How do I use this?”

“Press the button and put it on my face,” you explained dumbly.

He died as you instructed, letting the machine whir gently across your skin.

“I can’t see how this is tightening, but it makes me want to squish those precious little cheeks.”

“Ooh, Harry!” you exclaimed, causing him to nearly drop your gadget. “I have a lip scrub from Lush that I wanna try on you. Come closer.”

You opened the container, waving it beneath his nose so he could get a whiff of it.

“It’s called Watermelon Sugar,” you explained excitedly. “It’s perfect for you!”

“Oh, goody.”

You scraped some of the soft crystals from the jar and spread them across his pink lips, scrubbing them gently back and forth. When you were done, he couldn’t help but lick his lips in amazement.

“I can kiss you again!” you remarked, receiving a dirty look from him.

“Watch it missy,” he warned. “I could use that vibrater for things you cannot wrap your pretty little mind around.”

“Such as?”

“Oh… you know…” he began, scrambling for ideas. “Ah… rattling your face off, pussy torture? The usual.”

“The usual, hm?”

“I don’t know about you, love, but I feel like using the kiss facial right now.” With that, his mouth was all over your face, whether you liked it or not.

Taglist: @madybeth21 @fishingirl12 @sortingharryshairclip @groovychaosavenue

[maddiwrites]

The Hybrid (I)

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Summary: The Pogues rekindle their friendship with their old childhood best friend and JJ’s first crush, Y/N. Old feelings resurface for JJ and Y/N, possibly leading to a summer neither one of them could ever forget. Due to past trauma, Y/N is reluctant to let anyone into her heart, but JJ never backs down from a challenge, even if he knows it will come back to haunt him in the end.

Note: Thank you for being patient with me as I slowly write this series. I had this idea a long time ago and I’m not finding motivation to write it but the inspiration comes and go. I smile with every comment that is left on my fics and I’m so grateful for this community. Thank you for letting me pursue my creative writing without judgement. Love you guys! (Also, yes. If you didn’t see my last note, I based YN’s family off of the Gilmore Girls characters. That’s who I picture as them.)

Word Count: 8k

 Masterlist   Prologue 

You wake up to someone falling on your bed next to you with a dramatic sigh. Knowing exactly who it is, you choose to ignore her and try getting back to the dreamless sleep you were peacefully having before you woke up.

That is, until she sighs again. 

You flip onto your back and stare up at your ceiling fan that’s quickly spinning above you. “What, Rory?”

“How did it go with Andre and that boy?”

You look at her with one brow raised. “You woke me up to hear about Andre’s love life? That hardly sounds like you. You don’t care about high school drama or hookups.”

“You’re right,” Rory says. “But I thought I would ease you into what I actually need to tell you.”

You turn on right side and look at your sister confused. “What?”

She sighs. “The cafe’s basement flooded last night. Mom needs us there to help her clean up and take inventory on what’s salvageable.”

You turn back on you backside and close your eyes, exhaling a deep sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Rory says and pats you twice on your covered thigh as she sits up. “Come on. I made you pre-cafe coffee. It’s sitting in the kitchen.”

You throw your sheets off of you and trudge to the bathroom to brush your teeth and clean your face. It’s about 8 a.m. At least you were able to get about six hours of sleep. 

Last night, it was hard to let your brain rest to fall asleep. You kept tossing and turning, thinking about the blonde Pogue who walked you home. You missed how easy it was to talk to someone who you felt truly knew you. Your banter rolled off your tongue easily and you never had to worry about offending him because you knew him like the back of your hand. You knew what he could take and what he couldn't. 

Talking to him brought back childhood memories you had hidden deep in your mind. How JJ would constantly poke you until you ripped into a smile on days that were grey. How you used to steal John B’s bandanas until he was chasing you around his house to get them back. How you would draw a mustache and a unibrow on Pope’s face when he fell asleep by the water. 

Those days felt like they were decades ago. So far away, you didn’t know if you’d be able to reach for them again. If it was even possible to get back. 

You thought about texting him. Thanks for walking me back. We should all get together soon! You had written out. But then you deleted the whole message, telling yourself it was because you didn’t know if he even had the same number. But deep down, you were just afraid of the rejection. 

Its been about three years since the four of you had been together in one place. You don’t know what they’ve been through or if they’ve changed. They for sure as hell don’t know what you’ve been through. You don’t know if they're dynamic has changed. Clearly you and JJ can still joke with each other but what about John B and Pope? You heard about John B’s father disappearing at sea, most people believing he’s dead, but John B holding onto hope that’s he’s alive. You always thought about calling him to reach out and offer your condolences. But for the same reason you didn’t text JJ, you never called. It didn’t feel like your place. They had Kie for that now. A little part of you felt jealous of her, like she had replaced you and any memory of you. She seemed nice, but she wasn’t you.

“Ready?” Rory pops her head in to your room as you slip on a cropped plain white zip up jacket over your cropped black tank. 

“As I’ll ever be,” You say and snag the car keys out of her hands. “Don’t even think about it. I’m driving.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “I want to get there safely.”

“And I want to get there quickly.”

“Fine. But we’re taking my car. It actually has doors.”

For your sixteenth birthday, your grandparents gifted both you and Rory your own individual cars and even let you pick them out. Rory chose a black 2020 Honda Civic for it’s safety features and reputation for longevity as if she was planning on handing it down to her future kids. And you picked out a white 2020 Jeep Wrangler with a hard top that pops off along with the doors for a very open and thrilling ride. Everyone but you called it a death trap, but you found it to be the perfect summer car. 

You park Rory’s boring Honda Civic in the back of the cafe in a lot used specifically for employees. The cafe is already booming with teens and families, waiting for their morning coffees and fresh pastries. Kids your age are running around behind the counter with sweat dripping down their brow bone to get everyone’s orders out in a timely manner. 

In the back of the store, your mom walks up the steps from the basement with two large trash bags and immediately notices the two of you. “Oh good. You’re here. Rory, help the girls behind the counter. The dishwasher’s broken and poor Hailey is hand washing everything. Y/N, come with me downstairs.”

“Why does Rory get the fun job?” You grumble and follow your mom back downstairs after she tosses the two trash bags. 

“Because she’s actually nice to the customers.”

“Treat others how you would like to be treated. Isn’t that what everyone always says?” You smirk. You never agreed with the phrase ‘the customer is always right.’ It’s complete bullshit and being the employee shouldn’t mean letting yourself getting verbally abused by a ‘Karen’ on the other side of the counter. 

The basement is used for the cafe’s storage, lined with wooden shelves Steve put together that hold to go cups, back up espresso machines, boxes of coffee and food and ingredients, etc. Now all the boxes are dark and sopping, creating puddles on the concrete floor. 

“Oh my god. Mom. How did this happen?”

“Jenky water pipe busted in the middle of the night,” Steve walks down the stairs and passes your mom a knowing look. It didn’t surprise you that he was here. He’s the jack of all trades. Owns his own automotive shop, builds a lot of his own furniture, actually cooks a decent meal, and has the same outlook on customer service as you do. He was probably your mom’s first call. “Talked to the plumber. They can’t get here until at least noon.”

“Noon? We’ll be underwater by noon. I might as well turn all my employees into a swim team,” Your mom says.

Steve shakes his head. “I was able to hold the leak until he gets here. You should be fine.”

Steve was the first person that actually helped your mother out when's she moved to the Cut. Six months pregnant, she pushed her car into his automotive shop after it broke down on the side of the road. Their banter was similar to the one you and JJ have. He helped save your mom money by building yours and Rory’s cribs, changing table, and dressers. And ever since, the two of them had been connected by the hip, although they both refuse to admit it. You think the pair are just trying to deny the love they clearly share for each other. And you think the main reason for that is because of the incident four years ago with your mom’s ex boyfriend. No thanks to you.

 “Look at you constantly building your resume,” You smirk at him. 

Steve scoffs. “It’s more than what you’re doing.”

You roll your eyes. Steve is the closest thing you have to a father. He practically helped raise you with your mom. He’s the one you turn to whenever a fight with your mom goes too far, which isn't too often but it happens. He usually lets you stay at his house for the night to let you cool off. But he’ll never sugar coat his advice when it comes time for him to give it. Even if you don’t ask for it. He knows growing up with Rory has been challenging. She was clearly your mom’s favorite, or at least that’s what you thought. She has a 4.0 GPA with a realistic dream to get into Brown University and study journalism. She played by every rule, never got into trouble, and spent most of her free nights getting ahead of her school work or staying late at the cafe with an open book from the library across the street. She was an absolute angel to everyone else, making you look like her evil twin. 

You glare at him before turning to your mom with crossed arms. “What do you want me to do, Mom?”

“Actually honey. Can you go to Heywards and grab more coffee filters and napkins. The water soaked right through the plastic wrapping on our last box.”

You nod, leaving your mom and Steve to clean up the basement themselves. Before heading out, you sneak behind the counter and make yourself a quick coffee to go.

“Where you going?” Rory asks as she reaches behind you to grab a banana for her customer at the register.

“Heywards to grab a couple things for Mom.”

“Oh. Make sure to grab toilet paper while you’re out. I think we’re almost out of it.”

“Got it.” 

Heywards is only a short drive from your mom’s cafe. It’s the closest convenient store that isn’t crazy pricey. It’s where your mom gets all her supplies whenever she runs out of things before shipment gets there. 

You use to always come here when you were younger with the boys, each of you, even Pope, stealing a small bag of chips or a candy bar here and there. Little did any of you know, Mr. Heyward caught your thieving hands every time but never said anything. 

The bell above the door chimes when you walk into the store. You know this place as well as you know the cafe, finding the toilet paper and coffee filter immediately. 

When Mr. Heyward looks up from the counter, his smile grows. He can pick you out of a crowd anywhere, but he hasn’t seen you in a long time. Last time he saw you, you had braces and overgrown bushy brows. Now you had bushed hair and shaved legs. 

“Hi. Mr. Heyward,” You grin shyly at him. You don’t know how he’s going to react to see you, unsure of what Pope might have told him about you. 

“Little Miss Y/L/N? Is that you?” Heyward smiles widely, pulling your own lips into a wider smile. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy with school and my mom’s cafe...” Both of those things were a lie. You just avoid the Cut to avoid the Pogues. 

“How’s the fam?” 

“They’re good,” You say as Heyward hands you your bags. “Mom says hello by the way. I’m actually taking these to her store now.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger. We miss your smiling face around her. Anette, too.” Heyward says, mentioning his wife. 

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Of course, darling.” 

Heyward and Anette always had a special place in their heart for you and Rory. They’re not one for gossip, but they knew a little bit about what your mom’s been through and have heard plenty of stories about your grandparents. They always thought, despite your mom’s background, that you and your sister were raised impressively. Anette always hoped that one day Pope and Rory would get together. Everyone always wanted their child to be with Rory. 

As your about to leave the store, the bell chimes again with another customer. Only it’s not another customer. It’s Pope and John B. They don’t see you at first, and you wonder if maybe you can sneak out without them seeing you. But something about that felt wrong. Especially because Heyward would more than likely mention to them that you were here. 

Pope sees you first and stops in his tracks. “Y/N?” 

“Hey, guys. Long time no see,” You smile at both of them. You bite down on your lip awkwardly when you meet John B’s stare. You don’t know if you should mention anything about his dad’s disappearance. But what would you say? Sorry? What good would that do?

“How’ve you been?” Pope gives you a small side hug, then John B. 

You shrug. “You know, living the dream.”

“How’s life as a Hybrid?” John B smirks. 

You roll your eyes playfully and groan. “Oh god. Never call me that again.”

You may be considered a Hybrid by everyone else, but you would never put yourself into that category. You grew up a Pogue, the same way everyone else did around you. The only thing tying you to the Kooks are your grandparents. 

“Why?” John B smirks. “I wish I was a Hybrid.”

You smirk back. “Maybe you will be one day. I hear you have a Kook of your own for arm candy.”

You saw a faint hint of blush on John B’s cheek at the mention of his girlfriend but you don’t mention it. “Sarah, yeah. She’s not like the other Kooks.”

“I would hope not. Her brother’s a dick.”

“Yeah,” They laugh. 

“We miss you, you know.” John B says. Pope looks at you, trying to read your expression. John B’s not wrong. They do all miss you, especially Pope. He felt like you were the only one who really understood him. Of course his other friends are great, but you actually took the time to try and understand his passions. Like forensic science. 

“I miss you guys too. It’s been a while.”

“Well, hey. We’re actually all getting together tonight at my place. Nothing big. Just a bonfire and a couple beers. You should stop by,” John B says.

“Yeah,” Pope says, immediately getting hopeful that you’ll show up. 

Your smile falters. The invite makes your heart swell and your lungs contract. It’s an invite you’ve been wanting for three years. And now that you have it, you don’t know what to say. It’d be different if it was just the four of you like old times. But now there’s Kie and Sarah and although you have nothing against them, you’re afraid they won’t accept you. The thought of your boys picking them over you terrifies you. 

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I’ll try to swing by later.” 

Pope smiles wide and looks at his friend to see his reaction. John B grins and nods, almost impressed that you had agreed. But he saw the twitch in your lips when the question was asked. 

“Great. I guess we’ll see you later then.” 

You nod. “Okay. Bye guys.”

You suck in a deep breath when the fresh air outside of Heyward’s store brushes over you. Your heart thumps wildly with both excitement and nerves when you’re finally able to collect your thoughts. You don’t know what you’ll do tonight, but the possibilities can change your entire summer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You spent the rest of the day mopping up the cafe’s basement and rearranging the shelves. You smelled of sweat and coffee grounds by the time you were done and dreamt of the shower you would be taking when you got home. 

Rory drove you home after the two of you closed up the cafe for the day. Neither of you said much. Rory was exhausted from running around behind the counter and you were too busy thinking about whether you’d go back to the place you used to call your second home.

You took a longer shower than usual, still pondering what your night would be like. Your head was telling you to stay home but your heart pulled you in the direction of the Cut. You yearned to hear about what the future held for Pope, and listen to John B retell stories of when you were kids, and be able to stare into JJ’s bright blue eyes without him noticing. 

You changed into a pair of jean shorts and a plain red cropped tank. Rory walks into your room as your brushing out your hair and looks at you as if you lost your mind.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t wear that,” She says.

You brows scrunch together in confusion. “What are you talking about? I wear shit like this all the time.”

“Not to the Country Club, you don’t.” That’s when it hits you. Today’s been so hectic, you forgot what day it was. “It’s Sunday.”

Sunday dinner at the Country Club is now a weekly commitment forced upon you by your grandparents. Each week, your mom, sister, and you are forced to spend one dinner with your grandma and grandpa. This is basically your mom’s payment back for sending you and Rory to Kook Academy. Only they actually pay for the dinner. It’s usually the longest two hours of your entire week. It’s hard to listen to your grandfather rant about Real Estate and your grandma slyly critique your mother in almost every aspect of her life. 

“Shit. I completely forgot,” You say.

“Well, you better change. We’re leaving in about five minutes,” Rory says then plucks a gold necklace from your dresser. “Oh and can I wear this tonight?”

You sigh. “Sure.”

You change into a baby blue wrap around dress and pin your wet hair into a half up half down due. It’s gonna have to work for the limited time you have to get ready. After applying a thin layer of makeup to look the least bit presentable, you meet your mom and sister by the front door.

“Finally,” Your mom says when she sees you. 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was Sunday.”

“It’s okay, honey. I just don’t think I can handle another late remark from Mom today.” She looks you up and down and grins. “You look great.”

Despite the many fiery fights you and your mom can have, she is also your best friend. It’s kind of like a love hate relationship. Steve says it’s because you’re exactly like your mom - almost like a sixteen year old version of her. 

You really hope that isn’t true. You’re not ready to have a kid in two years. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Your grandparents are already sitting at a round table in the corner of the country club by the two tall windows that reach up to the ceiling with a view looking out into the golf course. The best seat in the house for the richest a holes on the island. 

“Lorelai,” Your grandmother grins, but you can instantly tell it’s sarcastic. “Did you have to walk here?”

You speak up before your mom could. “Sorry Grandma. It’s my fault we’re late.”

Your grandparents are hard on your mom but easier on you and Rory, especially Rory.

“Well, you’re here now,” Your grandpa says. He’s usually the mediator between your mom and grandma. Although he’s usually sucks at it. “Sit. Sit.”

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, JJ shuffles through his many coworkers with his apron in one hand and a piece of fried calamari from Miss Carol’s appetizer in the other. 

“JJ -” She scolds and slaps his hand away from going in for a second piece. 

“Good evening Miss Carol,” JJ smirks and makes his way to the area between the kitchen and dining room where most of the servers and bust boys hang out. Some of the boys slap him on the back or shove him by the shoulder, chuckling to themselves. “What’s going on boys? Busy crowd?”

“What are you doing here? You never work Sundays,” His friend, Mitch, says. 

Luke Maybank was behind on several bills - worse than it’s ever been. They already shut off their electricity and JJ wanted to make sure the water wouldn’t be next. 

But JJ shrugs nonchalantly. “Little extra dough can't hurt.”

“Well, you picked a good day,” Raymond walks up to the blonde, rolling his sleeves. “You got Kook Royalty and their Hybrid offsprings in your section.” 

“What?” JJ looks through the small square Plexiglas on the swinging door. He knows exactly where to look and immediately sees you sitting with King and Queen Kook, looking absolutely miserable, pushing around your food with your fork. 

“Damn, Maybank. Almost broke your neck - you turned so fast.”

“Shut up, Easterling. I was just seeing how crowded we were,” JJ lied. He really just wanted to see if you were here. And now that he sees you are, he’s a little nervous to do his own damn job.

Raymond Easterling chuckles. “Yeah, I know what you were looking at. But don’t get your hopes up. There’s a reason Kooks call that girl the Heart Sucker. Not even the high and powerful JJ Maybank could get a piece of that.”

The guys around JJ and Raymond chuckle and nod in agreement, hearing the stories of how you’d reject every single guy that’s ever asked you out. Sometimes you’d go on a few dates, trying to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but then things would quickly become too much, and you’d get overwhelmed. 

JJ didn’t like the way Raymond talked about you or how the others laughed at your expense. His hands clenched into fists, tempted to throw a punch in Ray’s cocky face.  The guy’s just being a jerk because he’s one of the guys that got rejected by you, he thought. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” JJ shakes his head and ties his apron around his waist to distract his hands.

“No?” Raymond challenges him. “You think I’m wrong? You think you could pull the infamous Hybrid over there?”

JJ glances back through the window. You’re looking at your grandma with a clearly forced grin. You’re twirling your hair between your fingers, a habit you picked up when you were little to do when you’re bored. JJ would find you doing that in school all the time. 

You’re gorgeous, he thought. It’s no wonder that almost every guy on this island has tried to make a pass on you, including JJ himself, but his remarks always come off as playful, afraid of actually telling you how he feels about you. His fantasies about you went further than just getting you between the sheets. He could picture getting married, having children, and growing old together. Years ago, the two of you would talk about your future. Neither one of you cared about money or fancy jobs. All you wanted was to be free - of this island, of each other’s families, of responsibilities placed on you from birth. You hold the same values as JJ, and he’s never met another person like you. 

But JJ has a hard exterior. No one other than his best friends know his true heart, and he wasn’t going to let someone like Raymond Easterling find out about his soft spot for you. He would never hear the end of it.

JJ looks at you one last time. You’re talking to Rory, your face in his direction. This time you’re smiling, probably discussing something other than your grandparent’s expectations of you. He’d kill to see that smile every single day.

What’s the worst that could happen? You reject him? Yeah, that might kill JJ inside, but maybe you’d still be his friend, or continue to be acquaintances like you are now. As long as he gets to see you, he’d be okay. There was always the future. But who knows? Maybe you’d say yes? He’ll never know unless he tries. Right?

JJ fakes the same cocky grin that Raymond wears. “I haven’t failed yet.”

The guys around him whistle and shake their heads with smiles. 

“All right, Maybank. Let’s make a bet. I’ll give you one hundred dollars to get Y/N Y/L/N in the sack by the fourth of July.”

JJ scoffs. “You like giving away free money?” He ignored his racing heart at the thought of being that intimate with you.

Raymond nods. “Okay. Let’s put your money where your mouth is. Get her to say ‘I love you’ by the end of the season and I’ll raise you an extra hundred and cover all your dishwasher shifts in September.”

JJ raises his brows with surprise. No one offers to take the dishwashing shift. Sometimes the boys are pulled back there when the kitchen is short staffed and it’s easily one of the worst jobs at the Club.

This bet was almost too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Deal.” JJ says.

The boys shake hands on it and the other guys whisper to each other about how intrigued they are to see this play out.

JJ wipes his sweaty palms against his apron and pushes the door open to approach your table, hoping he can hear you over his thudding heart. 

“Good evening folks. May I take those empty plates out of your way?”

You look up at the voice you know so well and a smile raises on your lips. JJ meets your eyes and he winks at you, splattering your heart in flutters. 

“Please.” Your grandmother pushes her plate away from her, stuffed with filet and red wine.

“JJ,” Your mom grins up at him. Growing up, your mom always had a soft spot for the blonde Pogue. She’s heard the stories about his father, mostly from Steve, who actually grew up with Luke Maybank, his cousin. As a child, he was sent to live with Luke Maybank and his single father. Lets just say, he’s not surprised by the way Luke turned out. “Look at you. You’re all grown up now. Last time I saw you, Y/N was still pushing your head in the sand for stealing her popsicle.”

“Yeah. I quickly learned no one should mess with Y/N and her food,” JJ says.

“Never stopped you though,” You smirk at him.

“Lorelai. Who is this?” Your grandma asks, disregarding the boy himself.

“Mom,” Lorelai gives her mom a warning look. “This is JJ Maybank. He went to school with Y/N and Rory.” Lorelai knew to play it safe with her wording. She didn’t know where you and JJ stood. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him and she knew better than to ask. 

“Nice to meet you,” JJ says politely. “I’d shake your hand but mine are kinda full.” He motions to the plates in his hand.

“That’s quite all right.” Your grandma’s smile is so forced, it makes you uncomfortable. 

“I won’t hold you up. Has your server been around with the dessert menu?” JJ looks at you. “We have chocolate cake tonight.”

Heat rushes up your neck. Not because of the cake itself but because JJ remembered your favorite dessert. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles. It was safe to save you were a choco-holic. The boys use to make it for you every year for your birthday. It usually came out burnt, none of them ever remembering how to properly make it. But it was all you needed to feel like a very special girl. 

“Your favorite,” Rory elbows you.

Your grandma cringes. “Sounds like diabetes on a plate.”

“Mom,” Lorelai scolds. 

“What?” She asks, not understanding the concept of a filter.

Now heat rushes to your cheeks for an entire different reason. “He did. We’re not doing dessert tonight. Thank you, though.”

JJ nods but feels disappointed by the way your face flinched at your grandmother’s comment. 

“My pleasure,” He says like he was taught to do and excuses himself to drop the plates off in the back before he can say anything else that would probably get him fired.

Your mom looks at your with raised brows. “He’s cute, honey.”

“Lorelai, please. He’s the busboy,” Your grandma says.

“He’s a good kid, Mom.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” You stand up. “I have to use the restroom.”

Rory gives you a knowing grin as you walk away from the table. When you walk into the hallway between the dining area and the front lobby, you immediately feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Sometimes just the presence of your grandparents and their pompous judgements can be suffocating. You do your best to bite your tongue around them, excusing yourself when you feel yourself getting heated. 

JJ catches a glimpse of your light blue dress out of the corner of his eye when he rounds the corner to collect the plates off a different table. He looks over his shoulder at Raymond, who’s staring at the blonde watching you, and winks.

“Hey, Y/N,” JJ says, walking up to you.

You look up from your phone and immediately smile. “Hey. I was actually hoping I’d catch you out here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry about my grandmother. She can be...”

JJ shakes his head. “Hey. It’s okay. I work for Kooks almost every single day. I’m use to it.”

You sigh. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control,” JJ says. “Besides, that’s probably the nicest she’s ever been to me.”

You hide your face in your hands. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

JJ laughs and takes your wrists in his hands, slowly pulling them away from your face. Your eyes shoot up to his, immediately feeling a tingling feeling run through your skin, straight to your heart. 

“It’s okay. I promise,” He says softly. His voice is so sincere that you have no other option but to believe him. It almost makes your feel guiltier, wondering how much bullshit he’s been through with ungrateful Kooks that it’s so easy for him to forgive and forget.

“Okay,” Your voice is a whisper, taken off guard by how close he is to you and how he still hasn't let go of your hands. 

In that same moment, JJ realizes he’s still holding you and gently removes his hands. He coughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his neck, where sweat begins to bubble. Why is he so nervous?

“So um...” You say, suddenly feeling nervous too. “You going to John B’s tonight?”

JJ’s eyes shoot up in surprise. How did you know that? “Yeah. I’m heading over there after work.”

“I saw him and Pope at Heywards earlier today and they invited me over. I wasn’t sure if I should come or not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Because it’s different now, you wanted to say. But you didn’t because you feel like the elephant in the room would only grow. And you didn’t want to admit you were nervous to meet Kie and Sarah outside of school. 

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You should definitely come. The boys miss you.”

You pretend like a little piece of your heart didn’t just break when JJ didn’t say ‘we.’ 

“What time do you get off of work?”

“Around 9ish.”

You nod. “I can pick you up if you’d like and we could go together?”

Your heart races after you suggest it. What if he says no? Why were you feeling this way? This is the same kid you use to make fun of for pouring milk into his bowl before his cereal. 

“Yeah. That’d be perfect.”

“Great!” Your phone pings with a text from Rory, telling you that your grandparents are wondering where you are. “Shit. I have to get back. I’ll see you at nine?”

“See you then,” JJ nods and turns back to the kitchen. When his eyes meet Raymond’s, he’s reminded of what he agreed to. Almost surprised how quickly he forgot about it. You were able to take his mind off of anything without even trying. He clears his throat to get rid of the giddy grin he was wearing after talking to you, wanting to look tough and casual in front of his coworker. “Easy.” He says to him. But that felt anything but easy. He could vomit with nerves.

“There’s still plenty of time for you to screw up, Maybank.”

JJ huffs. He’s not wrong. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You drive up to the front of the country club and park in front of the main entrance. It’s 8:57. You’re early and will look eager. So you wait until 9:06 to text him that you’re here.

You changed into a pair of dark washed denim shorts, a yellow cropped tube top, a grey flannel, and navy converse. You changed your outfit about four times before deciding on your first one, not wanting to look too casual or too dressed up. 

For the last three years, you wondered when the four of you would get back together as a group. You wondered if it would ever happen. And now that two Kooks are involved, you feel more nervous than excited.

You jump when the passenger seat door opens, lost in the depth of your own head. JJ smiles, not seeing your reaction.”Cool ride,” he says and looks around the interior. 

“Thanks,” you say, pulling out into the road.

“I got you something,” JJ says.

You glance at him with furrowed brows. What could he have possibly gotten you since you saw him last? A book mark from the Country Club’s gift shop?

JJ reaches into his backpack and pulls out a plate with clear wrap around it. Your mouth drops when you see the chocolate cake on a plate in his hands, the smell immediately hitting your nose with pure delight.

“You saved me a piece?” You jump in your seat excitedly.

“Had to hide it good too or else Miss Carol would have had my ass handed to me,” JJ jokes and even pulls out two forks. He undoes the wrapping and cuts off a piece. He waits until you hit a stop sign and says, “Open up.”

You look at him and immediately open your mouth. He gently places the fork between your lips and you take the piece of cake off with your teeth. Like a baby.

Your eyes close with pure pleasure. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.”

“Miss Carol does know how to bake a mean cake,” JJ says and takes a bite of his own.

“Another one,” You say, glancing at the cake again. Like you said, choco-holic. “Please.” You say when JJ teases you by holding the fork away from you.

JJ laughs. “I like hearing you beg.”

You slap him in the arm with the back of your hand. “In your dreams, Maybank.”

“You got that right, Y/L/N.”

The two of you finish the cake with only a few bites each. Small but rich in chocolate that leaves you craving more. You were gonna have to meet this Miss Carol woman. 

After he puts the plate back in his bag, JJ reaches for the aux cord, but you quickly slap his hand away. “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re seriously gonna make me listen to this the entire way to John B’s?”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know Blink-182 is one of my favorite bands.”

“It’s also soccer moms’ favorite band,” JJ laughs at you.

You turn up the volume, blasting ‘All the Small Things’ and point to your ear. “Sorry. Can’t hear you!”

JJ rolls his eyes but laughs along with you, even bopping his head to the beat. You drive with the windows down, dancing and singing along to a bunch of throwback songs with JJ as if the two of you have been doing this forever. 

You pull up to John B’s and park behind his dad’s old van, better known as The Twinkie. When you turn down the music, JJ looks at you with a shake in his head. “Next time, I’m driving.”

“What was wrong with my driving?”

“We’re in the Outer Banks, Sparky, not NASCAR.”

You scoff and follow behind JJ who’s leading the way up John B’s driveway. As you get closer, you smell the smoky scent of a bonfire nearby and eventually hear John B’s laugh mixed in with a female’s. Your smile falters as nerves gather in the pit of your stomach. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asks.

“Nothing,” You say, but JJ easily catches your lie and gives you a knowing look. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Who? Pope and John B? I’m pretty sure they like you more than me even after three years -”

“Not them, you idiot,” You shove him playfully by the shoulder as you two let yourselves inside. “Sarah and Kie.”

“Don’t you go to school with them?”

“Yeah, but we don’t talk,” You say quietly, not wanting them to hear you.

“Hm.”

“What?” JJ shrugs. “Nothing. I just didn’t think you cared about what other people thought.”

“I don’t,” You say quickly. “But they're your best friends. It’s different.”

“You don’t need their approval. You technically were here first.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been replaced,” You try to say it as a joke and even throw a smirk in there. 

But JJ stops in his track and looks at you seriously. “No one can replace you. Not even if they tried.”

You open your mouth to respond, but you’re at a loss for words. It��s not a common occurrence that JJ gets all serious on you. Warmth covers you like a blanket and the longer he holds your stare, the weaker your knees become. 

“JJ! Is that you?” John B calls out from the backyard.

“Yeah,” JJ yells back. He opens the fridge in John B’s kitchen. “Want a beer?” He offers to you.

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

For the first time, you take in John B’s home. It looks the same as it did three years ago, only a lot messier. The pull out couch looks like its been used recently with blankets and sheets tossed about on it. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts are thrown messily on the coffee tables and the air smells faintly of old marijuana. 

JJ leads you out to the back where four people are gathered around a fire. Three out of the four immediately smile when the two of you approach them, but Kie’s eyes narrow and her head tilts with confusion.

Shit, you think. 

“You came!” Pope laughs and hops up from his beach chair and embraces you in a hug.

You laugh, not expecting the embrace, but welcoming it all the same. John B’s next, giving you a quick hug and shaking his head.

“I gotta say, I didn’t think you were going to come,” John B says.

“You can thank me for that later,” JJ says jokingly.

“Actually when I heard JJ was coming, I almost changed my mind and stayed home,” You joke and smirk JJ’s way.

“Just like old times,” Pope says, looking between you and the blonde. The banter felt like the yall never separated in the first place. 

“Hey, you know Sarah and Kie, right?” John B points to the girls. Sarah stands up to say hi, and eventually Kie follows her, not wanting to look rude, but stays off to the side, keeping her distance.

“Yeah,” You wave awkwardly. 

“Hey!” Sarah says sweetly. “I didn’t realize you guys use to all hang out.”

“Y/N grew up down the street,” JJ explains and sips at his beer. 

“You want a drink or something?” Pope asks you, not knowing JJ already did.

“No thank you,” You say again.

“You don’t drink?” Kie asks. It was the first thing she’s said to you.

“Not usually,” You say and hold her stare. You try to get a read on her, but she’s had to get a tell on. You can’t tell if she just doesn’t like you or just doesn’t know you. Either way, it makes you uneasy. 

“Here, I’ll go grab you a chair,” Pope says and walks to the side of the house to grab another beat up beach chair. 

As the night goes on, you feel the tension in your shoulders loosen and your body feel lighter. Most of the night was spent retelling childhood stories the four of you shared. Sarah would laugh at most of them, occasionally rolling her eyes at her boyfriend from the stupid shit he would do, although it sounds like he’s no different to you now. 

You talked about the time you and JJ stole a golf cart for a joy ride on Figure Eight, or when you and John B pranked Pope by putting a dead fish in his locker, or how you and John B learned how to play guitar from youtube tutorials. 

Midnight came around quickly and exhaustion was slowly taking over your body. It’s been a long day between the cafe flooding, dinner with your grandparents, and now this. 

JJ was the first to notice you slowly fading. 

“You okay?” He asks you quietly as everyone else is caught up in conversation. 

“Yeah,” You say, lazily grinning at him. 

“We can leave if you want,” He says.

“You’re not staying?” You ask. It sounded like everyone was planning to spend the night here. And as much as you wanted to, you just didn’t feel comfortable enough yet. 

JJ shrugs. “My dad’s out of town tonight. It’ll be nice to have the house to myself.” Before you can say anything, he stands and brushes his hands against his pants. “All right, losers. We’re out of here.”

“Aw, you’re leaving?” Sarah pouts.

“Yeah, I’m beat and Y/N’s my ride home,” JJ says.

You were glad he didn’t call you out for being tired. You didn’t want to look lame in front of everybody, especially Kie.

“Thanks for having me,” You say to everyone. It might have been John B’s house, but it was everyone’s night you intruded on.

John B stands up to hug you. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You nod. “I won’t. I promise.”

Pope hugs you next. “Text me when you get back safe.”

“I will.”

“Bye!” Sarah waves and Kie exhales a ring of smoke from her blunt.

You wave at them before following JJ back to your car. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” JJ says. You didn’t realize you both walked to the driver’s side.

“What? No.”

JJ nods and holds his hands out for your keys. “I’m not dying tonight.” 

“You’ve been drinking and smoking all night,” You say. You didn’t think JJ was drunk or even that high, but you were not going to let a teenager with an ounce of alcohol in his system get behind the wheel. “Next time. For now, hold on to the cupholder.”

JJ sighs dramatically and goes to the other side of the car and hops in the passenger seat. 

This time you keep the music quiet, listening to the hum of the radio instead of your phone. 

“Take a left,” JJ says.

“JJ, I know where you live. And it’s not left.”

“Don’t you trust me?” 

You snicker. “Not in the slightest.”

JJ rolls his eyes. “Just take the left.”

You hold your hands up in surrender and take the left turn. He directs you for a couple more miles until he has you park in front of a 24 hour diner. 

“What are we doing here?” You ask.

“I’m in the mood for a milkshake.”

“We just had cake!” You say.

“Come on, Sparky. Show me what that mouth can do,” JJ smirks. 

You go to hit him again but he takes off running to the front entrance and pulls the door open. You chase after him, almost running into his back at the front host stand where JJ safely smirks at you in triumph.

“Two please,” He says to the hostess. 

The old cranky woman leads you to a booth off to the side next to a window without a word. 

A couple minutes later, a waitress walks by and asks if you’re ready to order. 

“Yes. One chocolate milkshake and one black and white milkshake,” JJ orders for both of you, already knowing what flavor you’d want.

“And fries, please.” You say. The waitress nods, takes your menus, and walks off. JJ raises his brow at the extra order. “What?” You shrug. “Just showing you what my mouth can do.”

JJ scoffs. “What a tease.” 

You playfully kick his shin under the table.

“Did you have fun tonight?” JJ asks.

“Yeah,” You answer. “Felt like old times. The girls are nice too.”

You were about to only mention Sarah, but you didn’t want to cause any issues with Kie. Not yet at least. Maybe she just needed time to warm up to you.

“See? I told you they wouldn’t bite.”

A couple minutes later, the waitress comes back with your milkshakes and fries. 

“How’s John B doing? You know, with the whole Big John thing?” You ask delicately, unsure of how JJ would react to you pestering about John B’s business. “I didn’t want to ask and bring the mood down,” You explain yourself although you don’t need to.

JJ shrugs. “He’s in denial I think. Won’t sign a death certificate until he sees a body. He could be worse, though.”

“Yeah,” You say softly. You don’t know what you would do if you were in that situation. In a way you felt lucky that you never knew your dad at all. It would be harder to lose him, knowing who he was.

You take a fry and dip it into your milkshake before taking a bite. This makes JJ freeze and look at you like you have two heads. 

“What?” You say with your mouth full.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” You say and give him a look to do it.

JJ reluctantly picks up the fry and dunks it into his milkshake. He looks at the fry questioningly before popping it into his mouth. Somehow the sweetness of the milkshake and the saltiness of the french fry complement each other beautifully and his widen in pleasant surprise. 

“Oh wow,” JJ says.

“Told you,” You smirk.

You spend the next hour catching up, trying to fit the last three years into an hour. JJ does most of the talking because you want to know more about what John B, Pope, and JJ have been up to. Your life was so boring and depressing, you didn’t want to bore JJ with the details.

You drive JJ home and talk for a few minutes more when you park. He seems to be procrastinating getting out of the car, but you don’t mind. You could talk to him all night, suddenly not feeling tired anymore.

“All right. I’ll let you get home before the sun rises,” He says and opens the door. He pauses when his feet hit the ground and he looks back at you. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to work at the shop, why?”

“Well, there’s a storm coming in. John B and I might go out to surf the surge before it hits. You still surf?”

You scoff. “Do I still surf?”

JJ holds his hands up in surrender. “Just checking. You think you can handle the surge?”

“Let’s not forget who the better surfer is, JJ.”

“I didn’t. It’s still me.”

“You wish.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Now you have a point to prove. You have to show JJ that you’re still the better surfer. 

“I'll see you tomorrow,” You agree. 

“Great, it’s a date.” He winks and shuts the door before you can tell him otherwise. 

You giggle to yourself as JJ walks up the front yard and stay there until he you see he gets in safely. 

You pull out of the driveway, wishing he had asked you out on a real date. One that didn’t involve John B.

Tag list: @super-funky-bisexual​ @sunsetswithjj​ @moniamaybank​ @throwawayfish​ @poguestyle17​ @5am-cigarette​ @jjpouggues​ @fly-away-from-here​ @buckys2thicc​

[pinkliquorstyles]

Depravity.

Warnings: dirty talk, a sprinkle of smut, alcohol use, angst, and a whole lot of teasing.

A/n: oh, how I’ve missed writing. 

Harry craved control.

He always had some sort of power over everything in his life, onstage and off, Harry was always in control. He had a plan for every situation and a solution to every problem. He hated to be caught off guard, and it was only when he lacked that authority over his life when you could sense him falter.

So, you could imagine how Harry felt when he heard about a last-minute, extravagant party, made to celebrate his achievements and mass success from his second album.

Don’t get it twisted, although the event seemed formal on paper, it turned out to be anything but. The guest list seemed to be never-ending, as both Y/n and Harry struggled to identify who everyone was, especially, under the dim lighting.

To make matters worse, the liquor flowed through the venue like it was water. Harry could practically count on a person stumbling out of the place every two minutes as they reach their limits.

It seemed like a vision of pure depravity.

Y/n was the complete opposite of Harry, her spontaneous nature, and desire for chaos in order to keep life interesting was one of the reasons why people either loved, or completely despised her. No one could anticipate her taunting movements, and frankly, she preferred it that way.

The sound of loud chatter was drowned out by the rhythmic hums of music that loudly projected from the speakers. Harry could hear the multiple voices that attempted to catch his attention, but it seemed his focus was fixated on something else. His gaze lingered on Y/n, his eyes trailed down her body as her hips swayed in sync with the music that resounded throughout the room.

It was known by the people closest to him that Harry was possessive, especially when it came to Y/n. Whilst some people scolded him for it, he simply couldn’t help it, once Harry gets what he wants, he will do everything in his power to keep it safe.

In a short distance, away from all the chaos, Y/n saw a decorated table filled to the brim with assorted fruits and an almost mouth-watering chocolate fountain placed right in the centre of the display.

Y/n’s sweet tooth ached whilst her eyes watched the treat trickle down the machine. She made her way towards the table, softly pushing past the guests as dizziness made itself apparent on the way, presumably, from the liquor that vibrated all throughout her body.

The area she entered seemed quiet compared to the one she was previously in, with only small groups hovering around the room in their own little worlds as they talked among themselves.

Once she reached the table, she carefully went over her options, each fruit was skewered with a small toothpick. She decided on the strawberries, taking one in her hands before dipping it into a glass filled with dark chocolate. She laughed lightly to herself, as she remembered reading about how both of these foods together, created an aphrodisiac effect.

As she was about to reach for more fruit, she felt a familiar pair of strong hands grip her waist from behind. Her body erupted in goosebumps as a low voice spoke close to her ear. "You’re a dreadful tease.” A familiar deep voice broke Y/n out of her trance as she froze in his hold.

Her body relaxed as she realised who was behind her, turning around with a small smile that teased her lips. She sensed the jealousy that dripped from Harry’s voice. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’just dancing.” She said innocently, placing a strawberry against her lips before taking a bite.

Harry scoffed, at her almost pathetic attempt to be oblivious to her actions. “Mhm, you’re putting on quite the show aren’t you.” He hummed with slight annoyance in his tone.

Y/n glanced at the people around her, some dancing to their heart’s content while the others attempted to engage in conversation. “It’s not my problem if guys can’t keep it in their pants.” She said with a small shrug.

"You leave nothing to the imagination do you love?”

"Jealous?” Y/n quipped in a taunting tone, though, her features remained innocent. “Besides, I didn’t know it was such a crime to have fun. If so, then arrest me baby, I’m guilty as charged.”

"Fun?.” He mocked, "So you’re telling me that this performance you’ve put on wasn’t just for me to see?” His tone seemed offended, yet his teasing expression told a different story.

She playfully shook her head and attempted to hide the smile that fought to escape her lips.

"And what about this tight little number you’ve got on, is that not for me either?” He taunted curiously, his hand trailed against the small strap that held up her dress.

Her gaze followed his cold touch as his fingers travelled across her shoulder, towards her neck. A small shiver crawled up her spine as his rings pressed lightly against her skin, before grazing across her jawline.

Her head lifted slightly. Her almost pleading eyes instantly connecting with his as if it was a reflex. "You remember what happens when you play games with me princess, it never ends well for you” his thumb lightly tugging on her strawberry-stained lips.

Her pulse quickened as her mind raced with thoughts of lust. “I guess you’re going to have to remind me.” She chose her words carefully “My mind seems to be a little foggy.”

Y/n felt Harry’s demeanour change instantly at her words, it was like a switch, his playful aura was quickly replaced with one of desire, similar to the aura of this entire event.

Little did Harry know, Y/n had him right where she wanted him. Harry craved the control that he lost over their exchange, whilst Y/n craved the thrill of the unknown. The unknown of how far Harry was willing to go to win back his control over her.

A short and antagonising laugh fell from Harry’s lips. “You want to know what I’m thinking princess?” He questioned. Y/n hummed in response, her mocking tone only pushing Harry further. “I think you’re purposely trying to wind me up.” He states clearly.

“But you know what happens to princesses who misbehave?.” He murmured.

A teasing light danced in Y/n’s eyes, she shrugged lightly and attempted to turn around to get another strawberry. She was shortly cut off as Harry swiftly, and gently tugged on her wrist. He pulled her closer towards him, their faces mere inches away from each other in order to fully grab Y/n’s attention.

“Nothing.”

Harry dropped his hands from Y/n’s body, deciding to use the table beside them to support his body instead. Y/n’s expression turned into confusion at his words. This wasn’t how she planned the rest of their conversation going.

“What’s wrong princess? You’ve gone quiet.” He pointed out, a small pout evident on his lips. “Did you expect me to whisk you away to one of the rooms upstairs... punish you f’being a little brat?”

Every time she teased Harry before, he would simply delve deeper into his own desires, playing with Y/n how he saw fit as punishment.

It was a routine that Y/n loved, so why was tonight any different.

Unless...

He perked up with a boyish smile at her confused reaction, knowing her mind was scrambling for a snarky retort. “Tell y’what, I’ll give you what you want on one condition.”

She looked at him curiously, interested in what he was proposing. “And what’s that?”

“M’going to need you to beg for me.” The thought of those three, simple little words sent Harry’s mind into a tangent of his own, the flame of control flickering in his eyes as he watched her expression.

His words took a second to process in Y/n’s mind, but once they did, she realised what he was doing. Harry was using her own tactics against her, the teasing, the mischievous look in his eye and most importantly, the element of surprise.

Although it worked for a small moment, Y/n was determined, she wasn’t about to let Harry beat her at her own game.

“Beg for you?” Y/n echoed, pondering the thought over a chocolate-covered strawberry before throwing away the rest in the waste bin.

It wasn’t long before someone interrupted their conversation. They were at a party after all. An unrecognisable figure walked up behind Harry, wrapping their arms around him before placing a shot glass full of clear liquid in his hand.

“What’re you hiding out here for Harry, you’re missing out on all the fun!” The man exclaimed with excitement, clinking his own shot glass with Harry’s before downing the drink. Y/n quickly pinched the drink out of Harry’s hand, and in one swift movement, downed the liquor similarly to the man slinging himself around Harry.

A snicker escaped Harry’s lips at the sight of Y/n’s disgusted face as she examined the shot glass “Straight vodka, m’assuming.” He remarks. Y/n nods in acknowledgment, placing the glass on the table next to them before the unknown man pipes up again.

“Sorry to interrupt miss, m’sure whatever you two were talking about was truly exhilarating but Harry here, is a busy man.” He slurs, tapping Harry on the shoulder. “People to meet, drinks to... drink? Anyways, you understand.”

Y/n eyed Harry curiously, he simply shrugged as they both realised that the mystery man next to them had no clue about their relationship and simply assumed that Y/n was just a random girl Harry was swooning over.

She chuckled lightly, “Don’t let me get in your way, go have fun.” She reached out, softly squeezing Harry’s arm as reassurance. The man already started to make his way back to the dance floor, expecting Harry to be following behind him.” What are you waiting for-?”

Before Y/n was able to let go of Harry he gently pulled her closer towards him, closing the small gap between them as her body collided with his. “I was going to say, I wouldn’t waste another moment thinking about it princess...” He trailed off, his rings roughly digging into the thin material of her dress as he held her in place.

“We both know you’re just going to end up begging for me to fuck you.” Harry’s hold hastily dropped from her hips, before walking away. A small smirk was evident on his lips as he sensed the state of shock he left Y/n in.

She watched in pure disbelief as he wandered back into the loud venue, but despite of it all, she couldn’t deny the feeling of adrenaline that coursed through her body at his words.

With an annoyed sigh, Y/n focused her attention back on the many strawberries in front of her, snatching one from the plate. "If that’s how he wants to play it...” She murmured before taking a bite out of the sweet fruit before carelessly discarding the rest.

“Then let the games begin.”

———

The night progressed as Y/n and Harry went their separate ways, mingling and causing mischief with the other guests.

Although they seemed to be in their own little worlds, they were both aware of each others presence. Whether that was through the overwhelming exhilaration that emanated from the both of them, or their teasing gazes as their eyes met at random times throughout the night.

After what felt like hours to Y/n of endless dancing, she decided that it was time to spice things up, feeling bored of waiting for Harry to make a move.

Her eyes scanned the room, eventually falling to the bar that didn’t seem too far away from her. She slowly made her way past the people in front of her, before reaching the busy service, waving down the bartender in the process.

“What a coincidence! We’ve found each other once again miss!” The familiar slurred voice spoke at a high volume from beside her, causing Y/n to flinch at the sudden noise "Seems like fate is trying t’tell us something.”

Y/n turned towards the man, her mind taking a second to process his features. ‘Oh it’s the guy from before... did I ever get his name?’ She pondered to herself

Noticing the evident confusion on her face, he piped up with a chuckle “I guess I didn’t properly introduce m’self did I? M’names Kai.”

She hummed in acknowledgment “So you’re the one that tried to poison Harry with that dreadful drink.”

“I guess that’s one way to be remembered.” He remarked in an attempt to be charming. “You two seem close though.”

You don’t know the half of it. She thought to herself, before speaking up with a smile, “I guess you could say that, my name’s Y/n by the way.”

———

Harry wasn’t much of a dancer. The only exception is for when he performs. Which caused him to spend most of the night in the booth that he reside in from the beginning of the event. The small space seemed to be full of his friends and co-workers as they chat up a storm, a continuous supply of drinks being served to the group.

The elevated booth allowed him to view the guests dance the night away. Which is how he was able to spot Y/n in the crowded dance-floor.

He watched as the man Harry was introduced to as ‘Kai’ stood dangerously close to Y/n as they swayed to the music and continued with their small talk.

Harry didn’t mind at first, not taking much note of the whole interaction. He loved seeing Y/n have fun. It was only once he noticed that she leaned closer towards Kai, whispering in his ear, a sultry “Please.” as she requested for one last drink, that their interaction caught his attention.

She moved back, re-gaining the small space between the two of them. Of course, she was hyper-aware of the fact that Harry knew about the whole exchange, flickering her eyes to his with a taunting smile.

Kai followed her gaze before spotting Harry, a boyish grin fell onto his lips as he sent Harry a cheeky thumbs-up. It was as if he had scored the best take of the night whilst somehow still being oblivious to the fact that Harry was utterly in love with the woman he was swooning over.

Harry shook his head, purely baffled by the whole exchange. “Dickhead.” He muttered under his breath. The rings that were wrapped around his fingers hit the glass with a small ‘clink’ as he took ahold of his drink, downing it all in one go.

———

"Tell you what, sit your pretty self down while I go flag down that bartender over there.” Kai motioned towards one of the seats with a smile before making his way to the other end of the bar.

Y/n nodded, letting out a tired sigh as he walked away. She felt herself getting worn out by the lack of attention she was getting from Harry, but, as annoyed as she was, she was determined to win this little game that Harry’s made up for the both of them.

“If he wasn’t so stubborn then maybe-.” Y/n muttered, getting ready to take a seat at the bar before being cut off by the feeling of a sudden grip around her wrist. With a small tug, she was twirled around to face the person that held her captive in their hold.

A small giggle fell from her lips as her body smoothly fell into the familiar figure’s build.

“Having fun princess?”

His voice caused a shiver to course through her body, small goosebumps forming on her skin at the harshness of his tone.

Y/n lazily wrapped her arms around Harry, unintentionally using him to support her own intoxicated body “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

"Never.” He boyishly grinned, feeling smitten knowing that Y/n had him on her mind as much as he did for her all night.

Although the music still resounded around the room, the tune that played was much slower. So much so that Harry and Y/n noticed the tipsy guests begin coupling up as an attempt to dance with one another.

Y/n softly rested her head against Harry’s shoulder as his hands rested on her waist. Her eyes fluttering close as she felt herself get lost in the song “Mind telling what that whole charade was about ?” Harry hummed closely, possessiveness laced in his voice.

Y/n quickly picked up that he was talking about Kai. She playfully scoffed, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at him. “I was getting bored and you weren’t paying me any attention. Besides, I knew your jealousy would get the better of you eventually.”

Harry let out a small laugh at her seemingly meticulous plans. "You know all you had to do was come find me.” He affirmed.

Feelings of guilt were getting the better of Y/n as she pondered whether or not she took all of this too far. "Are you upset with me?” She said with a small pout.

“Of course not princess, m’not upset with you.” He comfortingly squeezed her waist for a small moment, both of them swaying to the soft beat of the song.

I just wanted to you to tell me how needy you were f’me.” He murmured lowly, making sure that the people dancing around them didn’t hear.

All the feelings of concern were immediately washed away from Y/n, quickly being replaced with a mixture of relief and playfulness.

“You know I’m not going to break that easy, you’re going to have t’try harder than that if you want me to say such a thing.” She huffed.

“Is that so?” Harry mocked, making a mental note of her words. "What about if I...” He trailed off. His head dipped down as he peppered wet kisses all the way to her exposed shoulder, making sure to lightly suck on the delicate skin as if he wanted to leave his mark on her.

Y/n gave into the taunting feeling for a small moment, her eyes closing as Harry had his way with her. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” She remarked.

He pulled away, a boyish chuckle escaping his lips. “Are y’scared your little friend over there will see.” He motioned towards Kai, who seemed to have been caught up on his path to the bar. Another girl danced with him as he held two drinks in his hand with seemingly, not a care in the world “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

"That’s not what I meant, silly.” She clarified, referring to the small love bites that she felt forming across her pulsating skin.

His fingers lightly grazed over her neck. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left a pretty little mark on you princess.” He noted, admiring his work. His voice alone was enough to send Y/n into a spiral of lust. Her mind was in scrambles as she fought the tempting urge to give into Harry’s desires.

Although the slow song finished, another bass-heavy one played in its place. Y/n could tell the night was coming to a close as people slowly made their way to the exit, or, were celebrating their last round of drinks. This meant Y/n only had about an hour or so to decide whether or not she would continue to be stubborn, proving to Harry that she’s not as submissive as he makes her out to be.

"You’re thinking about it aren’t you?” Harry glanced at a distracted Y/n, a teasing curiosity evident in his features. “A few words princess, that’s all it takes.” 

Y/n snapped out of her trance, realising she was slowly succumbing to Harry. She took a deep breath, and in an attempt to regain her control, gently wrapped her hands around the back of Harry’s neck, making their way up to his messy curls. Her fingers wrapped around the strands of hair, giving it a small tug as the both of them continued to sway to the music.  “Let’s say I was thinking about it, what would you do about that?” 

Harry hummed lowly at the pleasurable feeling of her soft touch on his skin. In that moment, he decided not to waste another second of his attention on anyone other than Y/n. "Then, I would bring you upstairs... play with you until you’re nothing but a whimpering mess.

His hands tightening around her waist. His rings slightly dug into her skin, the cold metal seeping through the thin material of her dress causing a wave of goosebumps to wash over her. “You’re already aching for me. Imagine how you’ll feel with your legs wrapped around me.”

Harry left small kisses across her jawline, returning to his sweet yet torturous assault from before. “You would plead for your release as I bring you right to the edge, telling you all about how much of a good girl you’ve been, all submissive and needy, just how I like.” Y/n could feel herself growing hot from his taunting movements as she unintentionally began to bite at her lip, suppressing any moans that threatened to escape.

“But you haven’t really been a good girl have you, princess? I would say you’ve been quite the brat all night.” His kisses edged closer and closer before finally, his lips firmly pressed against hers. A small moment was needed, but it wasn’t long before Y/n moved in sync with his own movements, a new sense of lust overpowering her senses as she deepened the kiss, a mix of alcohol and peppermint lingering on their tongues. 

Harry noticed her newfound pushiness, the roughness of the kiss causing a gruff and low groan to escape from the back of his throat. “Do you remember what I said about little brats that don’t listen?” His gaze on Y/n as he begrudgingly pulled away from her, his lips merely hovering above her own.

Y/n let out a frustrated whimper at the sudden loss of contact, her eyes fluttering open with confusion.

"You would plead for your release...” Harry repeated. A taunting fire danced his eyes, a confident smirk creeping onto his lips. “Only for me to pull away right at the last moment.”

Y/n wanted to smack the smug grin right off of his face, but she just seemed defeated, her expression changed to one of frustration as her hands fell from Harry. 

"Don’t look at me like that, you brought this on yourself princess.” He teased, giving her one last chaste kiss. “Y’know you could still-”

He was shortly cut off by the sound of Y/n’s annoyed voice. "Fine!” she snapped, just at a low enough volume so people wouldn’t hear, while she attempted to catch her unsteady breath. “...fine.”

Even though Harry knew exactly what she was going to say, he still tilted his head with a pout, curiosity written on his face as he waited for Y/n to continue her thought. 

"You win.” She murmured, refusing to look Harry in the eye as she admitted her defeat.

Harry shook his head, admiring her features. He gently pushed the strands of hair that covered her face, placing it back behind her shoulders. "Not good enough, use your words princess. ‘Want to hear you beg for me.” His voice remained low, his warm breath causing a shiver down her spine.

Y/n let out a small and exaggerated sigh, as a smile teased her lips. She knew she was going to succumb to Harry eventually. In fact, she knew the moment he swept her into his arms that the game was over, but, she loved the chaos too much to ever admit that to him.

She gave him one small kiss before pulling him closer towards her. Their eyes met, both clearly filled with desire and lust, only difference was the dominating aura from Harry’s features, and the submissiveness that radiated from Y/n.

"I need you, m’so needy for your touch... Please baby...”

That, was a true vision of pure depravity.